Gold-getting at this time was entirely given up: we scarcely mentioned
the subject.
Were we satisfied with what we had obtained? I believe that we were to
a great extent, for we knew that our claims were valuable, and we knew
we could look to the future proceeds with assurance.
As for May's party's claim, she could do nothing. She believed it was
safe, legally registered; and the American partners would return in the
spring, and she had all the documents which her father had drawn up to
prove her interest in it. With my claim it was much the same; I knew I
could prove my title to it.
I believed then that it was only in the tunnel that the golden streak
of gravel existed, and I really had not the courage to go in there to
work alone, and of course I could not ask May to go in with me. She
would have gone if I had, for she had a great objection to being alone,
which I suppose was natural. She knew where Meade's body was lying;
she knew where we had got gold, and I showed her my store of it in the
cache.
Three weeks passed, during which we did a mere nothing: we were waiting
till the season was more advanced, when we should have longer days, and
so we made ourselves as contented as we could. We had planned,
however, that when May had recovered some peace of mind, and had
regained her health and strength, I should go back to their shanty with
my toboggan, and bring the rest of her gold down.
I did this; I made the journey there and back in one day. She bravely
wished to accompany me; it really was unnecessary, and after persuasion
she consented to remain with Patch for company. I did not bring all
her gold that trip, for I had formed another plan. I loaded some of it
on the sled, but I also brought her father's body with me!
I had not told May of my intention, but I knew my scheme would please
her. It was a melancholy undertaking, but I managed it all right, and
crept silently back, and was able to take my burden into the tunnel
without discovery. I left it there, came to May's door, and was
welcomed home--it really seemed like home now.
[Illustration: "IT WAS A MELANCHOLY UNDERTAKING."]
I made some excuse about not bringing all her gold, and later, by
manoeuvring, I managed to hew out a niche for the body of Mr Bell close
to Meade's; indeed I got it all done without her guessing anything.
She knew I went out with pick and shovel, and supposed that it was
something to do with mining. Several days after, I told her what I had
done. She was very grateful, and went with me to the place, and saw,
with tear-dimmed eyes, where I had laid her father.
Shortly after I made another trip to her place and brought away the
rest of her treasure; and then, in our burrow on the hillside, there
were many thousand pounds' worth of bullion stowed away.
All this time we were seriously talking about how and when we should
get away; but as yet there were no signs of spring, further than
increasing length of daylight.
During this time a very curious thing happened as we sat one evening by
our fire, May and I, talking and planning: she, with a wooden stick we
used as a poker, was stirring the earth of the floor about, when she
exclaimed, "Why, there's a bit of gold!"
It was so, a piece the size of a bean. I supposed, at first, that I
had in some way dropped it there, but when she stirred the earth again
and found another piece or two, we realised that it was pay dirt that
our floor was composed of! This set us examining, and we soon
discovered that not only was the earth beneath us, but the very walls
and roof of our abode, full of gold!
We scooped out with pick and shovel a large portion of one side of the
dug-out, we carefully picked over the stuff we moved, and it was
surprising how many coarse pieces we found. We had several meat tins
full of small nuggets before a week went by, and we piled up before our
door a heap--a dump--of what we knew was rich stuff, ready to be washed
in spring.
However, we two had become so used to finding gold before, that this
experience did not excite us as you might suppose. We knew we had a
rich claim here anyway, and that May's party had a rich one farther in;
we realised we were well off, had each made a very decent pile, and
were perfectly well aware that what was of most immediate importance
was to get away to arrange for the safety of the gold we had actually
got, and legally to secure our claims. Our gold-digging, therefore,
was more a pastime than a serious employment--we were eagerly looking
forward to start for Dawson.
To wait till our creek opened in June, then float with all we possessed
down it on the raft to its junction with the Klondyke, where our boat
was cached, seemed at first the only way for us; but could we wait so
long? No. We discussed, we projected, we planned, and at last we
determined to pack the toboggan with all that we three could drag, and
depart at once.
I had all my gear ready--May only needed a sleeping-bag, which we
constructed--we cooked a good supply of food, packed all with fifty
pounds of gold, and one bright noon-day we started, as we fondly hoped,
to civilisation and home.
To those who do not know what moving about in winter in that arctic
region means, it may appear strange that we should have made so much
ado about this journey of one hundred miles or so. If I had been alone
I might have thought less of this undertaking. If I had had a man for
a companion, or even if we two had had no experience, we might have
gone at it more light-heartedly. But we not only had the terror of the
journey to face, and well knew that it was likely to be a terribly
arduous one indeed, but we were full of anxiety, when it came to the
point, about the valuable stores and gear we must leave behind us,
above all our great hoard of gold. As I have explained, the difficulty
had been to decide whether to wait till the creek opened and go down
with all that we possessed, or to leave the bulk behind, trusting to
its safety. We had chosen the latter plan, for we were impatient, at
any rate May was, to get away from this awful place--to get home, in
fact. So, putting our trust in God's protection, we started.
Our course was plain, the creek formed an avenue through the trees. It
was fairly level, though we encountered many ridges and drifts of snow,
which was deep; but the weather having been calm for some time, it had
settled down and packed a little. Our load was very heavy, and the
toboggan sunk in a good deal. Patch and I hauled in front usually, and
May pushed, but sometimes, to make a change, she hauled in front; but
breaking the track was generally too hard for her. What made our load,
probably 300 lb. in weight, still harder to drag was that we could not
pull with our snow-shoes on successfully, so gave them up, then sank
in, often to our knees, sometimes to our waists; and many a time
neither Patch nor I seemed able to get any secure foothold. As for my
dear girl, she bravely struggled on and did her best to aid us, but
really many times had all that she could do to keep herself from
sinking out of sight in the dry powdery snow.
I don't believe we made three miles the first day. Our camp that night
was in a clump of stunted pines. We put up our two tents close beside
each other, lighting a big fire in front which warmed them both, and
really in our sleeping-bags we felt little cold. May's tent being by
far the larger, in it I ate with her, then turned into my own shelter
for the night.
The following day I believe we made five miles. We were awfully
fatigued; and having to put up tents, cut bedding, build the fire, and
cook, was no light work after our day's march. That day I saw many
tracks of wolves and foxes. I supposed my companion did not notice
them, so I said nothing, for I did not wish to add to her discomfort
the alarm of attacks from wild beasts. But I have learned since that
she did see them and inwardly dreaded what they meant, yet kept her
knowledge from me lest I should suffer more anxiety. She just "put her
trust in God," she said, "and hoped He would protect us."
For several days and nights we had perfect weather, cold of course, I
suppose it was never less than 15 deg. or 20 deg. below zero. Then on the
seventh day--having made, we thought, fifty miles--as we were nearing
the mouth of our creek, it began to blow! We well knew what that
meant. The sky at noon was dark as night, the weird mountains were
enshrouded in mists of driving snow. Down in the sheltered avenue,
where we were struggling along, it was yet a breeze only, but even that
seemed to cut us to our very marrow in spite of our furs and wraps: we
realised that we must halt at once, make shelter somehow, somewhere,
and lie up whilst this storm should last.
There was a high and rocky bank near the margin of the creek. I donned
my snow-shoes and tramped across the snow to examine it, and
fortunately found a sort of bay or gap between two huge boulders, which
would protect us from most winds, and a big fire across the entrance
would warm the air somewhat. Here we pitched our tents, and here we
lay for three days and nights whilst the tempest howled past us.
Providentially there was no snowfall, only banks of it were lifted up
and carried past our retreat in clouds, which caused us to dread every
moment that a blast would curl it in on us and smother us. However,
mercifully we were spared this horror, and on the fourth day the sun
came out as the wind dropped, and we were able to move on. But it was
awful work: my heart bled for May,--I could not help but show how much
I felt for her. I could not refrain from exclamations which, I know
now, showed her where my thoughts were, and what I felt. She, dear
girl, quite understood: for she assures me that during all this
dreadful time her one thought and hope was that in the time to come, if
it should please God to bring us out of these horrors, she would be
able to devote her life to my happiness and consolation in part payment
for what she is pleased to speak of as my devotion to her,--just as if
any man would not willingly risk life and limb for any woman in such a
case---just as if I, with such a girl as May, was not altogether glad
to do anything and everything to help her.
The following day we got to and camped in the cave where our boat was
hidden. It was with difficulty I found the place, everything was so
deeply bedded in snow,--very different to when I parted those months
before with Indian Fan and Jim. We had stowed the boat so safely that
it was dry and free from snow, as the cave was. We camped that night
in it, May taking up her quarters in the boat.
For some time we had not noticed tracks of any kind; but the following
morning, which was bright and calm, I left the cave to May a while, and
tramped down to the edge of the larger Klondyke river to make a survey
of the route, and to discover, if possible, what the prospects were for
our day's work.
There I was struck with astonishment to notice numerous footmarks along
the margin. To be sure they were covered with fresh drifted snow, but
my woodcraft taught me that they had been made recently. There was a
regular path, which looked to have been much travelled. Certainly, I
thought, it was a bear-track; and yet, knowing that those creatures
hibernate, I was nonplussed. Did the Yukon bears behave as others, I
wondered. Perhaps the St Elias grizzlies do not sleep the winter
through. Was it wolves? I looked anxiously; the traces were too
large, and spaced differently to their tracks. However, there was a
well-used way, and I was greatly troubled.
We had by this time become so used to the toil and hardship of this
mode of travel, that I was not surprised to find May in excellent
spirits when I returned to camp. The brightness of the morning; the
sunlight on the snow; the brilliant iridescence of the ice-bespangled
branches of the trees, and the broader outlook across the white, wide
expanse of the Klondyke; the knowledge of our having attained the first
stage of our momentous journey safely; indeed, the very finding of the
boat, which was the first link, as one may term it, with
civilisation,--did so cheer the dear girl that she greeted me almost
joyously as she bustled about with our cooking arrangements. We had
promised ourselves a sumptuous repast on reaching the Klondyke, and I
had fortunately knocked over a brace of grouse the day before, so we
were reckoning on our breakfast.
But I was certainly bothered by the tracks I had seen, and May,
noticing my preoccupied aspect, rallied me thereon. This made me put
on a brighter look, and in my mind I determined to say nothing, to take
all due precautions, and to put my trust for the rest in the good God
who had protected us hitherto.
When we started on--gaily on May's part, trustfully on mine--we soon
came to this track. Patch instantly noticed it, and would not move on.
He whined, whimpered, and nosed it; then looking up and down the path,
he whined again.
May was attracted by this proceeding. I endeavoured to pull ahead,
saying nothing, merely calling to the dog to come on; but she,
perceiving a trail of some kind, hesitated too. "Is it a bear path?"
she inquired.
"Bears hibernate, you know," was my reply; "they don't make paths like
that in winter."
"It must be caribou, or moose--perhaps there are cattle here, or,
maybe, it's the track of people!"
"People here!--not likely." I shook my head as I spoke. "Who would be
here, do you think?--Indians? Well, that might be, but I fancy they
don't come about here at this season."
"Let us travel along it," said she; "it looks to be an easy way.
Whatever made it, appears to have chosen the smoothest route," for we
could perceive the trail for some distance winding amongst the
scattered timber along the margin of the stream.
Now, my idea was to get as far away from those suspicious footmarks as
possible. I wished to take to the middle of the creek, and we did so
by-and-by, after I had assured my companion that I considered the level
ice out there promised a better road. But she was not very easily
persuaded. I believe she had the idea in her head that this path was
made by human beings, and she had, naturally, a strong desire for the
fellowship of her kind. As for me, I had no belief in anything but
bears, and as for getting amongst people again--I wanted to, simply
because it was necessary if we were ever to get home; yet I rather
disliked the idea, for I knew well it would be the ending of her sweet
companionship.
I cannot quite truly describe how I felt just then. Certainly there
was an immense amount of suffering in our life, but I thought little of
my share in it, for was I not suffering with May? and I did not look
forward with entire pleasure to its ending. Only, for her dear sake,
only to put an end to her discomfort, her misery, I knew what my duty
was, and did it.
We hauled our load out into the wide white lane and travelled down
towards Dawson. And as we moved slowly, laboriously onwards, I rarely
took my eyes from where I knew that mysterious trail was winding
through the timber.
It was laborious work, truly. The snow was deep, and it was not
packed. There averaged three feet of it, then there seemed to be a
heavy crust, and if one broke through that, which we often did, we
found a layer of slush--half-melted snow--sometimes but a few inches
deep, at others a yard or more, and only under this was the solid ice
of the river. I used to go ahead with my pole and sound where I
thought it looked suspicious. Often I thus steered clear of
difficulty, and often I did not, for many a time the load, and May, and
I, sunk in to such a depth that it was actually alarming. She bravely
suppressed outcries and expressions of fear. She tried to laugh over
these deplorable episodes, and sometimes I saw her gaze longingly on
what she thought was a much better road in there amongst the trees,
but, dear girl, she never tried to argue with me, or even to discuss
the reason for my dislike to it.
Before noon our mocassins and leggings were wet and miserable. We
ourselves were in a bath of perspiration. It was difficult to believe
that it was freezing as hard as ever, and only when, after a few
hundred yards of easy going, we halted to take breath, were we aware
how cold it was, by our frozen leg-coverings.
We camped for our mid-day food on a brush-clad point on the south side.
It was absolutely still and clear. On taking off our snow-glasses the
light was so painfully dazzling that we understood what snow-blindness
meant, and gladly put them on again. I caused May here to change her
foot-wear, as we were staying long enough to dry our wet mocassins by
the fire. It was a snug corner we had chosen. We had a side view both
up and down the Klondyke and across it.
As we sat, as usual talking of our future, Patch suddenly stood up with
bristling mane and gazed across the river. "There's something over
there," said I; "that's just as he did when we first heard your shots
up the creek there," and we gazed and listened intently, the dog as
deeply interested as May and I were.
I, supposing it was bear or wolf that had thus excited Patch, felt
thankful that we were on the side we were, and got my gun in order.
Patch's excitement increased. He began to bark. With difficulty I
restrained him, and made him lie down. I stopped his barking, but I
could not make him cease growling. This excited us, and we watched the
opposite shore closely.
May was the first to discover the cause. Two men were tramping along
the track across the river!--whether whites or Indians they were too
far off to see.
The expression of my dear companion's face at this discovery was
peculiar. She was flushed with excitement as she said to me, "Come,
let us call to them. Oh, how splendid to see other people,--to realise
that we are not alone in this dreadful country!"
Laying my mittened hand on her shoulder, I remarked, "Stop--let us
think: they may be friends or foes; we must be cautious. Besides, what
do we really want? We know our way, and we have all we need. It is
satisfactory to know we are in an inhabited land, that is all."
"Oh, how terribly cautious and careful you are, Bertie!" she exclaimed.
"I should like to run over to those two men and greet them. But you
know best; oh, yes, I'm sure you do, forgive my impetuosity--only it is
so fine to know that we are really going home."
The two men did not notice us--they kept steadily on: we could just see
one was carrying a pack, the other pulling a little laden sledge behind
him. They were heading up the river, and in due course would cross our
trail, then, perhaps, would follow it, which was a serious aspect of
the case indeed! They would not only find our boat, but could trace us
to our dug-out, where all was at their mercy. What could be done?
Nothing. We could only put our trust in God that all would be well.
I kept silence to May on these points, and hoped that she would not be
troubled by the same fears.
One thing satisfied us both now, and that was that the trail across the
river was really made by people, and from what we saw of the way the
strangers got along it, it was very much better than where we had been
travelling, so with one accord we packed up, and with a will hauled our
sled across the river and hit that trail.
The fresh traces of the men were minutely examined. The leader had
worn snow-shoes, the other boots--we could see the heel marks. This
hardly pointed to Indians, nor old hands--for all but the greenest
tender-feet wear mocassins, in the winter there.
This trail was a great improvement; we moved along it quickly--two
miles an hour at least!
We had gone perhaps five miles; it was, we thought, getting on for four
that afternoon; we were resting, when against a rather dense growth of
firs we thought we saw smoke rising.
Now you must understand that we were both in a flutter of excitement
all that afternoon. We had said little to each other about it, but I
know we felt that we were likely at any moment to meet with some
adventure, pleasant or the reverse. We were all eyes and ears. I
could see May glance hurriedly and look intently, now in one direction,
now in another. Even the dog appeared to be expecting something: as
for me, I knew, of course, that very soon a great change would come in
our lives, my thoughts were occupied with this subject, and I was
trying to think how I should deal with every episode that I could
imagine might arise. Once or twice before, we had stopped to gaze
around as May or I had cried, "What is that over there?" But up to the
present it had turned out to be merely a curious stump, or uproot, or
some such bush object. We were on the _qui vive_.
So we considered for a little that we might be mistaken about this
appearance also. It might be a wisp of snow lifted by the wind, or
some shaken from the trees by a passing breeze: however, I soon saw
that it was very blue, that it was rising steadily, that it was no
hallucination, and that it was smoke, certainly.
A very momentous time had arrived. "My dear May," I murmured, "that is
smoke--that means a camp, most likely of white people. Our lonely life
ends the moment we arrive there."
"Oh, what a good thing!" she cried; "but why look so serious?"
"God knows what will happen to us," said I. "We may find ourselves
able at once to go on with comparative ease to Dawson and home. We may
find obstacles in our way--bad characters, who knows what? But any way
we have up to now, through God's good mercy, been kept from any great
harm, and we will trust Him still."
"Why, of course we will," she interjected: "but why are you so sad?"
"I cannot help feeling sad," I answered, "to know that you and I must
now cease to be what we have been to each other; but remember that I
shall not leave you, nor cease to help you all I can, until I know you
are safe at home in England with your mother. Whatever comes to pass
during the next few hours, or until that happy time arrives, believe in
me and trust me."
"My dear Bertie, my great friend, what is come to you? Do you think
I'm going to doubt you, or leave you now?"
"I hope not, indeed, indeed," I interjected.
"Why, amongst these rough fellows," she went on, "as, of course, they
will be, I shall want you beside me more and more. I shall, I expect,
want your protection and advice more perhaps--though that can hardly
be--than I have as yet needed it."
"And you shall have it, May--be sure of that," said I.
"One thing is certain, though, that whoever they are, whatever kind of
people they may prove to be," she continued, "I shall, as you say, till
we reach home and mother, look to you for companionship and guidance.
So don't look any more like that at me; don't be downhearted now, but
come, let us hurry on and find out what our fate is."
Then on we went. Within a few minutes we were in sight of a camp.
There were two log-shanties and a shelter or two; a huge chimney
smoking, and other signs of humanity; a couple of figures were moving
about; we had arrived at the haunts of men again!
We had paid little attention to the trail of late, but now noticed that
there were sleigh tracks branching from it here and there--dog's
tracks, men's tracks: here were stumps lately cut, there the traces of
where logs had been hauled out of the bush. Now we were continually
exclaiming to each other about these wonders.
Patch was excited--on the alert. When, a little farther on, he heard
dogs barking, it was hard to control him. It was their noise, I
suppose, that gave notice of our arrival, for we soon descried two or
three persons looking towards us, whilst a couple of fine huskies came
bounding through the snow, looking anything but friendly. However,
they withdrew as we marched on, and were called off as we got close.
When we at last halted near the first shanty, one man sung out to us,
"Welcome, friends! ye'll be frae Quigly Creek, I'll warrant. How goes
it there?"
[Illustration: "WELCOME, FRIENDS."]
Oh, the blessed sound! a friendly human voice--a Scotsman's voice!
"Nay," I answered; "I don't know where we're from exactly--up river
somewhere: we've had a pretty hard time of it. What place is this?"
"This place," the kindly voice made answer; "indeed, we canna give it a
name--it's just the banks o' the Klondyke river. But ye'll be
prospecting, eh? Have ye had luck? We've had a wee bittie. But
come--come in bye; ye'll be gled o' something hot, nae doot, and the
mistress 'll soon get the kettle on the boil."
"Mistress! is there a woman here, then? Oh, that is grand! This lady
here will be so glad of that," is about what I said.
"Ay, indeed, is there a woman! But who'd have thocht that one o' ye
was ane," he laughed; and then shouted, "Hi, Maggie, lass, see
here--here's a lady till ye;" but addressing us he went on, "But she
isna fit tae' come out into this cold. Come ben the hoose; we'll soon
mak' a' richt." With that he led us to the shanty, saying as he did so
to the other men, "Let loose the dog, and see the others keep frae it.
We'll hae to take these freends in, and see to them a while, nae doot."
We were delighted with all this friendliness. We entered the shanty;
it seemed a palace to us. The door was thickly curtained inside; there
was a rough wooden floor, an immense fire roaring in the chimney, a
table, chairs, and standing expectant amongst them was a youngish,
nice-looking woman, beaming with good-nature.
"Did I hear ye cry there was a lady here?" she asked the man. "But
which ane is it?" she went on, looking from May to me. "Ye're baith
sae rolled and smoothered up wi' claes and skins I canna tell."
Indeed it was no wonder the good soul was perplexed, for we were
dressed pretty much alike, if dressing could be called the furs and
blankets in which we were enveloped.
May's skirt of serge, reaching to her knees, was so torn and ragged,
very much as my frieze wrapper was, which I think reached nearer to my
ankles than hers did to hers. I wore a cap with ears, and round my
neck some fox-skins were muffled. She had a hood, a capote, a part of
her outer garment: it was then drawn so closely round her face that
nothing but her sweet eyes were visible. We had taken off our snow
goggles as we entered.
As our hostess spoke, we drew off our fur gauntlets; this gave her the
clue. I suppose she knew at once by the hands which was the woman of
us, for she immediately took May by the shoulder, crying, "Ay! come you
in here, I'll tend ye; and Tam," to her husband, "you see till him.
I'll no be lang awa'."
Then I threw off my wrappings and overalls, drew up to the fire, and
gazed around me. I noted that I was in a good-sized shanty, rough,
certainly, but it was light, for it had a large window by the side of
the door, and there were pots and pans and crockery about, clean and
brilliant, and to my unaccustomed eyes all looked luxuriant.
Our host was busily making up the fire, adjusting the tea-kettle,
fetching in buckets of snow which he emptied into a huge iron pot
hanging in the chimney, muttering as he did so, "She'll be wantin'
water to wash her, my certie--for neither o' them looks to hae seen
soap for a wee while."
I heard him and smiled. "You're right," said I; "it is some months
since we saw soap, and weeks since we could wash even our hands
properly--this is an awfully dirty country."
"Eh! but it is, man," he forcibly replied; "but I wonder at ye, takin
'a wife wi' ye prospectin'. Ye're tenderfeet, I daur wager--so are we
for that maitter--but I wouldna tak' my wife into such wark, nay, nay.
It's bad eneuch for her to stop here in this wee hoose, but to tak' a
woman rampagin' through these woods and mountains is no' richt."
He spoke so vehemently, almost angrily, that I could not stop him, but
when he halted for breath, "Hold on! Hold on!" I cried; "that is not
my wife, nor have I taken her out prospecting. Hers is a sad strange
story, so is mine. I found her away back. I'll tell you all about it
by-and-by. I can only tell you this now, that Miss Bell--that's her
name--Mary Bell--I must take to Dawson and to England as soon as
possible. Can you help us?--will you?"
As I spoke my host gazed at me, amazed. "To Dawson! and hame to
England! Noo?--the noo?" he cried. "Is the man daft? Gude sakes!
d'ye no' ken that it's just impossible to win awa' frae here the noo?
It's too late, or too airly, at this time."
"If money can induce you to aid us--we have some with us, and we'll pay
you almost anything you like to get us to Dawson at least," said I; but
before I was half through the sentence I knew I had made a mistake.
"It's gold, I suppose you mean," the man exclaimed,--rather angrily, I
thought. "Gold! well, we've got a wee bit oorsels here, and a tidy
claim up this burn. We'll hae a decent pickle washed out before long;
sae, ye ken, we're no' in need o' yer gold. If ye'd said grub, now,
that would been o' far mair value, but gold or grub it's a' one, ye'll
no get awa' frae here, my man, till the water opens in June."
"Grub!" I cried; "we've got a bit in our sled outside there, and up
stream there's quite a heap of it yet: if that's all that's needed,
you'll find that right."
"Man, I'm glad to hear it, for grub's mair valuable than gold in these
parts the noo; but I say again, grub or gold, you'll no' get off to
Dawson for a wee!"
"But why can't we get on?" I demanded. "We've got here; why can't we
get farther? My companion is just as good as a man; what I can stand,
she can, I believe."
"Man, man, I wonner at ye!" he exclaimed, with lifted hands and eyes.
"D'ye no ken that the river is breaking up fast at this present
moment?--half a mile below here it's a' under water; in a wee while
it'll be just a grindin' mass o' ice and slush, no breathin' thing can
live in it, the strongest boat that's built 'd be groon to powther in a
meenute--and there's nae trail beside the stream. In the deep o'
winter it's a' richt--ye can pull yer sleds along the ice well eneuch;
and in summer, when the water's open, ye can get along fine; but just
the noo! nay, it's no' possible."
"This is bad hearing," I said; "I don't know what Miss Bell will think.
We did so reckon of being able to reach Dawson, to be in time for the
first boat going down the Yukon: when will that be? D'ye know, sir?"
"Dawson! Dawson! what for d'ye want to take your lady freend to
Dawson? D'ye no understan' that it's no' place for decent folk at
a'--let alane a woman. But be easy, man, ye're weel aff here, and
ye'll get awa' doon to Dawson lang before the first boat gangs doon,
for ye ken the ice breaks up in these small streams lang before it does
in the big river. I doot if there'll be a boat leave Dawson till the
end o' June, and some say the middle o' the month o' July! Be easy
then, and bide a wee; ye're well aff here, and if ye'll let us hae the
grub ye spoke o' the noo, ye'll be far better aff, ay, very far better
than in Dawson waitin'. But let's see what the mistress and the young
leddy says."
Just then the mistress came in to us for hot water. As she lifted a
tin of it from the pot she said to me, "Maister Singleton, yer freend
in bye has tell't me o' some o' yer doings and what ye want to do.
Just bide a wee while; we'll tak' time to settle a'. Ye're a' richt
here; and as for me, I'm pleased eneuch and thankful tae to hae sae
braw a lassie's company, I warrant ye."
"Ay, ay," said Tam, her husband; "that's what I'm sayin'. Bide a wee."
Patch was at the door, howling for admission. Said my host, "Well hae
him in, the mistress 'll no' mind," for I had told him a little about
the dog, and the good fellow bounded to me and was happy.
When May returned how changed she was! Soap and water, comb and brush,
a few simple feminine touches, a fresh handkerchief round her neck, and
behold a figure that fairly dazzled me.
As for me, I gazed at my hands and dress with shame and horror. Mr
Bain, as I found his name was, saw my discomfiture. "Come awa' ben,
then!" he laughingly exclaimed; "we'll tak' some hot watter inby, and
see what we can mak' o' you, my freend!"
Part of the shanty was divided off by a screen of blankets, behind it
was their sleeping-place, and here I obtained what I needed very
sadly--a wash. The sorting of my locks, though, as Bain called it, was
a business: they hung down to my shoulders, and a comb had not been
through them for many days. Bain lent me a change of clothes, and I
returned to the living-room shortly, to be struck still more at my
love's sweet looks, my darling's loving presence. Quite a spread of
good things was on the table. We had of late lived well, thanks to my
stores, but we were hungry now, and our hostess heaped our
plates--earthenware plates, how nice they felt--with all the good
things she had. There did not seem to be much lack either.
We were joined now by two other men, decent fellows. One was a
Scotchman, Bain's brother; the other a Canadian from Peterborough,
Ontario.
After this, as we sat around the fire smoking, I told our story. I did
not say much about the gold; I admitted that we had got some, but made
light of the quantity. May here and there put in a word or two of
explanation when I came to her entry on the scene, and was not silent,
though I tried to make her so, in praise of me.
It was late, quite late, when I had finished. May was to have a bed by
the fire; I was to accompany the two young fellows to their shanty and
turn in with them. "And, d'ye mind," said Mr Bain, as we parted,
"ye'll no be turnin' oot sae verra early the morn's morning. Yon
lassie 'll tak a lang rest, ye ken, sae sleep sae lang's ye're able, Mr
Singleton, and sae gude nicht."
Patch accompanied me to my quarters, and thereafter made them his.