KOBUK JACK
"'Come on out with it, Kobuk,' I says. 'What's on yer mind? They
ain't no use beatin' about the bush between friends. How's the
cattle business? An' what you doin' up here?'
"'Well,' he says, 'fact is, Waseche,' he says, 'the cattle business
is bigger than I bargained fer. It's got me. I'm broke, er will be.
I figger that when they git through with me, I'll have about twenty
thousan' less than nothin.'
"'What's the trouble?' I intrudes. 'Don't yer cows give no milk?'
"'Milk!' he yells. 'Milk! You dog-gone fool! I ain't runnin' no
dairy! I'm runnin' a cow outfit--beef! Twenty thousan' head or so
on the range!'
"'Must be quite a chore around butcherin' time,' I admits, an' again
he yells out at me. 'Butcherin' time! Why, you cussed ignoramous,
we don't butcher 'em!'
[Illustration: "An' I kept a-goin' till it petered out, and I was
lost"]
"'Eat 'em alive?' I suggests.
"'Ship 'em!' he roars. 'Ship 'em to Chicago. Load 'em on trains an'
ship 'em!'
"'Sounds easy,' I ventured. 'How-come you busted? You must git
quite a stake off a trainload of cattle.'
"'I do, but somehow, I ain't 'gittin' the calves I should. In other
words, someone else is brandin' Round Seven calves, that's my brand.
An' again, the sheep men are crowdin' me off the range, an' anyway I
ain't no business man, an' my wife, she don't like the country no
better than what I do, an' the kids is growin' up rough on account of
so many cowpunchers fer playmates, an' take it first an' last, I'm
sick of the cattle business. The wife wants to come back to
Alaska--she was a nurse in the hospital at Nome when I was took down
there with a frozen foot. Hadn't be'n fer her I'd be wearin' a
wooden one now. When I made my strike I went up to St. Michaels on
the way out an' we was married.'
"'So there's a Missus Kobuk, an' some little Kobukses, is there?' I
inquires. 'What do you want to do? Go back up on the Kobuk? Of
course up there they wouldn't be no bad playmates fer the kids, an'
maybe Missus Kobuk would like it--she wouldn't have to mush more than
a hundred miles fer to call on her neighbors, an' them Eskimo
Klooches would be right proud to have her visit their igloos.'
"'Go ahead, an' have yer fun out,' grins Kobuk, 'an' then we'll talk
sense.'
"'Unburden yerself,' I opines. 'I'm here to listen.'
"'I was on the train comin' from Chicago this fall when I meets up
with Moosehide Charlie, him headin' back fer the inside after a trip
to the cities where he seen the sights to the extent of his pile.
An' while Moosehide talked about the big country, I listened. He
talked solid fer most two days, an' I got a pretty good history of
the big country since I quit it, in the course of which he elaborates
that you an' your pardner, which he was only a kid, but some
sourdough, at that, had struck it big on Ten Bow. Accordin' to
Moosehide, old Andy Morgan an' John D. Carnagie, an' P. J.
Rockyfeller, couldn't scrape up an ante between 'em big enough to set
in your game with. Well, you know Moosehide--he thinks in bigger
figgers than what the facts justifies, an' always did, but at that, I
takes the trouble to look you up an' I finds out that Moosehide
wasn't so far off as he generally is. So, I come up to see you.'
Kobuk, he kind of hesitates, a little, an' then he goes on. 'The
fact is, Waseche,' he says, 'you're my only chance. I wouldn't of
come if I hadn't found out you was in shape so what I need wouldn't
even make a hole in yer pile. What I want to know is will you loan
me enough to break even? You'll get part of it back--you prob'ly
never will get it all back 'cause I've got to hunt a job--an' a man
with a job an' a family to support will be a long time payin' off
twenty thousand dollars. But, if that cattle business was run right
I know it would pay. I ain't the man to make it pay. I ain't got
capital enough to buy up some sheep outfits, an' a lot of water
rights an' to fight the rustlers with--if I had I would stay an'
fight it out.'
"He stops an' waits fer me to speak. 'How much do you need?' I asks.
"'I figure twenty thousan' would let me out even,' he says. 'It
would pay my debts an' fix things so no one would lose any money on
my account. I don't know exact--somewhere between eighteen an'
twenty-five thousan'.'
"'An' where would that leave you?' I asks. 'Where do you go from
here?'
"'Why,' he says, 'I can go to Chicago an' get a job.'
"'What kind of a job?' I inquires, 'would you figure on holdin'
down--in Chicago?'
"'I ain't figured that far ahead,' says Kobuk. 'Any kind of a job
that would make a livin' fer the wife an' kids. I'm a plumb failure
in business fer myself, but I kin do as much work as I ever could.'
"'Le's see if I've got the straight of it,' I says, 'Missus Kobuk
wants to come back to Alaska, but you want to go to Chicago. You
don't like the big country no more. You've got plumb citified till
mountains an' rivers an' snow, an' dogs an' all that goes along with
it don't interest you no more. You'd ruther live in a city in one of
these here flat-top houses that all looks alike an' is inhabited by
so many numerous folks that your neighbor that lives acrost the hall
passes you on the street without knowin' he ever seen you before.
An' on top of that you want a job like one of these here men that
stands back of a counter in a store an' sells ribbons an' cloth by
the yard to women, or like the ones that wears white aprons an'
stands behind them rows of shiny faucets, which it taxes their
judgment to recommend a ten-year-old kid if he should take pineapple
or strawberry juice in his sody water.'
"Kobuk, he was gittin' a little red around the gills, an' I know'd
I'd kind of got to him. 'Look a here, Waseche,' he says, 'you know
blame well I'd ruther be here in Alaska than anywheres else in the
world, an' so would the wife--the country's got into my blood an'
into her blood. We both thought when we went outside we never wanted
to see it ag'in--but, shucks, we hadn't be'n away two years till we
both would have give anything to be back, but we was in too deep to
git out. An' now there ain't no chance to come back. If I was alone
I'd come in a minute, but I ain't alone. I've got the wife and kids
to think about an' to make a livin' for, an' a job is a job. Suppose
we come North, what would we do? I couldn't leave 'em in some town
or camp while I struck out in the hills an' made a strike. The time
for strikes has gone, anyway, an' what would become of them while I
was out punchin' holes in the gravel of creeks? Alaska ain't a poor
man's country no more, Waseche--an' I'm a poor man. But, that ain't
neither here nor there. I come to you as one friend to another. I
need the twenty thousan', an' need it bad. You've got it, an' with
the capital you've got behind you, you kin git your money back--an' a
lot more with it. I've told you the facts in the case. Now, do I
git the twenty thousan', or don't I?'
"'How much did you put into this here outfit to start out with?' I
asks.
"'A little better than a hundred thousan' an' give a mortgage for a
hundred an' fifty fer the balance, an' I've paid about fifty thousan'
of that.'
"'An' how many of these here cows do you reckon you've got left?'
'Somewhere's around ten thousan' head,' he says.
"'An' what do you claim the whole works is worth, as she lays?'
"'Take 'em as they run, the goin' price is around twenty-five dollars
a head, an' the ranch buildin's an' hay fields an' all the rest of it
say twenty thousan'.'
"I figures fer a minute with a pencil, an' then I says, 'So she
stands worth about $270,000. Takin' off $100,000 fer the mortgage,
she stands at somewheres around $170,000.'
"'That's it,' agrees Kobuk. 'That's what she figures on paper--an'
she's worth every cent of it to anyone that had another quarter of a
million to dump into the outfit. They'd have a million dollar
proposition, then. The way they've got me hemmed in by fair means
an' foul, she's worth about twenty thousan' less than nothin'.'
"I figures a little more, an' Kobuk he gits restless. He gits up an'
walks around an' his pipe goes out five or six times in as many
minutes. Then he picks up his cap. 'Do I get the twenty thousan',
or don't I?' he asks again.
"'You don't,' says I. Well, sir, you should of seen Kobuk's face.
He didn't say a word, jest stood there with his fingers grippin' his
hat fer a long time. Then he turns to the door:
"'Well, so long, Waseche,' he says, an' I noticed his voice sounded
kind of hoarse like. 'I've got to be goin' back.'
"'I'd be'n writin' out the check while he was standin' there, but he
didn't notice. 'Hold on, Kobuk,' I says, as he pulls open the door,
'if this will help you out any, you're welcome to it.' I held out
the check an' he closed the door an' took the piece of paper in his
hand. He stood lookin' at it fer a full minute like he don't know
what it is.
"' A hundred--an'--seventy--thousan'--dollars--' he says, slow like.
'What's this, Waseche?'
"'Why, it's the pay fer yer cows,' I says. 'We're buyin' yer outfit,
lock, stock an' barrel. You kin fix up the papers when you go back.
An' that ain't all, Kobuk,' I says. 'If I done you right, I'd back
you up ag'in that wall an' punch yer head fer you.'
"'What do you mean?' he asks.
"'I mean just what I said. I suppose you've fergot a _chechako_ you
found one time in the snow, eatin' dog in a Siwash camp way up in the
Hog River country. You fergot that you took that _chechako_ over
onto the Kobuk an' give him a pardnership in a payin' claim. You
fergot that you taught him more about minin' an' mushin' an' playin'
a man's game than he know'd there was to learn. An' you fergot that
a couple of years after--when you made yer strike, you found him in
Nulato workin' fer wages, an' you left a poke of dust with the
storekeeper with instructions to make the _chechako_ take the dust.
Them things you fergot--but the _chechako didn't fergit_. But what
makes me mad is this--years afterwards, when the tables is turned the
other ways around, an' you're broke, an' the _chechako_ has played
into big luck, you come along an' ask him to loan you enough to
_break even_! Yes sir, it makes me mad-- _Break even_! So you can
go to Chicago an' hunt you up a measly job amongst the stinks an' the
noises of a city where the chances is yer kids would git killed by
street cars or automobiles, or if they didn't they'd git hydrophoby
er consumption fer want of a lungful of clean air! You tell me yer a
failure because you couldn't make a go of raisin' cows. Well, it
just happens that me an' my pardner is huntin' fer just such a
failure as you be. I've worked with you up on the Kobuk. Listen
here. You go back an' git the fambly an' head with 'em fer Fairbanks
as quick as you kin git squared off. We've got a proposition to
develop over on the Chena that's big. We ain't touched it yet,
because we ain't found the right man to handle it. But, now we've
found him. If it's a job you want, you've got one--an' she's a
bigger job than you've ever tackled, at that. You kin live in
Fairbanks where there's good schools fer the kids, an' good society
for the woman. An' that ain't all. What you don't use out of the
check, you'd better put into the proposition. We'll organize the
Chena Development Company, an' take it from me, yer money will more
than double every couple of years.'
Waseche paused and filled his pipe.
"What did he say?' asked Connie, who had been an eager listener.
"He didn't say nothin'," answered Waseche. "It ain't Kobuk's way.
But next day I had to go to the doctor where he'd shook my hand. Oh,
yes, they was one question he asked just before he went away. He
says, 'But, what will yer pardner think of this deal? I see this
here is a pardnership check.'
"'Yes,' I says, 'an' that's the way she stands. I've tried onct or
twict to shoulder the load alone when I'd made some outside
investment that might not pay out--an' I ain't aimin' to try it no
more.'
Connie laughed. "You better not try it!" he exclaimed. "But this
one is a dandy."
"What do you mean, son?'
"I mean that I wouldn't have missed it for the world! I'm going to
hit out for Montana and make it pay!'
"Sho', now, mebbe it would be better to jest let go an' git out with
as little loss as we kin--an' charge it off to 'grub stake'."
"Not by a long shot we don't take a loss--not unless we have to!
What do we care if we dump a few more thousand into it? We've got
more than we can ever spend. And besides it wouldn't be playing the
game. No, sir! Now we're into it, we'll go through with it--and if
we lose, we will have had a run for our money, anyway."
"All right, son, go as far as you like--I'm for you," grinned
Waseche. "But, at that, I never seen no kid before that was always
just a-honin' fer a fight."