TRUST

All lines had been cast off, and the _Seattle No. 4_ was pulling slowly

out from the shore. Her decks were piled high with freight and baggage,

and swarmed with a heterogeneous company of Indians, dogs, and

dog-mushers, prospectors, traders, and homeward-bound gold-seekers. A

goodly portion of Dawson was lined up on the bank, saying good-by. As

the gang-plank came in and the steamer nosed into the stream, the clamor

of farewell became deafening. Also, in that eleventh moment, everybody

began to remember final farewell messages and to shout them back and

forth across the widening stretch of water. Louis Bondell, curling his

yellow mustache with one hand and languidly waving the other hand to his

friends on shore, suddenly remembered something and sprang to the rail.

"Oh, Fred!" he bawled. "Oh, Fred!"

The "Fred" desired thrust a strapping pair of shoulders through the

forefront of the crowd on the bank and tried to catch Louis Bondell's

message. The latter grew red in the face with vain vociferation. Still

the water widened between steamboat and shore.

"Hey you, Captain Scott!" he yelled at the pilot-house. "Stop the boat!"

The gongs clanged, and the big stern wheel reversed, then stopped. All

hands on steamboat and on bank took advantage of this respite to

exchange final, new, and imperative farewells. More futile than ever was

Louis Bondell's effort to make himself heard. The _Seattle No. 4_ lost

way and drifted down-stream, and Captain Scott had to go ahead and

reverse a second time. His head disappeared inside the pilot-house,

coming into view a moment later behind a big megaphone.

Now Captain Scott had a remarkable voice, and the "Shut up!" he

launched at the crowd on deck and on shore could have been heard at the

top of Moosehide Mountain and as far as Klondike City. This official

remonstrance from the pilot-house spread a film of silence over the

tumult.

"Now, what do you want to say?" Captain Scott demanded.

"Tell Fred Churchill--he's on the bank there--tell him to go to

Macdonald. It's in his safe--a small gripsack of mine. Tell him to get

it and bring it out when he comes."

In the silence Captain Scott bellowed the message ashore through the

megaphone:--

"You, Fred Churchill, go to Macdonald--in his safe--small

gripsack--belongs to Louis Bondell--important! Bring it out when you

come! Got it?"

Churchill waved his hand in token that he had got it. In truth, had

Macdonald, half a mile away, opened his window, he'd have got it, too.

The tumult of farewell rose again, the gongs clanged, and the _Seattle

No. 4_ went ahead, swung out into the stream, turned on her heel, and

headed down the Yukon, Bondell and Churchill waving farewell and mutual

affection to the last.

That was in midsummer. In the fall of the year, the _W.H. Willis_

started up the Yukon with two hundred homeward-bound pilgrims on board.

Among them was Churchill. In his stateroom, in the middle of a

clothes-bag, was Louis Bondell's grip. It was a small, stout leather

affair, and its weight of forty pounds always made Churchill nervous

when he wandered too far from it. The man in the adjoining stateroom had

a treasure of gold-dust hidden similarly in a clothes-bag, and the pair

of them ultimately arranged to stand watch and watch. While one went

down to eat, the other kept an eye on the two stateroom doors. When

Churchill wanted to take a hand at whist, the other man mounted guard,

and when the other man wanted to relax his soul, Churchill read

four-months'-old newspapers on a camp stool between the two doors.

There were signs of an early winter, and the question that was discussed

from dawn till dark, and far into the dark, was whether they would get

out before the freeze-up or be compelled to abandon the steamboat and

tramp out over the ice. There were irritating delays. Twice the engines

broke down and had to be tinkered up, and each time there were snow

flurries to warn them of the imminence of winter. Nine times the _W.H.

Willis_ essayed to ascend the Five-Finger Rapids with her impaired

machinery, and when she succeeded, she was four days behind her very

liberal schedule. The question that then arose was whether or not the

steamboat _Flora_ would wait for her above the Box Cañon. The stretch of

water between the head of the Box Cañon and the foot of the White Horse

Rapids was unnavigable for steamboats and passengers were transshipped

at that point, walking around the rapids from one steamboat to the

other. There were no telephones in the country, hence no way of

informing the waiting _Flora_ that the _Willis_ was four days late, but

coming.

When the _W.H. Willis_ pulled into White Horse, it was learned that the

_Flora_ had waited three days over the limit, and had departed only a

few hours before. Also, it was learned that she would tie up at Tagish

Post till nine o'clock, Sunday morning. It was then four o'clock

Saturday afternoon. The pilgrims called a meeting. On board was a large

Peterborough canoe, consigned to the police post at the head of Lake

Bennett. They agreed to be responsible for it and to deliver it. Next,

they called for volunteers. Two men were needed to make a race for the

_Flora_. A score of men volunteered on the instant. Among them was

Churchill, such being his nature that he volunteered before he thought

of Bondell's gripsack. When this thought came to him, he began to hope

that he would not be selected; but a man who had made a name as captain

of a college football eleven, as a president of an athletic club, as a

dog-musher and a stampeder in the Yukon, and, moreover, who possessed

such shoulders as he, had no right to avoid the honor. It was thrust

upon him and upon a gigantic German, Nick Antonsen.

While a crowd of the pilgrims, the canoe on their shoulders, started on

a trot over the portage, Churchill ran to his stateroom. He turned the

contents of the clothes-bag on the floor and caught up the grip with the

intention of intrusting it to the man next door. Then the thought smote

him that it was not his grip, and that he had no right to let it out of

his own possession. So he dashed ashore with it and ran up the portage,

changing it often from one hand to the other, and wondering if it really

did not weigh more than forty pounds.

It was half-past four in the afternoon when the two men started. The

current of the Thirty Mile River was so strong that rarely could they

use the paddles. It was out on one bank with a tow-line over the

shoulders stumbling over the rocks, forcing a way through the

underbrush, slipping at times and falling into the water, wading often

up to the knees and waist; and then, when an insurmountable bluff was

encountered, it was into the canoe, out paddles, and a wild and losing

dash across the current to the other bank, in paddles, over the side,

and out tow-line again. It was exhausting work. Antonsen toiled like the

giant he was, uncomplaining, persistent, but driven to his utmost by the

powerful body and indomitable brain of Churchill. They never paused for

rest. It was go, go, and keep on going. A crisp wind blew down the

river, freezing their hands and making it imperative, from time to time,

to beat the blood back into the numb fingers. As night came on, they

were compelled to trust to luck. They fell repeatedly on the untraveled

banks and tore their clothing to shreds in the underbrush they could not

see. Both men were badly scratched and bleeding. A dozen times, in their

wild dashes from bank to bank, they struck snags and were capsized. The

first time this happened, Churchill dived and groped in three feet of

water for the gripsack. He lost half an hour in recovering it, and after

that it was carried securely lashed to the canoe. As long as the canoe

floated it was safe. Antonsen jeered at the grip, and toward morning

began to abuse it; but Churchill vouchsafed no explanations.

Their delays and mischances were endless. On one swift bend, around

which poured a healthy young rapid, they lost two hours, making a score

of attempts and capsizing twice. At this point, on both banks, were

precipitous bluffs, rising out of deep water, and along which they could

neither tow nor pole, while they could not gain with the paddles against

the current. At each attempt they strained to the utmost with the

paddles, and each time, with hearts nigh to bursting from the effort,

they were played out and swept back. They succeeded finally by an

accident. In the swiftest current, near the end of another failure, a

freak of the current sheered the canoe out of Churchill's control and

flung it against the bluff. Churchill made a blind leap at the bluff and

landed in a crevice. Holding on with one hand, he held the swamped canoe

with the other till Antonsen dragged himself out of the water. Then they

pulled the canoe out and rested. A fresh start at this crucial point

took them by. They landed on the bank above and plunged immediately

ashore and into the brush with the tow-line.

Daylight found them far below Tagish Post. At nine o 'clock Sunday

morning they could hear the _Flora_ whistling her departure. And when,

at ten o'clock, they dragged themselves in to the Post, they could just

barely see the _Flora's_ smoke far to the southward. It was a pair of

worn-out tatterdemalions that Captain Jones of the Mounted Police

welcomed and fed, and he afterward averred that they possessed two of

the most tremendous appetites he had ever observed. They lay down and

slept in their wet rags by the stove. At the end of two hours Churchill

got up, carried Bondell's grip, which he had used for a pillow, down to

the canoe, kicked Antonsen awake, and started in pursuit of the _Flora_.

"There's no telling what might happen--machinery break down or

something," was his reply to Captain Jones's expostulations. "I'm going

to catch that steamer and send her back for the boys."

Tagish Lake was white with a fall gale that blew in their teeth. Big,

swinging seas rushed upon the canoe, compelling one man to bail and

leaving one man to paddle. Headway could not be made. They ran along the

shallow shore and went overboard, one man ahead on the tow-line, the

other shoving on the canoe. They fought the gale up to their waists in

the icy water, often up to their necks, often over their heads and

buried by the big, crested waves. There was no rest, never a moment's

pause from the cheerless, heart-breaking battle. That night, at the head

of Tagish Lake, in the thick of a driving snow-squall, they overhauled

the _Flora._ Antonsen fell on board, lay where he had fallen, and snored.

Churchill looked like a wild man. His clothes barely clung to him. His

face was iced up and swollen from the protracted effort of twenty-four

hours, while his hands were so swollen that he could not close the

fingers. As for his feet, it was an agony to stand upon them.

The captain of the _Flora_ was loath to go back to White Horse.

Churchill was persistent and imperative; the captain was stubborn. He

pointed out finally that nothing was to be gained by going back, because

the only ocean steamer at Dyea, the _Athenian_, was to sail on Tuesday

morning, and that he could not make the back trip to White Horse and

bring up the stranded pilgrims in time to make the connection.

"What time does the _Athenian_ sail?" Churchill demanded.

"Seven o'clock, Tuesday morning."

"All right," Churchill said, at the same time kicking a tattoo on the

ribs of the snoring Antonsen. "You go back to White Horse. We'll go

ahead and hold the _Athenian_."

Antonsen, stupid with sleep, not yet clothed in his waking mind, was

bundled into the canoe, and did not realize what had happened till he

was drenched with the icy spray of a big sea, and heard Churchill

snarling at him through the darkness:--

"Paddle, can't you! Do you want to be swamped?"

Daylight found them at Caribou Crossing, the wind dying down, and

Antonsen too far gone to dip a paddle. Churchill grounded the canoe on a

quiet beach, where they slept. He took the precaution of twisting his

arm under the weight of his head. Every few minutes the pain of the pent

circulation aroused him, whereupon he would look at his watch and twist

the other arm under his head. At the end of two hours he fought with

Antonsen to rouse him. Then they started. Lake Bennett, thirty miles in

length, was like a mill-pond; but, halfway across, a gale from the south

smote them and turned the water white. Hour after hour they repeated the

struggle on Tagish, over the side, pulling and shoving on the canoe, up

to their waists and necks, and over their heads, in the icy water;

toward the last the good-natured giant played completely out. Churchill

drove him mercilessly; but when he pitched forward and bade fair to

drown in three feet of water, the other dragged him into the canoe.

After that, Churchill fought on alone, arriving at the police post at

the head of Bennett in the early afternoon. He tried to help Antonsen

out of the canoe, but failed. He listened to the exhausted man's heavy

breathing, and envied him when he thought of what he himself had yet to

undergo. Antonsen could lie there and sleep; but he, behind time, must

go on over mighty Chilcoot and down to the sea. The real struggle lay

before him, and he almost regretted the strength that resided in his

frame because of the torment it could inflict upon that frame.

Churchill pulled the canoe up on the beach, seized Bondell's grip, and

started on a limping dog-trot for the police post.

"There's a canoe down there, consigned to you from Dawson," he hurled at

the officer who answered his knock. "And there's a man in it pretty near

dead. Nothing serious; only played out. Take care of him. I've got to

rush. Good-by. Want to catch the _Athenian_."

A mile portage connected Lake Bennett and Lake Linderman, and his last

words he flung back after him as he resumed the trot. It was a very

painful trot, but he clenched his teeth and kept on, forgetting his pain

most of the time in the fervent heat with which he regarded the

gripsack. It was a severe handicap. He swung it from one hand to the

other, and back again. He tucked it under his arm. He threw one hand

over the opposite shoulder, and the bag bumped and pounded on his back

as he ran along. He could scarcely hold it in his bruised and swollen

fingers, and several times he dropped it. Once, in changing from one

hand to the other, it escaped his clutch and fell in front of him,

tripped him up, and threw him violently to the ground.

At the far end of the portage he bought an old set of pack-straps for a

dollar, and in them he swung the grip. Also, he chartered a launch to

run him the six miles to the upper end of Lake Linderman, where he

arrived at four in the afternoon. The _Athenian_ was to sail from Dyea

next morning at seven. Dyea was twenty-eight miles away, and between

towered Chilcoot. He sat down to adjust his foot-gear for the long

climb, and woke up. He had dozed the instant he sat down, though he had

not slept thirty seconds. He was afraid his next doze might be longer,

so he finished fixing his foot-gear standing up. Even then he was

overpowered for a fleeting moment. He experienced the flash of

unconsciousness; becoming aware of it, in midair, as his relaxed body

was sinking to the ground and as he caught himself together, he

stiffened his muscles with a spasmodic wrench, and escaped the fall. The

sudden jerk back to consciousness left him sick and trembling. He beat

his head with the heel of his hand, knocking wakefulness into the numb

brain.

Jack Burns's pack-train was starting back light for Crater Lake, and

Churchill was invited to a mule. Burns wanted to put the gripsack on

another animal, but Churchill held on to it, carrying it on his

saddle-pommel. But he dozed, and the grip persisted in dropping off the

pommel, one side or the other, each time wakening him with a sickening

start. Then, in the early darkness, Churchill's mule brushed him against

a projecting branch that laid his cheek open. To cap it, the mule

blundered off the trail and fell, throwing rider and gripsack out upon

the rocks. After that, Churchill walked, or stumbled, rather, over the

apology for a trail, leading the mule. Stray and awful odors, drifting

from each side the trail, told of the horses that had died in the rush

for gold. But he did not mind. He was too sleepy. By the time Long Lake

was reached, however, he had recovered from his sleepiness; and at Deep

Lake he resigned the gripsack to Burns. But thereafter, by the light of

the dim stars, he kept his eyes on Burns. There were not going to be any

accidents with that bag.

At Crater Lake the pack-train went into camp, and Churchill, slinging

the grip on his back, started the steep climb for the summit. For the

first time, on that precipitous wall, he realized how tired he was. He

crept and crawled like a crab, burdened by the weight of his limbs. A

distinct and painful effort of will was required each time he lifted a

foot. An hallucination came to him that he was shod with lead, like a

deep-sea diver, and it was all he could do to resist the desire to reach

down and feel the lead. As for Bondell's gripsack, it was inconceivable

that forty pounds could weigh so much. It pressed him down like a

mountain, and he looked back with unbelief to the year before, when he

had climbed that same pass with a hundred and fifty pounds on his back,

If those loads had weighed a hundred and fifty pounds, then Bondell's

grip weighed five hundred.

The first rise of the divide from Crater Lake was across a small

glacier. Here was a well-defined trail. But above the glacier, which was

also above timber-line, was naught but a chaos of naked rock and

enormous boulders. There was no way of seeing the trail in the darkness,

and he blundered on, paying thrice the ordinary exertion for all that he

accomplished. He won the summit in the thick of howling wind and driving

snow, providentially stumbling upon a small, deserted tent, into which

he crawled. There he found and bolted some ancient fried potatoes and

half a dozen raw eggs.

When the snow ceased and the wind eased down, he began the almost

impossible descent. There was no trail, and he stumbled and blundered,

often finding himself, at the last moment, on the edge of rocky walls

and steep slopes the depth of which he had no way of judging. Part way

down, the stars clouded over again, and in the consequent obscurity he

slipped and rolled and slid for a hundred feet, landing bruised and

bleeding on the bottom of a large shallow hole. From all about him arose

the stench of dead horses. The hole was handy to the trail, and the

packers had made a practice of tumbling into it their broken and dying

animals. The stench overpowered him, making him deathly sick, and as in

a nightmare he scrambled out. Halfway up, he recollected Bondell's

gripsack. It had fallen into the hole with him; the pack-strap had

evidently broken, and he had forgotten it. Back he went into the

pestilential charnel-pit, where he crawled around on hands and knees and

groped for half an hour. Altogether he encountered and counted seventeen

dead horses (and one horse still alive that he shot with his revolver)

before he found Bondell's grip. Looking back upon a life that had not

been without valor and achievement, he unhesitatingly declared to

himself that this return after the grip was the most heroic act he had

ever performed. So heroic was it that he was twice on the verge of

fainting before he crawled out of the hole.

By the time he had descended to the Scales, the steep pitch of Chilcoot

was past, and the way became easier. Not that it was an easy way,

however, in the best of places; but it became a really possible trail,

along which he could have made good time if he had not been worn out, if

he had had light with which to pick his steps, and if it had not been

for Bondell's gripsack. To him, in his exhausted condition, it was the

last straw. Having barely strength to carry himself along, the

additional weight of the grip was sufficient to throw him nearly every

time he tripped or stumbled. And when he escaped tripping, branches

reached out in the darkness, hooked the grip between his shoulders, and

held him back.

His mind was made up that if he missed the _Athenian_ it would be the

fault of the gripsack. In fact, only two things remained in his

consciousness--Bondell's grip and the steamer. He knew only those two

things, and they became identified, in a way, with some stern mission

upon which he had journeyed and toiled for centuries. He walked and

struggled on as in a dream. A part of the dream was his arrival at Sheep

Camp. He stumbled into a saloon, slid his shoulders out of the straps,

and started to deposit the grip at his feet. But it slipped from his

fingers and struck the floor with a heavy thud that was not unnoticed by

two men who were just leaving. Churchill drank a glass of whiskey, told

the barkeeper to call him in ten minutes, and sat down, his feet on the

grip, his head on his knees.

So badly did his misused body stiffen, that when he was called it

required another ten minutes and a second glass of whiskey to unbend his

joints and limber up the muscles.

"Hey! not that way!" the barkeeper shouted, and then went after him and

started him through the darkness toward Canyon City. Some little husk of

inner consciousness told Churchill that the direction was right, and,

still as in a dream, he took the canyon trail. He did not know what

warned him, but after what seemed several centuries of travelling, he

sensed danger and drew his revolver. Still in the dream, he saw two men

step out and heard them halt him. His revolver went off four times, and

he saw the flashes and heard the explosions of their revolvers. Also, he

was aware that he had been hit in the thigh. He saw one man go down,

and, as the other came for him, he smashed him a straight blow with the

heavy revolver full in the face. Then he turned and ran. He came from

the dream shortly afterward, to find himself plunging down the trail at

a limping lope. His first thought was for the gripsack. It was still on

his back. He was convinced that what had happened was a dream till he

felt for his revolver and found it gone. Next he became aware of a sharp

stinging of his thigh, and after investigating, he found his hand warm

with blood. It was a superficial wound, but it was incontestable. He

became wider awake, and kept up the lumbering run to Canyon City.

He found a man, with a team of horses and a wagon, who got out of bed

and harnessed up for twenty dollars. Churchill crawled in on the

wagon-bed and slept, the gripsack still on his back. It was a rough

ride, over water-washed boulders down the Dyea Valley; but he roused

only when the wagon hit the highest places. Any altitude of his body

above the wagon-bed of less than a foot did not faze him. The last mile

was smooth going, and he slept soundly.

He came to in the gray dawn, the driver shaking him savagely and howling

into his ear that the _Athenian_ was gone. Churchill looked blankly at

the deserted harbor.

"There's a smoke over at Skaguay," the man said.

Churchill's eyes were too swollen to see that far, but he said: "It's

she. Get me a boat."

The driver was obliging, and found a skiff and a man to row it for ten

dollars, payment in advance. Churchill paid, and was helped into the

skiff. It was beyond him to get in by himself. It was six miles to

Skaguay, and he had a blissful thought of sleeping those six miles. But

the man did not know how to row, and Churchill took the oars and toiled

for a few more centuries. He never knew six longer and more excruciating

miles. A snappy little breeze blew up the inlet and held him back. He

had a gone feeling at the pit of the stomach, and suffered from

faintness and numbness. At his command, the man took the bailer and

threw salt water into his face.

The _Athenian's_ anchor was up-and-down when they came alongside, and

Churchill was at the end of his last remnant of strength.

"Stop her! Stop her!" he shouted hoarsely. "Important message! Stop

her!"

Then he dropped his chin on his chest and slept. "When half a dozen men

started to carry him up the gang-plank, he awoke, reached for the grip,

and clung to it like a drowning man. On deck he became a center of

horror and curiosity. The clothing in which he had left White Horse was

represented by a few rags, and he was as frayed as his clothing. He had

traveled for fifty-five hours at the top notch of endurance. He had

slept six hours in that time, and he was twenty pounds lighter than when

he started. Face and hands and body were scratched and bruised, and he

could scarcely see. He tried to stand up, but failed, sprawling out on

the deck, hanging on to the gripsack, and delivering his message.

"Now, put me to bed," he finished; "I'll eat when I wake up."

They did him honor, carrying him down in his rags and dirt and

depositing him and Bondell's grip in the bridal chamber, which was the

biggest and most luxurious stateroom in the ship. Twice he slept the

clock around, and he had bathed and shaved and eaten and was leaning

over the rail smoking a cigar when the two hundred pilgrims from White

Horse came alongside.

By the time the _Athenian_ arrived in Seattle, Churchill had fully

recuperated, and he went ashore with Bondell's grip in his hand. He

felt proud of that grip. To him it stood for achievement and integrity

and trust. "I've delivered the goods," was the way he expressed these

various high terms to himself. It was early in the evening, and he went

straight to Bondell's home. Louis Bondell was glad to see him, shaking

hands with both hands at the same time and dragging him into the house.

"Oh, thanks, old man; it was good of you to bring it out," Bondell said

when he received the gripsack.

He tossed it carelessly upon a couch, and Churchill noted with an

appreciative eye the rebound of its weight from the springs. Bondell was

volleying him with questions.

"How did you make out? How're the boys! What became of Bill Smithers? Is

Del Bishop still with Pierce? Did he sell my dogs? How did Sulphur

Bottom show up? You're looking fine. What steamer did you come out on?"

To all of which Churchill gave answer, till half an hour had gone by and

the first lull in the conversation had arrived.

"Hadn't you better take a look at it?" he suggested, nodding his head at

the gripsack.

"Oh, it's all right," Bondell answered. "Did Mitchell's dump turn out

as much as he expected?"

"I think you'd better look at it," Churchill insisted. "When I deliver a

thing, I want to be satisfied that it's all right. There's always the

chance that somebody might have got into it when I was asleep, or

something."

"It's nothing important, old man," Bondell answered, with a laugh.

"Nothing important," Churchill echoed in a faint, small voice. Then he

spoke with decision: "Louis, what's in that bag? I want to know."

Louis looked at him curiously, then left the room and returned with a

bunch of keys. He inserted his hand and drew out a heavy .44 Colt's

revolver. Next came out a few boxes of ammunition for the revolver and

several boxes of Winchester cartridges.

Churchill took the gripsack and looked into it. Then he turned it upside

down and shook it gently.

"The gun's all rusted," Bondell said. "Must have been out in the rain."

"Yes," Churchill answered. "Too bad it got wet. I guess I was a bit

careless."

He got up and went outside. Ten minutes later Louis Bondell went out

and found him on the steps, sitting down, elbows on knees and chin on

hands, gazing steadfastly out into the darkness.

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