ON DYEA BEACH
In a drizzle of cold rain forty men stood on Dyea beach and viewed with
disfavor the forty thousand pounds of sodden, mud-smeared outfit that
had been hurriedly landed from the little steamer that was already
plowing her way southward. Of the sixty-odd men who, two weeks before
had stood in Patsy Kelliher's "Ore Dump Saloon" and had seen Jim McBride
toss one after another upon the bar twenty buckskin pouches filled to
bursting with coarse gold in his reckoning with Kelliher, these forty
had accomplished the first leg of the long North trail. The next year
and the next, thousands, and tens of thousands of men would follow in
their footsteps, for these forty were the forerunners of the great
stampede from the "outside"--a stampede that exacted merciless toll in
the lives of fools and weaklings, even as it heaped riches with lavish
prodigality into the laps of the strong.
Jim McBride had said that each man must carry in a thousand pounds of
outfit. Well and good, they had complied. Each had purchased his
thousand pounds, had it delivered on board the steamer, and in due
course, had watched it dumped upon the beach from the small boats.
Despite the cold drizzle, throughout the unloading the forty had laughed
and joked each other and had liberally tendered flasks. But now, with
the steamer a vanishing speck in the distance and the rock-studded Dyea
Flats stretching away toward the mountains, the laughter and joking
ceased. Men eyed the trail, moved aimlessly about, and returned to their
luggage. The thousand pound outfits had suddenly assumed proportions.
Every ounce of it must be man-handled across a twenty-eight mile portage
and over the Chilkoot Pass. Now and then a man bent down and gave a
tentative lift at a bale or a sack. Muttered curses had taken the place
of laughter, and if a man drew a flask from his pocket, he drank, and
returned it to his pocket without tendering it to his neighbor.
When Carter Brent had reached the seclusion of his room after leaving
Kelliher's saloon, he slipped his hand into his pocket and withdrawing
his roll of bills, counted them. He found exactly three hundred and
seventy-eight dollars which he rightly decided was not enough to finance
an expedition to the gold country. He must get more--and get it quickly.
Returning the bills in his pocket he packed his belongings, left the
room, and a few minutes later was admitted upon signal to the gambling
rooms of Nick the Greek where selecting a faro layout, he bought a
stack of chips. At the end of a half-hour he bought another stack, and
thereafter he began to win. When his innings totaled one thousand
dollars he cashed in, and that evening at seven o'clock he stepped onto
a train bound for Seattle. He was mildly surprised that none of the
others from Kelliher's were in evidence. But when he arrived at his
destination he grinned as he saw them swarming from the day coaches
ahead.
And now on Dyea beach he stood and scowled as he watched the rain water
collect in drops and roll down the sides of his packages.
"He said they was Injuns would pack this here junk," complained a man
beside him, "Where'n hell be they?"
"Search me," grinned Brent, "How much can you carry?"
"Don't know--not a hell of a lot over them rocks--an' he said this here
Chilkoot was so steep you had to climb it instead of walk."
"Suppose we make a try," suggested Brent. "A man ought to handle a
hundred pounds----"
"_A hundred pounds!_ You're crazy as hell! I ain't no damn burro--me.
Not no hundred pounds no twenty-eight mile, an' part of it cat-climbin'.
'Bout twenty-five's more my size."
"You like to walk better than I do," shrugged Brent, "Have you stopped
to figure that a twenty-five-pound pack means four trips to the
hundred--forty trips for the thousand? And forty round trips of
twenty-eight miles means something over twenty-two hundred miles of
hiking."
"Gawd!" exclaimed the other, in dismay, "It must be hell to be
eggicated! If _I'd_ figgered that out, _I'd_ of stayed on the boat!
We're in a hell of a fix now, an' no ways to git back. That grub'll all
be et gittin' it over the pass, an' when we git there, we ain't
nowheres--we got them lakes an' river to make after that. Looks like by
the time we hit this here Bonanza place all the claims will be took up,
or the gold'll be rotted with old age."
"You're sure a son of gloom," opined Brent as he stooped and affixed his
straps to a hundred-pound sack of flour. "But I'm going to hit the
trail. So long."
As Brent essayed to swing the pack to his shoulders he learned for the
first time in his life that one hundred pounds is a matter not lightly
to be juggled. The pack did not swing to his shoulders, and it was only
after repeated efforts, and the use of other bales of luggage as a
platform that he was at length able to stand erect under his burden. The
other man had watched without offer of assistance, and Brent's wrath
flared as he noted his grin. Without a word he struck across the
rock-strewn flat.
"Hurry back," taunted the other, "You ort to make about four trips by
supper time."
Before he had covered fifty yards Brent knew that he could never stand
the strain of a hundred-pound pack. While not a large man, he was well
built and rugged, but he had never before carried a pack, and every
muscle of his body registered its aching protest at the unaccustomed
strain. Time and again it seemed as though the next step must be his
last, then a friendly rock would show up ahead and he would stagger
forward and sink against its side allowing the rock to ease the weight
from his shoulders. As the distance between resting places became
shorter, the periods of rest lengthened, and during these periods, while
he panted for breath and listened to the pounding of his heart's blood
as it surged past his ear drums, his brain was very active. "McBride
said a good packer could walk off with a hundred, or a hundred and fifty
pounds, and he'd seen 'em pack two hundred," he muttered. "And I've been
an hour moving one hundred pounds one mile! And I'm so near all in that
I couldn't move it another mile in a week. I wonder where those Indian
packers are that he said we could get?" His eyes travelled back across
the flats, every inch of which had caused him bodily anguish, and came
to rest upon the men who still moved aimlessly among the rain-sodden
bales, or stood about in groups. "Anyway I'm the only one that has made
a stab at it."
A sound behind him caused him to turn his head abruptly to see five
Indians striding toward him along the rock-strewn trail. Brent wriggled
painfully from his pack straps as the leader, a bigframed giant of a
man, halted at his side and stared stolidly down at him. Brent gained
his feet and thrust out his hand: "Hello, there, old Nick o' Time! Want
a job? I've got a thousand pounds of junk back there on the beach,
counting this piece, and all you gentlemen have got to do is to flip it
up onto your backs and skip over the Chilkoot with it--it's a snap, and
I'll pay you good wages. Do you speak English?"
The big Indian nodded gravely, "Me spik Eengliss. Me no nem Nickytam.
Nem Kamish--W'ite man call Joe Pete."
Brent nodded: "All right, Joe Pete. Now how much are you and your gang
going to charge me to pack this stuff up over the pass?"
The Indian regarded the sack of flour: "You _chechako_," he announced.
"Just as you say," grinned Brent, "I wouldn't take that from everybody,
whatever it means, but if you'll get that stuff over the pass you can
call me anything you want to."
"You Boston man."
"No--I'm from Tennessee. But we'll overlook even that. How much you pack
it over the pass." Brent pointed to the flour and held up ten fingers.
The Indian turned to his followers and spoke to them in guttural jargon.
They nodded assent, and he turned to Brent: "Top Chilkoot fi' cent
poun'--hondre poun', fi' dolla. Lak Lindermann, three cent poun'
mor'--hondre poun' all way, eight dolla."
"You're on!" agreed Brent, "Thousand pounds, eighty dollars--all the
way."
The Indian nodded, and Brent produced a ten dollar gold piece which he
handed to the man, indicated that he would get the rest when they
reached Lake Lindermann.
The Indian motioned to the smallest of his followers and pointing to the
sack of flour, mumbled some words of jargon, whereupon the man stepped
to the pack, removed Brent's straps and producing straps of his own
swung the burden to his back and started off at a brisk walk.
As Brent led the way back to the beach at the head of his Indians he
turned more than once to glance back at the solitary packer, but as far
as he could see him, the man continued to swing along at the same brisk
pace at which he had started, whereat he conceived a sudden profound
respect for his hirelings. "The littlest runt of the bunch has got me
skinned a thousand miles," he muttered, "But I'll learn the trick. A
year from now I'll hit the trail with any of 'em."
Back at the beach the Indians were surrounded by thirty-nine clamoring,
howling men who pushed and jostled one another in a frenzied attempt to
hire the packers.
"No, you don't!" cried Brent, "These men are working for me. When I'm
through with them you can have them, and not before."
Ugly mutterings greeted the announcement. "Who the hell do you think
you are?" "Divide 'em up!" "Give someone else a chanct." Others advanced
upon the Indians and shook sheaves of bills under their noses, offering
double and treble Brent's price. But the Indians paid no heed to the
paper money, and inwardly Brent thanked the lucky star that guided him
into exchanging all his money into gold before leaving Seattle.
Despite the fact that he was next to useless as a packer Brent was no
weakling. Ignoring the mutterings he led the Indians to his outfit and
while they affixed their straps, he faced the crowding men.
"Just stay where you are, boys," he said. "This stuff here is my stuff,
and for the time being the ground it's on is my ground."
The man who had sneered at his attempt to pack the flour crowded close
and quick as a flash, Brent's left fist caught him square on the point
of the chin and he crashed backward among the legs of the others.
Brent's voice never changed tone, nor by so much as the flutter of an
eye lash did he betray any excitement. "Any man that crosses that line
is going to find trouble--and find it damned quick."
"He's bluffin'," cried a thick voice from the rear of the crowd, "Let me
up there. I'll show the damn dude!" A huge hard-rock man elbowed his way
through the parting crowd, his whiskey-reddened eyes narrowed to slits.
Three paces in front of Brent he halted abruptly and stared into the
muzzle of the blue steel gun that had flashed into the engineer's hand.
"Come on," invited Brent, "If I'm bluffing I won't shoot. You're twice
as big as I am. I wouldn't stand a show in the world in a
rough-and-tumble. But, I'm not bluffing--and there won't be any
rough-and-tumble."
For a full half minute the man stared into the unwavering muzzle of the
gun.
"You would shoot a man, damn you!" he muttered as he backed slowly away.
And every man in the crowd knew that he spoke the truth.
Three of the Indians had put their straps to a hundred pounds apiece and
were already strung out on the trail. Brent turned to see Joe Pete
regarding him with approval, and as he affixed his straps to a fifty
pound pack, the big Indian stooped and swung an extra fifty pounds on
top of the hundred already on his back and struck out after the others.
At the end of a half-mile Brent was laboring heavily under his load,
while Joe Pete had never for an instant slackened his pace. "What's he
made of? Don't he ever rest?" thought Brent, as he struggled on. The
blood was pounding in his ears, and his laboring lungs were sucking in
the air in great gulps. At length his muscles refused to go another
step, and he sagged to the ground and lay there sick and dizzy without
energy enough left at his command to roll the pack from his shoulders.
After what seemed an hour the pack was raised and the Indian who had
gone ahead with his first pack swung the fifty pounds to his own
shoulders and started off. Brent scrambled to his feet and followed.
A mile farther on they came to the others lying on the ground smoking
and resting. The packs lay to one side, and Brent made mental note of
the fact that these packers carried much of the weight upon a strap that
looped over their foreheads, and that instead of making short hauls and
then resting with their packs on they made long hauls and took long
rests with their packs thrown off. They were at least three miles from
the beach, and it was nearly an hour before they again took the trail.
In the meantime Joe Pete had rigged a tump-line for Brent, and when he
again took the trail he was surprised at the difference the shifting of
part of the load to his head made in the ease with which he carried it.
Two miles farther on they came upon the sack of flour where the Indian
had left it and Joe Pete indicated that this would be their first day's
haul. Six hundred pounds of Brent's thousand had been moved five miles,
and leaving the small Indian to make camp, the others, together with
Brent returned for the remaining four hundred.
This time they were not molested by the men on the beach, many of whom
they passed on the trail laboring along under packs which for the most
part did not exceed fifty pounds weight.
On the return Brent insisted on packing his fifty pounds and much to his
delight found that he was able to make the whole distance of three miles
to the resting place. Joe Pete nodded grave approval of this feat and
Brent, in whose veins flowed the bluest blood of the South, felt his
heart swell with pride because he had won the approbation of this dark
skinned packer of the North.
Into this rest camp came the erstwhile head barkeeper at Kelliher's, and
to him Brent imparted the trail-lore he had picked up. Also he exchanged
with him one hundred dollars in gold for a like amount in bills, and
advised Joe Pete that when his present contract was finished this other
would be a good man to work for.
Day after day they packed, and upon the last day of trail Brent made
four miles under one hundred pounds with only one rest--much of the way
through soft muskeg. And he repeated the performance in the afternoon.
At Lindermann Joe Pete found an Indian who agreed to run Brent and his
outfit down through the lakes and the river to Dawson in a huge freight
canoe.
The first stampeders from the outside bought all available canoes and
boats so that by the time of the big rush boats had to be built on the
shore of the lake from timber cut green and whip-sawed into lumber on
the spot. Also, the price of packing over the Chilkoot jumped from five
cents a pound to ten, to twenty, to fifty, to seventy, and even a
dollar, as men fought to get in before the freeze up--but that was a
year and a half after Brent floated down the Yukon in his big birch
canoe.