NERVE
On the morning after Connie Morgan had hit the trail for the avowed
purpose of capturing the huge wolf-dog that had been reported on Spur
Mountain, his big partner, Waseche Bill, lighted his pipe and gazed
thoughtfully through the window of the little log office which was
situated on the bank of Ten Bow Creek, overlooking the workings. His
eyes strayed from the intricate system of pipes and flumes to the cloud
of white vapour that rose from the shaft house where the never-tiring
steam-point drills forced their way slowly down, down, down into the
eternal frost.
"Jest three years ago since me and the kid staked this valley," he
mused. "An' now we're rich--an' I'm an 'office miner' with a game laig,
an' more gold than I could spend if I lived to be as old as Methooslum."
His glance strayed to the modern building across the creek with its
iron roof, and white painted siding. In this building, erected a month
before, were the general offices of the partners, the construction and
hydraulic engineers, the chemist, the purchasing agent, the paymaster,
the bookkeeper, and a score of clerks and stenographers.
There, also, Waseche Bill had had his own office, as general manager of
the mine, but after an uncomfortable four weeks of hardwood floors,
ground glass doors, and polished desk tops, he moved his office into the
one-roomed log cabin across the creek, and upon this, the first day of
his installation in his new quarters, he grinned happily out of the
window as he watched Cain, the construction engineer, wallow through the
new-fallen snow and climb the slippery bank, on his first trip of
consultation. And Waseche's grin widened as he heard the engineer
endeavouring to remove the snow and sticky mud from his boots before
entering.
"Stomp 'em off inside, Cain," he called. "The floor's solider, an'
you'll have better luck."
"Beastly place for an office!" growled the engineer, as he unrolled a
blue print, spread it upon the rough pine desk, and glanced with
disapproval about the room. "Your office in the main building was so
much more convenient."
"Yup," answered Waseche. "That was the trouble. About every five minutes
in would pop one of you birds an' pester me with some question or
'nother. What I hire you-all for is to get results. What do I care
whether you use a double-jointed conniption valve, or a reverse English
injector on the donkey engine, so you get the water into them sluices?
Or what do I care whether the bookkeeper keeps all the accounts
separate, or adds gum-boots, an' cyanide, an' sandpaper, an' wages all
up in one colyumn? Or whether the chemist uses peroxide of magentum, or
sweet spirits of rawhide, so he gits the gold? The way it is now,
you-all's goin' to do a little figgerin' fer yourself before you'll wade
through the water an' mud, or waller through the snow, to git over here.
An' besides I cain't think right without I can rare back with my feet on
the table an' my back ag'in' a good solid log wall."
Cain, who understood and loved his employer, chuckled heartily. A few
minutes later he rolled up the blue print and buttoned his mackinaw. "By
the way, Waseche," he said, with his hand in the door latch, "I'm
sending you over a stenographer----"
"_Me_ one!" cried Waseche Bill in alarm.
"Yes, you need one. Be reasonable, and let me talk for a minute. Here
you are, one of the gold magnates of Alaska, and a lot of the
correspondence that comes in you've got to handle yourself. You know
your spelling and Mr. Webster's don't always agree, and your handwriting
is almost illegible in pencil--and worse in ink----"
"Well, ain't we got a half dozen stenographers now?"
"Yes, but they're all up to their ears in work, and we've been paying
them overtime to transcribe your scrawls into readable English. So I
heard of this fellow in Fairbanks, and sent for him. He came in
yesterday, with Black Jack Demeree's mail team." Cain's eyes twinkled as
he paused and grinned. "He's only been in the country a few weeks--a
rank _chechako_--but try to put up with him, because stenographers are
hard to get and he seems to be a good one. I'll send him over with a
couple of men to carry his outfit. I thought I ought to break the news
to you----"
"An' I ort to break your neck," growled Waseche. "But send him
along--mebbe my spellin' an', as the fellow says, chiropody, aint what
it ort to be--anyway we'll try him."
A few minutes later the door opened and a couple of miners entered with
a chair and a table, upon which they deposited a typewriter. Waseche
glared as the miners withdrew, and a young man of twenty-one or-two
stepped into the room. He was a tall, pale young man with store clothes
and nose glasses. Waseche continued to glare as the newcomer addressed
him:
"Is this Mr. Antrim? I'm the new stenographer. You were expecting me,
sir?"
Waseche eyed him from top to toe, and shook his head in resignation.
"Well--almost, from what Cain said--but not quite. Was you born in
servitude?"
The newcomer shifted his weight to the other foot. "Sir?" he asked,
doubtfully.
Waseche deliberately filled his pipe and, tilting his chair against the
wall, folded his arms. "Yup--that's what I meant--that 'sir,' an' the
'Mister Antrim.' I ain't no Englishman. I'm an American. I ain't no
'sir,' nor likewise 'mister.' My name's Waseche Bill. It's a good
name--good enough to live by, an' to be called by--an' good enough to
write at the bottom of a check. What's yourn?"
"Percival Lafollette."
"Percival Lafollette," repeated Waseche, gravely rolling the name upon
his tongue. "'Was you in the original Floradora Sextette?"
"Why, no, sir----"
"No what?"
"No--no--" stammered Percival, in confusion.
"That's it--no!--just plain _no_! When you've got that said, you're
through with that there partic'lar train of thought."
"No--they were girls--the Floradora Sextette."
"So they was," agreed Waseche, solemnly. "Did you bring the mail over?"
"Yes, s--yes, here it is." He placed a handful of letters on the pine
table that served as Waseche's desk.
"All right, just take off your cloak an' bonnet, an' pry the lid off
that there infernal machine, an' we'll git to work."
A few minutes later the new stenographer stood at attention, notebook in
hand. Waseche Bill, who had been watching him closely, noted that he
shivered slightly, as he removed his overcoat, and that he coughed
violently into a handkerchief. Glancing into the pale face, he asked
abruptly: "Sick--lunger?"
Percival nodded, and Waseche motioned him close, and when he stood at
his side reached out and unbuttoned his vest, then his thin shirt, and
took his undershirt between his thumb and finger. Then he snorted in
disgust. "Look a-here, young fellow, you an' me might's well have it
out. I aint' a-goin' to have no lunger workin' fer me!"
At the words, the other turned a shade paler, buttoned his clothing, and
reached for his overcoat.
"Come back here! Where you goin'?"
"Why--I thought----"
"You ain't hired to think. I've got a shanty full of thinkers over
acrost the crick. You're hired to spell. An' after a while you'll learn
that you'll know more about what I'm sayin' if you wait till I git
through. In the first place, fire that there book an' pencil over in the
corner, an' put on your coat an' hat an' hit over to Scotty MacDougall's
store an' tell him to give you a reg'lar man's outfit of clothes. No
wonder you're a lunger; dressin' in them hen-skins! Git plenty of good
thick flannel underwear, wool socks, _mukluks_, a couple of pairs of
good britches, mackinaw, cap, mittens, sheep-lined overcoat--the whole
business, an' charge 'em up to me. You didn't come through from
Fairbanks in them things?"
"Yes, Mr. Demeree----"
"You mean Black Jack?"
"Yes, Black Jack loaned me a parka."
"Well, git now--an' put them new duds on, an' come back here, pausin'
only long enough to stick them hen-skins in the stove--shoes, overcoat,
an' the whole mess. You're in a man's country, now, son," continued
Waseche in a kindly tone. "An' you've got to look like a man--an' act
like a man--an' _be_ a man. You've got a lot to live down--with a name
like that--an' a woman's job--an' a busted lung--an' a servant's
manners. I never seen anyone quite so bad off to start with. What you'll
be in a year from now is up to you--an' me. I guarantee you'll have good
lungs, an' a man's name--the rest is fer you to do. Git, now--an' hurry
back."
The young man opened his lips, but somehow the words would not come,
and Waseche interrupted him. "By the way, did you tell anyone your name
around here?" he asked.
The other shook his head, and as he turned to get his overcoat a
commotion drew both to the window. A dog team was climbing the creek
bank. Connie Morgan was driving, urging the dogs up the deep slope, and
on the sled was an Indian wrapped in blankets. Neither Connie nor the
Indian received more than a passing glance, for in the lead of the team,
sharp pointed muzzle low to the ground and huge shoulders heaving into
the harness, was the great wolf-dog that Connie had found guarding the
unconscious form of his master from the attack of the wolf pack. A cry
escaped the stenographer's lips and even Waseche gasped as he took in
the details of the superb animal.
Percival instinctively drew closer. "It's--it's--the great wolf we saw
on the trail! Black Jack Demeree said he'd never seen his like. Oh, he
can't get in here, can he?"
Waseche shook the speaker roughly by the shoulder. "Yes--he can," he
answered. "He'll be in here in just about a minute--an' here's where
you start bein' a man. Don't you squinch back--if he eats you up! The
next ten minutes will make or break you, for good an' all." And hardly
were the words out of his mouth than the door burst open and Connie
entered the office, closely followed by the Indian and Leloo, the great
ruffed wolf-dog.
"I got him, Waseche!" he cried. "He's mine! I'll tell you all about it
later--this is 'Merican Joe."
The Indian nodded and grinned toward the boy.
"_Skookum tillicum_," he grunted.
"You bet!" assented Waseche, and as Connie led the great dog to him, the
man laid his hand on the huge ruff of silvered hair.
"Some dog, son," he said. "The best I ever seen." He flashed a swift
glance at Percival who stood at his side, and saw that his face was
white as death, that his lips were drawn into a thin, bloodless line,
and that little beads of sweat stood out like dew on the white brow. But
even as he looked, the stenographer stretched out his hand and laid it
on the great dog's head, and he, too, stroked the silvery hair of the
great ruff.
Waseche, noticing that Connie cast an inquiring glance at the newcomer,
introduced him, abruptly: "Son, this here's Roarin' Mike O'Reilly, from
over on the Tanana. He's our new stenographer, an' while he goes an'
gits on his reg'lar clothes, you an' me an' the Injun will knock off fer
noon, an' go over to the cabin."
During the preparation of the midday meal Connie told Waseche of how he
had found 'Merican Joe, starved and unconscious in his little
snow-covered shelter tent, and of how, out of gratitude, the Indian had
presented him with Leloo. Waseche eyed the great ruffed animal sombrely,
as Connie dwelt upon his curiously mixed nature--how he ran the ridges
at night at the head of the wolf pack, and of how, ripping and slashing,
he had defended his helpless master against the fangs of those same
wolves.
"Well, son," he drawled, when the boy had concluded, "he's the finest
brute I ever seen--barrin' none. But keep your eye on him. If he ever
gits his dates mixed--if he ever turns wolf when he'd ort to be
dog--_good-night_!"
"I'll watch him," smiled the boy. "And, Waseche, where do you think
'Merican Joe came from?"
"Well," grinned his big partner, "fetchin' such a lookin' brute-beast as
that along with him--I'd hate to say."
"He came from beyond the Mackenzie! He knows the country."
"That's prob'ly why he come away," answered Waseche, dryly.
"But he's going back--he's going with me. We're going to hit the trail
for Dawson tomorrow, and hit across the mountains by way of Bonnet Plume
Pass, and outfit at Fort Norman on the Mackenzie, and then strike out
for the eastern end of Great Bear Lake, and the barren grounds. We're
going to trap the rest of the winter and next summer we're going to
prospect and figure on starting a trading post. We've got it all worked
out."
"Oh, jest like that, eh? It ort to be right smart of a little ja'nt.
With nothin' between Dawson an' Fort Norman--an' nothin' beyond."
"We might make another strike. And if we don't we can trap."
"Yup, that's a great idee--that trappin'. If you both work like a dog
all winter out in them there barren lands, an' freeze an' starve, an'
have good luck with your traps, you'd ort to clean up as much as two
dollars a day."
"But look at the country we'd see! And the fun we'd have!"
"Ain't they country enough to see here in Alaska? An' as fer fun--some
folks idee of humour gits me! Who ever heard of anyone goin' 'leven
hundred miles into nowheres for to have fun? I tell you, son, I've
know'd stampedes to start on mighty slim information, but never as slim
as what you've got. I read your book, an' all them old parties had to go
on was the stories of some Injuns--an' the whole mess of 'em's be'n dead
most two hundred years! An' I think the book's a fake, anyhow--'cause I
don't believe gold's been invented that long! No, sir, take it from me,
it's the dog-gonedest wild goose chase ever undertook by anyone--but, at
that--if it wasn't for this game laig of mine, I b'lieve I'd go 'long!"
After dinner Connie started to overhaul his trail outfit while Waseche
looked on. After a while the man rose, and put on his mackinaw.
"I've got to go back to the office," he said. "Me an' Roarin' Mike
O'Reilly has got to tackle that mail."
Connie shot his big partner a long, sidewise glance. "He must be some
rough bird to earn a name like that over on the Tanana."
"Rough as pig iron," answered Waseche solemnly. "He eats 'em alive,
Roarin' does."
"What--pancakes?"
"Yup--pancakes, an' grizzlies. Roarin' Mike, he takes 'em as they come.
Didn't you see him lay holt of your wolf-dog?"
"Yes," answered the boy, as solemn as an owl. "And I don't like folks to
be so rough with Leloo."
"He promised he wouldn't hurt your dog when we seen you comin' up the
hill."
"It's a good thing you've got him where you can keep your eye on him. If
he ever gets loose he's liable to run the crew off the works."
"Yup. I'll watch out for that. He's a stenographer. It's claimed he kin
spell--better'n what I kin. An' when he gits a letter wrote down, it kin
be read without a jury."
"I think you've picked a winner, at that, Waseche. I was watching him
when he put out his hand to touch Leloo. He would rather have shoved it
into the fire. There's something to him, even if the names did get mixed
on the package when they shipped him in. I suppose that somewhere over
on the Tanana there's a big, red-eyed, double-fisted roughneck charging
around among the construction camps packing a name like 'Nellie.'"
Waseche grinned. "Percival Lafollette, to be exact. I furnished the
Roarin' Mike O'Reilly part, along with a full an' complete outfit of
men's wearin' apparel. When he gets to where he can live up to the
Roarin' Mike name, he can discard it an' take back his own. Might's well
give the boy a chanct. Cain thought he'd put it over on me, 'count of my
movin' my office where he'd have to waller acrost the crick to it. But
I'll fool him good an' proper. The kid's a lunger, an' the first thing
to do is to git him started in to feelin' like a man. I figured they was
somethin' to him when I first seen him. If they wasn't, how did he get
up here in the middle of Alaska an' winter comin' on--an' nothin'
between him an' freezin' but them hen-skin clothes? An' I was watchin',
too, when he laid his hand on the dog's head. He was so scairt that the
sweat was jest a-bubblin' out of him--an' yet, he retch out an' done
like I done--an' believe me, I wasn't none too anxious to fool with that
brute, myself. I done it to see if he would. I'm goin' to take holt an'
make a reg'lar man out of him. I figger we kin git through the office
work by noon every day. If we don't, them birds over in the thinkers'
shack is in for more overtime. In the afternoons I'm goin' to keep him
out in the air--that's all a lunger needs--plenty air, an' good grub.
We'll tromp around the hills and hunt. We'll be a pair to draw to--him
with his busted lungs, an' me with my game laig. We was all _chechakos_
onct. They's two kinds of _chechakos_--the ones with _nerve_ an' the
ones with _brass_. The ones with the real nerve is the kind that stays
in the big country. But the other kind of _chechakos_--the ones with
brass--the bluff an' bluster--the counterfeit nerve that don't fool no
one but theirself--the luckiest thing that can happen to them is they
should live long enough to git back to the outside where they come
from--an' most of 'em's lucky if they live long enough to starve to
death."
"I guess he's the first kind," opined Connie. "When I come back I
expect he'll be a regular sourdough."
"When you're gone I reckon I'll jest have him move his traps up here. I
won't be so lonesome, an' I can keep cases on him----"
"But--" interrupted Connie.
Waseche divined his thoughts and shook his head. "No, they ain't no
danger. My lungs is made of whang leather, an' besides, he ain't no
floor spitter--I watched him in the office. Even if he was it wouldn't
take mor'n about a minute to break him of that."
By nightfall Connie and 'Merican Joe had the outfit all ready for the
trail, and the following morning they departed at daylight, with half of
Ten Bow waving good-bye, as the great silver wolf-dog swung out onto the
long snow trail at the head of the team.