The ice was running when McGill arrived. Had he been two hours later he
might have fared badly, for the ramparts above Ophir choke the river
down into a narrow chute through which it hurries, snarling, and the
shore ice was widening at the rate of a foot an hour. Early in the day
the recorder from Alder Creek had tried to come ashore, but had broken
through, losing his skiff and saving his life by the sheer good luck
that favors fools and drunken men. It was October; the last mail had
gone out a fortnight previous; the wiseacres were laying odds that the
river would be closed in three days, so it was close running that McGill
made--six hundred miles in an open whip-sawed dory.
They heard him calling, once he saw the lights, and, getting down to the
water-level, they could make out his boat crunching along through the
thin ice at the outer edge. He was trying to force his way inward to a
point where the current would not move him, but the Yukon spun him like
a top, and it looked as if he would go past. Fortunately, however, there
happened to be a man in the crowd who had learned tricks with a lariat
back in Oklahoma; a line was put out, and McGill came ashore with his
bedding under one arm and a sheet-iron stove under the other. Stoves
were scarce that winter, and McGill was no tenderfoot.
They obtained their first good look at him when he lined up with the
crowd at Hopper's bar, ten minutes later, by which time it was known who
he was. He had a great big frame, with a great big face on top of it,
and, judging from his reputation, he had a great big heart to match them
both. Some of the late-comers recalled a tale of how he had lifted the
gunwales out of a poling-boat that was wedged in a timber-jam above
White Horse, and from the looks of his massive hands and shoulders the
tale seemed true. He was not handsome--few strong men are--but he had
level, blue eyes, rather small and deep set, and a jaw that made people
think twice before angering him, while his voice carried the rumbling
bass note one hears at the edge of a spring freshet when the boulders
are shifting.
"I missed the last boat from Circle," he explained, "so I took a chance
with the skiff."
"Looks like you'd be the last arrival before the trails open," offered
Hopper. "I don't guess there's nobody behind you?"
"I didn't pass anybody," said McGill, and it was plain from his smile
that he had made good time.
"Aim to winter here, Dan?"
"I do. Minook told me, four summers ago, that he'd found a prospect near
here, and I've always figgered on putting some holes down. But it looks
like I'm late."
"Oh, there's plenty of ground open. You've got as good a chance as the
balance of us."
"Any grub in camp?"
"Nope. Ophir was struck too late in the fall."