ESQUIMAUX
"Hallo," shouted Clay from the motor. "Good morning to you."
"Same to you," called down the Kid. "Say, that little tub of yours makes
better time than I thought she would. I thought we passed you during the
night. By the way. I've got something for you fellows. I'll lower it
down to you on a string."
"Come down yourself," Clay invited. "Just fasten a rope to the rail and
shin down. I want to ask you a lot of questions and I can't hear you
well above the din of the motor, and the thrashing of the paddle
wheels."
The Kid hesitated. "I'm afraid you can't get me back alongside again,"
he shouted, "and I've got to be there with the mail on time."
"We'll get you aboard all right," Clay promised. "That is, if you are
not afraid. It's a little risky for a tenderfoot."
No live young man could stand such a taunt to his courage before a
pretty girl, and the Kid surrendered. "All right," he called down. "I'll
see the captain and see if he'll promise to slow up a bit if we get too
far behind." He looked around at the crowd on deck and finally beckoned
to an old sour-dough to take his chair. The old-timer obeyed, although
he nevertheless seemed in his nervousness, to experience great trouble
in disposing of his hands and feet.
Clay smiled at the Kid's maneuvers. Evidently he was taking no chances.
Alex, up forward, secure in the fact that he could not be reached, was
taking an impish delight in bantering the officer who had cursed so
fluently. "Say, you snapping turtle of a log rider," he hailed. "What do
you mean by using such language when a real sure enough boat comes
alongside your old mud scow? Afraid we were going to smash your old hulk
to pieces? Where did you learn that sort of language, anyway? I'll bet
you used to raise mules down in Missouri."
"I did handle mules for a while," said the other with evident pride of
his accomplishment. "That helped some. Then I mushed dog teams up here
on the Yukon trail for four years and that sure taught me a lot. The
rest is mostly Spanish I picked up here and there."
"Why, you can't swear at all," scoffed Alex.
"You're only an amateur. You just repeat words you have heard others
use. You had ought to coin your words, have them nice and fresh and new
all the time."
"That's a hard thing to do," said the officer, gloomily.
"Pshaw, it's easy," Alex declared. "Just buy an automobile and run it
yourself for six months and you'll be a different man."
The roar of laughter from the crowd above was as incense to Alex's soul.
"The lad's right," said a serious-minded little man. "I used to own one
in the States and I would hate to say half the things I used to think
when I used to have to lay on my back under the car in maybe six inches
of mud, wrastling away with a monkey wrench."
Just then the Kid slid nimbly down a rope to the _Rambler's_ deck. Clay
shouted to Alex to steer off from the steamer and as soon as he saw the
order was obeyed, he moved the timer ahead at full speed and the
_Rambler_ shot away from her big, clumsy sister.
"Good-bye," shouted Alex to the officer. "We hate to leave you but we
got tired of staying in one place all the time. We'll see you at Dawson
if you're lucky enough to get up there before the river freezes over."
But the officer was standing speechless, his mouth agape at the
_Rambler's_ wonderful burst of speed.
As for the Yukon Kid, he slipped down on the deck and grabbed the funnel
with both hands as though afraid the boat would slip out from under him.
Gradually the startled look died out of his eyes to be replaced by a
glint of humor. "This is one on me, boys," he acknowledged. "It's more
than one, it's a full baker's dozen," he grinned. "Just think of my
begging the captain to slow up until I got safe back aboard. And me
being so sure that we must have passed you during the night. I never
dreamed a boat so small could run so fast, but I must go back on the
steamer. I've got the mail locked up in my cabin, but I am supposed to
guard it all the time."
"Was that some mail you was guarding so close up there, Mr. Kid?" asked
Ike, innocently.
The Kid ignored the question though he blushed deeply. "I've got
something to give you that may be some use to you. I've got a copy of it
at Nome so you needn't hesitate about taking it. It's pretty well
thumbed and torn, but I guess you can make it out all right." He
unrolled a stiff paper and spread it out on the deck. It was a complete
map of the Yukon. "I made it and it's true to a hair," said the Kid with
pride. "Take it and keep it. It can be trusted where the government
charts can't. I've marked in red ink where the best Indian villages
are."
Clay thanked him and bent over the chart thoughtfully. "Look's like
clear water for a couple of hundred miles up." The Kid nodded. "Pretty
smooth sailing until we get to the Upper Yukon. Then it's rapids after
rapids, and some of them pretty fierce."
"I see an Indian village marked down about 110 miles above here," Clay
remarked. "I believe we will run ahead and camp there tonight. We
haven't seen a native village yet."
"This one is rather small. Most of its inhabitants died of famine last
winter, and all the able bodied men and squaws are off on the long hunt
now. You'll likely find only old men and old women there now. Well, I'll
have a look at Friend Case and then I'll have to get back aboard. I've
been gone too long already."
"Getting afraid your old-timer cannot hold down that chair?" smiled Clay
with freedom of their quickly born liking for each other.
"Oh, Olson will keep that seat reserved all right," said the Kid
confidently. "He's gun shy on women folks. What I am afraid of is that
some chekako may try to take it away from him. If that happens there
will sure be some blood spilled on deck, an' I don't reckon she's used
to sights like that. Don't get me wrong. It's no case of spoons or
anything like it. She's just an innocent girl with an old father and
mother, and the poor innocents have got an idea that they are going to
make a fortune by opening up a restaurant in Dawson. Think of it, boys.
Those three poor innocents trying to stack up such a game in Dawson of
all places on earth. They have brought in no supplies either, and even
flour will be nearly worth its weight in gold dust before the winter is
over. The chekakos are pouring in faster than the supplies. That's what
makes me want to get back to the steamer quick. There is a crowd of
greenhorns on board and some of them think they are mashers. If any of
them try to get gay there will sure be something doing. Well, I'll just
run down and see the invalid while you run me back to the steamer."
Case, suffering intently in his bunk, greeted the Kid with delight. His
firm, friendly hand shake seemed to lessen his intense pains.
The air of strength, energy and power radiating from the Kid seemed to
enthuse his own battered body with new strength. The Kid sat down on the
edge of the bunk and with a touch as tender as a woman's, examined the
deeper wounds. "You'll be fit as a fiddle in no time," he declared,
cheerfully. The wounds are beginning to heal already. That's the reason
they hurt so. I'll see you again tomorrow maybe. I've got to go now.
Good-bye, keep as quiet as you can and don't fret."
Case, soothed and strangely comforted by the mighty magnetism of the
man, snuggled down in his bunk and dropped off to sleep.
"He'll be all right if you take good care of him and fever does not set
in," said the Kid as he came to deck. "But have one of you down with him
all the time so as to keep him entertained and to wait on him. Just a
simple little thing like his getting up to get a drink of water for
himself might prove fatal to him in his present condition. At the best
though, it will be a long long time before he will be completely well."
"I should have stayed right by him," Ike exclaimed with contrition. "I
go right down now to him." He paused on the steps to add shyly, "I got
so interested to see if that mail was still well guarded that I forgot.
It's all right, Mr. Kid."
A playful kick from the Kid sent him tumbling down the balance of the
stairs.
As they swept alongside the steamer, Clay noted with a grin that Olson
was still holding down the chair, a heavy long-barreled revolver resting
across his knees, while two of the detestable breed of mashers stood a
ways off eyeing the coveted chair with glances in which desire and
temerity were equally blended. Whatever of womanly shyness Olson had
ever possessed must have melted away, for his wrinkled face was smiling
and with evident enjoyment. "Yes, he was admitting, reluctantly, "It
does get a wee bit cold up here now and then, say around December, but
Lord, man, what a country she is."
The Kid grabbed the swinging rope and clambered up it like a monkey.
Olson gave up his seat with evident reluctance.
"Say, Kid," he whispered. "She's gold, pure gold, right down to bed
rock."
"I knew it," replied the Kid, briefly. "Go and tell those two fresh
young chekakos I want to see them in half an hour in my cabin on
important business. I'm going to spank them both like their mothers used
to do, only more so."
Olson departed well pleased with his errand and sought out the two
offenders, taking great pleasure in impressing upon them the dire evil
that always followed disobedience to the Yukon Kid's commands.
Later on he listened gleefully at a locked door from the other side of
which came the sound of steady smacks laid on with a heavy hand. The
heavy smacking was broken occasionally by subdued sobs.
While this little scene was being enacted, the _Rambler_ was miles away,
headed for the Indian village. Once clear of the steamer, Clay shut down
the hatch cover over the motor and joined Alex in the bow. "Let me take
the wheel for a while," he offered kindly. "Take a rest while you can,
you'll want to look over the village when we get there. You haven't got
back your full strength yet. You look all played out. That motor will
run itself now."
Alex meekly surrendered the wheel. "I do feel slim," he confessed. "I
guess I'll stretch out and rest for a little while. But here comes Ike
with some dinner for us. I guess I'll tuck some of that inside me
first."
Ike stood beaming upon them while the two boys ate the dinner he had so
thoughtfully prepared. As soon as they had finished he bore the empty
dishes below while Alex stretched out on a seat and was soon asleep.
As the _Rambler_ dashed through the water. Clay frequently consulted the
chart and compared it with the passing shores. It was accurate as the
Kid had stated. Near the middle of the afternoon, he sighted the tall
cliff just beyond which the Kid had said lay the little Indian village.
He awakened Alex, and turning the wheel over to him, went back to the
motor. As they passed the cliff they come into sight of the village, a
miserable collection of anthill-like huts. As they eased the _Rambler_
to shore, their noses were greeted by a multitude of odors blended into
one malodorous whole--the usual odor of an Esquimaux village. "You and
Alex can go ashore and look around," Clay said. "I'll stay and look out
for Case. I've got a hunch that there's fish lurking in this little cove
and I'm going to have a try for them. Taste good for a change, wouldn't
it?"
The village lay back a ways from the river on a high bank and this the
boys scrambled up, to find themselves in the middle of the settlement.
It was almost deserted, only a few old men and old women crouched in the
warm sunshine in front of their wretched buildings. Only a very few
children played solemnly in the sun and they looked wan and haggard.
None of the faces looked attractive. They were broad, flat and stupid.
Ike, with true trader's instinct, had brought a pack with him and a
glint of interest shone in the eyes of the old men. It might contain
tobacco of which they had none in many weary moons. The one who seemed
in authority, approached Alex. "How," he said.
"How yourself?" replied Alex. "Who is your chief?"
"I am a great man amongst my people," said the native. "I am Shaman, the
medicine man. I protect my people from sickness and guard them from the
evil spirits of the Yukon."
"Guess you got the wrong hunch last winter or else the Yukon spirit's
out-wrestled you," said Alex lightly, as he glanced around at the empty
huts. "Say, who's that chap with a face like an Indian's?"
The Shaman glanced at the still impassive face that Alex pointed out.
"Him Nichols, the story teller. He is a great man in the tribe. He keeps
the people contented in the long winter's darkness by telling them
wondrous tales about when the Northland was always green and the sun
shone every day warm, and game was plenty in the land. Not like now when
the cold pierces to the marrow and hunger gnaws always at the empty
belly."
Alex was not taken much by the Shaman's looks, so leaving him to the
tender mercies of Ike, who was undoing his pack, he strolled on through
the little village, thrusting his little freckled face in here and there
and noting everything with keen eyes.
There was little to be seen, however, and he soon returned to Ike, who
was exultant over his bargain, conducted on both sides by many words and
protests of being robbed. It ended by Ike becoming possessed of a silver
fox skin worth many dollars--while the Shaman, smiling broadly over
getting the best of the white man, was now the possessor of a one dollar
watch, two plugs of tobacco, a ten cent looking glass, and a pair of
green goggles.