'Dump it in!.' 'But I say, Kid, isn't that going it a little too
strong? Whisky and alcohol's bad enough; but when it comes to brandy
and pepper sauce and-' 'Dump it in. Who's making this punch, anyway?'
And Malemute Kid smiled benignantly through the clouds of steam. 'By
the time you've been in this country as long as I have, my son, and
lived on rabbit tracks and salmon belly, you'll learn that Christmas
comes only once per annum.
And a Christmas without punch is sinking a hole to bedrock with nary a
pay streak.'
'Stack up on that fer a high cyard,' approved Big Jim Belden, who had
come down from his claim on Mazy May to spend Christmas, and who, as
everyone knew, had been living the two months past on straight moose
meat. 'Hain't fergot the hooch we-uns made on the Tanana, hey yeh?'
'Well, I guess yes. Boys, it would have done your hearts good to see
that whole tribe fighting drunk--and all because of a glorious ferment
of sugar and sour dough. That was before your time,' Malemute Kid said
as he turned to Stanley Prince, a young mining expert who had been in
two years. 'No white women in the country then, and Mason wanted to get
married. Ruth's father was chief of the Tananas, and objected, like the
rest of the tribe. Stiff? Why, I used my last pound of sugar; finest
work in that line I ever did in my life. You should have seen the
chase, down the river and across the portage.' 'But the squaw?' asked
Louis Savoy, the tall French Canadian, becoming interested; for he had
heard of this wild deed when at Forty Mile the preceding winter.
Then Malemute Kid, who was a born raconteur, told the unvarnished tale
of the Northland Lochinvar. More than one rough adventurer of the North
felt his heartstrings draw closer and experienced vague yearnings for
the sunnier pastures of the Southland, where life promised something
more than a barren struggle with cold and death.
'We struck the Yukon just behind the first ice run,' he concluded, 'and
the tribe only a quarter of an hour behind. But that saved us; for the
second run broke the jam above and shut them out. When they finally got
into Nuklukyeto, the whole post was ready for them.
'And as to the forgathering, ask Father Roubeau here: he performed the
ceremony.' The Jesuit took the pipe from his lips but could only
express his gratification with patriarchal smiles, while Protestant and
Catholic vigorously applauded.
'By gar!' ejaculated Louis Savoy, who seemed overcome by the romance of
it. 'La petite squaw: mon Mason brav. By gar!' Then, as the first tin
cups of punch went round, Bettles the Unquenchable sprang to his feet
and struck up his favorite drinking song: 'There's Henry Ward Beecher
And Sunday-school teachers, All drink of the sassafras root; But you
bet all the same, If it had its right name, It's the juice of the
forbidden fruit.'
'Oh, the juice of the forbidden fruit,' roared out the bacchanalian
chorus, 'Oh, the juice of the forbidden fruit; But you bet all the
same, If it had its right name, It's the juice of the forbidden fruit.'
Malemute Kid's frightful concoction did its work; the men of the camps
and trails unbent in its genial glow, and jest and song and tales of
past adventure went round the board.
Aliens from a dozen lands, they toasted each and all. It was the
Englishman, Prince, who pledged 'Uncle Sam, the precocious infant of
the New World'; the Yankee, Bettles, who drank to 'The Queen, God bless
her'; and together, Savoy and Meyers, the German trader, clanged their
cups to Alsace and Lorraine.
Then Malemute Kid arose, cup in hand, and glanced at the greased-paper
window, where the frost stood full three inches thick. 'A health to the
man on trail this night; may his grub hold out; may his dogs keep their
legs; may his matches never miss fire.' Crack!
Crack! heard the familiar music of the dog whip, the whining howl of
the Malemutes, and the crunch of a sled as it drew up to the cabin.
Conversation languished while they waited the issue.
'An old-timer; cares for his dogs and then himself,' whispered Malemute
Kid to Prince as they listened to the snapping jaws and the wolfish
snarls and yelps of pain which proclaimed to their practiced ears that
the stranger was beating back their dogs while he fed his own.
Then came the expected knock, sharp and confident, and the stranger
entered.
Dazzled by the light, he hesitated a moment at the door, giving to all
a chance for scrutiny. He was a striking personage, and a most
picturesque one, in his Arctic dress of wool and fur. Standing six foot
two or three, with proportionate breadth of shoulders and depth of
chest, his smooth-shaven face nipped by the cold to a gleaming pink,
his long lashes and eyebrows white with ice, and the ear and neck flaps
of his great wolfskin cap loosely raised, he seemed, of a verity, the
Frost King, just stepped in out of the night.
Clasped outside his Mackinaw jacket, a beaded belt held two large
Colt's revolvers and a hunting knife, while he carried, in addition to
the inevitable dog whip, a smokeless rifle of the largest bore and
latest pattern. As he came forward, for all his step was firm and
elastic, they could see that fatigue bore heavily upon him.
An awkward silence had fallen, but his hearty 'What cheer, my lads?'
put them quickly at ease, and the next instant Malemute Kid and he had
gripped hands. Though they had never met, each had heard of the other,
and the recognition was mutual. A sweeping introduction and a mug of
punch were forced upon him before he could explain his errand.
How long since that basket sled, with three men and eight dogs,
passed?' he asked.
'An even two days ahead. Are you after them?' 'Yes; my team. Run them
off under my very nose, the cusses. I've gained two days on them
already--pick them up on the next run.' 'Reckon they'll show spunk?'
asked Belden, in order to keep up the conversation, for Malemute Kid
already had the coffeepot on and was busily frying bacon and moose meat.
The stranger significantly tapped his revolvers.
'When'd yeh leave Dawson?' 'Twelve o'clock.' 'Last night?'--as a matter
of course.
'Today.' A murmur of surprise passed round the circle. And well it
might; for it was just midnight, and seventy-five miles of rough river
trail was not to be sneered at for a twelve hours' run.
The talk soon became impersonal, however, harking back to the trails of
childhood. As the young stranger ate of the rude fare Malemute Kid
attentively studied his face. Nor was he long in deciding that it was
fair, honest, and open, and that he liked it. Still youthful, the lines
had been firmly traced by toil and hardship.
Though genial in conversation, and mild when at rest, the blue eyes
gave promise of the hard steel-glitter which comes when called into
action, especially against odds. The heavy jaw and square-cut chin
demonstrated rugged pertinacity and indomitability. Nor, though the
attributes of the lion were there, was there wanting the certain
softness, the hint of womanliness, which bespoke the emotional nature.
'So thet's how me an' the ol' woman got spliced,' said Belden,
concluding the exciting tale of his courtship. '"Here we be, Dad," sez
she. "An' may yeh be damned," sez he to her, an' then to me, "Jim,
yeh--yeh git outen them good duds o' yourn; I want a right peart slice
o' thet forty acre plowed 'fore dinner." An' then he sort o' sniffled
an' kissed her. An' I was thet happy--but he seen me an' roars out,
"Yeh, Jim!" An' yeh bet I dusted fer the barn.' 'Any kids waiting for
you back in the States?' asked the stranger.
'Nope; Sal died 'fore any come. Thet's why I'm here.' Belden
abstractedly began to light his pipe, which had failed to go out, and
then brightened up with, 'How 'bout yerself, stranger--married man?'
For reply, he opened his watch, slipped it from the thong which served
for a chain, and passed it over. Belden picked up the slush lamp,
surveyed the inside of the case critically, and, swearing admiringly to
himself, handed it over to Louis Savoy. With numerous 'By gars!' he
finally surrendered it to Prince, and they noticed that his hands
trembled and his eyes took on a peculiar softness. And so it passed
from horny hand to horny hand--the pasted photograph of a woman, the
clinging kind that such men fancy, with a babe at the breast. Those who
had not yet seen the wonder were keen with curiosity; those who had
became silent and retrospective. They could face the pinch of famine,
the grip of scurvy, or the quick death by field or flood; but the
pictured semblance of a stranger woman and child made women and
children of them all.
'Never have seen the youngster yet--he's a boy, she says, and two years
old,' said the stranger as he received the treasure back. A lingering
moment he gazed upon it, then snapped the case and turned away, but not
quick enough to hide the restrained rush of tears. Malemute Kid led
him to a bunk and bade him turn in.
'Call me at four sharp. Don't fail me,' were his last words, and a
moment later he was breathing in the heaviness of exhausted sleep.
'By Jove! He's a plucky chap,' commented Prince. 'Three hours' sleep
after seventy-five miles with the dogs, and then the trail again. Who
is he, Kid?' 'Jack Westondale. Been in going on three years, with
nothing but the name of working like a horse, and any amount of bad
luck to his credit. I never knew him, but Sitka Charley told me about
him.' 'It seems hard that a man with a sweet young wife like his should
be putting in his years in this Godforsaken hole, where every year
counts two on the outside.' 'The trouble with him is clean grit and
stubbornness. He's cleaned up twice with a stake, but lost it both
times.' Here the conversation was broken off by an uproar from Bettles,
for the effect had begun to wear away. And soon the bleak years of
monotonous grub and deadening toil were being forgotten in rough
merriment. Malemute Kid alone seemed unable to lose himself, and cast
many an anxious look at his watch. Once he put on his mittens and
beaver-skin cap, and, leaving the cabin, fell to rummaging about in the
cache.
Nor could he wait the hour designated; for he was fifteen minutes ahead
of time in rousing his guest. The young giant had stiffened badly, and
brisk rubbing was necessary to bring him to his feet. He tottered
painfully out of the cabin, to find his dogs harnessed and everything
ready for the start. The company wished him good luck and a short
chase, while Father Roubeau, hurriedly blessing him, led the stampede
for the cabin; and small wonder, for it is not good to face
seventy-four degrees below zero with naked ears and hands.
Malemute Kid saw him to the main trail, and there, gripping his hand
heartily, gave him advice.
'You'll find a hundred pounds of salmon eggs on the sled,' he said.
'The dogs will go as far on that as with one hundred and fifty of fish,
and you can't get dog food at Pelly, as you probably expected.' The
stranger started, and his eyes flashed, but he did not interrupt. 'You
can't get an ounce of food for dog or man till you reach Five Fingers,
and that's a stiff two hundred miles. Watch out for open water on the
Thirty Mile River, and be sure you take the big cutoff above Le Barge.'
'How did you know it? Surely the news can't be ahead of me already?' 'I
don't know it; and what's more, I don't want to know it. But you never
owned that team you're chasing. Sitka Charley sold it to them last
spring. But he sized you up to me as square once, and I believe him.
I've seen your face; I like it. And I've seen--why, damn you, hit the
high places for salt water and that wife of yours, and--' Here the Kid
unmittened and jerked out his sack.
'No; I don't need it,' and the tears froze on his cheeks as he
convulsively gripped Malemute Kid's hand.
'Then don't spare the dogs; cut them out of the traces as fast as they
drop; buy them, and think they're cheap at ten dollars a pound. You can
get them at Five Fingers, Little Salmon, and Hootalinqua. And watch out
for wet feet,' was his parting advice. 'Keep a-traveling up to
twenty-five, but if it gets below that, build a fire and change your
socks.'
Fifteen minutes had barely elapsed when the jingle of bells announced
new arrivals. The door opened, and a mounted policeman of the Northwest
Territory entered, followed by two half-breed dog drivers. Like
Westondale, they were heavily armed and showed signs of fatigue. The
half-breeds had been born to the trail and bore it easily; but the
young policeman was badly exhausted. Still, the dogged obstinacy of his
race held him to the pace he had set, and would hold him till he
dropped in his tracks.
'When did Westondale pull out?' he asked. 'He stopped here, didn't he?'
This was supererogatory, for the tracks told their own tale too well.
Malemute Kid had caught Belden's eye, and he, scenting the wind,
replied evasively, 'A right peart while back.' 'Come, my man; speak
up,' the policeman admonished.
'Yeh seem to want him right smart. Hez he ben gittin' cantankerous down
Dawson way?'
'Held up Harry McFarland's for forty thousand; exchanged it at the P.C.
store for a check on Seattle; and who's to stop the cashing of it if we
don't overtake him? When did he pull out?'
Every eye suppressed its excitement, for Malemute Kid had given the
cue, and the young officer encountered wooden faces on every hand.
Striding over to Prince, he put the question to him. Though it hurt
him, gazing into the frank, earnest face of his fellow countryman, he
replied inconsequentially on the state of the trail.
Then he espied Father Roubeau, who could not lie. 'A quarter of an hour
ago,' the priest answered; 'but he had four hours' rest for himself and
dogs.' 'Fifteen minutes' start, and he's fresh! My God!' The poor
fellow staggered back, half fainting from exhaustion and
disappointment, murmuring something about the run from Dawson in ten
hours and the dogs being played out.
Malemute Kid forced a mug of punch upon him; then he turned for the
door, ordering the dog drivers to follow. But the warmth and promise of
rest were too tempting, and they objected strenuously. The Kid was
conversant with their French patois, and followed it anxiously.
They swore that the dogs were gone up; that Siwash and Babette would
have to be shot before the first mile was covered; that the rest were
almost as bad; and that it would be better for all hands to rest up.
'Lend me five dogs?' he asked, turning to Malemute Kid.
But the Kid shook his head.
'I'll sign a check on Captain Constantine for five thousand--here's my
papers--I'm authorized to draw at my own discretion.'
Again the silent refusal.
'Then I'll requisition them in the name of the Queen.' Smiling
incredulously, the Kid glanced at his well-stocked arsenal, and the
Englishman, realizing his impotency, turned for the door. But the dog
drivers still objecting, he whirled upon them fiercely, calling them
women and curs. The swart face of the older half-breed flushed angrily
as he drew himself up and promised in good, round terms that he would
travel his leader off his legs, and would then be delighted to plant
him in the snow.
The young officer--and it required his whole will--walked steadily to
the door, exhibiting a freshness he did not possess. But they all knew
and appreciated his proud effort; nor could he veil the twinges of
agony that shot across his face. Covered with frost, the dogs were
curled up in the snow, and it was almost impossible to get them to
their feet. The poor brutes whined under the stinging lash, for the dog
drivers were angry and cruel; nor till Babette, the leader, was cut
from the traces, could they break out the sled and get under way.
'A dirty scoundrel and a liar!' 'By gar! Him no good!' 'A thief!'
'Worse than an Indian!'
It was evident that they were angry--first at the way they had been
deceived; and second at the outraged ethics of the Northland, where
honesty, above all, was man's prime jewel.
'An' we gave the cuss a hand, after knowin' what he'd did.' All eyes
turned accusingly upon Malemute Kid, who rose from the corner where he
had been making Babette comfortable, and silently emptied the bowl for
a final round of punch.
'It's a cold night, boys--a bitter cold night,' was the irrelevant
commencement of his defense. 'You've all traveled trail, and know what
that stands for. Don't jump a dog when he's down. You've only heard one
side. A whiter man than Jack Westondale never ate from the same pot nor
stretched blanket with you or me.
'Last fall he gave his whole clean-up, forty thousand, to Joe Castrell,
to buy in on Dominion. Today he'd be a millionaire. But, while he
stayed behind at Circle City, taking care of his partner with the
scurvy, what does Castell do? Goes into McFarland's, jumps the limit,
and drops the whole sack. Found him dead in the snow the next day. And
poor Jack laying his plans to go out this winter to his wife and the
boy he's never seen. You'll notice he took exactly what his partner
lost--forty thousand. Well, he's gone out; and what are you going to do
about it?' The Kid glanced round the circle of his judges, noted the
softening of their faces, then raised his mug aloft. 'So a health to
the man on trail this night; may his grub hold out; may his dogs keep
their legs; may his matches never miss fire.
'God prosper him; good luck go with him; and--' 'Confusion to the
Mounted Police!' cried Bettles, to the crash of the empty cups.