I AM getting to the end of my story, and as the finish draws near, it
seems to me, that I have not quite done justice by Swiftwater Bill,
in at least one respect--and that is the activity and agility the man
displays when events over which he might have had control, had he
been on the square, crowded him so closely, that like the proverbial
flea, he had to hike. And in telling of Swiftwater’s talent in this
direction, I wish to be regarded as speaking as one without malice,
but rather as admiring Swiftwater for trying, in so far as lay in his
power, to make good his nickname of Swiftwater.
In San Francisco, after Swiftwater had obtained a divorce from Kitty,
he immediately announced his intention of getting another wife. For
Swiftwater knew that the prison gates which once had yawned in his
face were now closed, and, better even than that, was the thought that
I--his loving mother-in-law--would no longer be interested in his
future.
It is undoubtedly true that in Swiftwater’s mental processes he
regarded first, the hundreds of thousands of dollars in gold that
lay in the pay streak on No. 6 Cleary, in the Tanana, and I can see
Bill now in my mind’s eye, facing an array of cut glass decanters,
embroidered table cloths, potted plants, orchestra and all that goes
with the swell cafes of San Francisco, eating his dinner and rubbing
his hands with glee as he remembered how easily he had obtained a
fortune from me, which he sunk on Quartz Creek in the Klondike, and
then slid out of paying his debt to me.
The very next season found Swiftwater in the Tanana and this time,
according to the best official records I could obtain, his clean-up was
not less than $200,000. But I had not forgotten that Swiftwater had
told me, first that Number 6 Cleary was a bigger proposition even than
Quartz Creek, and that Gold Stream was one of the richest of all the
undeveloped creeks in the whole Tanana.
For this last information, I will say, I have always been grateful
to Swiftwater, because his belief that the time would come when Gold
Stream would be one of the best producers in all Alaska, led me to
obtain several claims there. And now, let it be known, his prediction
has been fully and completely verified.
But, knowing nothing of Gold Stream, and remembering only that
Swiftwater had added more than $1,000 to his already great obligations
to me, and had provided nothing for his family, I journeyed once more
across the Coast Range of Alaska.
Crossing on the railway from Skagway to White Horse, I met a score or
more of traders with their outfits of provisions and fresh vegetables,
all hurrying to get into Dawson as soon as the ice broke up, to sell
their wares to the miners of the Klondike at fancy prices. There were
several women in the party, some of them bent on joining their husbands
in Dawson.
Three hours ride down the river on a scow, laden with freight of every
character, we struck a sand bar and were compelled to spent the night
in midstream, absolutely without even a crust of bread to eat, and
heaven’s blue our only canopy. The grounding of freight scows in the
upper waters of the Yukon in the spring is a common experience, and
in those days little care was taken to protect the passengers from
suffering hardship and real danger. That night the icy winds blew from
the mountain ranges sixty miles an hour, and we suffered severely, not
having a mouthful of food since the morning before.
The captain of the scow, oblivious to his obligations to his
passengers, had loaned the only small boat he had to a pair of miners
the day before. We could do nothing until they returned. Finally, after
we had been on the bar for more than twelve hours, the men came back
with the boat and took us, two at a time, ashore.
Then, guided by traders, the women in the party were told to walk down
the stream fifteen miles to where there was a camp. It was bitter cold
and the trail was hard to walk. In the afternoon of the day following
our shipwreck, we stopped and the men built a bonfire, while the poor
women fell almost unconscious in front of it, completely exhausted for
want of food, which we had not tasted for twenty-four hours.
Two of the traders went down to the river’s bank and on the other side
they espied a camp of a herder, beneath the shelter of an abandoned
barracks. This was the only human habitation within miles. The traders
procured a boat and took us women across the river. The herder had some
bacon and some dry bread, which he cooked for us. Now, I want to say
that never in my life have I ever eaten anything that tasted so good as
that meal, consisting only of fried bacon strips placed with the gravy
on top of two slices of cold dry bread, and a teacup of hot coffee to
wash it down with.
That day the scow came down the river and again we boarded it and
finally reached Lake Le Barge. The lake was still frozen over and we
started to cross its thirty miles of icy surface with horses drawing
sleds. The ice was getting rotten and four times in as many miles, to
my constant terror, the horses broke through the ice, threatening every
minute to drag me with them. Becoming weary of this, I left the sled
and hired a dog team and outfit to take me across the lake.
At Clark’s road house, I remained a week and then boarded a scow and
went through Thirty-Mile river to board the steamer Thistle for Dawson.
Going down the river on a scow, one scow that was lashed to ours,
struck a rock in midstream, a hole was knocked into our scow, which
almost sunk. The bank of the river was lined with thousands of people
camping or moving on towards the Klondike. These people came to our
rescue and with ropes and small boats helped us off.
In Fairbanks once more, I found Swiftwater. I had telephoned him of my
coming, and in a day or two he came to my hotel.
“Mrs. Beebe,” he said, “here is $50 for your present hotel bills. I
must go back to Cleary Creek at once, but I will be back again inside
of a week, and then I will straighten everything up.”
When Swiftwater told me that, I believed him--for the last time--for
the next morning I found that he had left my room to board a train for
Chena, on the Tanana, with a draft for $50,000 in his inside pocket,
$10,000 more in cash and a ticket for Seattle.
Swiftwater undoubtedly believed, that being without money I would be
compelled to remain an unlimited time in Fairbanks. Not so. I still
had a little jewelry left that he had not persuaded me to pawn or sell
for his benefit, and on this I raised enough money to buy a ticket to
Seattle.
Before I could get there, Swiftwater learned of my coming, and when
I arrived on Elliott Bay, he had applied to the Federal Courts to be
adjudged a bankrupt and had assigned to Phil Wilson all his interests
in the Tanana, amounting to untold wealth.
That case of Swiftwater’s is still pending in the Federal Court in
Seattle, and no judge and no court has ever yet, up to this writing,
consented to declare him a bankrupt, although he has successfully
placed his property in the Tanana beyond the reach of the scores of men
who have befriended him in the past without reward on his part.