When Big Jim Belden ventured the apparently innocuous proposition that
mush-ice was 'rather pecooliar,' he little dreamed of what it would
lead to.
Neither did Lon McFane, when he affirmed that anchor-ice was even more
so; nor did Bettles, as he instantly disagreed, declaring the very
existence of such a form to be a bugaboo.
'An' ye'd be tellin' me this,' cried Lon, 'after the years ye've spint
in the land! An' we atin' out the same pot this many's the day!' 'But
the thing's agin reasin,' insisted Bettles.
'Look you, water's warmer than ice--' 'An' little the difference, once
ye break through.'
'Still it's warmer, because it ain't froze. An' you say it freezes on
the bottom?' 'Only the anchor-ice, David, only the anchor-ice. An' have
ye niver drifted along, the water clear as glass, whin suddin, belike a
cloud over the sun, the mushy-ice comes bubblin' up an' up till from
bank to bank an' bind to bind it's drapin' the river like a first
snowfall?' 'Unh, hunh! more'n once when I took a doze at the
steering-oar. But it allus come out the nighest side-channel, an' not
bubblin' up an' up.' 'But with niver a wink at the helm?'
'No; nor you. It's agin reason. I'll leave it to any man!' Bettles
appealed to the circle about the stove, but the fight was on between
himself and Lon McFane.
'Reason or no reason, it's the truth I'm tellin' ye. Last fall, a year
gone, 'twas Sitka Charley and meself saw the sight, droppin' down the
riffle ye'll remember below Fort Reliance. An' regular fall weather it
was--the glint o' the sun on the golden larch an' the quakin' aspens;
an' the glister of light on ivery ripple; an' beyand, the winter an'
the blue haze of the North comin' down hand in hand. It's well ye know
the same, with a fringe to the river an' the ice formin' thick in the
eddies--an' a snap an' sparkle to the air, an' ye a-feelin' it through
all yer blood, a-takin' new lease of life with ivery suck of it. 'Tis
then, me boy, the world grows small an' the wandtherlust lays ye by the
heels.
'But it's meself as wandthers. As I was sayin', we a-paddlin', with
niver a sign of ice, barrin' that by the eddies, when the Injun lifts
his paddle an' sings out, "Lon McFane! Look ye below!" So have I heard,
but niver thought to see! As ye know, Sitka Charley, like meself, niver
drew first breath in the land; so the sight was new. Then we drifted,
with a head over ayther side, peerin' down through the sparkly water.
For the world like the days I spint with the pearlers, watchin' the
coral banks a-growin' the same as so many gardens under the sea. There
it was, the anchor-ice, clingin' an' clusterin' to ivery rock, after
the manner of the white coral.
'But the best of the sight was to come. Just after clearin' the tail of
the riffle, the water turns quick the color of milk, an' the top of it
in wee circles, as when the graylin' rise in the spring, or there's a
splatter of wet from the sky. 'Twas the anchor-ice comin' up. To the
right, to the lift, as far as iver a man cud see, the water was covered
with the same.
An' like so much porridge it was, slickin' along the bark of the canoe,
stickin' like glue to the paddles. It's many's the time I shot the
self-same riffle before, and it's many's the time after, but niver a
wink of the same have I seen. 'Twas the sight of a lifetime.' 'Do
tell!' dryly commented Bettles. 'D'ye think I'd b'lieve such a yarn?
I'd ruther say the glister of light'd gone to your eyes, and the snap
of the air to your tongue.' ''Twas me own eyes that beheld it, an' if
Sitka Charley was here, he'd be the lad to back me.' 'But facts is
facts, an' they ain't no gettin' round 'em. It ain't in the nature of
things for the water furtherest away from the air to freeze first.'
'But me own eyes-' 'Don't git het up over it,' admonished Bettles, as
the quick Celtic anger began to mount.
'Then yer not after belavin' me?' 'Sence you're so blamed forehanded
about it, no; I'd b'lieve nature first, and facts.'
'Is it the lie ye'd be givin' me?' threatened Lon. 'Ye'd better be
askin' that Siwash wife of yours. I'll lave it to her, for the truth I
spake.' Bettles flared up in sudden wrath. The Irishman had unwittingly
wounded him; for his wife was the half-breed daughter of a Russian
fur-trader, married to him in the Greek Mission of Nulato, a thousand
miles or so down the Yukon, thus being of much higher caste than the
common Siwash, or native, wife. It was a mere Northland nuance, which
none but the Northland adventurer may understand.
'I reckon you kin take it that way,' was his deliberate affirmation.
The next instant Lon McFane had stretched him on the floor, the circle
was broken up, and half a dozen men had stepped between.
Bettles came to his feet, wiping the blood from his mouth. 'It hain't
new, this takin' and payin' of blows, and don't you never think but
that this will be squared.' 'An' niver in me life did I take the lie
from mortal man,' was the retort courteous. 'An' it's an avil day I'll
not be to hand, waitin' an' willin' to help ye lift yer debts, barrin'
no manner of way.'
'Still got that 38-55?' Lon nodded.
'But you'd better git a more likely caliber. Mine'll rip holes through
you the size of walnuts.'
'Niver fear; it's me own slugs smell their way with soft noses, an'
they'll spread like flapjacks against the coming out beyand. An'
when'll I have the pleasure of waitin' on ye? The waterhole's a
strikin' locality.' ''Tain't bad. Jest be there in an hour, and you
won't set long on my coming.' Both men mittened and left the Post,
their ears closed to the remonstrances of their comrades. It was such a
little thing; yet with such men, little things, nourished by quick
tempers and stubborn natures, soon blossomed into big things.
Besides, the art of burning to bedrock still lay in the womb of the
future, and the men of Forty-Mile, shut in by the long Arctic winter,
grew high-stomached with overeating and enforced idleness, and became
as irritable as do the bees in the fall of the year when the hives are
overstocked with honey.
There was no law in the land. The mounted police was also a thing of
the future. Each man measured an offense, and meted out the punishment
inasmuch as it affected himself.
Rarely had combined action been necessary, and never in all the dreary
history of the camp had the eighth article of the Decalogue been
violated.
Big Jim Belden called an impromptu meeting. Scruff Mackenzie was placed
as temporary chairman, and a messenger dispatched to solicit Father
Roubeau's good offices. Their position was paradoxical, and they knew
it. By the right of might could they interfere to prevent the duel; yet
such action, while in direct line with their wishes, went counter to
their opinions. While their rough-hewn, obsolete ethics recognized the
individual prerogative of wiping out blow with blow, they could not
bear to think of two good comrades, such as Bettles and McFane, meeting
in deadly battle. Deeming the man who would not fight on provocation a
dastard, when brought to the test it seemed wrong that he should fight.
But a scurry of moccasins and loud cries, rounded off with a
pistol-shot, interrupted the discussion. Then the storm-doors opened
and Malemute Kid entered, a smoking Colt's in his hand, and a merry
light in his eye.
'I got him.' He replaced the empty shell, and added, 'Your dog,
Scruff.' 'Yellow Fang?'
Mackenzie asked.
'No; the lop-eared one.' 'The devil! Nothing the matter with him.'
'Come out and take a look.' 'That's all right after all. Buess he's got
'em, too. Yellow Fang came back this morning and took a chunk out of
him, and came near to making a widower of me. Made a rush for Zarinska,
but she whisked her skirts in his face and escaped with the loss of the
same and a good roll in the snow. Then he took to the woods again. Hope
he don't come back. Lost any yourself?' 'One--the best one of the
pack--Shookum. Started amuck this morning, but didn't get very far. Ran
foul of Sitka Charley's team, and they scattered him all over the
street. And now two of them are loose, and raging mad; so you see he
got his work in. The dog census will be small in the spring if we don't
do something.'
'And the man census, too.' 'How's that? Who's in trouble now?' 'Oh,
Bettles and Lon McFane had an argument, and they'll be down by the
waterhole in a few minutes to settle it.' The incident was repeated for
his benefit, and Malemute Kid, accustomed to an obedience which his
fellow men never failed to render, took charge of the affair. His
quickly formulated plan was explained, and they promised to follow his
lead implicitly.
'So you see,' he concluded, 'we do not actually take away their
privilege of fighting; and yet I don't believe they'll fight when they
see the beauty of the scheme. Life's a game and men the gamblers.
They'll stake their whole pile on the one chance in a thousand.
'Take away that one chance, and--they won't play.' He turned to the man
in charge of the Post. 'Storekeeper, weight out three fathoms of your
best half-inch manila.
'We'll establish a precedent which will last the men of Forty-Mile to
the end of time,' he prophesied. Then he coiled the rope about his arm
and led his followers out of doors, just in time to meet the principals.
'What danged right'd he to fetch my wife in?' thundered Bettles to the
soothing overtures of a friend. ''Twa'n't called for,' he concluded
decisively. ''Twa'n't called for,' he reiterated again and again,
pacing up and down and waiting for Lon McFane.
And Lon McFane--his face was hot and tongue rapid as he flaunted
insurrection in the face of the Church. 'Then, father,' he cried, 'it's
with an aisy heart I'll roll in me flamy blankets, the broad of me back
on a bed of coals. Niver shall it be said that Lon McFane took a lie
'twixt the teeth without iver liftin' a hand! An' I'll not ask a
blessin'. The years have been wild, but it's the heart was in the right
place.' 'But it's not the heart, Lon,' interposed Father Roubeau; 'It's
pride that bids you forth to slay your fellow man.' 'Yer Frinch,' Lon
replied. And then, turning to leave him, 'An' will ye say a mass if the
luck is against me?' But the priest smiled, thrust his moccasined feet
to the fore, and went out upon the white breast of the silent river. A
packed trail, the width of a sixteen-inch sled, led out to the
waterhole. On either side lay the deep, soft snow. The men trod in
single file, without conversation; and the black-stoled priest in their
midst gave to the function the solemn aspect of a funeral. It was a
warm winter's day for Forty-Mile--a day in which the sky, filled with
heaviness, drew closer to the earth, and the mercury sought the
unwonted level of twenty below. But there was no cheer in the warmth.
There was little air in the upper strata, and the clouds hung
motionless, giving sullen promise of an early snowfall. And the earth,
unresponsive, made no preparation, content in its hibernation.
When the waterhole was reached, Bettles, having evidently reviewed the
quarrel during the silent walk, burst out in a final ''Twa'n't called
for,' while Lon McFane kept grim silence. Indignation so choked him
that he could not speak.
Yet deep down, whenever their own wrongs were not uppermost, both men
wondered at their comrades. They had expected opposition, and this
tacit acquiescence hurt them. It seemed more was due them from the men
they had been so close with, and they felt a vague sense of wrong,
rebelling at the thought of so many of their brothers coming out, as on
a gala occasion, without one word of protest, to see them shoot each
other down. It appeared their worth had diminished in the eyes of the
community. The proceedings puzzled them.
'Back to back, David. An' will it be fifty paces to the man, or double
the quantity?'
'Fifty,' was the sanguinary reply, grunted out, yet sharply cut.
But the new manila, not prominently displayed, but casually coiled
about Malemute Kid's arm, caught the quick eye of the Irishman, and
thrilled him with a suspicious fear.
'An' what are ye doin' with the rope?' 'Hurry up!' Malemute Kid glanced
at his watch.
'I've a batch of bread in the cabin, and I don't want it to fall.
Besides, my feet are getting cold.' The rest of the men manifested
their impatience in various suggestive ways.
'But the rope, Kid' It's bran' new, an' sure yer bread's not that heavy
it needs raisin' with the like of that?' Bettles by this time had faced
around. Father Roubeau, the humor of the situation just dawning on him,
hid a smile behind his mittened hand.
'No, Lon; this rope was made for a man.' Malemute Kid could be very
impressive on occasion.
'What man?' Bettles was becoming aware of a personal interest.
'The other man.' 'An' which is the one ye'd mane by that?' 'Listen,
Lon--and you, too, Bettles! We've been talking this little trouble of
yours over, and we've come to one conclusion. We know we have no right
to stop your fighting-' 'True for ye, me lad!' 'And we're not going to.
But this much we can do, and shall do--make this the only duel in the
history of Forty-Mile, set an example for every che-cha-qua that comes
up or down the Yukon. The man who escapes killing shall be hanged to
the nearest tree. Now, go ahead!'
Lon smiled dubiously, then his face lighted up. 'Pace her off,
David--fifty paces, wheel, an' niver a cease firin' till a lad's down
for good. 'Tis their hearts'll niver let them do the deed, an' it's
well ye should know it for a true Yankee bluff.'
He started off with a pleased grin on his face, but Malemute Kid halted
him.
'Lon! It's a long while since you first knew me?' 'Many's the day.'
'And you, Bettles?'
'Five year next June high water.' 'And have you once, in all that time,
known me to break my word' Or heard of me breaking it?' Both men shook
their heads, striving to fathom what lay beyond.
'Well, then, what do you think of a promise made by me?' 'As good as
your bond,' from Bettles.
'The thing to safely sling yer hopes of heaven by,' promptly endorsed
Lon McFane.
'Listen! I, Malemute Kid, give you my word--and you know what that
means that the man who is not shot stretches rope within ten minutes
after the shooting.' He stepped back as Pilate might have done after
washing his hands.
A pause and a silence came over the men of Forty-Mile. The sky drew
still closer, sending down a crystal flight of frost--little geometric
designs, perfect, evanescent as a breath, yet destined to exist till
the returning sun had covered half its northern journey.
Both men had led forlorn hopes in their time--led with a curse or a
jest on their tongues, and in their souls an unswerving faith in the
God of Chance. But that merciful deity had been shut out from the
present deal. They studied the face of Malemute Kid, but they studied
as one might the Sphinx. As the quiet minutes passed, a feeling that
speech was incumbent on them began to grow. At last the howl of a
wolf-dog cracked the silence from the direction of Forty-Mile. The
weird sound swelled with all the pathos of a breaking heart, then died
away in a long-drawn sob.
'Well I be danged!' Bettles turned up the collar of his mackinaw jacket
and stared about him helplessly.
'It's a gloryus game yer runnin', Kid,' cried Lon McFane. 'All the
percentage of the house an' niver a bit to the man that's buckin'. The
Devil himself'd niver tackle such a cinch--and damned if I do.' There
were chuckles, throttled in gurgling throats, and winks brushed away
with the frost which rimed the eyelashes, as the men climbed the
ice-notched bank and started across the street to the Post. But the
long howl had drawn nearer, invested with a new note of menace. A woman
screamed round the corner. There was a cry of, 'Here he comes!' Then an
Indian boy, at the head of half a dozen frightened dogs, racing with
death, dashed into the crowd. And behind came Yellow Fang, a bristle of
hair and a flash of gray. Everybody but the Yankee fled.
The Indian boy had tripped and fallen. Bettles stopped long enough to
grip him by the slack of his furs, then headed for a pile of cordwood
already occupied by a number of his comrades. Yellow Fang, doubling
after one of the dogs, came leaping back. The fleeing animal, free of
the rabies, but crazed with fright, whipped Bettles off his feet and
flashed on up the street. Malemute Kid took a flying shot at Yellow
Fang. The mad dog whirled a half airspring, came down on his back,
then, with a single leap, covered half the distance between himself and
Bettles.
But the fatal spring was intercepted. Lon McFane leaped from the
woodpile, countering him in midair. Over they rolled, Lon holding him
by the throat at arm's length, blinking under the fetid slaver which
sprayed his face. Then Bettles, revolver in hand and coolly waiting a
chance, settled the combat.
''Twas a square game, Kid,' Lon remarked, rising to his feet and
shaking the snow from out his sleeves; 'with a fair percentage to
meself that bucked it.' That night, while Lon McFane sought the
forgiving arms of the Church in the direction of Father Roubeau's
cabin, Malemute Kid talked long to little purpose.
'But would you,' persisted Mackenzie, 'supposing they had fought?'
'Have I ever broken my word?' 'No; but that isn't the point. Answer the
question. Would you?' Malemute Kid straightened up. 'Scruff, I've been
asking myself that question ever since, and--'
'Well?'
'Well, as yet, I haven't found the answer.'