CHAPTER I

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THE TRAIL OF '98

A Northland Romance

by

ROBERT W. SERVICE

Author of

"The Spell of the Yukon" and "Ballads of a Cheechako"

With illustrations by Maynard Dixon

[Illustration: We were in a caldron of fire. The roar of doom was in our

ears (page 143)]

New York

Dodd, Mead and Company

1911

Copyright, 1910, by

Dodd, Mead and Company

Entered at Stationers' Hall

The Quinn & Boden Co. Press

Rahway, N. J.

PRELUDE

The north wind is keening overhead. It minds me of the howl of a

wolf-dog under the Arctic stars. Sitting alone by the glow of the

great peat fire I can hear it high up in the braeside firs. It is

the voice, inexorably scornful, of the Great White Land.

Oh, I hate it, I hate it! Why cannot a man be allowed to forget? It is

near ten years since I joined the Eager Army. I have travelled: I have

been a pilgrim to the shrines of beauty; I have pursued the phantom of

happiness even to the ends of the earth. Still it is always the same--I

cannot forget.

Why should a man be ever shadowed by the vampire wing of his past? Have

I not a right to be happy? Money, estate, name, are mine, all that means

an open sesame to the magic door. Others go in, but I beat against its

flinty portals with hands that bleed. No! I have no right to be happy.

The ways of the world are open; the banquet of life is spread; the

wonder-workers plan their pageants of beauty and joy, and yet there is

no praise in my heart. I have seen, I have tasted, I have tried. Ashes

and dust and bitterness are all my gain. I will try no more. It is the

shadow of the vampire wing.

So I sit in the glow of the great peat fire, tired and sad beyond

belief. Thank God! at least I am home. Everything is so little changed.

The fire lights the oak-panelled hall; the crossed claymores gleam; the

eyes in the mounted deer-heads shine glassily; rugs of fur cover the

polished floor; all is comfort, home and the haunting atmosphere of my

boyhood. Sometimes I fancy it has been a dream, the Great White Silence,

the lure of the gold-spell, the delirium of the struggle; a dream, and I

will awake to hear Garry calling me to shoot over the moor, to see dear

little Mother with her meek, sensitive mouth, and her cheeks as

delicately tinted as the leaves of a briar rose. But no! The hall is

silent. Mother has gone to her long rest. Garry sleeps under the snow.

Silence everywhere; I am alone, alone.

So I sit in the big, oak-carved chair of my forefathers, before the

great peat fire, a peak-faced drooping figure of a man with hair

untimely grey. My crutch lies on the floor by my side. My old nurse

comes up quietly to look at the fire. Her rosy, wrinkled face smiles

cheerfully, but I can see the anxiety in her blue eyes. She is afraid

for me. Maybe the doctor has told her--_something_.

No doubt my days are numbered, so I am minded to tell of it all: of the

Big Stampede, of the Treasure Trail, of the Gold-born City; of those who

followed the gold-lure into the Great White Land, of the evil that

befell them, of Garry and of Berna. Perhaps it will comfort me to tell

of these things. To-morrow I will begin; to-night, leave me to my

memories.

Berna! I spoke of her last. She rises before me now with her spirit-pale

face and her great troubleful grey eyes, a little tragic figure,

ineffably pitiful. Where are you now, little one? I have searched the

world for you. I have scanned a million faces. Day and night have I

sought, always hoping, always baffled, for, God help me, dear, I love

you. Among that mad, lusting horde you were so weak, so helpless, yet so

hungry for love.

With the aid of my crutch I unlatch one of the long windows, and step

out onto the terrace. From the cavernous dark the snowflakes sting my

face. Yet as I stand there, once more I have a sense of another land, of

imperious vastitudes, of a silent empire, unfathomably lonely.

Ghosts! They are all around me. The darkness teems with them, Garry, my

brother, among them. Then they all fade and give way to one face....

_Berna, I love you always. Out of the night I cry to you, Berna, the cry

of a broken heart. Is it your little, pitiful ghost that comes down to

me? Oh, I am waiting, waiting! Here will I wait, Berna, till we meet

once more. For meet we will, beyond the mists, beyond the dreaming, at

last, dear love, at last._

CONTENTS

BOOK I

The Road to Anywhere 1

BOOK II

The Trail 49

BOOK III

The Camp 169

BOOK IV

The Vortex 321

ILLUSTRATIONS

We were in a caldron of fire. The roar of doom was

in our ears (p. 143) Frontispiece

FACING

PAGE

"No," she said firmly, "you can't see the girl" 116

Then, as I hung half in, half out of the window,

he clutched me by the throat 316

"Garry," I said, "this is--this is Berna" 476

This is the law of the Yukon, and ever she makes it plain:

"Send not your foolish and feeble; send me your strong and your sane.

Strong for the red rage of battle; sane, for I harry them sore;

Send me men girt for the combat, men who are grit to the core;

Swift as the panther in triumph, fierce as the bear in defeat,

Sired of a bulldog parent, steeled in the furnace heat.

Send me the best of your breeding, lend me your chosen ones;

Them will I take to my bosom, them will I call my sons;

Them will I gild with my treasure, them will I glut with my meat;

But the others--the misfits, the failures--I trample under my feet."

--"Songs of a Sourdough."

BOOK I

THE ROAD TO ANYWHERE

Can you recall, dear comrade, when we tramped God's land together,

And we sang the old, old Earth-Song, for our youth was very sweet;

When we drank and fought and lusted, as we mocked at tie and tether,

Along the road to Anywhere, the wide world at our feet.

Along the road to Anywhere, when each day had its story;

When time was yet our vassal, and life's jest was still unstale;

When peace unfathomed filled our hearts as, bathed in amber glory,

Along the road to Anywhere we watched the sunsets pale.

Alas! the road to Anywhere is pitfalled with disaster;

There's hunger, want, and weariness, yet O we loved it so!

As on we tramped exultantly, and no man was our master,

And no man guessed what dreams were ours, as swinging heel and toe,

We tramped the road to Anywhere, the magic road to Anywhere,

The tragic road to Anywhere such dear, dim years ago.

--"Songs of a Sourdough."

CHAPTER I

As far back as I can remember I have faithfully followed the banner of

Romance. It has given colour to my life, made me a dreamer of dreams, a

player of parts. As a boy, roaming alone the wild heather hills, I have

heard the glad shouts of the football players on the green, yet never

ettled to join them. Mine was the richer, rarer joy. Still can I see

myself in those days, a little shy-mannered lad in kilts, bareheaded to

the hill breezes, with health-bright cheeks, and a soul happed up in

dreams.

And, indeed, I lived in an enchanted land, a land of griffins and

kelpies, of princesses and gleaming knights. From each black tarn I

looked to see a scaly reptile rise, from every fearsome cave a corby

emerge. There were green spaces among the heather where the fairies

danced, and every scaur and linn had its own familiar spirit. I peopled

the good green wood with the wild creatures of my thought, nymph and

faun, naiad and dryad, and would have been in nowise surprised to meet

in the leafy coolness the great god Pan himself.

It was at night, however, that my dreams were most compelling. I strove

against the tyranny of sleep. Lying in my small bed, I revelled in

delectable imaginings. Night after night I fought battles, devised

pageants, partitioned empires. I gloried in details. My rugged

war-lords were very real to me, and my adventures sounded many periods

of history. I was a solitary caveman with an axe of stone; I was a Roman

soldier of fortune; I was a Highland outlaw of the Rebellion. Always I

fought for a lost cause, and always my sympathies were with the rebel. I

feasted with Robin Hood on the King's venison; I fared forth with Dick

Turpin on the gibbet-haunted heath; I followed Morgan, the Buccaneer,

into strange and exotic lands of trial and treasure. It was a wonderful

gift of visioning that was mine in those days. It was the bird-like

flight of the pure child-mind to whom the unreal is yet the real.

Then, suddenly, I arrived at a second phase of my mental growth in which

fancy usurped the place of imagination. The modern equivalents of

Romance attracted me, and, with my increasing grasp of reality, my gift

of vision faded. As I had hitherto dreamed of knight-errants, of

corsairs and of outlaws, I now dreamed of cowboys, of gold-seekers, of

beach-combers. Fancy painted scenes in which I, too, should play a

rousing part. I read avidly all I could find dealing with the Far West,

and ever my wistful gaze roved over the grey sea. The spirit of Romance

beaconed to me. I, too, would adventure in the stranger lands, and face

their perils and brave their dangers. The joy of the thought exulted in

my veins, and scarce could I bide the day when the roads of chance and

change would be open to my feet.

It is strange that in all these years I confided in no one. Garry, who

was my brother and my dearest friend, would have laughed at me in that

affectionate way of his. You would never have taken us for brothers. We

were so different in temperament and appearance that we were almost the

reverse of each other. He was the handsomest boy I have ever seen,

frank, fair-skinned and winning, while I was dark, dour and none too

well favoured. He was the best runner and swimmer in the parish, and the

idol of the village lads. I cared nothing for games, and would be found

somewhere among the heather hills, always by my lone self, and nearly

always with a story book in my pocket. He was clever, practical and

ambitious, excelling in all his studies; whereas, except in those which

appealed to my imagination, I was a dullard and a dreamer.

Yet we loved each others as few brothers do. Oh, how I admired him! He

was my ideal, and too often the hero of my romances. Garry would have

laughed at my hero-worship; he was so matter-of-fact, effective and

practical. Yet he understood me, my Celtic ideality, and that shy

reserve which is the armour of a sensitive soul. Garry in his fine

clever way knew me and shielded me and cheered me. He was so buoyant and

charming he heartened you like Spring sunshine, and braced you like a

morning wind on the mountain top. Yes, not excepting Mother, Garry knew

me better than any one has ever done, and I loved him for it. It seems

overfond to say this, but he did not have a fault: tenderness, humour,

enthusiasm, sympathy and the beauty of a young god--all that was

manfully endearing was expressed in this brother of mine.

So we grew to manhood there in that West Highland country, and surely

our lives were pure and simple and sweet. I had never been further from

home than the little market town where we sold our sheep. Mother managed

the estate till Garry was old enough, when he took hold with a vigour

and grasp that delighted every one. I think our little Mother stood

rather in awe of my keen, capable, energetic brother. There was in her a

certain dreamy, wistful idealism that made her beautiful in my eyes, and

to look on she was as fair as any picture. Specially do I remember the

delicate colouring of her face and her eyes, blue like deep

corn-flowers. She was not overstrong, and took much comfort from

religion. Her lips, which were fine and sensitive, had a particularly

sweet expression, and I wish to record of her that never once did I see

her cross, always sweet, gentle, smiling.

Thus our home was an ideal one; Garry, tall, fair and winsome; myself,

dark, dreamy, reticent; and between us, linking all three in a perfect

bond of love and sympathy, our gentle, delicate Mother.

CHAPTER II

So in serenity and sunshine the days of my youth went past. I still

maintained my character as a drone and a dreamer. I used my time

tramping the moorland with a gun, whipping the foamy pools of the burn

for trout, or reading voraciously in the library. Mostly I read books of

travel, and especially did I relish the literature of Vagabondia. I had

come under the spell of Stevenson. His name spelled Romance to me, and

my fancy etched him in his lonely exile. Forthright I determined I too

would seek these ultimate islands, and from that moment I was a changed

being. I nursed the thought with joyous enthusiasm. I would be a

frontiersman, a trail-breaker, a treasure-seeker. The virgin prairies

called to me; the susurrus of the giant pines echoed in my heart; but

most of all, I felt the spell of those gentle islands where care is a

stranger, and all is sunshine, song and the glowing bloom of eternal

summer.

About this time Mother must have worried a good deal over my future.

Garry was now the young Laird, and I was but an idler, a burden on the

estate. At last I told her I wanted to go abroad, and then it seemed as

if a great difficulty was solved. We remembered of a cousin who was

sheep-ranching in the Saskatchewan valley and had done well. It was

arranged that I should join him as a pupil, then, when I had learned

enough, buy a place of my own. It may be imagined that while I

apparently acquiesced in this arrangement, I had already determined that

as soon as I reached the new land I would take my destiny into my own

hands.

I will never forget the damp journey to Glasgow and the misty landscape

viewed through the streaming window pane of a railway carriage. I was in

a wondrous state of elation. When we reached the great smoky city I was

lost in amazement not unmixed with fear. Never had I imagined such

crowds, such houses, such hurry. The three of us, Mother, Garry and I,

wandered and wondered for three days. Folks gazed at us curiously,

sometimes admiringly, for our cheeks were bright with Highland health,

and our eyes candid as the June skies. Garry in particular, tall, fair

and handsome, seemed to call forth glances of interest wherever he went.

Then as the hour of my departure drew near a shadow fell on us.

I will not dwell on our leave-taking. If I broke down in unmanly grief,

it must be remembered I had never before been from home. I was but a

lad, and these two were all in all to me. Mother gave up trying to be

brave, and mingled her tears with mine. Garry alone contrived to make

some show of cheerfulness. Alas! all my elation had gone. In its place

was a sense of guilt, of desertion, of unconquerable gloom. I had an

inkling then of the tragedy of motherhood, the tender love that would

hold yet cannot, the world-call and the ruthless, estranging years, all

the memories of clinging love given only to be taken away.

"Don't cry, sweetheart Mother," I said; "I'll be back again in three

years."

"Mind you do, my boy, mind you do."

She looked at me woefully sad, and I had a queer, heartrending prevision

I would never see her more. Garry was supporting her, and she seemed to

have suddenly grown very frail. He was pale and quiet, but I could see

he was vastly moved.

"Athol," said he, "if ever you need me just send for me. I'll come, no

matter how long or how hard the way."

I can see them to this day standing there in the drenching rain, Garry

fine and manly, Mother small and drooping. I can see her with her

delicate rose colour, her eyes like wood violets drowned in tears, her

tender, sensitive lips quivering with emotion.

"Good-bye, laddie, good-bye."

I forced myself away, and stumbled on board. When I looked back again

they were gone, but through the grey shadows there seemed to come back

to me a cry of heartache and irremediable loss.

"Good-bye, good-bye."

CHAPTER III

It was on a day of early Autumn when I stood knee-deep in the heather of

Glengyle, and looked wistfully over the grey sea. 'Twas but a month

later when, homeless and friendless, I stood on the beach by the Cliff

House of San Francisco, and gazed over the fretful waters of another

ocean. Such is the romance of destiny.

Consigned, so to speak, to my cousin the sheep-raiser of the

Saskatchewan, I found myself setting foot on the strange land with but

little heart for my new vocation. My mind, cramful of book notions,

craved for the larger life. I was valiantly mad for adventure; to fare

forth haphazardly; to come upon naked danger; to feel the bludgeonings

of mischance; to tramp, to starve, to sleep under the stars. It was the

callow boy-idea perpetuated in the man, and it was to lead me a sorry

dance. But I could not overbear it. Strong in me was the spirit of the

gypsy. The joy of youth and health was brawling in my veins. A few

thistledown years, said I, would not matter. And there was Stevenson and

his glamorous islands winning me on.

So it came about I stood solitary on the beach by the seal rocks, with a

thousand memories confusing in my head. There was the long train ride

with its strange pictures: the crude farms, the glooming forests, the

gleaming lakes that would drown my whole country, the aching plains,

the mountains that rip-sawed the sky, the fear-made-eternal of the

desert. Lastly, a sudden, sunlit paradise, California.

I had lived through a week of wizardry such as I had never dreamed of,

and here was I at the very throne of Western empire. And what a place it

was, and what a people--with the imperious mood of the West softened by

the spell of the Orient and mellowed by the glamour of Old Spain. San

Francisco! A score of tongues clamoured in her streets and in her

byways a score of races lurked austerely. She suckled at her breast the

children of the old grey nations and gave them of her spirit, that swift

purposeful spirit so proud of past achievement and so convinced of

glorious destiny.

I marvelled at the rush of affairs and the zest of amusement. Every one

seemed to be making money easily and spending it eagerly. Every one was

happy, sanguine, strenuous. At night Market Street was a dazzling alley

of light, where stalwart men and handsome women jostled in and out of

the glittering restaurants. Yet amid this eager, passionate life I felt

a dreary sense of outsideness. At times my heart fairly ached with

loneliness, and I wandered the pathways of the park, or sat forlornly in

Portsmouth Square as remote from it all as a gazer on his mountain top

beneath the stars.

I became a dreamer of the water front, for the notion of the South Seas

was ever in my head. I loafed in the sunshine, sitting on the pier-edge,

with eyes fixed on the lazy shipping. These were care-free,

irresponsible days, and not, I am now convinced, entirely misspent. I

came to know the worthies of the wharfside, and plunged into an

under-world of fascinating repellency. Crimpdom eyed and tempted me, but

it was always with whales or seals, and never with pearls or copra. I

rubbed shoulders with eager necessity, scrambled for free lunches in

frowsy bar-rooms, and amid the scum and débris of the waterside found

much food for sober thought. Yet at times I blamed myself for thus

misusing my days, and memories of Glengyle and Mother and Garry loomed

up with reproachful vividness.

I was, too, a seeker of curious experience, and this was to prove my

undoing. The night-side of the city was unveiled to me. With the

assurance of innocence I wandered everywhere. I penetrated the warrens

of underground Chinatown, wondering why white women lived there, and why

they hid at sight of me. Alone I poked my way into the opium joints and

the gambling dens. Vice, amazingly unabashed, flaunted itself in my

face. I wondered what my grim, Covenanting ancestors would have made of

it all. I never thought to have seen the like, and in my inexperience it

was like a shock to me.

My nocturnal explorations came to a sudden end. One foggy midnight,

coming up Pacific Street with its glut of saloons, I was clouted

shrewdly from behind and dropped most neatly in the gutter. When I came

to, very sick and dizzy in a side alley, I found I had been robbed of my

pocketbook with nearly all my money therein. Fortunately I had left my

watch in the hotel safe, and by selling it was not entirely destitute;

but the situation forced me from my citadel of pleasant dreams, and

confronted me with the grimmer realities of life.

I became a habitué of the ten-cent restaurant. I was amazed to find how

excellent a meal I could have for ten cents. Oh for the uncaptious

appetite of these haphazard days! With some thirty-odd dollars standing

between me and starvation, it was obvious I must become a hewer of wood

and a drawer of water, and to this end I haunted the employment offices.

They were bare, sordid rooms, crowded by men who chewed, swapped

stories, yawned and studied the blackboards where the day's wants were

set forth. Only driven to labour by dire necessity, their lives, I

found, held three phases--looking for work, working, spending the

proceeds. They were the Great Unskilled, face to face with the necessary

evil of toil.

One morning, on seeking my favourite labour bureau, I found an unusual

flutter among the bench-warmers. A big contractor wanted fifty men

immediately. No experience was required, and the wages were to be two

dollars a day. With a number of others I pressed forward, was

interviewed and accepted. The same day we were marched in a body to the

railway depot and herded into a fourth-class car.

Where we were going I knew not; of what we were going to do I had no

inkling. I only knew we were southbound, and at long last I might fairly

consider myself to be the shuttlecock of fortune.

CHAPTER IV

I left San Francisco blanketed in grey fog and besomed by a roaring

wind; when I opened my eyes I was in a land of spacious sky and broad,

clean sunshine. Orange groves rushed to welcome us; orchards of almond

and olive twinkled joyfully in the limpid air; tall, gaunt and ragged,

the scaly eucalyptus fluttered at us a morning greeting, while snowy

houses, wallowing in greenery, flashed a smile as we rumbled past. It

seemed like a land of promise, of song and sunshine, and silent and

apart I sat to admire and to enjoy.

"Looks pretty swell, don't it?"

I will call him the Prodigal. He was about my own age, thin, but

sun-browned and healthy. His hair was darkly red and silky, his teeth

white and even as young corn. His eyes twinkled with a humorsome light,

but his face was shrewd, alert and aggressive.

"Yes," I said soberly, for I have always been backward with strangers.

"Pretty good line. The banana belt. Old Sol working overtime. Blossom

and fruit cavorting on the same tree. Eternal summer. Land of the

_mañana_, the festive frijole, the never-chilly chili. Ever been here

before?"

"No."

"Neither have I. Glad I came, even if it's to do the horny-handed son

of toil stunt. Got the makings?"

"No, I'm sorry; I don't smoke."

"All right, guess I got enough."

He pulled forth a limp sack of powdery tobacco, and spilled some grains

into a brown cigarette paper, twisting it deftly and bending over the

ends. Then he smoked with such enjoyment that I envied him.

"Where are we going, have you any idea?" I asked.

"Search me," he said, inhaling deeply; "the guy in charge isn't exactly

a free information bureau. When it comes to peddling the bull con he's

there, but when you try to pry off a few slabs of cold hard fact it's

his Sunday off."

"But," I persisted, "have you no idea?"

"Well, one thing you can bank on, they'll work the Judas out of us. The

gentle grafter nestles in our midst. This here's a cinch game and we are

the fall guys. The contractors are a bum outfit. They'll squeeze us at

every turn. There was two plunks to the employment man; they got half.

Twenty for railway fare; they come in on that. Stop at certain hotels: a

rake-off there. Stage fare: more graft. Five dollars a week for board:

costs them two-fifty, and they will be stomach robbers at that. Then

they'll ring in twice as many men as they need, and lay us off half the

time, so that we just about even up on our board bill. Oh, I'm onto

their curves all right."

"Then," I said, "if you know so much why did you come with us?"

"Well, if I know so much you just bet I know some more. I'll go one

better. You watch my smoke."

He talked on with a wonderful vivid manner and an outpouring knowledge

of life, so that I was hugely interested. Yet ever and anon an allusion

of taste would betray him, and at no time did I fail to see that his

roughness was only a veneer. As it turned out he was better educated by

far than I, a Yale boy taking a post-graduate course in the University

of Hard Luck.

My reserve once thawed, I told him much of my simple life. He listened,

intently sympathetic.

"Say," said he earnestly when I had finished, "I'm rough-and-ready in my

ways. Life to me's a game, sort of masquerade, and I'm the worst

masquerader in the bunch. But I know how to handle myself, and I can

jolly my way along pretty well. Now, you're green, if you'll excuse me

saying it, and maybe I can help you some. Likewise you're the only one

in all the gang of hoboes that's my kind. Come on, let's be partners."

I felt greatly drawn to him and agreed gladly.

"Now," said he, "I must go and jolly along the other boys. Aren't they a

fierce bunch? Coloured gentlemen, Slavonians, Polaks, Dagoes,

Swedes--well, I'll go prospecting, and see what I can strike."

He went among them with a jabber of strange terms, a bright smile and

ready banter, and I could see that he was to be a quick favourite. I

envied him for his ease of manner, a thing I could never compass.

Presently he returned to me.

"Say, partner, got any money?"

There was something frank and compelling in his manner, so that I

produced the few dollars I had left, and spread them before him.

"That's all my wealth," I said smilingly.

He divided it into two equal portions and returned one to me. He took a

note of the other, saying:

"All right, I'll settle up with you later on."

He went off with my money. He seemed to take it for granted I would not

object, and on my part I cared little, being only too eager to show I

trusted him. A few minutes later behold him seated at a card-table with

three rough-necked, hard-bitten-looking men. They were playing poker,

and, thinks I: "Here's good-bye to my money." It minded me of wolves and

a lamb. I felt sorry for my new friend, and I was only glad he had so

little to lose.

We were drawing in to Los Angeles when he rejoined me. To my surprise he

emptied his pockets of wrinkled notes and winking silver to the tune of

twenty dollars, and dividing it equally, handed half to me.

"Here," says he, "plant that in your dip."

"No," I said, "just give me back what you borrowed; that's all I want."

"Oh, forget it! You staked me, and it's well won. These guinneys took me

for a jay. Thought I was easy, but I've forgotten more than they ever

knew, and I haven't forgotten so much either."

"No, you keep it, please. I don't want it."

"Oh, come! put your Scotch scruples in your pocket. Take the money."

"No," I said obstinately.

"Look here, this partnership of ours is based on financial equality. If

you don't like my gate, you don't need to swing on it."

"All right," said I tartly, "I don't want to."

Then I turned on my heel.

CHAPTER V

On either side of us were swift hills mottled with green and gold, ahead

a curdle of snow-capped mountains, above a sky of robin's-egg blue. The

morning was lyric and set our hearts piping as we climbed the canyon. We

breathed deeply of the heady air, exclaimed at sight of a big bee ranch,

shouted as a mule team with jingling bells came swinging down the trail.

With cries of delight we forded the little crystal stream wherever the

trail plunged knee-deep through it. Higher and higher we climbed, mile

after mile, our packs on our shoulders, our hearts very merry. I was as

happy as a holiday schoolboy, willing this should go on for ever,

dreading to think of the grim-visaged toil that awaited us.

About midday we reached the end. Gangs of men were everywhere, ripping

and tearing at the mountain side. There was a roar of blasting, and

rocks hurtled down on us. Bunkhouses of raw lumber sweated in the sun.

Everywhere was the feverish activity of a construction camp.

We were assigned to a particular bunkhouse, and there was a great rush

for places. It was floorless, doorless and in part roofless. Above the

medley of voices I heard that of the Prodigal:

"Say, fellows, let's find the softest side of this board! Strikes me the

Company's mighty considerate. All kinds of ventilation. Good chance to

study astronomy. Wonder if I couldn't borrow a mattress somewhere? Ha!

Good eye! Watch me, fellows!"

We saw him make for a tent nearby where horses were stabled. He

reconnoitred carefully, then darted inside to come out in a twinkling,

staggering under a bale of hay.

"How's that for rustling? I guess I'm slow--hey, what? Guess this is

poor!"

He was wadding his bunk with the hay, while the others looked on rather

enviously. Then, as a bell rang, he left off.

"Hash is ready, boys; last call to the dining-car. Come on and see the

pigs get their heads in the trough."

We hurried to the cookhouse, where a tin plate, a tin cup, a tin spoon

and a cast-iron knife was laid for each of us at a table of unplaned

boards. A great mess of hash was ready, and excepting myself every one

ate voraciously. I found something more to my taste, a can of honey and

some soda crackers, on which I supped gratefully.

When I returned to the bunkhouse I found my bunk had been stuffed with

nice soft hay, and my blankets spread on top. I looked over to the

Prodigal. He was reading, a limp cigarette between his yellow-stained

fingers. I went up to him.

"It's very good of you to do this," I said.

"Oh no! Not at all. Don't mention it," he answered with much

politeness, never raising his eyes from the book.

"Well," I said, "I've just got to thank you. And look here, let's make

it up. Don't let the business of that wretched money come between us.

Can't we be friends anyway?"

He sprang up and gripped my hand.

"Sure! nothing I want more. I'm sorry. Another time I'll make allowance

for that shorter-catechism conscience of yours. Now let's go over to

that big fire they've made and chew the rag."

So we sat by the crackling blaze of mesquite, sagebrush and live-oak

limbs, while over us twinkled the friendly stars, and he told me many a

strange story of his roving life.

"You know, the old man's all broke up at me playing the fool like this.

He's got a glue factory back in Massachusetts. Guess he stacks up about

a million or so. Wanted me to go into the glue factory, begin at the

bottom, stay with it. 'Stick to glue, my boy,' he says; 'become the Glue

King,' and so on. But not with little Willie. Life's too interesting a

proposition to be turned down like that. I'm not repentant. I know the

fatted calf's waiting for me, getting fatter every day. One of these

days I'll go back and sample it."

It was he I first heard talk of the Great White Land, and it stirred me

strangely.

"Every one's crazy about it. They're rushing now in thousands, to get

there before the winter begins. Next spring there will be the biggest

stampede the world has ever seen. Say, Scotty, I've the greatest notion

to try it. Let's go, you and I. I had a partner once, who'd been up

there. It's a big, dark, grim land, but there's the gold, shining,

shining, and it's calling us to go. Somehow it haunts me, that soft,

gleamy, virgin gold there in the solitary rivers with not a soul to pick

it up. I don't care one rip for the value of it. I can make all I want

out of glue. But the adventure, the excitement, it's that that makes me

fit for the foolish house."

He was silent a long time while my imagination conjured up terrible,

fascinating pictures of the vast, unawakened land, and a longing came

over me to dare its shadows.

As we said good-night, his last words were:

"Remember, Scotty, we're both going to join the Big Stampede, you and

I."

CHAPTER VI

I slept but fitfully, for the night air was nipping, and the bunkhouse

nigh as open as a cage. A bonny morning it was, and the sun warmed me

nicely, so that over breakfast I was in a cheerful humour. Afterwards I

watched the gang labouring, and showed such an injudicious interest that

that afternoon I too was put to work.

It was very simple. Running into the mountain there was a tunnel, which

they were lining with concrete, and it was the task of I and another to

push cars of the stuff from the outlet to the scene of operations. My

partner was a Swede who had toiled from boyhood, while I had never done

a day's work in my life. It was as much as I could do to lift the loaded

boxes into the car. Then we left the sunshine behind us, and for a

quarter of a mile of darkness we strained in an uphill effort.

From the roof, which we stooped to avoid, sheets of water descended.

Every now and then the heavy cars would run off the rails, which were of

scantling, worn and frayed by friction. Then my Swede would storm in

Berserker rage, and we would lift till the veins throbbed in my head.

Never had time seemed so long. A convict working in the salt mines of

Siberia did not revolt more against his task than I. The sweat blinded

me; a bright steel pain throbbed in my head; my heart seemed to hammer.

Never so thankful was I as when we had made our last trip, and sick and

dizzy I put on my coat to go home.

It was dark. There was a cable line running from the tunnel to the camp,

and down this we shot in buckets two at a clip. The descent gave me a

creepy sensation, but it saved a ten minutes' climb down the mountain

side, and I was grateful.

Tired, wet and dirty, how I envied the Prodigal lying warm and cosy on

his fragrant hay. He was reading a novel. But the thought that I had

earned a dollar comforted me. After supper he, with Ginger and Dutchy,

played solo till near midnight, while I tossed on my bunk too weary and

sore to sleep.

Next day was a repetition of the first, only worse. I ached as if I had

been beaten. Stiff and sore I dragged myself to the tunnel again. I

lifted, strained, tugged and shoved with a set and tragic face. Five

hours of hell passed. It was noon. I nursed my strength for the after

effort. Angrily I talked to myself, and once more I pulled through.

Weary and slimy with wet mud, I shot down the cable line. Snugly settled

in his bunk, the Prodigal had read another two hundred pages of "Les

Misérables." Yet--I reflected somewhat sadly--I had made two dollars.

On the third day sheer obstinacy forced me to the tunnel. My

self-respect goaded me on. I would not give in. I must hold this job

down, I _must_, I MUST. Then at the noon hour I fainted.

No one saw me, so I gritted my teeth and once more threw my weight

against the cars. Once more night found me waiting to descend in the

bucket. Then as I stood there was a crash and shouts from below. The

cable had snapped. My Swede and another lay among the rocks with sorely

broken bones. Poor beggars! how they must have suffered jolting down

that boulder-strewn trail to the hospital.

Somehow that destroyed my nerve. I blamed myself indeed. I flogged

myself with reproaches, but it was of no avail. I would sooner beg my

bread than face that tunnel once again. The world seemed to be divided

into two parts, the rest of it and that tunnel. Thank God, I didn't

_have_ to go into it again. I was exultantly happy that I didn't. The

Prodigal had finished his book, and was starting another. That night he

borrowed some of my money to play solo with.

Next day I saw the foreman. I said:

"I want to go. The work up there's too hard for me."

He looked at me kindly.

"All right, sonny," says he, "don't quit. I'll put you in the gravel

pit."

So next day I found a more congenial task. There were four of us. We

threw the gravel against a screen where the finer stuff that sifted

through was used in making concrete.

The work was heart-breaking in its monotony. In the biting cold of the

morning we made a start, long before the sun peeped above the wall of

mountain.

We watched it crawl, snail-like, over the virgin sky. We panted in its

heat. We saw it drop again behind the mountain wall, leaving the sky

gorgeously barred with colour from a tawny orange glow to an ice-pale

green--a regular _pousse café_ of a sunset. Then when the cold and the

dark surged back, by the light of the evening star we straightened our

weary spines, and throwing aside pick and shovel hurried to supper.

Heigh-ho! what a life it was. Resting, eating, sleeping; negative

pleasures became positive ones. Life's great principle of compensation

worked on our behalf, and to lie at ease, reading an old paper, seemed

an exquisite enjoyment.

I was much troubled about the Prodigal. He complained of muscular

rheumatism, and except to crawl to meals was unable to leave his bunk.

Every day came the foreman to inquire anxiously if he was fit to go to

work, but steadily he grew worse. Yet he bore his suffering with great

spirit, and, among that nondescript crew, he was a thing of joy and

brightness, a link with that other world which was mine own. They

nicknamed him "Happy," his cheerfulness was so invincible. He played

cards on every chance, and he must have been unlucky, for he borrowed

the last of my small hoard.

One morning I woke about six, and found, pinned to my blanket, a note

from my friend.

"Dear Scotty:

"I grieve to leave you thus, but the cruel foreman insists on me

working off my ten days' board. Racked with pain as I am, there

appears to be no alternative but flight. Accordingly I fade away

once more into the unknown. Will write you general delivery, Los

Angeles. Good luck and good-bye. Yours to a cinder,

"Happy."

There was a hue and cry after him, but he was gone, and a sudden disgust

for the place came over me. For two more days I worked, crushed by a

gloom that momently intensified. Clamant and imperative in me was the

voice of change. I could not become toil-broken, so I saw the foreman.

"Why do you want to go?" he asked reproachfully.

"Well, sir, the work's too monotonous."

"Monotonous! Well, that's the rummest reason I ever heard a man give for

quitting. But every man knows his own business best. I'll give you a

time-cheque."

While he was making it out I wondered if, indeed, I did know my own

business best; but if it had been the greatest folly in the world, I was

bound to get out of that canyon.

Treasuring the slip of paper representing my labour, I sought one of the

bosses, a sour, stiff man of dyspeptic tendencies. With a smile of

malicious sweetness he returned it to me.

"All right, take it to our Oakland office, and you'll get the cash."

Expectantly I had been standing there, thinking to receive my money, the

first I had ever earned (and to me so distressfully earned, at that).

Now I gazed at him very sick at heart: for was not Oakland several

hundred miles away, and I was penniless.

"Couldn't you cash it here?" I faltered at last.

"No!" (very sourly).

"Couldn't you discount it, then?"

"No!" (still more tartly).

I turned away, crestfallen and smarting. When I told the other boys they

were indignant, and a good deal alarmed on their own account. I made my

case against the Company as damning as I could, then, slinging my

blankets on my back, set off once more down the canyon.

CHAPTER VII

I was gaining in experience, and as I hurried down the canyon and the

morning burgeoned like a rose, my spirits mounted invincibly. It was the

joy of the open road and the care-free heart. Like some hideous

nightmare was the memory of the tunnel and the gravel pit. The bright

blood in me rejoiced; my muscles tensed with pride in their toughness; I

gazed insolently at the world.

So, as I made speed to get the sooner to the orange groves, I almost set

heel on a large blue envelope which lay face up on the trail. I examined

it and, finding it contained plans and specifications of the work we had

been at, I put it in my pocket.

Presently came a rider, who reined up by me.

"Say, young man, you haven't seen a blue envelope, have you?"

Something in the man's manner aroused in me instant resentment. I was

the toiler in mud-stiffened overalls, he arrogant and supercilious in

broadcloth and linen.

"No," I said sourly, and, going on my way, heard him clattering up the

canyon.

It was about evening when I came onto a fine large plain. Behind me was

the canyon, gloomy like the lair of some evil beast, while before me the

sun was setting, and made the valley like a sea of golden glaze. I

stood, knight-errant-wise, on the verge of one of those enchanted lands

of precious memory, seeking the princess of my dreams; but all I saw was

a man coming up the trail. He was reeling homeward, with under one arm a

live turkey, and swinging from the other a demijohn of claret.

He would have me drink. He represented the Christmas spirit, and his

accent was Scotch, so I up-tilted his demijohn gladly enough. Then, for

he was very merry, he would have it that we sing "Auld Lang Syne." So

there, on the heath, in the golden dance of the light, we linked our

hands and lifted our voices like two daft folk. Yet, for that it was

Christmas Eve, it seemed not to be so mad after all.

There was my first orange grove. I ran to it eagerly, and pulled four of

the largest fruit I could see. They were green-like of rind and bitter

sour, but I heeded not, eating the last before I was satisfied. Then I

went on my way.

As I entered the town my spirits fell. I remembered I was quite without

money and had not yet learned to be gracefully penniless. However, I

bethought me of the time-cheque, and entering a saloon asked the

proprietor if he would cash it. He was a German of jovial face that

seemed to say: "Welcome, my friend," and cold, beady eyes that queried:

"How much can I get of your wad?" It was his eyes I noticed.

"No, I don'd touch dot. I haf before been schvindled. Himmel, no! You

take him avay."

I sank into a chair. Catching a glimpse of my face in a bar mirror, I

wondered if that hollow-cheeked, weary-looking lad was I. The place was

crowded with revellers of the Christmastide, and geese were being diced

for. There were three that pattered over the floor, while in the corner

the stage-driver and a red-haired man were playing freeze-out for one of

them.

I drowsed quietly. Wafts of bar-front conversation came to me. "Envelope

... lost plans ... great delay." Suddenly I sat up, remembering the

package I had found.

"Were you looking for some lost plans?" I asked.

"Yes," said one man eagerly, "did you find them?"

"I didn't say I did, but if I could get them for you, would you cash

this time-cheque for me?"

"Sure," he says, "one good turn deserves another. Deliver the goods and

I'll cash your time-cheque."

His face was frank and jovial. I drew out the envelope and handed it

over. He hurriedly ran through the contents and saw that all were there.

"Ha! That saves a trip to 'Frisco," he said, gay with relief.

He turned to the bar and ordered a round of drinks. They all had a drink

on him, while he seemed to forget about me. I waited a little, then

pressed forward with my time-cheque.

"Oh that," said he, "I won't cash that. I was only joshing."

A feeling of bitter anger welled up within me. I trembled like a leaf.

"You won't go back on your word?" I said.

He became flustered.

"Well, I can't do it anyway. I've got no loose cash."

What I would have said or done I know not, for I was nigh desperate; but

at this moment the stage-driver, flushed with his victory at freeze-out,

snatched the paper from my hand.

"Here, I'll discount that for you. I'll only give you five dollars for

it, though."

It called for fourteen, but by this time I was so discouraged I gladly

accepted the five-dollar goldpiece he held out to tempt me.

Thus were my fortunes restored. It was near midnight and I asked the

German for a room. He replied that he was full up, but as I had my

blankets there was a nice dry shed at the back. Alas! it was also used

by his chickens. They roosted just over my head, and I lay on the filthy

floor at the mercy of innumerable fleas. To complete my misery the green

oranges I had eaten gave me agonizing cramps. Glad, indeed, was I when

day dawned, and once more I got afoot, with my face turned towards Los

Angeles.

CHAPTER VIII

Los Angeles will always be written in golden letters in the archives of

my memory. Crawling, sore and sullen, from the clutch of toil, I

revelled in a lotus life of ease and idleness. There was infinite

sunshine, and the quiet of a public library through whose open windows

came the fragrance of magnolias. Living was incredibly cheap. For

seventy-five cents a week I had a little sunlit attic, and for ten cents

I could dine abundantly. There was soup, fish, meat, vegetables, salad,

pudding and a bottle of wine. So reading, dreaming and roaming the

streets, I spent my days in a state of beatitude.

But even five dollars will not last for ever, and the time came when

once more the grim face of toil confronted me. I must own that I had now

little stomach for hard labour, yet I made several efforts to obtain it.

However, I had a bad manner, being both proud and shy, and one rebuff in

a day always was enough. I lacked that self-confidence that readily

finds employment, and again I found myself mixing with the spineless

residuum of the employment bureau.

At last the morning came when twenty-five cents was all that remained to

me in the world. I had just been seeking a position as a dish-washer,

and had been rather sourly rejected. Sitting solitary on the bench in

that dreary place, I soliloquized:

"And so it has come to this, that I, Athol Meldrum, of gentle birth and

Highland breeding, must sue in vain to understudy a scullion in a

third-rate hash joint. I am, indeed, fallen. What mad folly is this that

sets me lower than a menial? Here I might be snug in the Northwest

raising my own fat sheep. A letter home would bring me instant help. Yet

what would it mean? To own defeat; to lose my self-esteem; to call

myself a failure. No, I won't. Come what may, I will play the game."

At that moment the clerk wrote:--

"Man Wanted to Carry Banner."

"How much do you want for that job?" I asked.

"Oh, two bits will hold you," he said carelessly.

"Any experience required?" I asked again.

"No, I guess even you'll do for that," he answered cuttingly.

So I parted with my last quarter and was sent to a Sheeny store in

Broadway. Here I was given a vociferous banner announcing:

"Great retiring sale," and so forth.

With this hoisted I sallied forth, at first very conscious and not a

little ashamed. Yet by and by this feeling wore off, and I wandered up

and down with no sense of my employment, which, after all, was one

adapted to philosophic thought. I might have gone through the day in

this blissful coma of indifference had not a casual glance at my banner

thrilled me with horror. There it was in hideous, naked letters of red:

"Retireing Sale."

I reeled under the shock. I did not mind packing a banner, but a

misspelt one....

I hurried back to the store, resolved to throw up my position. Luckily

the day was well advanced, and as I had served my purpose I was given a

silver dollar.

On this dollar I lived for a month. Not every one has done that, yet it

is easy to do. This is how I managed.

In the first place I told the old lady who rented me my room that I

could not pay her until I got work, and I gave her my blankets as

security. There remained only the problem of food. This I solved by

buying every day or so five cents' worth of stale bread, which I ate in

my room, washing it down with pure spring water. A little imagination

and lo! my bread was beef, my water wine. Thus breakfast and dinner. For

supper there was the Pacific Gospel Hall, where we gathered nightly one

hundred strong, bawled hymns, listened to sundry good people and

presently were given mugs of coffee and chunks of bread. How good the

fragrant coffee tasted and how sweet the fresh bread!

At the end of the third week I got work as an orange-picker. It was a

matter of swinging long ladders into fruit-flaunting trees, of sunshiny

days and fluttering leaves, of golden branches plundered, and boxes

filled from sagging sacks. There is no more ideal occupation. I revelled

in it. The others were Mexicans; I was "El Gringo." But on an average I

only made fifty cents a day. On one day, when the fruit was unusually

large, I made seventy cents.

Possibly I would have gone on, contentedly enough, perched on a ladder,

high up in the sunlit sway of treetops, had not the work come to an end.

I had been something of a financier on a picayune scale, and when I

counted my savings and found that I had four hundred and ninety-five

cents, such a feeling of affluence came over me that I resolved to

gratify my taste for travel. Accordingly I purchased a ticket for San

Diego, and once more found myself southward bound.

CHAPTER IX

A few days in San Diego reduced my small capital to the vanishing point,

yet it was with a light heart I turned north again and took the All-Tie

route for Los Angeles. If one of the alluring conditions of a walking

tour is not to be overburdened with cash surely I fulfilled it, for I

was absolutely penniless. The Lord looks after his children, said I, and

when I became too inexorably hungry I asked for bread, emphasising my

willingness to do a stunt on the woodpile. Perhaps it was because I was

young and notably a novice in vagrancy, but people were very good to me.

The railway track skirts the ocean side for many a sonorous league. The

mile-long waves roll in majestically, as straight as if drawn with a

ruler, and crash in thunder on the sandy beach. There were glorious

sunsets and weird storms, with underhanded lightning stabs at the sky. I

built little huts of discarded railway ties, and lit camp-fires, for I

was fearful of the crawling things I saw by day. The coyote called from

the hills. Uneasy rustlings came from the sagebrush. My teeth,

a-chatter with cold, kept me awake, till I cinched a handkerchief around

my chin. Yet, drenched with night-dews, half-starved and travel-worn, I

seemed to grow every day stronger and more fit. Between bondage and

vagabondage I did not hesitate to choose.

Leaving the sea, I came to a country of grass and she-oaks very pretty

to see, like an English park. I passed horrible tulé swamps, and reached

a cattle land with corrals and solitary cowboys. There was a quaint old

Spanish Mission that lingers in my memory, then once again I came into

the land of the orange-groves and the irrigating ditch. Here I fell in

with two of the hobo fraternity, and we walked many miles together. One

night we slept in a refrigerator car, where I felt as if icicles were

forming on my spine. But walking was not much in their line, so next

morning they jumped a train and we separated. I was very thankful, as

they did not look over-clean, and I had a wholesome horror of

"seam-squirrels."

On arriving in Los Angeles I went to the Post Office. There was a letter

from the Prodigal dated New York, and inclosing fourteen dollars, the

amount he owed me. He said:

"I returned to the paternal roof, weary of my rôle. The fatted calf

awaited me. Nevertheless, I am sick again for the unhallowed

swine-husks. Meet me in 'Frisco about the end of February, and I

will a glorious proposition unfold. Don't fail. I must have a

partner and I want you. Look for a letter in the General Delivery."

There was no time to lose, as February was nearly over. I took a

steerage passage to San Francisco, resolving that I would mend my

fortunes. It is so easy to drift. I was already in the social slough, a

hobo and an outcast. I saw that as long as I remained friendless and

unknown nothing but degraded toil was open to me. Surely I could climb

up, but was it worth while? A snug farm in the Northwest awaited me. I

would work my way back there, and arrive decently clad. Then none would

know of my humiliation. I had been wayward and foolish, but I had

learned something.

The men who toiled, endured and suffered were kind and helpful, their

masters mean and rapacious. Everywhere was the same sordid grasping for

the dollar. With my ideals and training nothing but discouragement and

defeat would be my portion. Oh, it is so easy to drift!

I was sick of the whole business.

CHAPTER X

What with steamer fare and a few small debts to settle, I found when I

landed in San Francisco that once more I was flatly broke. I was

arrestively seedy, literally on my uppers, for owing to my long tramp my

boots were barely holding together. There was no letter for me, and

perhaps it was on account of my disappointment, perhaps on account of my

extreme shabbiness, but I found I had quite lost heart. Looking as I

did, I would not ask any one for work. So I tightened my belt and sat in

Portsmouth Square, cursing myself for the many nickels I had squandered

in riotous living.

Two days later I was still drawing in my belt. All I had eaten was one

meal, which I had earned by peeling half a sack of potatoes for a

restaurant. I slept beneath the floor of an empty house out the Presidio

way.

On this day I was drowsing on my bench when some one addressed me.

"Say, young fellow, you look pretty well used up."

I saw an elderly, grey-haired man.

"Oh no!" I said, "I'm not. That's just my acting. I'm a millionaire in

disguise, studying sociology."

He came and sat by me.

"Come, buck up, kid, you're pretty near down and out. I've been

studyin' you them two days."

"Two days," I echoed drearily. "It seems like two years." Then, with

sudden fierceness:

"Sir, I am a stranger to you. Never in my life before have I tried to

borrow money. It is asking a great deal of you to trust me, but it will

be a most Christian act. I am starving. If you have ten cents that isn't

working lend it to me for the love of God. I'll pay you back if it takes

me ten years."

"All right, son," he said cheerfully; "let's go and feed."

He took me to a restaurant where he ordered a dinner that made my head

swim. I felt near to fainting, but after I had had some brandy, I was

able to go on with the business of eating. By the time I got to the

coffee I was as much excited by the food as if I had been drinking wine.

I now took an opportunity to regard my benefactor.

He was rather under medium height, but so square and solid you felt he

was a man to be reckoned with. His skin was as brown as an Indian's, his

eyes light-blue and brightly cheerful, as from some inner light. His

mouth was firm and his chin resolute. Altogether his face was a curious

blend of benevolence and ruthless determination.

Now he was regarding me in a manner entirely benevolent.

"Feel better, son? Well, go ahead an' tell me as much of your story as

you want to."

I gave an account of all that had happened to me since I had set foot

on the new land.

"Huh!" he ejaculated when I had finished. "That's the worst of your

old-country boys. You haven't got the get-up an' nerve to rustle a job.

You go to a boss an' tell him: 'You've no experience, but you'll do your

best.' An American boy says: 'I can do anything. Give me the job an'

I'll just show you.' Who's goin' to be hired? Well, I think I can get

you a job helpin' a gardener out Alameda way."

I expressed my gratitude.

"That's all right," he said; "I'm glad by the grace of God I've been the

means of givin' you a hand-up. Better come to my room an' stop with me

till somethin' turns up. I'm goin' North in three days."

I asked if he was going to the Yukon.

"Yes, I'm goin' to join this crazy rush to the Klondike. I've been

minin' for twenty years, Arizona, Colorado, all over, an' now I am

a-goin' to see if the North hasn't got a stake for me."

Up in his room he told me of his life.

"I'm saved by the grace of God, but I've been a Bad Man. I've been

everything from a city marshal to boss gambler. I have gone heeled for

two years, thinking to get my pass to Hell at any moment."

"Ever killed any one?" I queried.

He was beginning to pace up and down the room.

"Glory to God, I haven't, but I've shot.... There was a time when I

could draw a gun an' drive a nail in the wall. I was quick, but there

was lots that could give me cards and spades. Quiet men, too, you would

never think it of 'em. The quiet ones was the worst. Meek, friendly,

decent men, to see them drinkin' at a bar, but they didn't know Fear,

an' every one of 'em had a dozen notches on his gun. I know lots of

them, chummed with them, an' princes they were, the finest in the land,

would give the shirts off their backs for a friend. You'd like them--but

Lord be praised, I'm a saved man."

I was deeply interested.

"I know I'm talking as I shouldn't. It's all over now, an' I've seen the

evil of my ways, but I've got to talk once in a while. I'm Jim Hubbard,

known as 'Salvation Jim,' an' I know minin' from Genesis to Revelation.

Once I used to gamble an' drink the limit. One morning I got up from the

card-table after sitting there thirty-six hours. I'd lost five thousand

dollars. I knew they'd handed me out 'cold turkey,' but I took my

medicine.

"Right then I said I'd be a crook too. I learned to play with marked

cards. I could tell every card in the deck. I ran a stud-poker game,

with a Jap an' a Chinaman for partners. They were quicker than white

men, an' less likely to lose their nerve. It was easy money, like taking

candy from a kid. Often I would play on the square. No man can bluff

strong without showing it. Maybe it's just a quiver of the eyelash,

maybe a shuffle of the foot. I've studied a man for a month till I found

the sign that gave him away. Then I've raised an' raised him till the

sweat pricked through his brow. He was my meat. I went after the men

that robbed me, an' I went one better. Here, shuffle this deck."

He produced a pack of cards from a drawer.

"I'll never go back to the old trade. I'm saved. I trust in God, but

just for diversion I keep my hand in."

Talking to me, he shuffled the pack a few times.

"Here, I'm dealing; what do you want? Three kings?"

I nodded.

He dealt four hands. In mine there were three kings.

Taking up another he showed me three aces.

"I'm out of practice," he said apologetically. "My hands are calloused.

I used to keep them as soft as velvet."

He showed me some false shuffles, dealing from under the deck, and other

tricks.

"Yes, I got even with the ones that got my money. It was eat or be

eaten. I went after the suckers. There was never a man did me dirt but I

paid him with interest. Of course, it's different now. The Good Book

says: 'Do good unto them that harm you.' I guess I would, but I wouldn't

recommend no one to try and harm me. I might forget."

The heavy, aggressive jaw shot forward; the eyes gleamed with a fearless

ferocity, and for a moment the man took on an air that was almost

tigerish. I could scarce believe my sight; yet the next instant it was

the same cheerful, benevolent face, and I thought my eyes must have

played me some trick.

Perhaps it was that sedate Puritan strain in me that appealed to him,

but we became great friends. We talked of many things, and most of all I

loved to get him to tell of his early life. It was just like a story:

thrown on the world while yet a child; a shoeblack in New York, fighting

for his stand; a lumber-jack in the woods of Michigan; lastly a miner in

Arizona. He told me of long months on the desert with only his pipe for

company, talking to himself over the fire at night, and trying not to go

crazy. He told me of the girl he married and worshipped, and of the man

who broke up his home. Once more I saw that flitting tiger-look appear

on his face and vanish immediately. He told me of his wild days.

"I was always a fighter, an' I never knew what fear meant. I never saw

the man that could beat me in a rough-an'-tumble scrap. I was uncommon

husky an' as quick as a cat, but it was my fierceness that won out for

me. Get a man down an' give him the leather. I've kicked a man's face to

a jelly. It was kick, bite an' gouge in them days--anything went.

"Yes, I never knew fear. I've gone up unarmed to a man I knew was heeled

to shoot me on sight, an' I've dared him to do it. Just by the power of

the eye I've made him take water. He thought I had a gun an' could draw

quicker'n him. Then, as the drink got hold of me, I got worse and worse.

Time was when I would have robbed a bank an' shot the man that tried to

stop me. Glory to God! I've seen the evil of my ways."

"Are you sure you'll never backslide?" I asked.

"Never! I'm born again. I don't smoke, drink or gamble, an' I'm as happy

as the day's long. There was the drink. I would go on the water-wagon

for three months at a stretch, but day and night, wherever I went, the

glass of whisky was there right between my eyes. Sooner or later it got

the better of me. Then one night I went half-sober into a Gospel Hall.

The glass was there, an' I was in agony tryin' to resist it. The speaker

was callin' sinners to come forward. I thought I'd try the thing anyway,

so I went to the penitents' bench. When I got up the glass was gone. Of

course it came back, but I got rid of it again in the same way. Well, I

had many a struggle an' many a defeat, but in the end I won. It's a

divine miracle."

I wish I could paint or act the man for you. Words cannot express his

curious character. I came to have a great fondness for him, and

certainly owed him a huge debt of gratitude.

One day I was paying my usual visit to the Post Office, when some one

gripped me by the arm.

"Hullo, Scotty! By all that's wonderful. I was just going to mail you a

letter."

It was the Prodigal, very well dressed and spruce-looking.

"Say, I'm so tickled I got you; we're going to start in two days."

"Start! Where?" I asked.

"Why, for the Golden North, for the land of the Midnight Sun, for the

treasure-troves of the Klondike Valley."

"You maybe," I said soberly; "but I can't."

"Yes you can, and you are, old sport. I fixed all that. Come on, I want

to talk to you. I went home and did the returned prodigal stunt. The old

man was mighty decent when I told him it was no good, I couldn't go into

the glue factory yet awhile. Told him I had the gold-bug awful bad and

nothing but a trip up there would cure me. He was rather tickled with

the idea. Staked me handsomely, and gave me a year to make good. So here

I am, and you're in with me. I'm going to grubstake you. Mind, it's a

business proposition. I've got to have some one, and when you make the

big strike you've got to divvy up."

I said something about having secured employment as an under-gardener.

"Pshaw! you'll soon be digging gold-nuggets instead of potatoes. Why,

man, it's the chance of a lifetime, and anybody else would jump at it.

Of course, if you're afraid of the hardships and so on----"

"No," I said quickly, "I'll go."

"Ha!" he laughed, "you're too much of a coward to be afraid. Well, we're

going to be blighted Argonauts, but we've got to get busy over our

outfits. We haven't got any too much time."

So we hustled around. It seemed as if half of San Francisco was

Klondike-crazy. On every hand was there speculation and excitement. All

the merchants had their outfitting departments, and wild and vague were

their notions as to what was required. We did not do so badly, though

like every one else we bought much that was worthless and foolish.

Suddenly I bethought me of Salvation Jim, and I told the Prodigal of my

new friend.

"He's an awfully good sort," I said; "white all through; all kinds of

experience, and he's going alone."

"Why," said the Prodigal, "that's just the man we want. We'll ask him to

join us."

I brought the two together, and it was arranged. So it came about that

we three left San Francisco on the fourth day of March to seek our

fortunes in the Frozen North.

BOOK II

THE TRAIL

Gold! We leaped from our benches. Gold! We sprang from our stools.

Gold! We wheeled in the furrow, fired with the faith of fools.

Fearless, unfound, unfitted, far from the night and the cold,

Heard we the clarion summons, followed the master-lure--Gold!

CHAPTER I

"Say! you're looking mighty blue. Cheer up, darn you! What's the

matter?" said the Prodigal affectionately.

And indeed there was matter enough, for had I not just received letters

from home, one from Garry and one from Mother? Garry's was gravely

censorious, almost remonstrant. Mother, he said, was poorly, and greatly

put out over my escapade. He pointed out that I was in a fair way of

being a rolling stone, and hoped that I would at once give up my mad

notion of the South Seas and soberly proceed to the Northwest.

Mother's letter was reproachful, in parts almost distressful. She was

failing, she said, and she begged me to be a good son, give up my

wanderings and join my cousin at once. Also she enclosed post-office

orders for forty pounds. Her letter, written in a fine faltering hand

and so full of gentle affection, brought the tears to my eyes; so that

it was very bleakly I leaned against the ship's rail and watched the

bustle of departure. Poor Mother! Dear old Garry! With what tender

longing I thought of those two in far-away Glengyle, the Scotch mist

silvering the heather and the wind blowing caller from the sea. Oh, for

the clean, keen breath of it! Yet alas, every day was the memory

fading, and every day was I fitting more snugly into the new life.

"I've just heard from the folks," I said, "and I feel like going back on

you."

"Oh, beat it," he cried; "you can't renig now. You've got to see the

thing through. Mothers are all like that when you cut loose from their

apron-strings. Ma's scared stiff about me, thinks the devil's got an

option on my future sure. They get wised up pretty soon. What you want

to do is to get busy and make yourself acquainted. Here I've been

snooping round for the last two hours, and got a line on nearly every

one on board. Say! Of all the locoed outfits this here aggregation has

got everything else skinned to a hard-boiled finish. Most of them are

indoor men, ink-slingers and calico snippers; haven't done a day's hard

work in their lives, and don't know a pick from a mattock. They've got a

notion they've just got to get up there and pick big nuggets out of the

water like cherries out of a cocktail. It's the limit."

"Tell me about them," I said.

"Well, see that young fellow standing near us?"

I looked. He was slim, with gentle, refined features and an unnaturally

fresh complexion.

"That fellow was a pen-pusher in a mazuma emporium--I mean a bank clerk.

Pinklove's his name. He wanted to get hitched to some girl, but the

directors wouldn't stand for it. Now he's chucked his job and staked his

savings on this trip. There's his girl in the crowd."

Bedded in that mosaic of human faces I saw one that was all sweetness,

yet shamelessly tear-stained.

"Lucky beggar," I said, "to have some one who cares so much about his

going."

"Unlucky, you mean, lad. You don't want to have any strings on you when

you play this game."

He pointed to a long-haired young man in a flowing-end tie.

"See that pale-faced, artistic-looking guy alongside him. That's his

partner. Ineffectual, moony sort of a mut. He's a wood-carver; they call

him Globstock; told me his knowledge of wood-carving would come in handy

when we came to make boats at Lake Bennett. Then there's a third. See

that little fellow shooting off his face?"

I saw a weazened, narrow-chested mannikin, with an aggressive certainty

of feature.

"He's a professor, plumb-full of book dope on the Yukon. He's Mister

Wise Mike. He knows it all. Hear his monologue on 'How It Should Be

Done.' He's going to live on deck to inure himself to the rigours of the

Arctic climate. Works with a pair of spring dumb-bells to get up his

muscle so's he can shovel out the nuggets."

Our eyes roved round from group to group, picking out characteristic

figures.

"See that big bleached-blond Englishman? Came over with me on the

Pullman from New York. 'Awfully bored, don't you know.' When we got to

'Frisco, he says to me: 'Thank God, old chappie, the worst part of the

journey's over.' Then there's Romulus and Remus, the twins, strapping

young fellows. Only way I know them apart is one laces his boots tight,

the other slack. They think the world of each other."

He swung around to where Salvation Jim was talking to two men.

"There's a pair of winners. I put my money on them. Nothing on earth can

stop those fellows, native-born Americans, all grit and get-up. See that

tall one smoking a cigar and looking at the women? He's an athlete.

Name's Mervin; all whipcord and whalebone; springy as a bent bow. He's a

type of the Swift. He's bound to get there. See the other. Hewson's his

name; solid as a tower; muscled like a bear; built from the ground up.

He represents the Strong. Look at the grim, determined face of him. You

can't down a man like that."

He indicated another group.

"Now there's three birds of prey. Bullhammer, Marks and Mosher. The big,

pig-eyed heavy-jowled one is Bullhammer. He's in the saloon business.

The middle-sized one in the plug hat is Marks. See his oily, yellow face

dotted with pimples. He's a phoney piece of work; calls himself a mining

broker. The third's Jake Mosher. He's an out-and-out gambler, a

sure-thing man, once was a parson."

I looked again. Mosher had just taken off his hat. His high-domed head

was of monumental baldness, his eyes close-set and crafty, his nose

negligible. The rest of his face was mostly beard. It grew black as the

Pit to near the bulge of his stomach, and seemed to have drained his

scalp in its rank luxuriance. Across the deck came the rich, oily tones

of his voice.

"A bad-looking bunch," I said.

"Yes, there's heaps like them on board. There's a crowd of dance-hall

girls going up, and the usual following of parasites. Look at that

Halfbreed. There's a man for the country now, part Scotch, part Indian;

the quietest man on the boat; light, but tough as wire nails."

I saw a lean, bright-eyed brown man with flat features, smoking a

cigarette.

"Say! Just get next to those two Jews, Mike and Rebecca Winklestein.

They're going to open up a sporty restaurant."

The man was a small bandy-legged creature, with eyes that squinted, a

complexion like ham fat and waxed moustaches. But it was the woman who

seized my attention. Never did I see such a strapping Amazon, six foot

if an inch, and massive in proportion. She was handsome too, in a

swarthy way, though near at hand her face was sensuous and bold. Yet she

had a suave, flattering manner and a coarse wit that captured the crowd.

Dangerous, unscrupulous and cruel, I thought; a man-woman, a shrew, a

termagant!

But I was growing weary of the crowd and longed to go below. I was no

longer interested, yet the voice of the Prodigal droned in my ear.

"There's an old man and his granddaughter, relatives of the

Winklesteins, I believe. I think the old fellow's got a screw loose.

Handsome old boy, though; looks like a Hebrew prophet out of a job.

Comes from Poland. Speaks Yiddish or some such jargon; Only English he

knows is 'Klondike, Klondike.' The girl looks heartbroken, poor little

beggar."

"Poor little beggar!" I heard the words indeed, but my mind was far

away. To the devil with Polish Jews and their granddaughters. I wished

the Prodigal would leave me to my own thoughts, thoughts of my Highland

home and my dear ones. But no! he persisted:

"You're not listening to what I'm saying. Look, why don't you!"

So, to please him, I turned full round and looked. An old man,

patriarchal in aspect, crouched on the deck. Erect by his side, with her

hand on his shoulder, stood a slim figure in black, the figure of a

girl. Indifferently my eyes travelled from her feet to her face. There

they rested. I drew a deep breath. I forgot everything else. Then for

the first time I saw--Berna.

I will not try to depict the girl. Pen descriptions are so futile. I

will only say that her face was very pale, and that she had large

pathetic grey eyes. For the rest, her cheeks were woefully pinched and

her lips drooped wistfully. 'Twas the face, I thought, of a virgin

martyr with a fear-haunted look hard to forget. All this I saw, but most

of all I saw those great, grey eyes gazing unseeingly over the crowd,

ever so sadly fixed on that far-away East of her dreams and memories.

"Poor little beggar!"

Then I cursed myself for a sentimental impressionist and I went below.

Stateroom forty-seven was mine. We three had been separated in the

shuffle, and I knew not who was to be my room-mate. Feeling very

downhearted, I stretched myself on the upper berth, and yielded to a

mood of penitential sadness. I heard the last gang-plank thrown off, the

great crowd cheer, the measured throb of the engines, yet still I

sounded the depths of reverie. There was a bustle outside and growing

darkness. Then, as I lay, there came voices to my door, guttural tones

blended with liquid ones; lastly a timid knock. Quickly I answered it.

"Is this room number forty-seven?" a soft voice asked.

Even ere she spoke I divined it was the Jewish girl of the grey eyes,

and now I saw her hair was like a fair cloud, and her face fragile as a

flower.

"Yes," I answered her.

She led forward the old man.

"This is my grandfather. The Steward told us this was his room."

"Oh, all right; he'd better take the lower berth."

"Thank you, indeed; he's an old man and not very strong."

Her voice was clear and sweet, and there was an infinite tenderness in

the tone.

"You must come in," I said. "I'll leave you with him for a while so

that you can make him comfortable."

"Thank you again," she responded gratefully.

So I withdrew, and when I returned she was gone; but the old man slept

peacefully.

It was late before I turned in. I went on deck for a time. We were

cleaving through blue-black night, and on our right I could dimly

discern the coast festooned by twinkling lights. Every one had gone

below, I thought, and the loneliness pleased me. I was very quiet,

thinking how good it all was, the balmy wind, the velvet vault of the

night frescoed with wistful stars, the freedom-song of the sea; how

restful, how sane, how loving!

Suddenly I heard a sound of sobbing, the merciless sobbing of a woman's

breast. Distinct above the hollow breathing of the sea it assailed me,

poignant and insistent. Wonderingly I looked around. Then, in a shadow

of the upper deck, I made out a slight girl-figure, crouching all alone.

It was Grey Eyes, crying fit to break her heart.

"Poor little beggar!" I muttered.

CHAPTER II

"Gr-r-r--you little brat! If you open your face to him I'll kill you,

kill you, see!"

The voice was Madam Winklestein's, and the words, hissed in a whisper of

incredible malignity, arrested me as if I had been struck by a live

wire. I listened. Behind the stateroom door there followed a silence,

grimly intense; then a dull pounding; then the same savage undertone.

"See here, Berna, we're next to you two--we're onto your curves. We know

the old man's got the stuff in his gold-belt, two thousand in bills.

Now, my dear, my sweet little angel what thinks she's too good to mix

with the likes o' us, we need the mon, see!" (Knock, knock.) "And we're

goin' to have it, see!" (Knock, knock.) "That's where you come in,

honey, you're goin' to get it for us. Ain't you now, darlin'!" (Knock,

knock, knock.)

Faintly, very faintly, I heard a voice:

"No."

If it be possible to scream in a whisper, the woman did it.

"You will! you will! Oh! oh! oh! There's the cursed mule spirit of your

mother in you. She'd never tell us the name of the man that was the ruin

of 'er, blast 'er."

"Don't speak of my mother, you vile woman!"

The voice of the virago contracted to an intensity of venom I have

never heard the equal of.

"Vile woman! Vile woman! You, you to call _me_ a vile woman, me that's

been three times jined in holy wedlock.... Oh, you bastard brat! You

whelp of sin! You misbegotten scum! Oh, I'll fix you for that, if I've

got to swing for it."

Her scalding words were capped with an oath too foul to repeat, and once

more came the horrible pounding, like a head striking the woodwork.

Unable to bear it any longer, I rapped sharply on the door.

Silence, a long, panting silence; then the sound of a falling body; then

the door opened a little and the twitching face of Madam appeared.

"Is there somebody sick?" I asked. "I'm sorry to trouble you, but I was

thinking I heard groans and--I might be able to do something."

Piercingly she looked at me. Her eyes narrowed to slits and stabbed me

with their spite. Her dark face grew turgid with impotent anger. As I

stood there she was like to have killed me. Then like a flash her

expression changed. With a dirty bejewelled hand she smoothed her

tousled hair. Her coarse white teeth gleamed in a gold-capped smile.

There was honey in her tone.

"Why, no! my niece in here's got a toothache, but I guess we can fix it

between us. We don't need no help, thanks, young feller."

"Oh, that's all right," I said. "If you should, you know, I'll be

nearby."

Then I moved away, conscious that her eyes followed me malevolently.

The business worried me sorely. The poor girl was being woefully abused,

that was plain. I felt indignant, angry and, last of all, anxious.

Mingled with my feelings was a sense of irritation that I should have

been elected to overhear the affair. I had no desire just then to

champion distressed damsels, least of all to get mixed up in the family

brawls of unknown Jewesses. Confound her, anyway! I almost hated her.

Yet I felt constrained to watch and wait, and even at the cost of my own

ease and comfort to prevent further violence.

For that matter there were all kinds of strange doings on board,

drinking, gambling, nightly orgies and hourly brawls. It seemed as if we

had shipped all the human dregs of the San Francisco deadline. Never, I

believe, in those times when almost daily the Argonaut-laden boats were

sailing for the Golden North, was there one in which the sporting

element was so dominant. The social hall reeked with patchouli and stale

whiskey. From the staterooms came shrill outbursts of popular melody,

punctuated with the popping of champagne corks. Dance-hall girls,

babbling incoherently, reeled in the passageways, danced on the cabin

table, and were only held back from licentiousness by the restraint of

their bullies. The day was one long round of revelry, and the night was

pregnant with sinister sound.

Already among the better element a moral secession was apparent.

Convention they had left behind with their boiled shirts and their

store clothes, and crazed with the idea of speedy fortune, they were

even now straining at the leash of decency. It was a howling mob,

elately riotous, and already infected by the virus of the goldophobia.

Oh, it was good to get on deck of a night, away from this saturnalia, to

watch the beacon stars strewn vastly in the skyey uplift, to listen to

the ancient threnody of the outcast sea. Blue and silver the nights

were, and crystal clear, with a keen wind that painted the cheek and

kindled the eye. And as I sat in silent thought there came to me

Salvation Jim. His face was grim, his eyes brooding. From the

brilliantly lit social hall came a blare of music-hall melody.

"I don't like the way of things a bit," he said; "I don't like it. Look

here now, lad, I've lived round mining camps for twenty years, I've

followed the roughest callings on earth, I've tramped the States all

over, yet never have I seen the beat of this. Mind you, I ain't

prejudiced, though I've seen the error of my ways, glory to God! I can

make allowance once in a while for the boys gettin' on a jamboree, but

by Christmas! Say! There's enough evil on this boat to stake a

sub-section in Hell. There's men should be at home with their dinky

little mothers an' their lovin' wives an' children, down there right now

in that cabin buyin' wine for them painted Jezebels.

"There's doctors an' lawyers an' deacons in the church back in old Ohio,

that never made a bad break in their lives, an' now they're rowin' like

barroom bullies for the kisses of a baggage. In the bay-window of their

souls the devil lolls an' grins an' God is freezin' in the attic. You

mark my words, boy; there's a curse on this northern gold. The Yukon's

a-goin' to take its toll. You mark my words."

"Oh, Jim," I said, "you're superstitious."

"No, I ain't. I've just got a hunch. Here we are a bit of floatin'

iniquity glidin' through the mystery of them strange seas, an' the very

officers on dooty sashed to the neck an' reekin' from the arms of the

scented hussies below. It'll be God's mercy if we don't crash on a rock,

an' go down good an' all to the bitter bottom. But it don't matter.

Sooner or later there's goin' to be a reckonin'. There's many a one

shoutin' an' singin' to-night'll leave his bones to bleach up in that

bleak wild land."

"No, Jim," I protested, "they will be all right once they get ashore."

"Right nothin'! They're a pack of fools. They think they've got a bulge

on fortune. Hear them a-howlin' now. They're all millionaires in their

minds. There's no doubt with them. It's a cinch. They're spendin' it

right now. You mark my words, young feller, for I'll never live to see

them fulfilled--there's ninety in a hundred of all them fellers that's

goin' to this here Klondike will never make good, an' of the other ten,

nine won't _do_ no good."

"One per cent. that will keep their stakes--that's absurd, Jim."

"Well, you'll see. An' as for me, I feel as sure as God's above us

guidin' us through the mazes of the night, I'll never live to make the

trip back. I've got a hunch. Old Jim's on his last stampede."

He sighed, then said sharply:

"Did you see that feller that passed us?"

It was Mosher, the gambler and ex-preacher.

"That man's a skunk, a renegade sky-pilot. I'm keepin' tabs on that man.

Maybe him an' me's got a score to settle one of them days. Maybe."

He went off abruptly, leaving me to ponder long over his gloomy words.

We were now three days out. The weather was fine, and nearly every one

was on deck in the sunshine. Even Bullhammer, Marks and Mosher had

deserted the card-room for a time. The Bank clerk and the Wood-carver

talked earnestly, planned and dreamed. The Professor was busy expounding

a theory of the gold origin to a party of young men from Minnesota.

Silent and watchful the athletic Mervin smoked his big cigar, while,

patient and imperturbable, the iron Hewson chewed stolidly. The twins

were playing checkers. The Winklesteins were making themselves solid

with the music-hall clique. In and out among the different groups darted

the Prodigal, as volatile as a society reporter at a church bazaar. And

besides these, always alone, austerely aloof as if framed in a picture

by themselves, a picture of dignity and sweetness, were the Jewish maid

and her aged grandfather.

Although he was my room-mate I had seen but little of him. He was abed

before I retired and I was up and out ere he awoke. For the rest I

avoided the two because of their obvious connection with the

Winklesteins. Surely, thought I, she cannot be mixed up with those two

and be everything that's all right. Yet there was something in the

girl's clear eyes, and in the old man's fine face, that reproached me

for my doubt.

It was while I was thus debating, and covertly studying the pair, that

something occurred.

Bullhammer and Marks were standing by me, and across the deck came the

acridly nasal tones of the dance-hall girls. I saw the libertine eyes of

Bullhammer rove incontinently from one unlovely demirep to another, till

at last they rested on the slender girl standing by the side of her

white-haired grandfather. Appreciatively he licked his lips.

"Say, Monkey, who's the kid with old Whiskers there?"

"Search me, Pete," said Marks; "want a knockdown?"

"Betcher! Seems kind-a standoffish, though, don't she?"

"Standoffish be darned! Never yet saw the little bit of all right that

could stand off Sam Marks. I'm a winner, I am, an' don' you forget it.

Just watch my splash."

I must say the man was expensively dressed in a flashy way. His oily,

pimple-garnished face wreathed itself in a smirk of patronising

familiarity, and with the bow of a dancing master he advanced. I saw her

give a quick start, bite her lip and shrink back. "Good for you, little

girl," I thought. But the man was in no way put out.

"Say, Sis, it's all right. Just want to interdooce you to a gentleman

fren' o' mine."

The girl gazed at him, and her dilated eyes were eloquent of fear and

distrust. It minded me of the panic of a fawn run down by the hunter, so

that I found myself trembling in sympathy. A startled moment she gazed;

then swiftly she turned her back.

This was too much for Marks. He flushed angrily.

"Say! what's the matter with you? Come off the perch there. Ain't we

good enough to associate with you? Who the devil are you, anyhow?"

His face was growing red and aggressive. He closed in on her. He laid a

rough hand on her shoulder. Thinking the thing had gone far enough I

stepped forward to interfere, when the unexpected happened.

Suddenly the old man had risen to his feet, and it was a surprise to me

how tall he was. Into his face there had come the ghost of ancient power

and command. His eyes blazed with wrath, and his clenched fist was

raised high in anathema. Then it came swiftly down on the head of Marks,

crushing his stiff hat tightly over his eyes.

The climax was ludicrous in a way. There was a roar of laughter, and

hearing it Marks spluttered as he freed himself. With a curse of rage he

would have rushed the old man, but a great hand seized him by the

shoulder. It was the grim, taciturn Hewson, and judging by the way his

captive squirmed, his grip must have been peculiarly vise-like. The old

man was pale as death, the girl crying, the passengers crowding round.

Every one was gabbling and curious, so feeling I could do no good, I

went below.

What was there about this slip of a girl that interested me so? Ever and

anon I found myself thinking of her. Was it the conversation I had

overheard? Was it the mystery that seemed to surround her? Was it the

irrepressible instinct of my heart for the romance of life? With the old

man, despite our stateroom propinquity, I had made no advances. With the

girl I had passed no further words.

But the Gods of destiny act in whimsical ways. Doubtless the voyage

would have finished without the betterment of our acquaintance;

doubtless our paths would have parted, nevermore to cross; doubtless our

lives would have been lived out to their fulness and this story never

have been told--had it not been for the luckless fatality of the Box of

Grapes.

CHAPTER III

Puget Sound was behind us and we had entered on that great sea that

stretched northward to the Arctic barrens. Misty and wet was the wind,

and cold with the kiss of many icebergs. Under a grey sky, glooming to

purple, the gelid water writhed nakedly. Spectral islands elbowed each

other, to peer at us as we flitted past. Still more wraithlike the

mainland, fringed to the sea foam with saturnine pine, faded away into

fastnesses of impregnable desolation. There was a sense of deathlike

passivity in the land, of overwhelming vastitude, of unconquerable

loneliness. It was as if I had felt for the first time the Spirit of the

Wild; the Wild where God broods amid His silence; the Wild, His infinite

solace and His sanctuary.

As we forged through the vague sea lanes, we were like a glittering

trinket on the bosom of the night. Our mad merriment scarce ever abated.

We were a blare of revelry and a blaze of light. Excitement mounted to

fever heat. In the midst of it the women with the enamelled cheeks

reaped a bountiful harvest. I marvel now that, with all the besotted

recklessness of those that were our pilots, we met with no serious

mishap.

"Don't mind you much of a Sunday-school picnic, does it?" commented the

Prodigal. "It's fierce the way the girls are prying some of these crazy

jays loose from their wads. They're all plumb batty. I'm tired trying to

wise them up. 'Go and chase yourself,' they say; 'we're all right. Don't

matter if we do loosen up a bit now, there's all kinds of easy money

waiting for us up there.' Then they talk of what they're going to do

when they've got the dough. One gazebo wants to buy a castle in the old

country; another wants a racing stable; another a steam yacht. Oh,

they're a hot bunch of sports. They're all planning to have a purple

time in the sweet by-and-bye. I don't hear any of them speak of endowing

a home for decrepit wash-ladies or pensioning off their aged

grandmothers. They make me sick. There's a cold juicy awakening coming."

He was right. In their visionary leaps to affluence they soared to giddy

heights. They strutted and bragged as if the millions were already

theirs. To hear them, you would think they had an exclusive option on

the treasure-troves of the Klondike. Yet, before and behind us, were

dozens of similar vessels, bearing just as eager a mob of

fortune-hunters, all drawn irresistibly northward by the Golden Magnet.

Nevertheless, it was hard not to be affected by the prevailing spirit of

optimism. For myself the gold had but little attraction, but the

adventure was very dear to my heart. Once more the clarion call of

Romance rang in my ears, and I leapt to its summons. And indeed, I

reflected, it was a wonderful kaleidoscope of a world, wherein I, but a

half-year back cooling my heels in a highland burn, should be now part

and parcel of this great Argonaut army. Already my native uncouthness

was a thing of the past, and the quaint mannerisms of my Scots tongue

were yielding to the racy slang of the frontier. More to the purpose,

too, I was growing in strength and wiry endurance. As I looked around me

I realised that there were many less fitted for the trail than I, and

there was none with such a store of glowing health. You may picture me

at this time, a tallish young man, with a fine colour in my cheeks,

black hair that curled crisply, and dark eyes that were either alight

with eagerness or agloom with dreams.

I have said that we were all more or less in a ferment of excitement,

but to this I must make a reservation. One there was who, amid all our

unrest, remained cold, distant and alien--the Jewish girl, Berna. Even

in the old man the gold fever betrayed itself in a visionary eye and a

tremor of the lips; but the girl was a statue of patient resignation, a

living reproof to our febrile and purblind imaginings.

The more I studied her, the more out of place she seemed in my picture,

and, almost unconsciously, I found myself weaving about her a fabric of

romance. I endowed her with a mystery that piqued and fascinated me, yet

without it I have no doubt I would have been attracted to her. I longed

to know her uncommon well, to win her regard, to do something for her

that should make her eyes rest very kindly on me. In short, as is the

way of young men, I was beginning to grope blindly for that affection

and sympathy which are the forerunners of passion and love.

The land was wintry and the wind shrilled so that the attendant gulls

flapped their wings hard in the face of it. The wolf-pack of the sea

were snarling whitely as they ran. The decks were deserted, and so many

of the brawlers were sick and lay like dead folk that it almost seemed

as if a Sabbath quiet lay on the ship. That day I had missed the old

man, and on going below, found him lying as one sore stricken. A

withered hand lay on his brow, and from his lips, which were almost

purple, thin moans issued.

"Poor old beggar," I thought; "I wonder if I cannot do anything for

him." And while I was thus debating, a timid knock came to the door. I

opened it, and there was the girl, Berna.

There was a nervous anxiety in her manner, and a mute interrogation in

her grey eyes.

"I'm afraid he's a little sick to-day," I said gently; "but come in,

won't you, and see him?"

"Thank you." Pity, tenderness and love seemed to struggle in her face as

she softly brushed past me. With some words of endearment, she fell on

her knees beside him, and her small white hand sought his thin gnarled

one. As if galvanised into life, the old man turned gratefully to her.

"Maybe he would care for some coffee," I said. "I think I could rustle

him some."

She gave me a queer, sad look of thanks.

"If you could," she answered.

When I returned she had the old man propped up with pillows. She took

the coffee from me, and held the cup to his lips; but after a few sips

he turned away wearily.

"I'm afraid he doesn't care for that," I said.

"No, I'm afraid he won't take it."

She was like an anxious nurse hovering over a patient. She thought a

while.

"Oh, if I only had some fruit!"

Then it was I bethought me of the box of grapes. I had bought them just

before leaving, thinking they would be a grateful surprise to my

companions. Obviously I had been inspired, and now I produced them in

triumph, big, plump, glossy fellows, buried in the fragrant cedar dust.

I shook clear a large bunch, and once more we tried the old man. It

seemed as if we had hit on the one thing needful, for he ate eagerly.

She watched him for a while with a growing sense of relief, and when he

had finished and was resting quietly, she turned to me.

"I don't know how I can thank you, sir, for your kindness."

"Very easily," I said quickly; "if you will yourself accept some of the

fruit, I shall be more than repaid."

She gave me a dubious look; then such a bright, merry light flashed into

her eyes that she was radiant in my sight. It was as if half a dozen

years had fallen from her, revealing a heart capable of infinite joy and

happiness.

"If you will share them with me," she said simply.

So, for the lack of chairs, we squatted on the narrow stateroom floor,

under the old man's kindly eye. The fruit minded us of sunlit vines, and

the careless rapture of the South. To me the situation was one of rare

charm. She ate daintily, and as we talked, I studied her face as if I

would etch it on my memory forever.

In particular I noticed the wistful contour of her cheek, her sensitive

mouth, and the fine modelling of her chin. She had clear, candid eyes

and sweeping lashes, too. Her ears were shell-like, and her hair soft,

wavy and warm. These things I marked minutely, thinking she was more

than beautiful--she was even pretty. I was in a state of extraordinary

elation, like a man that has found a jewel in the mire.

It must be remembered, lest I appear to be taking a too eager interest

in the girl, that up till now the world of woman had been _terra

incognita_ to me; that I had lived a singularly cloistered life, and

that first and last I was an idealist. This girl had distinction,

mystery and charm, and it is not to be wondered at that I found a joy in

her presence. I proved myself a perfect artesian well of conversation,

talking freely of the ship, of our fellow-passengers and of the chances

of the venture. I found her wonderfully quick in the uptake. Her mind

seemed nimbly to outrun mine, and she divined my words ere I had them

uttered. Yet she never spoke of herself, and when I left them together I

was full of uneasy questioning.

Next day the old man was still abed, and again the girl came to visit

him. This time I noticed that much of her timid manner was gone, and in

its stead was a shy friendliness. Once more the box of grapes proved a

mediator between us, and once more I found in her a reticent but

sympathetic audience--so much so that I was frank in telling her of

myself, my home and my kinsfolk. I thought that maybe my talk would

weary her, but she listened with a bright-eyed regard, nodding her head

eagerly at times. Yet she spoke no word of her own affairs, so that when

again I left them together I was as much in the dark as ever.

It was on the third day I found the old man up and dressed, and Berna

with him. She looked brighter and happier than I had yet seen her, and

she greeted me with a smiling face. Then, after a little, she said:

"My grandfather plays the violin. Would you mind if he played over some

of our old-country songs? It would comfort him."

"No, go ahead," I said; "I wish he would."

So she got an ancient violin, and the old man cuddled it lovingly and

played soft, weird melodies, songs of the Czech race, that made me think

of Romance, of love and hate, and passion and despair. Piece after

piece he played, as if pouring out the sadness and heart-hunger of a

burdened people, until my own heart ached in sympathy.

The wild music throbbed with passionate sweetness and despair.

Unobserved, the pale twilight stole into the little cabin. The ruggedly

fine face of the old man was like one inspired, and with clasped hands,

the girl sat, very white-faced and motionless. Then I saw a gleam on her

cheek, the soft falling of tears. Somehow, at that moment, I felt drawn

very near to those two, the music, the tears, the fervent sadness of

their faces. I felt as if I had been allowed to share with them a few

moments consecrated to their sorrow, and that they knew I understood.

That day as I was leaving, I said to her:

"Berna, this is our last night on board."

"Yes."

"To-morrow our trails divide, maybe never again to cross. Will you come

up on deck for a little while to-night? I want to talk to you."

"Talk to me?"

She looked startled, incredulous. She hesitated.

"Please, Berna, it's the last time."

"All right," she answered in a low tone.

Then she looked at me curiously.

CHAPTER IV

She came to meet me, lily-white and sweet. She was but thinly wrapped,

and shivered so that I put my coat around her. We ventured forward,

climbing over a huge anchor to the very bow of the boat, and crouching

down in its peak, were sheltered from the cold breeze.

We were cutting through smooth water, and crowding in on us were haggard

mountains, with now and then the greenish horror of a glacier. Overhead,

in the desolate sky, the new moon nursed the old moon in her arms.

"Berna!"

"Yes."

"You're not happy, Berna. You're in sore trouble, little girl. I don't

know why you come up to this God-forsaken country or why you are with

those people. I don't want to know; but if there's anything I can do for

you, any way I can prove myself a true friend, tell me, won't you?"

My voice betrayed emotion. I could feel her slim form, very close to me,

all a-tremble. In the filtered silver of the crescent moon, I could see

her face, wan and faintly sweet. Gently I prisoned one of her hands in

mine.

She did not speak at once. Indeed, she was quiet for a long time, so

that it seemed as if she must be stricken dumb, or as if some feelings

were conflicting within her. Then at last, very gently, very quietly,

very sweetly, as if weighing her words, she spoke.

"No, there's nothing you can do. You've been too kind all along. You're

the only one on the boat that's been kind. Most of the others have

looked at me--well, you know how men look at a poor, unprotected girl.

But you, you're different; you're good, you're honourable, you're

sincere. I could see it in your face, in your eyes. I knew I could trust

you. You've been kindness itself to grandfather and I, and I never can

thank you enough."

"Nonsense! Don't talk of thanks, Berna. You don't know what a happiness

it's been to help you. I'm sorry I've done so little. Oh, I'm going to

be sincere and frank with you. The few hours I've had with you have made

me long for others. I'm a lonely beggar. I never had a sister, never a

girl friend. You're the first, and it's been like sudden sunshine to me.

Now, can't I be really and truly your friend, Berna; your friend that

would do much for you? Let me do something, anything, to show how

earnestly I mean it?"

"Yes, I know. Well, then, you are my dear, true friend--there, now."

"Yes,--but, Berna! To-morrow you'll go and we'll likely never see each

other again. What's the good of it all?"

"Well, what do you want? We will both have a memory, a very sweet, nice

memory, won't we? Believe me, it's better so. You don't want to have

anything to do with a girl like me. You don't know anything about me,

and you see the kind of people I'm going with. Perhaps I am just as bad

as they."

"Don't say that, Berna," I interposed sternly; "you're all that's good

and pure and sweet."

"No, I'm not, either. We're all of us pretty mixed. But I'm not so bad,

and it's nice of you to think those things.... Oh! if I had never come

on this terrible trip! I don't even know where we are going, and I'm

afraid, afraid."

"No, little girl."

"Yes, I can't tell you how afraid I am. The country's so savage and

lonely; the men are so like brute beasts; the women--well, they're

worse. And here are we in the midst of it. I don't know what's going to

become of us."

"Well, Berna, if it's like that, why don't you and your grandfather turn

back? Why go on?"

"He will never turn back. He'll go on till he dies. He only knows one

word of English and that's Klondike, Klondike. He mutters it a thousand

times a day. He has visions of gold, glittering heaps of it, and he'll

stagger and struggle on till he finds it."

"But can't you reason with him?"

"Oh, it's all no use. He's had a dream. He's like a man that's crazy. He

thinks he has been chosen, and that to him will a great treasure be

revealed. You might as well reason with a stone. All I can do is to

follow him, is to take care of him."

"What about the Winklesteins, Berna?"

"Oh, they're at the bottom of it all. It is they who have inflamed his

mind. He has a little money, the savings of a lifetime, about two

thousand dollars; and ever since he came to this country, they've been

trying to get it. They ran a little restaurant in New York. They tried

to get him to put his little store in that. Now they are using the gold

as a bait, and luring him up here. They'll rob and kill him in the end,

and the cruel part is--he's not greedy, he doesn't want it for

himself--but for me. That's what breaks my heart."

"Surely you're mistaken, Berna; they can't be so bad as that."

"Bad! I tell you they're _vile_. The man's a worm, and the woman, she's

a devil incarnate. She's so strong and so violent in her tempers that

when she gets drinking--well, it's just awful. I should know it, I lived

with them for three years."

"Where?"

"In New York. I came from the old country to them. They worked me in the

restaurant at first. Then, after a bit, I got employment in a

shirt-waist factory. I was quick and handy, and I worked early and late.

I attended a night school. I read till my eyes ached. They said I was

clever. The teacher wanted me to train and be a teacher too. But what

was the good of thinking of it? I had my living to get, so I stayed at

the factory and worked and worked. Then when I had saved a few dollars,

I sent for grandfather, and he came and we lived in the tenement and

were very happy for a while. But the Winklesteins never gave us any

peace. They knew he had a little money laid away, and they itched to get

their hands on it. The man was always telling us of get-rich-quick

schemes, and she threatened me in horrible ways. But I wasn't afraid in

New York. Up here it's different. It's all so shadowy and sinister."

I could feel her shudder.

"Oh, Berna," I said, "can't I help you?"

She shook her head sadly.

"No, you can't; you have enough trouble of your own. Besides it doesn't

matter about me. I didn't mean to tell you all this, but now, if you

want to be a true friend, just go away and forget me. You don't want to

have anything to do with me. Wait! I'll tell you something more. I'm

called Berna Wilovich. That's my grandfather's name. My mother ran away

from home. Two years later she came back--with me. Soon after she died

of consumption. She would never tell my father's name, but said he was a

Christian, and of good family. My grandfather tried to find out. He

would have killed the man. So, you see, I am nameless, a child of shame

and sorrow. And you are a gentleman, and proud of your family. Now, see

the kind of friend you've made. You don't want to make friends with such

as I."

"I want to make friends with such as need my friendship. What is going

to happen to you, Berna?"

"Happen! God knows! It doesn't matter. Oh, I've always been in trouble.

I'm used to it. I never had a really happy day in my life. I never

expect to. I'll just go on to the end, enduring patiently, and getting

what comfort I can out of things. It's what I was made for, I suppose."

She shrugged her shoulders and shivered a little.

"Let me go now, my friend. It's cold up here; I'm chilled. Don't look so

terribly downcast. I expect I'll come out all right. Something may

happen. Cheer up! Maybe you'll see me a Klondike queen yet."

I could see that her sudden brightness but hid a black abyss of

bitterness and apprehension. What she had told me had somehow stricken

me dumb. There seemed a stark sordidness in the situation that repelled

me. She had arisen and was about to step over the fluke of the great

anchor, when I aroused myself.

"Berna," I said, "what you have told me wrings my heart. I can't tell

you how terribly sorry I feel. Is there nothing I can do for you,

nothing to show I am not a mere friend of words and phrases? Oh, I hate

to let you go like this."

The moon had gone behind a cloud. We were in a great shadow. She halted,

so that, as we stood, we were touching each other. Her voice was full of

pathetic resignation.

"What can you do? If we were going in together it might be different.

When I met you at first I hoped, oh, I hoped--well, it doesn't matter

what I hoped. But, believe me, I'll be all right. You won't forget me,

will you?"

"Forget you! No, Berna, I'll never forget you. It cuts me to the heart I

can do nothing now, but we'll meet up there. We can't be divided for

long. And you'll be all right, believe me too, little girl. Be good and

sweet and true and every one will love and help you. Ah, you must go.

Well, well--God bless you, Berna."

"And I wish you happiness and success, dear friend of mine."

Her voice trembled. Something seemed to choke her. She stood a moment as

if reluctant to go.

Suddenly a great impulse of tenderness and pity came over me, and before

I knew it, my arms were around her. She struggled faintly, but her face

was uplifted, her eyes starlike. Then, for a moment of bewildering

ecstasy, her lips lay on mine, and I felt them faintly answer.

Poor yielding lips! They were cold as ice.

CHAPTER V

Never shall I forget the last I saw of her, a forlorn, pathetic figure

in black, waving a farewell to me as I stood on the wharf. She wore, I

remember, a low collar, and well do I mind the way it showed off the

slim whiteness of her throat; well do I mind the high poise of her head,

and the silken gloss of her hair. The grey eyes were clear and steady as

she bade good-bye to me, and from where we stood apart, her face had all

the pathetic sweetness of a Madonna.

Well, she was going, and sad enough her going seemed to me. They were

all for Dyea, and the grim old Chilcoot, with its blizzard-beaten

steeps, while we had chosen the less precipitous, but more drawn-out,

Skagway trail. Among them I saw the inseparable twins; the grim Hewson,

the silent Mervin, each quiet and watchful, as if storing up power for a

tremendous effort. There was the large unwholesomeness of Madam

Winklestein, all jewellery, smiles and coarse badinage, and near her,

her perfumed husband, squinting and smirking abominably. There was the

old man, with his face of a Hebrew Seer, his visionary eye now aglow

with fanatical enthusiasm, his lips ever muttering: "Klondike,

Klondike"; and lastly, by his side, with a little wry smile on her lips,

there was the white-faced girl.

How my heart ached for her! But the time for sentiment was at an end.

The clarion call to action rang out. Inflexibly the trail was mustering

us. The hour was come for every one to give of the best that was in him,

even as he had never given it before. The reign of peace was over; the

fight was on.

On all sides were indescribable bustle, confusion and excitement; men

shouting, swearing, rushing hither, thither; wrangling, anxious-eyed and

distracted over their outfits. A mood of unsparing energy dominated

them. Their only thought was to get away on the gold-trail. A frantic

eagerness impelled them; insistent, imperative; the trail called to

them, and the light of the gold-lust smouldered and flamed in their

uneasy eyes. Already the spirit of the gold-trail was awakening.

Hundreds of scattered tents; a few frame buildings, mostly saloons,

dance-halls and gambling joints; an eager, excited mob crowding on the

loose sidewalks, floundering knee-deep in the mire of the streets,

struggling and squabbling and cursing over their outfits--that is all I

remember of Skagway. The mountains, stark and bare to the bluff, seemed

to overwhelm the flimsy town, and between them, like a giant funnel, a

great wind was roaring.

Lawlessness was rampant, but it did not touch us. The thugs lay in wait

for the men with pokes from the "inside." To the great Cheechako army,

they gave little heed. They were captained by one Smith, known as

"Soapy," whom I had the fortune to meet. He was a pleasant-appearing,

sociable man, and no one would have taken him for a desperado, a killer

of men.

One picture of Skagway is still vivid in my memory. The scene is a

saloon, and along with the Prodigal, I am having a glass of beer. In a

corner sits a befuddled old man, half asleep. He is long and lank, with

a leathery face and a rusty goatee beard--as ragged, disreputable an old

sinner as ever bellied up to a bar. Suddenly there is a sound of

shooting. We rush out and there are two toughs blazing away at each

other from the sheltering corners of an opposite building.

"Hey, Dad! There's some shootin' goin' on," says the barkeeper.

The old man rouses and cocks up a bleary, benevolent eye.

"Shooting', did ye say? Pshaw! Them fellers don't know how to shoot. Old

Dad'll show 'em how to shoot."

He comes to the door, and lugging out a big rusty revolver, blazes away

at one of the combatants. The man, with a howl of surprise and pain,

limps away. The old man turns to the other fellow. Bang! We see

splinters fly, and a man running for dear life.

"Told you I'd show 'em how to shoot," remarks old Dad to us. "Thanks,

I'll have a gin-fizz for mine."

The Prodigal developed a wonderful executive ability about this time; he

was a marvel of activity, seemed to think of everything and to glory in

his responsibility as a leader. Always cheerful, always thoughtful, he

was the brains of our party. He never abated in his efforts a moment,

and was an example and a stimulus to us all. I say "all," for we had

added the "Jam-wagon"[A] to our number. It was the Prodigal who

discovered him. He was a tall, dissolute Englishman, gaunt, ragged and

verminous, but with the earmarks of a gentleman. He seemed indifferent

to everything but whiskey and only anxious to hide himself from his

friends. I discovered he had once been an officer in a Hussar regiment,

but he was obviously reluctant to speak of his past. A lost soul in

every sense of the word, the North was to him a refuge and an

unrestricted stamping-ground. So, partly in pity, partly in hope of

winning back his manhood, we allowed him to join the party.

Pack animals were in vast demand, for it was considered a pound of grub

was the equal of a pound of gold. Old horses, fit but for the knacker's

yard, and burdened till they could barely stand, were being goaded

forward through the mud. Any kind of a dog was a prize, quickly stolen

if left unwatched. Sheep being taken in for the butcher were driven

forward with packs on their backs. Even was there an effort to make pack

animals out of pigs, but they grunted, squealed and rolled their

precious burdens in the mire. What crazy excitement, what urging and

shouting, what desperate device to make a start!

We were lucky in buying a yoke of oxen from a packer for four hundred

dollars. On the first day we hauled half of our outfit to Canyon City,

and on the second we transferred the balance. This was our plan all

through, though in bad places we had to make many relays. It was simple

enough, yet, oh, the travail of it! Here is an extract from my diary of

these days.

"Turn out at 4 A.M. Breakfasted on flapjacks and coffee. Find one

of our oxen dying. Dies at seven o'clock. Harness remaining ox and

start to remove goods up Canyon. Find trail in awful condition, yet

thousands are struggling to get through. Horses often fall in pools

of water ten to fifteen feet deep, trying to haul loads over the

boulders that render trail almost impassable. Drive with sleigh

over places that at other times one would be afraid to walk over

without any load. Two feet of snow fell during the night, but it is

now raining. Rains and snows alternately. At night bitterly cold.

Hauled five loads up Canyon to-day. Finished last trip near

midnight and turned in, cold, wet and played out."

The above is a fairly representative day and of such days we were to

have many ere we reached the water. Slowly, with infinite effort, with

stress and strain to every step of the way, we moved our bulky outfit

forward from camp to camp. All days were hard, all exasperating, all

crammed with discomfort; yet, bit by bit, we forged ahead. The army

before us and the army behind never faltered. Like a stream of black

ants they were, between mountains that reared up swiftly to

storm-smitten palisades of ice. In the darkness of night the army

rested uneasily, yet at the first streak of dawn it was in motion. It

was an endless procession, in which every man was for himself. I can see

them now, bent under their burdens, straining at their hand-sleighs,

flogging their horses and oxen, their faces crimped and puckered with

fatigue, the air acrid with their curses and heavy with their moans. Now

a horse stumbles and slips into one of the sump-holes by the trail side.

No one can pass, the army is arrested. Frenzied fingers unhitch the poor

frozen brute and drag it from the water. Men, frantic with rage, beat

savagely at their beasts of burden to make up the precious time lost.

There is no mercy, no humanity, no fellowship. All is blasphemy, fury

and ruthless determination. It is the spirit of the gold-trail.

At the canyon head was a large camp, and there, very much in evidence,

the gambling fraternity. Dozens of them with their little green tables

were doing a roaring business. On one side of the canyon they had

established a camp. It was evening and we three, the Prodigal, Salvation

Jim and myself, strolled over to where a three-shell man was holding

forth.

"Hullo!" says the Prodigal. "It's our old friend Jake. Jake skinned me

out of a hundred on the boat. Wonder how he's making out?"

It was Mosher, with his bald head, his crafty little eyes, his flat

nose, his black beard. I saw Jim's face harden. He had always shown a

bitter hatred of this man, and often I wondered why.

We stood a little way off. The crowd thinned and filtered away until

but one remained, one of the tall young men from Minnesota. We heard

Mosher's rich voice.

"Say, pard, bet ten dollars you can't place the bean. See! I put the

little joker under here, right before your eyes. Now, where is it?"

"Here," said the man, touching one of the shells.

"Right you are, my hearty! Well, here's your ten."

The man from Minnesota took the money and was going away.

"Hold on," said Mosher; "how do I know you had the money to cover that

bet?"

The man laughed and took from his pocket a wad of bills an inch thick.

"Guess that's enough, ain't it?"

Quick as lightning Mosher had snatched the bills from him, and the man

from Minnesota found himself gazing into the barrel of a six-shooter.

"This here's my money," said Mosher; "now you _git_."

A moment only--a shot rang out. I saw the gun fall from Mosher's hand,

and the roll of bills drop to the ground. Quickly the man from Minnesota

recovered them and rushed off to tell his party. Then the men from

Minnesota got their Winchesters, and the shooting began.

From their camp the gamblers took refuge behind the boulders that

strewed the sides of the canyon, and blazed away at their opponents. A

regular battle followed, which lasted till the fall of night. As far as

I heard, only one casualty resulted. A Swede, about half a mile down the

trail, received a spent bullet in the cheek. He complained to the Deputy

Marshal. That worthy, sitting on his horse, looked at him a moment. Then

he spat comprehensively.

"Can't do anything, Ole. But I'll tell you what. Next time there's

bullets flying round this section of the country, don't go sticking your

darned whiskers in the way. See!"

That night I said to Jim:

"How did you do it?"

He laughed and showed me a hole in his coat pocket which a bullet had

burned.

"You see, having been in the game myself, I knew what was comin' and

acted accordin'."

"Good job you didn't hit him worse."

"Wait a while, sonny, wait a while. There's something mighty familiar

about Jake Mosher. He's mighty like a certain Sam Mosely I'm interested

in. I've just written a letter outside to see, an' if it's him--well,

I'm saved; I'm a good Christian, but--God help him!"

"And who was Sam Mosely, Jim?"

"Sam Mosely? Sam Mosely was the skunk that busted up my home an' stole

my wife, blast him!"

[A: A Jam-wagon was the general name given to an Englishman on the

trail.]

CHAPTER VI

Day after day, each man of us poured out on the trail the last heel-tap

of his strength, and the coming of night found us utterly played out.

Salvation Jim was full of device and resource, the Prodigal, a dynamo of

eager energy; but it was the Jam-wagon who proved his mettle in a

magnificent and relentless way. Whether it was from a sense of

gratitude, or to offset the cravings that assailed him, I know not, but

he crammed the days with merciless exertion.

A curious man was the Jam-wagon, Brian Wanless his name, a world tramp,

a derelict of the Seven Seas. His story, if ever written, would be a

human document of moving and poignant interest. He must once have been a

magnificent fellow, and even now, with strength and will-power impaired,

he was a man among men, full of quick courage and of a haughty temper.

It was ever a word and a blow with him, and a fight to the desperate

finish. He was insular, imperious and aggressive, and he was always

looking for trouble.

Though taciturn and morose with men, the Jam-wagon showed a tireless

affection for animals. From the first he took charge of our ox; but it

was for horses his fondness was most expressed, so that on the trail,

where there was so much cruelty, he was constantly on the verge of

combat.

"That's a great man," said the Prodigal to me, "a fighter from heel to

head. There's one he can't fight, though, and that's old man Booze."

But on the trail every man was a fighter. It was fight or fall, for the

trail would brook no weaklings. Good or bad, a man must be a man in the

primal sense, dominant, savage and enduring. The trail was implacable.

From the start it cried for strong men; it weeded out its weaklings. I

had seen these fellows on the ship feed their vanity with foolish

fancies; kindled to ardours of hope, I had seen debauch regnant among

them; now I was to see them crushed, cowed, overwhelmed, realising each,

according to his kind, the menace and antagonism of the way. I was to

see the weak falter and fall by the trail side; I was to see the

fainthearted quail and turn back; but I was to see the strong, the

brave, grow grim, grow elemental in their desperate strength, and

tightening up their belts, go forward unflinchingly to the bitter end.

Thus it was the trail chose her own. Thus it was, from passion, despair

and defeat, the spirit of the trail was born.

The spirit of the Gold Trail, how shall I describe it? It was based on

that primal instinct of self-preservation that underlies our thin veneer

of humanity. It was rebellion, anarchy; it was ruthless, aggressive,

primitive; it was the man of the stone age in modern garb waging his

fierce, incessant warfare with the forces of nature. Spurred on by the

fever of the gold-lust, goaded by the fear of losing in the race;

maddened by the difficulties and obstacles of the way, men became

demons of cruelty and aggression, ruthlessly thrusting aside and

trampling down the weaker ones who thwarted their progress. Of pity,

humanity, love, there was none, only the gold-lust, triumphant and

repellent. It was the survival of the fittest, the most tenacious, the

most brutal. Yet there was something grandly terrible about it all. It

was a barbaric invasion, an army, each man fighting for his own hand

under the banner of gold. It was conquest. Every day, as I watched that

human torrent, I realised how vast, how irresistible it was. It was

Epic, it was Historical.

Many pitiful things I saw--men with haggard, hopeless faces, throwing

their outfits into the snow and turning back broken-hearted; men

staggering blindly on, exhausted to despair, then dropping wearily by

the trail side in the bitter cold and sinister gloom; weaklings, every

one. Many terrible things I saw--men cursing each other, cursing the

trail, cursing their God, and in the echo of their curses, grinding

their teeth and stumbling on. Then they would vent their fury and spite

on the poor dumb animals. Oh, what cruelty there was! The life of the

brute was as nothing; it was the tribute of the trail; it was a

sacrifice on the altar of human greed.

Long before dawn the trail awakened and the air was full of breakfast

smells, chiefly that of burnt porridge: for pots were seldom scraped,

neither were dishes washed. Soon the long-drawn-out army was on the

march, jaded animals straining at their loads, their drivers reviling

and beating them. All the men were bearded, and many of them wore

parkas. As many of the women had discarded petticoats, it was often

difficult at a short distance to tell the sex of a person. There were

tents built on sleighs, with faces of women and children peering out

from behind. It was a wonderful procession, all classes, all

nationalities, greybeards and striplings, parsons and prostitutes, rich

and poor, filing past in their thousands, drawn desperately on by the

golden magnet.

One day we were making a trip with a load of our stuff when, just ahead,

there was a check in the march, so I and the Jam-wagon went forward to

investigate. It was our old friend Bullhammer in difficulties. He had

rather a fine horse, and in passing a sump-hole, his sled had skidded

and slipped downhill into the water. Now he was belabouring the animal

unmercifully, acting like a crazy man, shouting in a frenzy of rage.

The horse was making the most gallant efforts I ever saw, but, with

every fresh attempt, its strength weakened. Time and again it came down

on its knees, which were raw and bleeding. It was shining with sweat so

that there was not a dry hair on its body, and if ever a dumb brute's

eyes spoke of agony and fear, that horse's did. But Bullhammer grew

every moment more infuriated, wrenching its mouth and beating it over

the head with a club. It was a sickening sight and, used as I was to the

inhumanity of the trail, I would have interfered had not the Jam-wagon

jumped in. He was deadly pale and his eyes burned.

"You infernal brute! If you strike that horse another blow, I'll break

your club over your shoulders."

Bullhammer turned on him. Surprise paralysed the man, rage choked him.

They were both big husky fellows, and they drew up face to face. Then

Bullhammer spoke.

"Curse you, anyway. Don't interfere with me. I'll beat bloody hell out

of the horse if I like, an' you won't say one word, see?"

With that he struck the horse another vicious blow on the head. There

was a quick scuffle. The club was wrenched from Bullhammer's hand. I saw

it come down twice. The man sprawled on his back, while over him stood

the Jam-wagon, looking very grim. The horse slipped quietly back into

the water.

"You ugly blackguard! I've a good mind to beat you within an ace of your

life. But you're not worth it. Ah, you cur!"

He gave Bullhammer a kick. The man got on his feet. He was a coward, but

his pig eyes squinted in impotent rage. He looked at his horse lying

shivering in the icy water.

"Get the horse out yourself, then, curse you. Do what you please with

him. But, mark you--I'll get even with you for this--I'll--get--even."

He shook his fist and, with an ugly oath, went away. The block in the

traffic was relieved. The trail was again in motion. When we got abreast

of the submerged horse, we hitched on the ox and hastily pulled it out,

and (the Jam-wagon proving to have no little veterinary skill) in a few

days it was fit to work again.

* * * * *

Another week had gone and we were still on the trail, between the head

of the canyon and the summit of the Pass. Day after day was the same

round of unflinching effort, under conditions that would daunt any but

the stoutest hearts. The trail was in a terrible condition, sometimes

well-nigh impassable, and many a time, but for the invincible spirit of

the Prodigal, would I have turned back. He had a way of laughing at

misfortune and heartening one when things seemed to have passed the

limit of all endurance.

Here is another day selected from my diary:

"Rose at 4:30 A.M. and started for summit with load. Trail all

filled in with snow, and had dreadful time shovelling it out. Load

upsets number of times. Got to summit at three o'clock. Ox almost

played out. Snowing and blowing fearfully on summit. Ox tired;

tries to lie down every few yards. Bitterly cold and have hard time

trying to keep hands and feet from freezing. Keep on going to make

Balsam City. Arrived there about ten o'clock at night. Clothing

frozen stiff. Snow from seven to one hundred feet deep. No wood

within a quarter mile and then only soft balsam. Had to go for

wood. Almost impossible to start fire. Was near midnight when I had

fire going well and supper cooked. Eighteen hours on the trail

without a square meal. The way of the Klondike is hard, hard."

And yet I believe, compared with others, we were getting along finely.

Every day, as the difficulties of the trail increased, I saw more and

more instances of suffering and privation, and to many the name of the

White Pass was the death-knell of hope. I could see their faces blanch

as they gazed upward at that white immensity; I could see them tighten

their pack-straps, clench their teeth and begin the ascent; could see

them straining every muscle as they climbed, the grim lines harden round

their mouths, their eyes full of hopeless misery and despair; I could

see them panting at every step, ghastly with fatigue, lurching and

stumbling on under their heavy packs. These were the weaker ones, who,

sooner or later, gave up the struggle.

Then there were the strong, ruthless ones, who had left humanity at

home, who flogged their staggering skin-and-bone pack animals till they

dropped, then, with a curse, left them to die.

Far, far above us the monster mountains nuzzled among the clouds till

cloud and mountain were hard to tell apart. These were giant heights

heaved up to the stars, where blizzards were cradled and the storm-winds

born, stupendous horrific familiars of the tempest and the thunder. I

was conscious of their absolute sublimity. It was like height piled on

height as one would pile up sacks of flour. As Jim remarked: "Say,

wouldn't it give you crick in the neck just gazin' at them there

mountains?"

How ant-like seemed the black army crawling up the icy pass, clinging to

its slippery face in the blinding buffet of snow and rain! Men dropped

from its ranks uncared for and unpitied. Heedless of those that fell,

the gap closed up, the march went on. The great army crawled up and over

the summit. Far behind could we see them, hundreds, thousands, a

countless host, all with "Klondike" on their lips and the lust of the

gold-lure in their hearts. It was the Great Stampede.

"Klondike or bust," was the slogan. It was ever on the lips of those

bearded men. "Klondike or bust"--the strong man, with infinite patience,

righted his overturned sleigh, and in the face of the blinding blizzard,

pushed on through the clogging snow. "Klondike or bust"--the weary,

trail-worn one raised himself from the hole where he had fallen, and

stiff, cold, racked with pain, gritted his teeth doggedly and staggered

on a few feet more. "Klondike or bust"--the fanatic of the trail, crazed

with the gold-lust, performed mad feats of endurance, till nature

rebelled, and raving and howling, he was carried away to die.

"'Member Joe?" some one would say, as a pack-horse came down the trail

with, strapped on it, a dead, rigid shape. "Joe used to be plumb-full of

fun; always joshin' or takin' some guy off; well--that's Joe."

Two weary, woe-begone men were pulling a hand-sleigh down from the

summit. On it was lashed a man. He was in a high fever, raving,

delirious. Half-crazed with suffering themselves, his partners plodded

on unheedingly. I recognised in them the Bank clerk and the Professor,

and I hailed them. From black hollows their eyes stared at me

unrememberingly, and I saw how emaciated were their faces.

"Spinal meningitis," they said laconically, and they were taking him

down to the hospital. I took a look and saw in that mask of terror and

agony the familiar face of the Wood-carver.

He gazed at me eagerly, wildly: "I'm rich," he cried, "rich. I've found

it--the gold--in millions, millions. Now I'm going outside to spend it.

No more cold and suffering and poverty. I'm going down there to _live_,

thank God, to live."

Poor Globstock! He died down there. He was buried in a nameless grave.

To this day I fancy his old mother waits for his return. He was her sole

support, the one thing she lived for, a good, gentle son, a man of sweet

simplicity and loving kindness. Yet he lies under the shadow of those

hard-visaged mountains in a nameless grave.

The trail must have its tribute.

CHAPTER VII

It was at Balsam City, and things were going badly. Marks and Bullhammer

had formed a partnership with the Halfbreed, the Professor and the Bank

clerk, and the arrangement was proving a regrettable one for the latter

two. It was all due to Marks. At the best of times, he was a

cross-grained, domineering bully, and on the trail, which would have

worn to a wire edge the temper of an angel, his yellow streak became an

eyesore. He developed a chronic grouch, and it was not long before he

had the two weaker men toeing the mark. He had a way of speaking of

those who had gone up against him in the past and were "running yet," of

shooting scrapes and deadly knife-work in which he had displayed a

spirit of cold-blooded ferocity. Both the Professor and the Bank clerk

were men of peace and very impressionable. Consequently, they conceived

for Marks a shuddering respect, not unmixed with fear, and were ready to

stand on their heads at his bidding.

On the Halfbreed, however, his intimidation did not work. While the

other two trembled at his frown, and waited on him hand and foot, the

man of Indian blood ignored him, and his face was expressionless.

Whereby he incurred the intense dislike of Marks.

Things were going from bad to worse. The man's aggressions were daily

becoming more unbearable. He treated the others like Dagoes and on every

occasion he tried to pick a quarrel with the Halfbreed, but the latter,

entrenching himself behind his Indian phlegm, regarded him stolidly.

Marks mistook this for cowardice and took to calling the Halfbreed nasty

names, particularly reflecting on the good character of his mother.

Still the Halfbreed took no notice, yet there was a contempt in his

manner that stung more than words. This was the state of affairs when

one evening the Prodigal and I paid them a visit.

Marks had been drinking all day, and had made life a little hell for the

others. When we arrived he was rotten-ripe for a quarrel. Then the

Prodigal suggested a game of poker, so four of them, himself, Marks,

Bullhammer and the Halfbreed, sat in.

At first they made a ten-cent limit, which soon they raised to

twenty-five; then, at last, there was no limit but the roof. A bottle

passed from mouth to mouth and several big jack-pots were made.

Bullhammer and the Prodigal were about breaking even, Marks was losing

heavily, while steadily the Halfbreed was adding to his pile of chips.

Through one of those freaks of chance the two men seemed to buck one

another continually. Time after time they would raise and raise each

other, till at last Marks would call, and always his opponent had the

cards. It was exasperating, maddening, especially as several times Marks

himself was called on a bluff. The very fiend of ill-luck seemed to have

gotten into him, and as the game proceeded, Marks grew more flushed and

excited. He cursed audibly. He always had good cards, but always somehow

the other just managed to beat him. He became explosively angry and

abusive. The Halfbreed offered to retire from the game, but Marks would

not hear of it.

"Come on, you nigger!" he shouted. "Don't sneak away. Give me a chance

to get my money back."

So they sat down once more, and a hand was dealt. The Halfbreed called

for cards, but Marks did not draw. Then the betting began. After the

second round the others dropped out, and Marks and the Halfbreed were

left. The Halfbreed was inimitably cool, his face was a perfect mask.

Marks, too, had suddenly grown very calm. They started to boost each

other.

Both seemed to have plenty of money and at first they raised in tens and

twenties, then at last fifty dollars at a clip. It was getting exciting.

You could hear a pin drop. Bullhammer and the Prodigal watched very

quietly. Sweat stood on Marks's forehead, though the Halfbreed was

utterly calm. The jack-pot held about three hundred dollars. Then Marks

could stand it no longer.

"I'll bet a hundred," he cried, "and see you."

He triumphantly threw down a straight.

"There, now," he snarled, "beat that, you stinking Malamute."

There was a perceptible pause. I felt sorry for the Halfbreed. He could

not afford to lose all that money, but his face showed no shade of

emotion. He threw down his cards and there arose from us all a roar of

incredulous surprise.

For the Halfbreed had thrown down a royal flush in diamonds. Marks rose.

He was now livid with passion.

"You cheating swine," he cried; "you crooked devil!"

Quickly he struck the other on the face, a blow that drew blood. I

thought for a moment the Halfbreed would return the blow. Into his eyes

there came a look of cold and deadly fury. But, no! quickly bending

down, he scooped up the money and left the tent.

We stared at each other.

"Marvellous luck!" said the Prodigal.

"Marvellous hell!" shouted Marks. "Don't tell me it's luck. He's a

sharper, a dirty thief. But I'll get even. He's got to fight now. He'll

fight with guns and I'll kill the son of a dog."

He was drinking from the bottle in big gulps, fanning himself into an

ungovernable fury with fiery objurgations. At last he went out, and

again swearing he would kill the Halfbreed, he made for another tent,

from which a sound of revelry was coming.

Vaguely fearing trouble, the Prodigal and I did not go to bed, but sat

talking. Suddenly I saw him listen intently.

"Hist! Did you hear that?"

I seemed to hear a sound like the fierce yelling of a wild animal.

We hurried out. It was Marks running towards us. He was crazy with

liquor, and in one hand he flourished a gun. There was foam on his lips

and he screamed as he ran. Then we saw him stop before the tent occupied

by the Halfbreed, and throw open the flap.

"Come out, you dirty tin-horn, you crook, you Indian bastard; come out

and fight."

He rushed in and came out again, dragging the Halfbreed at arm's length.

They were tussling together, and we flung ourselves on them and

separated them.

I was holding Marks, when suddenly he hurled me off, and flourishing a

revolver, fired one chamber, crying:

"Stand back, all of you; stand back! Let me shoot at him. He's my meat."

We stepped back pretty briskly, for Marks had cut loose. In fact, we

ducked for shelter, all but the Halfbreed, who stood straight and still.

Marks took aim at the man waiting there so coolly. He fired, and a tide

of red stained the other man's shirt, near the shoulder. Then something

happened. The Halfbreed's arm rose quickly. A six-shooter spat twice.

He turned to us. "I didn't want to do it, boys, but you see he druv' me

to it. I'm sorry. He druv' me to it."

Marks lay in a huddled, quivering heap. He was shot through the heart

and quite dead.

CHAPTER VIII

We were camping in Paradise Valley. Before us and behind us the great

Cheechako army laboured along with infinite travail. We had suffered,

but the trail of the land was near its end. And what an end! With every

mile the misery and difficulty of the way seemed to increase. Then we

came to the trail of Rotting Horses.

Dead animals we had seen all along the trail in great numbers, but the

sight as we came on this particular place beggared description. There

were thousands of them. One night we dragged away six of them before we

could find room to put up the tent. There they lay, sprawling horribly,

their ribs protruding through their hides, their eyes putrid in the

sunshine. It was like a battlefield, hauntingly hideous.

And every day was adding to their numbers. The trail ran over great

boulders covered with icy slush, through which the weary brutes sank to

their bellies. Struggling desperately, down they would come between two

boulders. Then their legs would snap like pipe-stems, and there usually

they were left to die.

One would see, jammed in the cleft of a rock, the stump of a hoof, or

sticking up sharply, the jagged splinter of a leg; while far down the

bluff lay the animal to which it belonged. One would see the poor dead

brutes lying head and tail for an hundred yards at a stretch. One would

see them deserted and desperate, wandering round foraging for food. They

would come to the camp at night whinnying pitifully, and with a look of

terrible entreaty on their starved faces. Then one would take pity on

them--and shoot them.

I remember stumbling across a big, heavy horse one night in the gloom.

It was swaying from side to side, and as I drew near I saw its throat

was hideously cut. It looked at me with such agony in its eyes that I

put my handkerchief over its face, and, with the blow of an axe, ended

its misery. The most spirited of the horses were the first to fall. They

broke their hearts in gallant effort. Goaded to desperation, sometimes

they would destroy themselves, throw themselves frantically over the

bluff. Oh, it was horrible! horrible!

Our own horse proved a ready victim. To tell the truth, no one but the

Jam-wagon was particularly sorry. If there was a sump-hole in sight,

that horse was sure to flounder into it. Sometimes twice in one day we

had to unhitch the ox and pull him out. There was a place dug out of the

snow alongside the trail, which was being used as a knacker's yard, and

here we took him with a broken leg and put a bullet in his brain. While

we waited there were six others brought in to be shot.

It was a Sunday and we were in the tent, indescribably glad of a day's

rest. The Jam-wagon was mending a bit of harness; the Prodigal was

playing solitaire. Salvation Jim had just returned from a trip to

Skagway, where he had hoped to find a letter from the outside regarding

one Jake Mosher. His usually hale and kindly face was drawn and

troubled. Wearily he removed his snow-sodden clothes.

"I always did say there was God's curse on this Klondike gold," he said;

"now I'm sure of it. There's a hoodoo on it. What it's a-goin' to cost,

what hearts it's goin' to break, what homes it's goin' to wreck no

man'll ever know. God only knows what it's cost already. But this last

is the worst yet."

"What's the matter, Jim?" I said; "what last?"

"Why, haven't you heard? Well, there's just been a snow-slide on the

Chilcoot an' several hundred people buried."

I stared aghast. Living as we did in daily danger of snow-slides, this

disaster struck us with terror.

"You don't say!" said the Prodigal. "Where?"

"Oh, somewhere's near Lindeman. Hundreds of poor sinners cut off without

a chance to repent."

He was going to improve on the occasion when the Prodigal cut in.

"Poor devils! I guess we must know some of them too." He turned to me.

"I wonder if your little Polak friend's all right?"

Indeed my thoughts had just flown to Berna. Among the exigencies of the

trail (when we had to fix our minds on the trouble of the moment and

every moment had its trouble) there was little time for reflection.

Nevertheless, I had found at all times visions of her flitting before

me, thoughts of her coming to me when I least expected them. Pity,

tenderness and a good deal of anxiety were in my mind. Often I wondered

if ever I would see her again. A feeling of joy and a great longing

would sweep over me in the hope. At these words then of the Prodigal, it

seemed as if all my scattered sentiments crystallised into one, and a

vast desire that was almost pain came over me. I suppose I was silent,

grave, and it must have been some intuition of my thoughts that made the

Prodigal say to me:

"Say, old man, if you would like to take a run over the Dyea trail, I

guess I can spare you for a day or so."

"Yes, indeed, I'd like to see the trail."

"Oh, yes, we've observed your enthusiastic interest in trails. Why don't

you marry the girl? Well, cut along, old chap. Don't be gone too long."

So next morning, travelling as lightly as possible, I started for

Bennett. How good it seemed to get off unimpeded by an outfit, and I

sped past the weary mob, struggling along on the last lap of their

journey. I had been in some expectation of the trail bettering itself,

but indeed it appeared at every step to grow more hopelessly terrible.

It was knee-deep in snowy slush, and below that seemed to be literally

paved with dead horses.

I only waited long enough at Bennett to have breakfast. A pie nailed to

a tent-pole indicated a restaurant, and there, for a dollar, I had a

good meal of beans and bacon, coffee and flapjacks. It was yet early

morning when I started for Linderman.

The air was clear and cold, ideal mushing weather, and already parties

were beginning to struggle into Bennett, looking very weary and jaded.

On the trail a man did a day's work by nine in the morning, another by

four in the afternoon, and a third by nightfall. You were lucky to get

off at that.

I was jogging along past the advance guard of the oncoming army, when

who should I see but Mervin and Hewson. They looked thoroughly seasoned,

and had made record time with a large outfit. In contrast to the worn,

weary-eyed men with faces pinched and puckered, they looked insolently

fit and full of fight. They had heard of the snow-slide but could give

me no particulars. I inquired for Berna and the old man. They were

somewhere behind, between Chilcoot and Lindeman. "Yes, they were

probably buried under the slide. Good-bye."

I hurried forward, full of apprehension. A black stream of Cheechakos

were surging across Lindeman; then I realised the greatness of the other

advancing army, and the vastness of the impulse that was urging these

indomitable atoms to the North. It was blowing quite hard and many had

put up sails on their sleds with good effect. I saw a Jew driving an ox,

to which he had four small sleds harnessed. On each of these he had

hoisted a small sail. Suddenly the ox looked round and saw the sails.

Here was something that did not come within the scope of his

experience. With a bellow of fear, he stampeded, pursued by a yelling

Hebrew, while from the chain of sleds articles scattered in all

directions. When last I saw them in the far distance, Jew and ox were

still going.

Why was I so anxious about Berna? I did not know, but with every mile my

anxiety increased. A dim unreasoning fear possessed me. I imagined that

if anything happened to her I would forever blame myself. I saw her

lying white and cold as the snow itself, her face peaceful in death. Why

had I not thought more of her? I had not appreciated her enough, her

precious sweetness and her tenderness. If only she was spared, I would

show her what a good friend I could be. I would protect her and be near

her in case of need. But then how foolish to think anything could have

happened to her. The chances were one in a hundred. Nevertheless, I

hurried forward.

I met the Twins. They had just escaped the slide, they told me, and had

not yet recovered from the shock. A little way back on the trail it was.

I would see men digging out the bodies. They had dug out seventeen that

morning. Some were crushed as flat as pancakes.

Again, with a pain at my heart, I asked after Berna and her grandfather.

Twin number one said they were both buried under the slide. I gasped and

was seized with sudden faintness. "No," said twin number two, "the old

man is missing, but the girl has escaped and is nearly crazy with

grief. Good-bye."

Once more I hurried on. Gangs of men were shovelling for the dead. Every

now and then a shovel would strike a hand or a skull. Then a shout would

be raised and the poor misshapen body turned out.

Again I put my inquiries. A busy digger paused in his work. He was a

sottish-looking fellow, and there was something of the glare of a ghoul

in his eyes.

"Yes, that must have been the old guy with the whiskers they dug out

early on from the lower end of the slide. Relative, name of Winklestein,

took charge of him. Took him to the tent yonder. Won't let any one go

near."

He pointed to a tent on the hillside, and it was with a heavy heart I

went forward. The poor old man, so gentle, so dignified, with his dream

of a golden treasure that might bring happiness to others. It was cruel,

cruel....

"Say, what d'ye want here? Get to hell outa this."

The words came with a snarl. I looked up in surprise.

There at the door of the tent, all a-bristle like a gutter-bred cur, was

Winklestein.

CHAPTER IX

I stared at the man a moment, for little had I expected so gracious a

reception.

"Mush on, there," he repeated truculently; "you're not wanted 'round

here. Mush! Pretty darned smart."

I felt myself grow suddenly, savagely angry. I measured the man for a

moment and determined I could handle him.

"I want," I said soberly, "to see the body of my old friend."

"You do, do you? Well, you darned well won't. Besides, there ain't no

body here."

"You're a liar!" I observed. "But it's no use wasting words on you. I'm

going on anyhow."

With that I gripped him suddenly and threw him sideways with some force.

One of the tent ropes took away his feet violently, and there on the

snow he sprawled, glowering at me with evil eyes.

"Now," said I, "I've got a gun, and if you try any monkey business, I'll

fix you so quick you won't know what's happened."

The bluff worked. He gathered himself up and followed me into the tent,

looking the picture of malevolent impotence. On the ground lay a longish

object covered with a blanket. With a strange feeling of reluctant

horror I lifted the covering. Beneath it lay the body of the old man.

He was lying on his back, and had not been squeezed out of all human

semblance like so many of the others. Nevertheless, he was ghastly

enough, with his bluish face and wide bulging eyes. What had worn his

fingers to the bone so? He must have made a desperate struggle with his

bare hands to dig himself out. I will never forget those torn, nailless

fingers. I felt around his waist. Ha! the money belt was gone!

"Winklestein," I said, turning suddenly on the little Jew, "this man had

two thousand dollars on him. What have you done with it?"

He started violently. A look of fear came into his eyes. It died away,

and his face was convulsed with rage.

"He did not," he screamed; "he didn't have a red cent. He's no more than

an old pauper I was taking in to play the fiddle. He owes _me_, curse

him! And who are you anyways, you blasted meddler, that accuses a decent

man of being a body robber?"

"I was this dead man's friend. I'm still his granddaughter's friend. I'm

going to see justice done. This man had two thousand dollars in a gold

belt round his waist. It belongs to the girl now. You've got to give it

up, Winklestein, or by----"

"Prove it, prove it!" he spluttered. "You're a liar; she's a liar;

you're all a pack of liars, trying to blackmail a decent man. He had no

money, I say! He had no money, and if ever he said so, he's a liar."

"Oh, you vile wretch!" I cried. "It's you that's lying. I've a mind to

choke your dirty throat. But I'll hound you till I make you cough up

that money. Where's Berna?"

Suddenly he had become quietly malicious.

"Find her," he jibed; "find her for yourself. And take yourself out of

my sight as quickly as you please."

I saw he had me over a barrel, so, with a parting threat, I left him. A

tent nearby was being run as a restaurant, and there I had a cup of

coffee. Of the man who kept it, a fat, humorous cockney, I made

enquiries regarding the girl. Yes, he knew her. She was living in yonder

tent with Madam Winklestein.

"They sy she's tykin' on horful baht th' old man, pore kid!"

I thanked him, gulped down my coffee, and made for the tent. The flap

was down, but I rapped on the canvas, and presently the dark face of

Madam appeared. When she saw me, it grew darker.

"What d'you want?" she demanded.

"I want to see Berna," I said.

"Then you can't. Can't you hear her? Isn't that enough?"

Surely I could hear a very low, pitiful sound coming from the tent,

something between a sob and a moan, like the wailing of an Indian woman

over her dead, only infinitely subdued and anguished. I was shocked,

awed, immeasurably grieved.

"Thank you," I said; "I'm sorry. I don't want to intrude on her in her

hour of affliction. I'll come again."

"All right," she laughed tauntingly; "come again."

I had failed. I thought of turning back, then I thought I might as well

see what I could of the far-famed Chikoot, so once more I struck out.

The faces of the hundreds I met were the same faces I had passed by the

thousand, stamped with the seal of the trail, seamed with lines of

suffering, wan with fatigue, blank with despair. There was the same

desperate hurry, the same indifference to calamity, the same grim

stoical endurance.

A snowstorm was raging on the summit of the Chikoot and the snow was

drifting, covering the thousands of caches to the depth of ten and

fifteen feet. I stood on the summit of that nearly perpendicular ascent

they call the "Scales." Steps had been cut in the icy steep, and up

these men were straining, each with a huge pack on his back. They could

only go in single file. It was the famous "Human Chain." At regular

distances, platforms had been cut beside the trail, where the exhausted

ones might leave the ranks and rest; but if a worn-out climber reeled

and crawled into one of the shelters, quickly the line closed up and

none gave him a glance.

The men wore ice-creepers, so that their feet would clutch the slippery

surface. Many of them had staffs, and all were bent nigh double under

their burdens. They did not speak, their lips were grimly sealed, their

eyes fixed and stern. They bowed their heads to thwart the buffetings of

the storm-wind, but every way they turned it seemed to meet them. The

snow lay thick on their shoulders and covered their breasts. On their

beards the spiked icicles glistened. As they moved up step by step, it

seemed as if their feet were made of lead, so heavily did they lift

them. And the resting-places by the trail were never empty.

You saw them in the canyon at the trail top, staggering in the wind that

seemed to blow every way at once. You saw them blindly groping for the

caches they had made but yesterday and now fathoms deep under the

snowdrift. You saw them descending swiftly, dizzily, leaning back on

their staffs, for the down trail was like a slide. In a moment they were

lost to sight, but to-morrow they would come again, and to-morrow and

to-morrow, the men of the Chilcoot.

The Trail of Travail--surely it was all epitomised in the tribulations

of that stark ascent. From my eyrie on its blizzard-beaten crest I could

see the Human Chain drag upward link by link, and every link a man. And

as he climbed that pitiless treadmill, on each man's face there could be

deciphered the palimpsest of his soul.

Oh, what a drama it was, and what a stage! The Trail of '98--high

courage, frenzied fear, despotic greed, unflinching sacrifice. But over

all--its hunger and its hope, its passion and its pain--triumphed the

dauntless spirit of the Pathfinder--the mighty Pioneer.

[Illustration: "No," she said firmly, "you can't see the girl"]

Then I knew, I knew. These silent, patient, toiling ones were the

Conquerors of the Great White Land; the Men of the High North, the

Brotherhood of the Arctic Wild. No saga will ever glorify their deeds,

no epic make them immortal. Their names will be written in the snows

that melt and vanish at the smile of Spring; but in their works will

they live, and their indomitable spirit will be as a beacon-light,

shining down the dim corridors of Eternity.

* * * * *

I slept at a bunkhouse that night, and next morning I again made a call

at the tent within which lay Berna. Again Madam, in a gaudy wrapper,

answered my call, but this time, to my surprise, she was quite pleasant.

"No," she said firmly, "you can't see the girl. She's all prostrated.

We've given her a sleeping powder and she's asleep now. But she's mighty

sick. We've sent for a doctor."

There was indeed nothing to be done. With a heavy heart I thanked her,

expressed my regrets and went away. What had got into me, I wondered,

that I was so distressed about the girl. I thought of her continually,

with tenderness and longing. I had seen so little of her, yet that

little had meant so much. I took a sad pleasure in recalling her to mind

in varying aspects; always she appeared different to me somehow. I could

get no definite idea of her; ever was there something baffling,

mysterious, half revealed.

To me there was in her, beauty, charm, every ideal quality. Yet must my

eyes have been anointed, for others passed her by without a second

glance. Oh, I was young and foolish, maybe; but I had never before known

a girl that appealed to me, and it was very, very sweet.

So I went back to the restaurant and gave the fat cockney a note which

he promised to deliver into her own hands. I wrote:

"Dear Berna: I cannot tell you how deeply grieved I am over your

grandfather's death, and how I sympathise with you in your sorrow.

I came over from the other trail to see you, but you were too ill.

Now I must go back at once. If I could only have said a word to

comfort you! I feel terribly about it.

"Oh, Berna, dear, go back, go back. This is no country for you. If

I can help you, Berna, let me know. If you come on to Bennett, then

I will see you.

"Believe me again, dear, my heart aches for you.

"Be brave.

"Always affectionately yours,

"Athol Meldrum."

Then once more I struck out for Bennett.

CHAPTER X

Our last load was safely landed in Bennett and the trail of the land was

over. We had packed an outfit of four thousand pounds over a

thirty-seven-mile trail and it had taken us nearly a month. For an

average of fifteen hours a day we had worked for all that was in us;

yet, looking back, it seems to have been more a matter of dogged

persistence and patience than desperate endeavour and endurance.

There is no doubt that to the great majority, the trail spelt privation,

misery and suffering; but they were of the poor, deluded multitude that

never should have left their ploughs, their desks and their benches.

Then there were others like ourselves to whom it meant hardship, more or

less extreme, but who managed to struggle along fairly well. Lastly,

there was a minority to whom it was little more than discomfort. They

were the seasoned veterans of the trail to whom its trials were all in

the day's work. It was as if the Great White Land was putting us to the

test, was weeding out the fit from the unfit, was proving itself a land

of the Strong, a land for men.

And indeed our party was well qualified to pass the test of the trail.

The Prodigal was full of irrepressible enthusiasm, and always loaded to

the muzzle with ideas. Salvation Jim was a mine of foresight and

resource, while the Jam-wagon proved himself an insatiable glutton for

work. Altogether we fared better than the average party.

We were camped on the narrow neck of water between Lindeman and Bennett,

and as hay was two hundred and fifty dollars a ton, the first thing we

did was to butcher the ox. The next was to see about building a boat. We

thought of whipsawing our own boards, but the timber near us was poor or

thinned out, so that in the end we bought lumber, paying for it twenty

cents a foot. We were all very unexpert carpenters; however, by watching

others, we managed to make a decent-looking boat.

These were the busy days. At Bennett the two great Cheechako armies

converged, and there must have been thirty thousand people camped round

the lake. The night was ablaze with countless camp-fires, the day a buzz

of busy toil. Everywhere you heard the racket of hammer and saw, beheld

men in feverish haste over their boat-building. There were many fine

boats, but the crude makeshift effort of the amateur predominated. Some

of them, indeed, had no more shape than a packing-case, and not a few

resembled a coffin. Anything that would float and keep out the water was

a "boat."

Oh, it was good to think that from thenceforward, the swift, clear

current would bear us to our goal. No more icy slush to the knee, no

more putrid horse-flesh under foot, no more blinding blizzards and

heart-breaking drift of snows. But the blue sky would canopy us, the

gentle breezes fan us, the warm sun lock us in her arms. No more bitter

freezings and sinister dawns and weary travail of mind and body. The

hills would busk themselves in emerald green, the wild crocus come to

gladden our eyes, the long nights glow with sunsets of theatric

splendour. No wonder, in the glory of reaction, we exulted and laboured

on our boat with brimming hearts. And always before us gleamed the

Golden Magnet, making us chafe and rage against the stubborn ice that

stayed our progress.

The days were full of breezy sunshine and at all times the Eager Army

watched the rotting ice with anxious eyes. In places it was fairly

honeycombed now, in others corroded and splintered into silver spears.

Here and there it heaved up and cracked across in gaping chasms; again

it sagged down suddenly. There were sheets of surface water and

stretches of greenish slush that froze faintly overnight. In large,

flaming letters of red, the lake was dangerous, near to a break-up, a

death trap; yet every day the reckless ones were going over it to be

that much nearer the golden goal.

In this game of taking desperate chances, many a wild player lost, many

a foolhardy one never reached the shore. No one will ever know the

number of victims claimed by these black unfathomable waters.

It was the Professor who opened our eyes to the danger of crossing the

lake. He and the Bank clerk quarrelled over the wisdom of delay. The

Professor was positive it was quite safe. The ice was four feet thick.

Go fast over the weak spots and you would be all right. He argued, fumed

and ranted. They were losing precious time, time which might mean all

the difference between failure and success. It was expedient to get

ahead of the rabble. He, for one, was no craven; he had staked his all

on this trip. He had studied the records of Arctic explorers. He thought

he was no man's fool. If others were cowardly enough to hold back, he

would go alone.

The upshot of it was that one grey morning he took his share of the

outfit and started off by himself.

Said the Bank clerk, half crying:

"Poor old Pondersby! In spite of the words we had, we parted the best of

friends. We shook hands and I wished him all good-speed. I saw him

twisting and wriggling among the patches of black and white ice. For a

long time I watched him with a heavy heart. Yet he seemed to be getting

along nicely, and I was beginning to think he was right and to call

myself a fool. He was getting quite small in the distance, when suddenly

he seemed to disappear. I got the glasses. There was a big hole in the

ice, no sleigh, no Pondersby. Poor old fellow!"

There were many such cases of separation on the shores of Lake Bennett.

Parties who had started out on that trail as devoted chums, finished it

as lifelong enemies. Tempers were ground to a razor-edge; words dropped

crudely; anger flamed to meet anger. You could scarcely blame them. They

did not realise that the trail demanded all that was in a man of

gentleness, patience and forbearance. Poor human nature was strained and

tested inexorably, and the most loving friends became the most deadly

foes forevermore.

One instance of this was the twins.

"Say," said the Prodigal, "you ought to see Romulus and Remus. They're

scrapping like cat and dog. Seems they've had a bunch of trouble right

along the line--you know how the trail brings out the yellow streak in a

man. Well, they're both fiery as Hades, so after a particularly warm

evening they swore that as soon as they got to Bennett, they'd divvy up

the stuff and each go off by his lonesome. Somehow, they patched it up

when they reached here and got busy on their boat. Now it seems they've

quarrelled worse than ever. Romulus is telling Remus his real name and

_vice-versa_. They're raking up old grievances of their childhood days,

and the end of it is they've once more decided to halve tip the outfit.

They're mad enough to kill each other. They've even decided to cut their

boat in two."

It was truly so. We went and watched them. Each had a bitter

determination on his face. They were sawing the boat through the middle.

Afterwards, I believe, they patched up their ends and made a successful

trip to Dawson.

The ice was going fast. Strangers were still coming in over the trail

with awful tales of its horrors. Bennett was all excitement and seething

life. Thousands of ungainly boats, rafts and scows were waiting to be

launched. Already craft were beginning to come through from Lindeman,

rushing down the fierce torrent between the two lakes. From where we

were camped we saw them pass. There were ugly rapids and a fang-like

rock, against which many a luckless craft was piled up.

It was the most fascinating thing in the world to watch these daring

Argonauts rush the rapids, to speculate whether or not they would get

through. The stroke of an oar, a few feet to right or left, meant

unspeakable calamity. Poor souls! Their faces of utter despair as they

landed dripping from the water and saw their precious goods disappearing

in the angry foam would have moved a heart of stone. As one man said, in

the bitterness of his heart:

"Oh, boys, what a funny God we've got!"

There was a man who came sailing through the passage with a fine boat

and a rich outfit. He had lugged it over the trail at the cost of

infinite toil and weariness. Now his heart was full of hope. Suddenly he

was in the whirl of the current, then all at once loomed up the cruel

rock. His face blanched with horror. Frantically he tried to avoid it.

No use. Crash! and his frail boat splintered like matchwood.

But this man was a fighter. He set his jaw. Once more he went back over

that deadly trail. He bought, at great expense, a new outfit and had

packers hustle it over the trail. He procured a new boat. Once more he

sailed through the narrow canyon. His face was set and grim.

Suddenly, like some iron Nemesis, once more loomed up the fatal rock. He

struggled gallantly, but again the current seemed to grip him and throw

him on that deadly fang. With another sickening crash he saw his goods

sink in the seething waters.

Did he give up? No! A third time he struggled, weary, heartbroken, over

that trail. He had little left now, and with that little he bought his

third outfit, a poor, pathetic shadow of the former ones, but enough for

a desperate man.

Once more he packed it over the trail, now a perfect Avernus of horror.

He reached the river, and in a third poor little boat, again he sailed

down the passage. There was the swift-leaping current, the ugly tusk of

rock staked with wreckage. A moment, a few feet, a turn of the

oar-blade, and he would have been past. But, no! The rock seemed to

fascinate him as the eyes of a snake fascinate a bird. He stared at it

fearfully, a look of terror and despair. Then for the third time, with a

hideous crash, his frail boat was piled up in a pitiful ruin.

He was beaten now.

He climbed on the bank, and there, with a last look at the ugly snarl of

waters, and the jagged up-thrust of that evil rock, he put a bullet

smashing through his brain.

* * * * *

The ice was loose and broken. We were all ready to start in a few days.

The mighty camp was in a ferment of excitement. Every one seemed elated

beyond words. On, once more, to Eldorado!

It was near midnight, but the sky, where the sun had dipped below the

mountain rim, was a sea of translucent green, weirdly and wildly

harmonious with the desolation of the land. On the bleak lake one could

hear the lap of waves, while the high, rocky shore to the left was a

black wall of shadow. I stood by the beach near our boat, all alone in

the wan light, and tried to think calmly of the strange things that had

happened to me.

Surely there was something of Romance left in this old world yet if one

would only go to seek it. Here I was, sun-browned, strong, healthy,

having come through many trials and still on the edge of adventure, when

I might, but for my own headstrong perversity, have yet been vegetating

on the hills of Glengyle. A great exultation welled up in me, the voice

of youth and ambition, the lust to conquer. I would succeed, I would

wrest from the vast, lonely, mysterious North some of its treasure. I

would be a conqueror.

Silent and abstracted, I looked into the brooding disk of sheeny sky, my

eyes dream-troubled.

Then I felt a ghostly hand touch my arm, and with a great start of

surprise, I turned.

"Berna!"

CHAPTER XI

The girl was wearing a thin black shawl around her shoulders, but in the

icy wind blowing from the lake, she trembled like a wand. Her face was

pale, waxen, almost spiritual in its expression, and she looked at me

with just the most pitiably sweet smile in the world.

"I'm sorry I startled you; but I wanted to thank you for your letter and

for your sympathy."

It was the same clear voice, with the throb of tender feeling in it.

"You see, I'm all alone now." The voice faltered, but went on bravely.

"I've got no one that cares about me any more, and I've been sick, so

sick I wonder I lived. I knew you'd forgotten me, and I don't blame you.

But I've never forgotten you, and I wanted to see you just once more."

She was speaking quite calmly and unemotionally.

"Berna!" I cried; "don't say that. Your reproach hurts me so. Indeed I

did try to find you, but it's such a vast camp. There are so many

thousands of people here. Time and again I inquired, but no one seemed

to know. Then I thought you must surely have gone back, and it's been

such a busy time, building our boat and getting ready. No, Berna, I

didn't forget. Many's and many's a night I've lain awake thinking of

you, wondering, longing to see you again--but haven't you forgotten a

little?"

I saw the sensitive lips smile almost bitterly.

"No! not even a little."

"Oh! I'm sorry, Berna. I'm sorry I've looked after you so badly. I'll

never forgive myself. You've been terribly sick, too. What a little

white whisp you are! You look as if a breeze would blow you away. You

shouldn't be out this night, girl. Put my coat around you, come now."

I wrapped her in it and saw with gladness her shivering cease. As I

buttoned it at her throat I marvelled at the thinness of her, and at the

delicacy of her face. In the opal light of the luminous sky her great

grey eyes were lustrous.

"Berna," I said again, "why did you come in here, why? You should have

gone back."

"Gone back," she repeated; "indeed I would have, oh, so gladly. But you

don't understand--they wouldn't let me. After they had got all his

money--and they _did_ get it, though they swear he had nothing--they

made me come on with them. They said I owed them for his burial, and for

the care and attention they gave me when I was sick. They said I must

come on with them and work for them. I protested, I struggled. But

what's the use? I can't do anything against them any more. I'm weak, and

I'm terribly afraid of her."

She shuddered, then a look of fear came into her eyes. I put my hand on

her arm and drew her close to me.

"I just slipped away to-night. She thinks I'm asleep in the tent. She

watches me like a cat, and will scarce let me speak to any one. She's so

big and strong, and I'm so slight and weak. She would kill me in one of

her rages. Then she tells every one I'm no good, an ingrate, everything

that's bad. Once when I threatened to run away, she said she would

accuse me of stealing and have me put in gaol. That's the kind of woman

she is."

"This is terrible, Berna. What have you been doing all the time?"

"Oh, I've been working, working for them. They've been running a little

restaurant and I've waited on table. I saw you several times, but you

were always too busy or too far away in dreams to see me, and I couldn't

get a chance to speak. But we're going down the lake to-morrow, so I

thought I would just slip away and say good-bye."

"Not good-bye," I faltered; "not good-bye."

Her tone was measured, her eyes closed almost.

"Yes, I'm afraid I must say it. When we get down there, it's good-bye,

good-bye. The less you have to do with me, the better."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I mean this. These people are not decent. They're vile. I must go

with them; I cannot get away. Already, though I'm as pure as your sister

would be, already my being with them has smirched me in everybody's

eyes. I can see it by the way the men look at me. No, go your way and

leave me to whatever fate is in store for me."

"Never!" I said harshly. "What do you take me for, Berna?"

"My friend ... you know, after his death, when I was so sick, I wanted

to die. Then I got your letter, and I felt I must see you again for--I

thought a lot of you. No man's ever been so kind to me as you have.

They've all been--the other sort. I used to think of you a good deal,

and I wanted to do some little thing to show you I was really grateful.

On the boat I used to notice you because you were so quiet and

abstracted. Then you were grandfather's room-mate and gentle and kind to

him. You looked different from the others, too; your eyes were good----"

"Oh, come, Berna, never mind that."

"Yes, I mean it. I just wanted to tell you the things a poor girl

thought of you. But now it's all nearly over. We've neither of us got to

think of each other any more ... and I just wanted to give you this--to

remind you sometimes of Berna."

It was a poor little locket and it contained a lock of her silken hair.

"It's worth nothing, I know, but just keep it for me."

"Indeed I will, Berna, keep it always, and wear it for you. But I can't

let you go like this. See here, girl, is there nothing I can do?

Nothing? Surely there must be some way. Berna, Berna, look at me, listen

to me! Is there? What can I do? Tell me, tell me, my girl."

She seemed to sway to me gently. Indeed I did not intend it, but

somehow she was in my arms. She felt so slight and frail a thing, I

feared to hurt her.

Then I felt her bosom heaving greatly, and I knew she was crying. For a

little I let her cry, but presently I lifted up the white face that lay

on my shoulder. It was wet with tears. Again and again I kissed her. She

lay passively in my arms. Never did she try to escape nor hide her face,

but seemed to give herself up to me. Her tears were salt upon my lips,

yet her own lips were cold, and she did not answer to my kisses.

At last she spoke. Her voice was like a little sigh.

"Oh, if it could only be!"

"What, Berna? Tell me what?"

"If you could only take me away from them, protect me, care for me. Oh,

if you could only _marry_ me, make me your wife. I would be the best

wife in the world to you; I would work my fingers to the bone for you; I

would starve and suffer for you, and walk the world barefoot for your

sake. Oh, my dear, my dear, pity me!"

It seemed as if a sudden light had flashed upon my brain, stunning me,

bewildering me. I thought of the princess of my dreams. I thought of

Garry and of Mother. Could I take her to them?

"Berna," I said sternly, "look at me."

She obeyed.

"Berna, tell me, by all you regard as pure and holy, do you love me?"

She was silent and averted her eyes.

"No, Berna," I said, "you don't; you're afraid. It's not the sort of

love you've dreamed of. It's not your ideal. It would be gratitude and

affection, love of a kind, but never that great dazzling light, that

passion that would raise to heaven or drag to hell."

"How do I know? Perhaps that would come in time. I care a great deal for

you. I think of you always. I would be a true, devoted wife----"

"Yes, I know, Berna; but you don't love me, love me; see, dear. It's so

different. You might care and care till doomsday, but it wouldn't be the

other thing; it wouldn't be love as I have conceived of it, dreamed of

it. Listen, Berna! Here's where our difference in race comes in. You

would rush blindly into this. You would not consider, test and prove

yourself. It's the most serious matter in life to me, something to be

looked at from every side, to be weighed and balanced."

As I said this, my conscience was whispering fiercely: "Oh, fool!

Coward! Paltering, despicable coward! This girl throws herself on you,

on your honour, chivalry, manhood, and you screen yourself behind a

barrier of convention."

However, I went on.

"You might come to love me in time, but we must wait a while, little

girl. Surely that is reasonable? I care for you a great, great deal, but

I don't know if I love you in the great way people should love. Can't we

wait a little, Berna? I'll look after you, dear; won't that do?"

She disengaged herself from me, sighing woefully.

"Yes, I suppose that'll do. Oh, I'll never forgive myself for saying

that to you. I shouldn't, but I was so desperate. You don't know what it

meant to me. Please forget it, won't you?"

"No, Berna, I'll never forget it, and I'll always bless you for having

said it. Believe me, dear, it will all come right. Things aren't so bad.

You're just scared, little one. I'll watch no one harms you, and love

will come to both of us in good time, that love that means life and

death, hate and adoration, rapture and pain, the greatest thing in the

world. Oh, my dear, my dear, trust me! We have known each other such a

brief space. Let us wait a little longer, just a little longer."

"Yes, that's right, a little longer."

Her voice was faint and toneless. She disengaged herself.

"Now, good-night; they may have missed me."

Almost before I could realise it she had disappeared amid the tents,

leaving me there in the gloom with my heart full of doubt, self-reproach

and pain.

Oh, despicable, paltering coward!

CHAPTER XII

Spring in the Yukon! Majestic mountains crowned with immemorial snow!

The mad midnight melodies of birds! From the kindly stars to the leaves

of grass that glimmer in the wind, a world pregnant with joy, a land

jewel-bright and virgin-sweet!

After the obsession of the long, long night, Spring leaps into being

with a sudden sun-thrilled joy, a radiant uplift. The shy emerald

mantles the valleys and fledges the heights; the pussy-willows tremble

by lake and stream; the wild crocus brims the hollows with a haze of

violet; trailing his last ragged pennants of snow on the hills, winter

makes his sullen retreat.

Perhaps I am over-sensitive, but I have ecstasied moments when to me it

seems the grass is greener, the sky bluer than they are to most; I

surrender my heart to wonder and joy; I am in tune with the triumphant

cadence of Things; I am an atom of praise; I live, therefore I exult.

Only in hyperbole could I express that golden Spring, as we set sail on

the sunlit waters of Lake Bennett. Never had I felt so glad. And indeed

it was a vastly merry mob that sailed with us, straining their eyes once

more to the Eldorado of their dreams. Bottled-up spirits effervesced

wildly; hearts beat bravely; hopes were high. The bitter landtrail was

forgotten. The clear, bright water leaped laughingly at the bow; the

gallant breeze was blowing behind. The strong men bared their breasts

and drank of it deeply.

Yes, they were the strong, the fit, suffered by the North to survive,

stiffened and braced and seasoned, the Chosen of the Test, the Proven of

the Trail. Songs of jubilation rang in the night air; men, eager-eyed

and watchful, roared snatches of melody as they toiled at sweep and oar;

banjos, mandolins, fiddles, flutes, mingled in maddest confusion. Once

more the great invading army of the Cheechakos moved forward

tumultuously, but now with mirth and rejoicing.

The great calm night was never dark, the great deep lakes infinitely

serene, the great mountains majestically solemn. In the lighted sky the

pale ghost-moon seemed ever apologising for itself. The world was a

grand harmonious symphony that even the advancing tide of the Argonauts

could not mar.

Yet, under all the mirth and gaiety, you could feel, tense, ruthless and

dominant, the spirit of the trail. In that invincible onrush of human

effort, as the oars bent with their strokes of might, as the sail

bellied before the breeze, as the eager wave leapt at the bow, you could

feel the passion that quickened their hearts and steeled their arms.

Klondike or bust! Once more the slogan rang on bearded lips; once more

the gold-lust smouldered in their eyes. The old primal lust resurged: to

win at any cost, to thrust down those in the way, to fight fiercely,

brutally, even as wolf-dogs fight, this was the code, the terrible code

of the Gold-trail. The basic passions up-leapt, envy and hate and fear

triumphed, and with ever increasing excitement the great fleet of the

gold-hunters strained onward to the valley of the treasure.

Of all who had started out with us but a few had got this far. Of these

Mervin and Hewson were far in front, victors of the trail, qualified to

rank with the Men of the High North, the Sourdoughs of the Yukon Valley.

Somewhere in the fleet were the Bank clerk, the Halfbreed and

Bullhammer, while three days' start ahead were the Winklesteins.

"These Jews have the only system," commented the Prodigal; "they ran the

'Elight' Restaurant in Bennett and got action on their beans and flour

and bacon. The Madam cooked, the old man did the chores and the girl

waited on table. They've roped in a bunch of money, and now they've lit

out for Dawson in a nice, tight little scow with their outfits turned

into wads of the long green."

I kept a keen lookout for them and every day I hoped we would overtake

their scow, for constantly I thought of Berna. Her little face, so

wistfully tender, haunted me, and over and over in my mind I kept

recalling our last meeting.

At times I blamed myself for letting her go so easily, and then again I

was thankful that I had not allowed my heart to run away with my head.

For I was beginning to wonder if I had not given her my heart, given it

easily, willingly and without reserve. And in truth at the idea I felt

a strange thrill of joy. The girl seemed to me all that was fair,

lovable and sweet.

We were now skimming over Tagish Lake. With grey head bared to the

breeze and a hymn stave on his lips, Salvation Jim steered in the strong

sunlight. His face was full of cheer, his eyes alight with kindly hope.

Leaning over the side, the Prodigal was dragging a spoon-bait to catch

the monster trout that lived in those depths. The Jam-wagon, as if

disgusted at our enforced idleness, slumbered at the bow. As he slept I

noticed his fine nostrils, his thin, bitter lips, his bare brawny arms,

tattooed with strange devices. How clean he kept his teeth and nails!

There was the stamp of the thoroughbred all over him. In what strange

parts of the world had he run amuck? What fair, gracious women mourned

for him in far-away England?

Ah, those enchanted days, the sky spaces abrim with light, the

gargantuan mountains, the eager army of adventurers, undismayed at the

gloomy vastness!

We came to Windy Arm, rugged, desolate and despairful. Down it, with

menace and terror on its wings, rushes the furious wind, driving boats

and scows crashing on an iron shore. In the night we heard shouts; we

saw wreckage piled up on the beach, but we pulled away. For twelve weary

hours we pulled at the oars, and in the end our danger was past.

We came to Lake Tagish; a dead calm, a blazing sun, a seething mist of

mosquitoes. We sweltered in the heat; we strained, with blistered

hands, at the oars; we cursed and toiled like a thousand others of that

grotesque fleet. There were boats of every shape, square, oblong,

circular, three-cornered, flat, round--anything that would float. They

were made mostly of boards, laboriously hand-sawn in the woods, and from

a half-inch to four inches thick. Black pitch smeared the seams of the

raw lumber. They travelled sideways as well as in any other fashion. And

in such crazy craft were thousands of amateur boatmen, sailing serenely

along, taking danger with sang-froid, and at night, over their

camp-fires, hilariously telling of their hairbreadth escapes.

We entered the Fifty-mile River; we were in a giant valley; tier after

tier of benchland rose to sentinel mountains of austerest grandeur.

There at the bottom the little river twisted like a silver wire, and

down it rowed the eager army. They shattered the silence into wildest

echo, they roused the bears out of their frozen sleep; the forest flamed

from their careless fires.

The river was our beast of burden now, a tireless, gentle beast.

Serenely and smoothly it bore us onward, yet there was a note of menace

in its song. They had told us of the canyon and of the rapids, and as we

pulled at the oars and battled with the mosquitoes, we wondered when the

danger was coming, how we would fare through it when it came.

Then one evening as we were sweeping down the placid river, the current

suddenly quickened. The banks were sliding past at a strange speed.

Swiftly we whirled around a bend, and there we were right on top of the

dreadful canyon. Straight ahead was what seemed to be a solid wall of

rock. The river looked to have no outlet; but as we drew nearer we saw

that there was a narrow chasm in the stony face, and at this the water

was rearing and charging with an angry roar.

The current was gripping us angrily now; there was no chance to draw

back. At his post stood the Jam-wagon with the keen, alert look of the

man who loves danger. A thrill of excitement ran through us all. With

set faces we prepared for the fight.

I was in the bow. All at once I saw directly in front a scow struggling

to make the shore. In her there were three people, two women and a man.

I saw the man jump out with a rope and try to snub the scow to a tree.

Three times he failed, running along the bank and shouting frantically.

I saw one of the women jump for the shore. Then at the same instant the

rope parted, and the scow, with the remaining woman, went swirling on

into the canyon.

CHAPTER XIII

All this I saw, and so fascinated was I that I forgot our own peril. I

heard a shrill scream of fear; I saw the solitary woman crouch down in

the bottom of the scow, burying her face in her hands; I saw the scow

rise, hover, and then plunge downward into the angry maw of the canyon.

The river hurried us on helplessly. We were in the canyon now. The air

grew dark. On each side, so close it seemed we could almost touch them

with our oars, were black, ancient walls, towering up dizzily. The river

seemed to leap and buck, its middle arching four feet higher than its

sides, a veritable hog-back of water. It bounded on in great billows,

green, hillocky and terribly swift, like a liquid toboggan slide. We

plunged forward, heaved aloft, and the black, moss-stained walls

brindled past us.

About midway in the canyon is a huge basin, like the old crater of a

volcano, sloping upwards to the pine-fringed skyline. Here was a giant

eddy, and here, circling round and round, was the runaway scow. The

forsaken woman was still crouching on it. The light was quite wan, and

we were half blinded by the flying spray, but I clung to my place at the

bow and watched intently.

"Keep clear of that scow," I heard some one shout. "Avoid the eddy."

It was almost too late. The ill-fated scow spun round and swooped down

on us. In a moment we would have been struck and overturned, but I saw

Jim and the Jam-wagon give a desperate strain at the oars. I saw the

scow swirling past, just two feet from us. I looked again--then with a

wild panic of horror I saw that the crouching figure was that of Berna.

I remember jumping--it must have been five feet--and I landed half in,

half out of the water. I remember clinging a moment, then pulling myself

aboard. I heard shouts from the others as the current swept them into

the canyon. I remember looking round and cursing because both sweeps had

been lost overboard, and lastly I remember bending over Berna and

shouting in her ear:

"All right, I'm with you!"

If an angel had dropped from high heaven to her rescue I don't believe

the girl could have been more impressed. For a moment she stared at me

unbelievingly. I was kneeling by her and she put her hands on my

shoulders as if to prove to herself that I was real. Then, with a

half-sob, half-cry of joy, she clasped her arms tightly around me.

Something in her look, something in the touch of her slender, clinging

form made my heart exult. Once again I shouted in her ear.

"It's all right, don't be frightened. We'll pull through, all right."

Once more we had whirled off into the main current; once more we were in

that roaring torrent, with its fearsome dips and rises, its columned

walls corroded with age and filled with the gloom of eternal twilight.

The water smashed and battered us, whirled us along relentlessly, lashed

us in heavy sprays; yet with closed eyes and thudding hearts we waited.

Then suddenly the light grew strong again. The primæval walls were gone.

We were sweeping along smoothly, and on either side of us the valley

sloped in green plateaus up to the smiling sky.

I unlocked my arms and peered down to where her face lay half hidden on

my breast.

"Thank God, I was able to reach you!"

"Yes, thank God!" she answered faintly. "Oh, I thought it was all over.

I nearly died with fear. It was terrible. Thank God for you!"

But she had scarce spoken when I realised, with a vast shock, that the

danger was far from over. We were hurrying along helplessly in that

fierce current, and already I heard the roar of the Squaw Rapids. Ahead,

I could see them dancing, boiling, foaming, blood-red in the sunset

glow.

"Be brave, Berna," I had to shout again; "we'll be all right. Trust me,

dear!"

She, too, was staring ahead with dilated eyes of fear. Yet at my words

she became wonderfully calm, and in her face there was a great, glad

look that made my heart rejoice. She nestled to my side. Once more she

waited.

We took the rapids broadside on, but the scow was light and very strong.

Like a cork in a mill-stream we tossed and spun around. The vicious,

mauling wolf-pack of the river heaved us into the air, and worried us

as we fell. Drenched, deafened, stunned with fierce, nerve-shattering

blows, every moment we thought to go under. We were in a caldron of

fire. The roar of doom was in our ears. Giant hands with claws of foam

were clutching, buffeting us. Shrieks of fury assailed us, as demon

tossed us to demon. Was there no end to it? Thud, crash, roar, sickening

us to our hearts; lurching, leaping, beaten, battered ... then all at

once came a calm; we must be past; we opened our eyes.

We were again sweeping round a bend in the river in the shadow of a high

bluff. If we could only make the bank--but, no! The current hurled us

along once more. I saw it sweep under a rocky face of the hillside, and

then I knew that the worst was coming. For there, about two hundred

yards away, were the dreaded Whitehorse Rapids.

"Close your eyes, Berna!" I cried. "Lie down on the bottom. Pray as you

never prayed before."

We were on them now. The rocky banks close in till they nearly meet.

They form a narrow gateway of rock, and through those close-set jaws the

raging river has to pass. Leaping, crashing over its boulder-strewn bed,

gaining in terrible impetus at every leap, it gathers speed for its last

desperate burst for freedom. Then with a great roar it charges the gap.

But there, right in the way, is a giant boulder. Water meets rock in a

crash of terrific onset. The river is beaten, broken, thrown back on

itself, and with a baffled roar rises high in the air in a raging hell

of spume and tempest. For a moment the chasm is a battleground of the

elements, a fierce, titanic struggle. Then the river, wrenching free,

falls into the basin below.

"Lie down, Berna, and hold on to me!"

We both dropped down in the bottom of the scow, and she clasped me so

tightly I marvelled at the strength of her. I felt her wet cheek pressed

to mine, her lips clinging to my lips.

"Now, dear, just a moment and it will all be over."

Once again the angry thunder of the waters. The scow took them nose on,

riding gallantly. Again we were tossed like a feather in a whirlwind,

pitchforked from wrath to wrath. Once more, swinging, swerving,

straining, we pelted on. On pinnacles of terror our hearts poised

nakedly. The waters danced a fiery saraband; each wave was a demon

lashing at us as we passed; or again they were like fear-maddened horses

with whipping manes of flame. We clutched each other convulsively. Would

it never, never end ... then ... then ...

It seemed the last had come. Up, up we went. We seemed to hover

uncertainly, tilted, hair-poised over a yawning gulf. Were we going to

upset? Mental agony screamed in me. But, no! We righted. Dizzily we

dipped over; steeply we plunged down. Oh! it was terrible! We were in a

hornets' nest of angry waters and they were stinging us to death; we

were in a hollow cavern roofed over with slabs of seething foam; the

fiery horses were trampling us under their myriad hoofs. I gave up all

hope. I felt the girl faint in my arms. How long it seemed! I wished for

the end. _The flying hammers of hell were pounding us, pounding us--Oh,

God! Oh, God!..._

Then, swamped from bow to stern, half turned over, wrecked and broken,

we swept into the peaceful basin of the river below.

CHAPTER XIV

On the flats around the Whitehorse Rapids was a great largess of wild

flowers. The shooting stars gladdened the glade with gold; the bluebells

brimmed the woodland hollow with amethyst; the fire-weed splashed the

hills with the pink of coral. Daintily swinging, like clustered pearls,

were the petals of the orchid. In glorious profusion were begonias,

violets, and Iceland poppies, and all was in a setting of the keenest

emerald. But over the others dominated the wild rose, dancing everywhere

and flinging its perfume to the joyful breeze.

Boats and scows were lined up for miles along the river shore. On the

banks water-soaked outfits lay drying in the sun. We, too, had shipped

much water in our passage, and a few days would be needed to dry out

again. So it was that I found some hours of idleness and was able to see

a good deal of Berna.

Madam Winklestein I found surprisingly gracious. She smiled on me, and

in her teeth, like white quartz, the creviced gold gleamed. She had a

smooth, flattering way with her that disarmed enmity. Winklestein, too,

had conveniently forgotten our last interview, and extended to me the

paw of spurious friendship. I was free to see Berna as much as I chose.

Thus it came about that we rambled among the woods and hills, picking

wild flowers and glad almost with the joy of children. In these few days

I noted a vast change in the girl. Her cheeks, pale as the petals of the

wild orchid, seemed to steal the tints of the briar-rose, and her eyes

beaconed with the radiance of sun-waked skies. It was as if in the poor

child a long stifled capacity for joy was glowing into being.

One golden day, with her cheeks softly flushed, her eyes shining, she

turned to me.

"Oh, I could be so happy if I only had a chance, if I only had the

chance other girls have. It would take so little to make me the happiest

girl in the world--just to have a home, a plain, simple home where all

was sunshine and peace; just to have the commonest comforts, to be

care-free, to love and be loved. That would be enough." She sighed and

went on:

"Then if I might have books, a little music, flowers--oh, it seems like

a dream of heaven; as well might I sigh for a palace."

"No palace could be too fair for you, Berna, no prince too noble. Some

day, your prince will come, and you will give him that great love I told

you of once."

Swiftly a shadow came into the bright eyes, the sweet mouth curved

pathetically.

"Not even a beggar will seek me, a poor nameless girl travelling in the

train of dishonour ... and again, I will never love."

"Yes, you will indeed, girl--infinitely, supremely. I know you, Berna;

you'll love as few women do. Your dearest will be all your world, his

smile your heaven, his frown your death. Love was at the fashioning of

you, dear, and kissed your lips and sent you forth, saying, 'There goeth

my handmaiden.'"

I thought for a while ere I went on.

"You cared for your grandfather; you gave him your whole heart, a love

full of self-sacrifice, of renunciation. Now he is gone, you will love

again, but the next will be to the last as wine is to water. And the day

will come when you will love grandly. Yours will be a great, consuming

passion that knows no limit, no assuagement. It will be your glory and

your shame. For him will your friends be foes, your light darkness. You

will go through fire and water for your beloved's sake; your parched

lips will call his name, your frail hands cling to him in the shadow of

death. Oh, I know, I know. Love has set you apart. You will immolate

yourself on his altars. You will dare, defy and die for him. I'm sorry

for you, Berna."

Her face hung down, her lips quivered. As for me, I was surprised at my

words and scarce knew what I was saying.

At last she spoke.

"If ever I loved like that, the man I loved must be a king among men, a

hero, almost a god."

"Perhaps, Berna, perhaps; but not needfully. He may be a grim man with a

face of power and passion, a virile, dominant brute, but--well, I think

he will be more of a god. Let's change the subject."

I found she had all the sad sophistication of the lowly-born, yet with

it an invincible sense of purity, a delicate horror of the physical

phases of love. She was a finely motived creature with impossible

ideals, but out of her stark knowledge of life she was naïvely

outspoken.

Once I asked of her:

"Berna, if you had to choose between death and dishonour, which would

you prefer?"

"Death, of course," she answered promptly.

"Death's a pretty hard proposition," I commented.

"No, it's easy; physical death, compared with the other, compared with

moral death."

She was very emphatic and angry with me for my hazarded demur. In an

atmosphere of disillusionment and moral miasma she clung undauntedly to

her ideals. Never was such a brave spirit, so determined in goodness, so

upright in purity, and I blessed her for her unfaltering words. "May

such sentiments as yours," I prayed, "be ever mine. In doubt, despair,

defeat, oh Life, take not away from me my faith in the pure heart of

woman!"

Often I watched her thoughtfully, her slim, well-poised figure, her grey

eyes that were fuller of soul than any eyes I have ever seen, her brown

hair wherein the sunshine loved to pick out threads of gold, her

delicate features with their fine patrician quality. We were dreamers

twain, but while my outlook was gay with hope, hers was dark with

despair. Since the episode of the scow I had never ventured to kiss her,

but had treated her with a curious reserve, respect and courtesy.

Indeed, I was diagnosing my case, wondering if I loved her, affirming,

doubting on a very see-saw of indetermination. When with her I felt for

her an intense fondness and at times an almost irresponsible tenderness.

My eyes rested longingly on her, noting with tremulous joy the curves

and shading of her face, and finding in its very defects, beauties.

When I was away from her--oh, the easeless longing that was almost pain,

the fanciful elaboration of our last talk, the hint of her graces in

bird and flower and tree! I wanted her wildly, and the thought of a

world empty of her was monstrous. I wondered how in the past we had both

existed and how I had lived, carelessly, happy and serenely indifferent.

I tried to think of a time when she should no longer have power to make

my heart quicken with joy or contract with fear--and the thought of such

a state was insufferable pain. Was I in love? Poor, fatuous fool! I

wanted her more than everything else in all the world, yet I hesitated

and asked myself the question.

Hundreds of boats and scows were running the rapids, and we watched them

with an untiring fascination. That was the most exciting spectacle in

the whole world. The issue was life or death, ruin or salvation, and

from dawn till dark, and with every few minutes of the day, was the

breathless climax repeated. The faces of the actors were sick with

dread and anxiety. It was curious to study the various expressions of

the human countenance unmasked and confronted with gibbering fear. Yes,

it was a vivid drama, a drama of cheers and tears, always thrilling and

often tragic. Every day were bodies dragged ashore. The rapids demanded

their tribute. The men of the trail must pay the toll. Sullen and

bloated the river disgorged its prey, and the dead, without prayer or

pause, were thrown into nameless graves.

On our first day at the rapids we met the Halfbreed. He was on the point

of starting downstream. Where was the Bank clerk? Oh, yes; they had

upset coming through; when last he had seen little Pinklove he was

struggling in the water. However, they expected to get the body every

hour. He had paid two men to find and bury it. He had no time to wait.

We did not blame him. In those wild days of headstrong hurry and

gold-delirium human life meant little. "Another floater," one would say,

and carelessly turn away. A callousness to death that was almost

mediæval was in the air, and the friends of the dead hurried on, the

richer by a partner's outfit. It was all new, strange, sinister to me,

this unveiling of life's naked selfishness and lust.

Next morning they found the body, a poor, shapeless, sodden thing with

such a crumpled skull. My thoughts went back to the sweet-faced girl who

had wept so bitterly at his going. Even then, maybe, she was thinking

of him, fondly dreaming of his return, seeing the glow of triumph in his

boyish eyes. She would wait and hope; then she would wait and despair;

then there would be another white-faced woman saying, "He went to the

Klondike, and never came back. We don't know what became of him."

Verily, the way of the gold-trail was cruel.

Berna was with me when they buried him.

"Poor boy, poor boy!" she repeated.

"Yes, poor little beggar! He was so quiet and gentle. He was no man for

the trail. It's a funny world."

The coffin was a box of unplaned boards loosely nailed together, and the

men were for putting him into a grave on top of another coffin. I

protested, so sullenly they proceeded to dig a new grave. Berna looked

very unhappy, and when she saw that crude, shapeless pine coffin she

broke down and cried bitterly.

At last she dried her tears and with a happier look in her eyes bade me

wait a little until she returned. Soon again she came back, carrying

some folds of black sateen over her arm. As she ripped at this with a

pair of scissors, I noticed there was a deep frilling to it. Also a

bright blush came into her cheek at the curious glance I gave to the

somewhat skimpy lines of her skirt. But the next instant she was busy

stretching and tacking the black material over the coffin.

The men had completed the new grave. It was only three feet deep, but

the water coming in had prevented them from digging further. As we laid

the coffin in the hole it looked quite decent now in its black covering.

It floated on the water, but after some clods had been thrown down, it

sank with many gurglings. It was as if the dead man protested against

his bitter burial. We watched the grave-diggers throw a few more

shovelsful of earth over the place, then go off whistling. Poor little

Berna! she cried steadily. At last she said:

"Let's get some flowers."

So out of briar-roses she fashioned a cross and a wreath, and we laid

them reverently on the muddy heap that marked the Bank clerk's grave.

Oh, the pitiful mockery of it!

CHAPTER XV

Soon I knew that Berna and I must part, and but two nights later it

came. It was near midnight, yet in no ways dark, and everywhere the camp

was astir. We were sitting by the river, I remember, a little way from

the boats. Where the sun had set, the sky was a luminous veil of

ravishing green, and in the elusive light her face seemed wanly sweet

and dreamlike.

A sad spirit rustled amid the shivering willows and a great sadness had

come over the girl. All the happiness of the past few days seemed to

have ebbed away from her and left her empty of hope. As she sat there,

silent and with hands clasped, it was as if the shadows that for a

little had lifted, now enshrouded her with a greater gloom.

"Tell me your trouble, Berna."

She shook her head, her eyes wide as if trying to read the future.

"Nothing."

Her voice was almost a whisper.

"Yes, there is, I know. Tell me, won't you?"

Again she shook her head.

"What's the matter, little chum?"

"It's nothing; it's only my foolishness. If I tell you, it wouldn't help

me any. And then--it doesn't matter. You wouldn't care. Why should you

care?"

She turned away from me and seemed absorbed in bitter thought.

"Care! why, yes, I would care; I do care. You know I would do anything

in the world to help you. You know I would be unhappy if you were

unhappy. You know----"

"Then it would only worry you."

She was regarding me anxiously.

"Now you must tell me, Berna. It will worry me indeed if you don't."

Once more she refused. I pleaded with her gently. I coaxed, I entreated.

She was very reluctant, yet at last she yielded.

"Well, if I must," she said; "but it's all so sordid, so mean, I hate

myself; I despise myself that I should have to tell it."

She kneaded a tiny handkerchief nervously in her fingers.

"You know how nice Madam Winklestein's been to me lately--bought me new

clothes, given me trinkets. Well, there's a reason--she's got her eye on

a man for me."

I gave an exclamation of surprise.

"Yes; you know she's let us go together--it's all to draw him on. Oh,

couldn't you see it? Didn't you suspect something? You don't know how

bitterly they hate you."

I bit my lip.

"Who's the man?"

"Jack Locasto."

I started.

"Have you heard of him?" she asked. "He's got a million-dollar claim on

Bonanza."

Had I heard of him! Who had not heard of Black Jack, his spectacular

poker plays, his meteoric rise, his theatric display?

"Of course he's married," she went on, "but that doesn't matter up here.

There's such a thing as a Klondike marriage, and they say he behaves

well to his discarded mis----"

"Berna!" angry and aghast, I had stopped her. "Never let me hear you

utter that word. Even to say it seems pollution."

She laughed harshly, bitterly.

"What's this whole life but pollution?... Well, anyway, he wants me."

"But you wouldn't, surely you wouldn't?"

She turned on me fiercely.

"What do you take me for? Surely you know me better than that. Oh, you

almost make me hate you."

Suddenly she pressed the little handkerchief to her eyes. She fell to

sobbing convulsively. Vainly I tried to soothe her, whispering:

"Oh, my dear, tell me all about it. I'm sorry, girl, I'm sorry."

She ceased crying. She went on in her fierce, excited way.

"He came to the restaurant in Bennett. He used to watch me a lot. His

eyes were always following me. I was afraid. I trembled when I served

him. He liked to see me tremble, it gave him a feeling of power. Then he

took to giving me presents, a diamond ring, a heart-shaped locket,

costly gifts. I wanted to return them, but she wouldn't let me, took

them from me, put them away. Then he and she had long talks. I know it

was all about me. That was why I came to you that night and begged you

to marry me--to save me from him. Now it's gone from bad to worse. The

net's closing round me in spite of my flutterings."

"But he can't get you against your will," I cried.

"No! no! but he'll never give up. He'll try so long as I resist him. I'm

nice to him just to humour him and gain time. I can't tell you how much

I fear him. They say he always gets his way with women. He's masterly

and relentless. There's a cold, sneering command in his smile. You hate

him but you obey him."

"He's an immoral monster, Berna. He spares neither time nor money to

gratify his whims where a woman is concerned. And he has no pity."

"I know, I know."

"He's intensely masculine, handsome in a vivid, gipsy sort of way; big,

strong and compelling, but a callous libertine."

"Yes, he's all that. And can you wonder then my heart is full of fear,

that I am distracted, that I asked you what I did? He is relentless and

of all women he wants me. He would break me on the wheel of dishonour.

Oh, God!"

Her face grew almost tragic in its despair.

"And everything's against me; they're all helping him. I haven't a

single friend, not one to stand by me, to aid me. Once I thought of you,

and you failed me. Can you wonder I'm nearly crazy with the terror of

it? Can you wonder I was desperate enough to ask you to save me? I'm all

alone, friendless, a poor, weak girl. No, I'm wrong. I've one

friend--death; and I'll die, I'll die, I swear it, before I let him get

me."

Her words came forth in a torrent, half choked by sobs. It was hard to

get her calmed. Never had I thought her capable of such force, such

passion. I was terribly distressed and at a loss how to comfort her.

"Hush, Berna," I pleaded, "please don't say such things. Remember you

have a friend in me, one that would do anything in his power to help

you."

She looked at me a moment.

"How can you help me?"

I held both of her hands firmly, looking into her eyes.

"By marrying you. Will you marry me, dear? Will you be my wife?"

"No!"

I started. "Berna!"

"No! I wouldn't marry you if you were the last man left in the world,"

she cried vehemently.

"Why?" I tried to be calm.

"Why! why, you don't love me; you don't care for me."

"Yes, I do, Berna. I do indeed, girl. Care for you! Well, I care so much

that--I beg you to marry me."

"Yes, yes, but you don't love me right, not in your great, grand way.

Not in the way you told me of. Oh, I know; it's part pity, part

friendship. It would be different if I cared in the same way, if--if I

didn't care so very much more."

"You do, Berna; you love me like that?"

"How do I know? How can I tell? How can any of us tell?"

"No, dear," I said, "love has no limits, no bounds, it is always holding

something in reserve. There are yet heights beyond the heights, that

mock our climbing, never perfection; no great love but might have been

eclipsed by a greater. There's a master key to every heart, and we poor

fools delude ourselves with the idea we are opening all the doors. We

are on sufferance, we are only understudies in the love drama, but

fortunately the star seldom appears on the scene. However, this I

know----"

I rose to my feet.

"Since the moment I set eyes on you, I loved you. Long before I ever met

you, I loved you. I was just waiting for you, waiting. At first I could

not understand, I did not know what it meant, but now I do, beyond the

peradventure of a doubt; there never was any but you, never will be any

but you. Since the beginning of time it was all planned that I should

love you. And you, how do you care?"

She stood up to hear my words. She would not let me touch her, but there

was a great light in her eyes. Then she spoke and her voice was vibrant

with passion, all indifference gone from it.

"Oh, you blind! you coward! Couldn't you see? Couldn't you feel? That

day on the scow it came to me--Love. It was such as I had never dreamed

of, rapture, ecstasy, anguish. Do you know what I wished as we went

through the rapids? I wished that it might be the end, that in such a

supreme moment we might go down clinging together, and that in death I

might hold you in my arms. Oh, if you'd only been like that afterwards,

met love open-armed with love. But, no! you slipped back to friendship.

I feel as if there were a barrier of ice between us now. I will try

never to care for you any more. Now leave me, leave me, for I never want

to see you again."

"Yes, you will, you must, you must, Berna. I'd sell my immortal soul to

win that love from you, my dearest, my dearest; I'd crawl around the

world to kiss your shadow. If you called to me I would come from the

ends of the earth, through storm and darkness, to your side. I love you

so, I love you so."

I crushed her to me, I kissed her madly, yet she was cold.

"Have you nothing more to say than fine words?" she asked.

"Marry me, marry me," I repeated.

"Now?"

Now! I hesitated again. The suddenness of it was like a cold douche. God

knows, I burned for the girl, yet somehow convention clamped me.

"Now if you wish," I faltered; "but better when we get to Dawson. Better

when I've made good up there. Give me one year, Berna, one year and

then----"

"One year!"

The sudden gleam of hope vanished from her eyes. For the third time I

was failing her, yet my cursed prudence overrode me.

"Oh, it will pass swiftly, dear. You will be quite safe. I will be near

you and watch over you."

I reassured her, anxiously explaining how much better it would be if we

waited a little.

"One year!" she repeated, and it seemed to me her voice was toneless.

Then she turned to me in a sudden spate of passion, her face pleading,

furrowed, wretchedly sad.

"Oh, my dear, my dear, I love you better than the whole world, but I

hoped you would care enough for me to marry me now. It would have been

best, believe me. I thought you would rise to the occasion, but you've

failed me. Well, be it so, we'll wait one year."

"Yes, believe me, trust me, dear; it will be all right. I'll work for

you, slave for you, think only of you, and in twelve short months--I'll

give my whole life to make you happy."

"Will you, dear? Well, it doesn't matter now.... I've loved you."

* * * * *

All that night I wrestled with myself. I felt I ought to marry her at

once to shield her from the dangers that encompassed her. She was like a

lamb among a pack of wolves. I juggled with my conscience. I was young

and marriage to me seemed such a terribly all-important step.

Yet in the end my better nature triumphed, and ere the camp was astir I

arose. I was going to marry Berna that day. A feeling of relief came

over me. How had it ever seemed possible to delay? I was elated beyond

measure.

I hurried to tell her, I pictured her joy. I was almost breathless. Love

words trembled on my tongue tip. It seemed to me I could not bear to

wait a moment.

Then as I reached the place where they had rested I gazed unbelievingly.

A sickening sense of loss and failure crushed me.

For the scow was gone.

CHAPTER XVI

It was three days before we made a start again, and to me each day was

like a year. I chafed bitterly at the delay. Would those sacks of flour

never dry? Longingly I gazed down the big, blue Yukon and cursed the

current that was every moment carrying her farther from me. Why her

sudden departure? I had no doubt it was enforced. I dreaded danger. Then

in a while I grew calmer. I was foolish to worry. She was safe enough.

We would meet in Dawson.

At last we were under way. Once more we sped down that devious river,

now swirling under the shadow of a steep bank, now steering around a

sandspit. The scenery was hideous to me, bluffs of clay with pines

peeping over their rims, willow-fringed flats, swamps of niggerhead,

ugly drab hills in endless monotony.

How full of kinks and hooks was the river! How vicious with snags! How

treacherous with eddies! It was beginning to bulk in my thoughts almost

like an obsession. Then one day Lake Labarge burst on my delighted eyes.

The trail was nearing its end.

Once more with swelling sail we drove before the wind. Once more we were

in a fleet of Argonaut boats, and now, with the goal in sight, each man

redoubled his efforts. Perhaps the rich ground would all be gone ere we

reached the valley. Maddening thought after what we had endured! We must

get on.

There was not a man in all that fleet but imagined that fortune awaited

him with open arms. They talked exultantly. Their eyes shone with the

gold-lust. They strained at sweep and oar. To be beaten at the last! Oh,

it was inconceivable! A tigerish eagerness filled them; a panic of fear

and cupidity spurred them on.

Labarge was a dream lake, mirroring noble mountains in its depths (for

soon after we made it, a dead calm fell). But we had no eyes for its

beauty. The golden magnet was drawing us too strongly now. We cursed

that exquisite serenity that made us sweat at the oars; we cursed the

wind that never would arise; the currents that always were against us.

In that breathless tranquillity myriads of mosquitoes assailed us,

blinded us, covered our food as we ate, made our lives a perfect hell of

misery. Yet the trail was nearing its finish.

What a relief it was when a sudden storm came up! White-caps tossed

around us, and the wind drove us on a precipitous shore, so that we

nearly came to a sorry end. But it was over at last, and we swept on

into the Thirty-mile River.

A furious, hurling stream was this, that matched our mad, impatient

mood; but it was staked with hidden dangers. We gripped our weary oars.

Keenly alert we had to be, steering and watching for rocks that would

have ripped us from bow to stern. There was a famously terrible one, on

which scows smashed like egg-shells under a hammer, and we missed it by

a bare hand's-breadth. I felt sick to think of our bitterness had we

piled up on it. That was an evil, ugly river, full of capricious turns

and eddies, and the bluffs were high and steep.

Hootalinqua, Big Salmon, Little Salmon, these are names to me now. All I

can remember is long days of toil at the oar, fighting the growing

obsession of mosquitoes, ever pressing on to the golden valley. The

ceaseless strain was beginning to tell on us. We suffered from

rheumatism, we barked with cold. Oh, we were weary, weary, yet the trail

was nearing its end.

One sunlit Sabbath evening I remember well. We were drifting along and

we came on a lovely glade where a creek joined the river. It was a

green, velvety, sparkling place, and by the creek were two men

whipsawing lumber. We hailed them jauntily and asked them if they had

found prospects. Were they getting out lumber for sluice-boxes?

One of the men came forward. He was very tired, very quiet, very solemn.

"No," he said, "we are sawing out a coffin for our dead."

Then we saw a limp shape in their boat and we hurried on, awed and

abashed.

The river was mud colour now, swirling in great eddies or convulsed from

below with sudden upheavals. Drifting on that oily current one seemed to

be quite motionless, and only the gliding banks assured us of progress.

The country seemed terrible to me, sinister, guilty, God-forsaken. At

the horizon, jagged mountains stabbed viciously at the sky.

The river overwhelmed me. Sometimes it was a stream of blood, running

into the eye of the setting sun, beautiful, yet weird and menacing. It

broadened, deepened, and every day countless streams swelled its volume.

Islands waded in it greenly. Always we heard it _singing_, a seething,

hissing noise supposed to be the pebbles shuffling on the bottom.

The days were insufferably hot and mosquito-curst; the nights chilly,

damp and mosquito-haunted. I suffered agonies from neuralgia. Never

mind, it would soon be over. We were on our last lap. The trail was near

its end.

Yes, it was indeed the homestretch. Suddenly sweeping round a bend we

raised a shout of joy. There was that great livid scar on the mountain

face--the "Slide," and clustered below it like shells on the seashore,

an army of tents. It was the gold-born city.

Trembling with eagerness we pulled ashore. Our troubles were over. At

last we had gained our Eldorado, thank God, thank God!

A number of loafers were coming to meet us. They were strangely calm.

"How about the gold?" said the Prodigal; "lots of ground left to stake?"

One of them looked at us contemptuously. He chewed a moment ere he

spoke.

"You Cheechakers better git right home. There ain't a foot of ground to

stake. Everything in sight was staked last Fall. The rest is all mud.

There's nothing doin' an' there's ten men for every job! The whole

thing's a fake. You Cheechakers better git right home."

Yes, after all our travail, all our torment, we had better go right

home. Already many were preparing to do so. Yet what of that great

oncoming horde of which we were but the vanguard? What of the eager

army, the host of the Cheechakos? For hundreds of miles were lake and

river white with their grotesque boats. Beyond them again were thousands

and thousands of others struggling on through mosquito-curst morasses,

bent under their inexorable burdens. Reckless, indomitable,

hope-inspired, they climbed the passes and shot the rapids; they drowned

in the rivers, they rotted in the swamps. Nothing could stay them. The

golden magnet was drawing them on; the spell of the gold-lust was in

their hearts.

And this was the end. For this they had mortgaged homes and broken

hearts. For this they had faced danger and borne suffering: to be told

to return.

The land was choosing its own. All along it had weeded out the

weaklings. Now let the fainthearted go back. This land was only for the

Strong.

Yet it was sad, so much weariness, and at the end disenchantment and

failure.

Verily the ways of the gold-trail were cruel.

BOOK III

THE CAMP

For once you've panned the speckled sand and seen the bonny dust,

Its peerless brightness blinds you like a spell;

It's little else you care about; you go because you must,

And you feel that you could follow it to hell.

You'd follow it in hunger, and you'd follow it in cold;

You'd follow it in solitude and pain;

And when you're stiff and battened down let some one whisper "Gold,"

You're lief to rise and follow it again.

--"The Prospector."

CHAPTER I

I will always remember my first day in the gold-camp. We were well in

front of the Argonaut army, but already thousands were in advance of us.

The flat at the mouth of Bonanza was a congestion of cabins; shacks and

tents clustered the hillside, scattered on the heights and massed again

on the slope sweeping down to the Klondike. An intense vitality charged

the air. The camp was alive, ahum, vibrant with fierce, dynamic energy.

In effect the town was but one street stretching alongside the water

front. It was amazingly packed with men from side to side, from end to

end. They lounged in the doorways of oddly assorted buildings, and

jostled each other on the dislocated sidewalks. Stores of all kinds,

saloons, gambling joints flourished without number, and in one block

alone there were half a dozen dance-halls. Yet all seemed plethorically

prosperous.

Many of the business houses were installed in tents. That huge canvas

erection was a mining exchange; that great log barn a dance-hall.

Dwarfish log cabins impudently nestled up to pretentious three-story

hotels. The effect was oddly staccato. All was grotesque, makeshift,

haphazard. Back of the main street lay the red-light quarter, and behind

it again a swamp of niggerheads, the breeding-place of fever and

mosquito.

The crowd that vitalised the street was strikingly cosmopolitan. Mostly

big, bearded fellows they were, with here the full-blooded face of the

saloon man, and there the quick, pallid mask of the gambler. Women too I

saw in plenty, bold, free, predacious creatures, a rustle of silk and a

reek of perfume. Till midnight I wandered up and down the long street;

but there was no darkness, no lull in its clamorous life.

I was looking for Berna. My heart hungered for her; my eyes ached for

her; my mind was so full of her there seemed no room for another single

thought. But it was like looking for a needle in a strawstack to find

her in that seething multitude. I knew no one, and it seemed futile to

inquire regarding her. These keen-eyed men with eager talk of claims and

pay-dirt could not help me. There seemed to be nothing for it but to

wait. So with spirits steadily sinking zerowards I waited.

We found, indeed, that there was little ground left to stake. The mining

laws were in some confusion, and were often changing. Several creeks

were closed to location, but always new strikes were being made and

stampedes started. So, after a session of debate, we decided to reserve

our rights to stake till a good chance offered. It was a bitter

awakening. Like all the rest we had expected to get ground that was gold

from the grass-roots down. But there was work to be had, and we would

not let ourselves be disheartened.

The Jam-wagon had already deserted us. He was off up on Eldorado

somewhere, shovelling dirt into a sluice-box for ten dollars a day. I

made up my mind I would follow him. Jim also would get to work, while

the Prodigal, we agreed, would look after all our interests, and stake

or buy a good claim.

Thus we planned, sitting in our little tent near the beach. We were in a

congeries of tents. The beach was fast whitening with them. If one was

in a hurry it was hard to avoid tripping over ropes and pegs. As each

succeeding party arrived they had to go further afield to find

camping-ground. And they were arriving in thousands daily. The shore for

a mile was lined five deep with boats. Scows had been hauled high and

dry on the gravel, and there the owners were living. A thousand stoves

were eloquent of beans and bacon. I met a man taking home a prize, a

porterhouse steak. He was carrying it over his arm like a towel, paper

was so scarce. The camp was a hive of energy, a hum of occupation.

But how many, after they had paraded that mile-long street with its mud,

its seething foam of life, its blare of gramophones and its blaze of

dance-halls, ached for their southland homes again! You could read the

disappointment in their sun-tanned faces. Yet they were the eager

navigators of the lakes, the reckless amateurs of the rivers. This was a

something different from the trail. It was as if, after all their

efforts, they had butted up against a stone wall. There was "nothing

doing," no ground left, and only hard work, the hardest on earth.

Moreover, the country was at the mercy of a gang of corrupt officials

who were using the public offices for their own enrichment. Franchises

were being given to the favourites of those in power, concessions sold,

liquor permits granted, and abuses of every kind practised on the free

miner. All was venality, injustice and exaction.

"Go home," said the Man in the Street; "the mining laws are rotten. All

kinds of ground is tied up. Even if you get hold of something good, them

dam-robber government sharks will flim-flam you out of it. There's no

square deal here. They tax you to mine; they tax you to cut a tree; they

tax you to sell a fish; pretty soon they'll be taxing you to breathe. Go

home!"

And many went, many of the trail's most indomitable. They could face

hardship and danger, the blizzards, the rapids, nature savage and

ravening; but when it came to craft, graft and the duplicity of their

fellow men they were discouraged, discomfited.

"Say, boys, I guess I've done a slick piece of work," said the Prodigal

with some satisfaction, as he entered the tent. "I've bought three whole

outfits on the beach. Got them for twenty-five per cent. less than the

cost price in Seattle. I'll pull out a hundred per cent. on the deal.

Now's the time to get in and buy from the quitters. They so soured at

the whole frame-up they're ready to pull their freights at any moment.

All they want's to get away. They want to put a few thousand miles

between them and this garbage dump of creation. They never want to hear

the name of Yukon again except as a cuss-word. I'm going to keep on

buying outfits. You boys see if I don't clean up a bunch of money."

"It's too bad to take advantage of them," I suggested.

"Too bad nothing! That's business; your necessity, my opportunity. Oh,

you'd never make a money-getter, my boy, this side of the

millennium--and you Scotch too."

"That's nothing," said Jim; "wait till I tell you of the deal I made

to-day. You recollect I packed a flat-iron among my stuff, an' you boys

joshed me about it, said I was bughouse. But I figured out: there's

camp-meetin's an' socials up there, an' a nice, dinky, white shirt once

in a way goes pretty good. Anyway, thinks I, if there ain't no one else

to dress for in that wilderness, I'll dress for the Almighty. So I

sticks to my old flat-iron."

He looked at us with a twinkle in his eye and then went on.

"Well, it seems there's only three more flat-irons in camp, an' all the

hot sports wantin' boiled shirts done up, an' all the painted Jezebels

hollerin' to have their lingery fixed, an' the wash-ladies just goin'

round crazy for flat-irons. Well, I didn't want to sell mine, but the

old coloured lady that runs the Bong Tong Laundry (an' a sister in the

Lord) came to me with tears in her eyes, an' at last I was prevailed on

to separate from it."

"How much, Jim?"

"Well, I didn't want to be too hard on the old girl, so I let her down

easy."

"How much?"

"Well, you see there's only three or four of them flat-irons in camp, so

I asked a hundred an' fifty dollars, an' quick's a flash, she took me

into a store an' paid me in gold-dust."

He flourished a little poke of dust in our laughing faces.

"That's pretty good," I said; "everything seems topsy-turvy up here.

Why, to-day I saw a man come in with a box of apples which the crowd

begged him to open. He was selling those apples at a dollar apiece, and

the folks were just fighting to get them."

It was so with everything. Extraordinary prices ruled. Eggs and candles

had been sold for a dollar each, and potatoes for a dollar a pound;

while on the trail in '97 horse-shoe nails were selling at _a dollar a

nail_.

Once more I roamed the long street with that awful restless agony in my

heart. Where was she, my girl, so precious now it seemed I had lost her?

Why does love mean so much to some, so little to others? Perhaps I am

the victim of an intensity of temperament, but I craved for her; I

visioned evils befalling her; I pierced my heart with dagger-thrusts of

fear for her. Oh, if I only knew she was safe and well! Every slim woman

I saw in the distance looked to be her, and made my heart leap with

emotion. Yet always I chewed on the rind of disappointment. There was

never a sign of Berna.

In the agitation and unrest of my mind I climbed the hill that

overshadows the gold-born city. The Dome they call it, and the face of

it is vastly scarred, blanched as by a cosmic blow. There on its topmost

height by a cairn of stone I stood at gaze, greatly awestruck.

The view was a spacious one, and of an overwhelming grandeur. Below me

lay the mighty Yukon, here like a silken ribbon, there broadening out to

a pool of quicksilver. It seemed motionless, dead, like a piece of

tinfoil lying on a sable shroud.

The great valley was preternaturally still, and pall-like as if steeped

in the colours of the long, long night. The land so vast, so silent, so

lifeless, was round in its contours, full of fat creases and bold

curves. The mountains were like sleeping giants; here was the swell of a

woman's breast, there the sweep of a man's thigh. And beyond that huddle

of sprawling Titans, far, far beyond, as if it were an enclosing

stockade, was the jagged outline of the Rockies.

Quite suddenly they seemed to stand up against the blazing sky,

monstrous, horrific, smiting the senses like a blow. Their primordial

faces were hacked and hewed fantastically, and there they posed in their

immemorial isolation, virgin peaks, inviolate valleys, impregnably

desolate and savagely sublime.

And beyond their stormy crests, surely a world was consuming in the

kilns of chaos. Was ever anything so insufferably bright as the

incandescent glow that brimmed those jagged clefts? That fierce

crimson, was it not the hue of a cooling crucible, that deep vermillion

the rich glory of a rose's heart? Did not that tawny orange mind you of

ripe wheat-fields and the exquisite intrusion of poppies? That pure,

clear gold, was it not a bank of primroses new washed in April rain?

What was that luminous opal but a lagoon, a pearly lagoon, with floating

in it islands of amber, their beaches crisped with ruby foam? And, over

all the riot of colour, that shimmering chrysoprase so tenderly

luminous--might it not fitly veil the splendours of paradise?

I looked to where gulped the mouth of Bonanza, cavernously wide and

filled with the purple smoke of many fires. There was the golden valley,

silent for centuries, now strident with human cries, vehement with human

strife. There was the timbered basin of the Klondike bleakly rising to

mountains eloquent of death. It was dominating, appalling, this vastness

without end, this unappeasable loneliness. Glad was I to turn again to

where, like white pebbles on a beach, gleamed the tents of the gold-born

city.

Somewhere amid that confusion of canvas, that muddle of cabins, was

Berna, maybe lying in some wide-eyed vigil of fear, maybe staining with

hopeless tears her restless pillow. Somewhere down there--Oh, I must

find her!

I returned to the town. I was tramping its long street once more, that

street with its hundreds of canvas signs. It was a city of signs. Every

place of business seemed to have its fluttering banner, and beneath

these banners moved the ever restless throng. There were men from the

mines in their flannel shirts and corduroys, their Stetsons and high

boots. There were men from the trail in sweaters and mackinaws, German

socks and caps with ear-flaps. But all were bronzed and bearded,

fleshless and clean-limbed. I marvelled at the seriousness of their

faces, till I remembered that here was no problem of a languorous

sunland, but one of grim emergency. It was a man's game up here in the

North, a man's game in a man's land, where the sunlight of the long,

long day is ever haunted by the shadow of the long, long night.

Oh, if I could only find her! The land was a great symphony; she the

haunting theme of it.

I bought a copy of the "Nugget" and went into the Sourdough Restaurant

to read it. As I lingered there sipping my coffee and perusing the paper

indifferently, a paragraph caught my eye and made my heart glow with

sudden hope.

CHAPTER II

Here was the item:

Jack Locasto loses $19,000.

"One of the largest gambling plays that ever occurred in Dawson

came off last night in the Malamute Saloon. Jack Locasto of

Eldorado, well known as one of the Klondike's wealthiest

claim-owners, Claude Terry and Charlie Haw were the chief actors in

the game, which cost the first-named the sum of $19,000.

"Locasto came to Dawson from his claim yesterday. It is said that

before leaving the Forks he lost a sum ranging in the neighbourhood

of $5,000. Last night he began playing in the Malamute with Haw and

Terry in an effort, it is supposed, to recoup his losses at the

Forks. The play continued nearly all night, and at the wind-up,

Locasto, as stated above, was loser to the amount of $19,000. This

is probably the largest individual loss ever sustained at one

sitting in the history of Klondike poker playing."

Jack Locasto! Why had I not thought of him before? Surely if any one

knew of the girl's whereabouts, it would be he. I determined I would ask

him at once.

So I hastily finished my coffee and inquired of the emasculated-looking

waiter where I might find the Klondike King.

"Oh, Black Jack," he said: "well, at the Green Bay Tree, or the Tivoli,

or the Monte Carlo. But there's a big poker game on and he's liable to

be in it."

Once more I paraded the seething street. It was long after midnight, but

the wondrous glow, still burning in the Northern sky, filled the land

with strange enchantment. In spite of the hour the town seemed to be

more alive than ever. Parties with pack-laden mules were starting off

for the creeks, travelling at night to avoid the heat and mosquitoes.

Men with lean brown faces trudged sturdily along carrying extraordinary

loads on their stalwart shoulders. A stove, blankets, cooking utensils,

axe and shovel usually formed but a part of their varied accoutrement.

Constables of the Mounted Police were patrolling the streets. In the

drab confusion their scarlet tunics were a piercing note of colour. They

walked very stiffly, with grim mouths and eyes sternly vigilant under

the brims of their Stetsons. Women were everywhere, smoking cigarettes,

laughing, chaffing, strolling in and out of the wide-open saloons. Their

cheeks were rouged, their eye-lashes painted, their eyes bright with

wine. They gazed at the men like sleek animals, with looks that were

wanton and alluring. A libertine spirit was in the air, a madcap

freedom, an effluence of disdainful sin.

I found myself by the stockade that surrounded the Police reservation.

On every hand I saw traces of a recent overflow of the river that had

transformed the street into a navigable canal. Now in places there were

mudholes in which horses would flounder to their bellies. One of the

Police constables, a tall, slim Englishman with a refined manner, proved

to me a friend in need.

"Yes," he said, in answer to my query, "I think I can find your man.

He's downtown somewhere with some of the big sporting guns. Come on,

we'll run him to earth."

As we walked along we compared notes, and he talked of himself in a

frank, friendly way.

"You're not long out from the old country? Thought not. Left there

myself about four years ago--I joined the Force in Regina. It's

altogether different 'outside,' patrol work, a free life on the open

prairie. Here they keep one choring round barracks most of the time.

I've been for six months now on the town station. I'm not sorry, though.

It's all devilish interesting. Wouldn't have missed it for a farm. When

I write the people at home about it they think I'm yarning--stringing

them, as they say here. The governor's a clergyman. Sent me to Harrow,

and wanted to make a Bishop out of me. But I'm restless; never could

study; don't seem to fit in, don't you know."

I recognised his type, the clean, frank, breezy Englishman that has

helped to make an Empire. He went on:

"Yes, how the old dad would stare if I could only have him in Dawson for

a day. He'd never be able to get things just in focus any more. He would

be knocked clean off the pivot on which he's revolved these thirty

years. Seems to me every one's travelling on a pivot in the old country.

It's no use trying to hammer it into their heads there are more points

of view than one. If you don't just see things as they see them, you're

troubled with astigmatism. Come, let's go in here."

He pushed his way through a crowded doorway and I followed. It was the

ordinary type of combined saloon and gambling-joint. In one corner was a

very ornate bar, and all around the capacious room were gambling devices

of every kind. There were crap-tables, wheel of fortune, the Klondike

game, Keno, stud poker, roulette and faro outfits. The place was

chock-a-block with rough-looking men, either looking on or playing the

games. The men who were running the tables wore shades of green over

their eyes, and their strident cries of "Come on, boys," pierced the

smoky air.

In a corner, presiding over a stud-poker game, I was surprised to see

our old friend Mosher. He was dealing with one hand, holding the pack

delicately and sending the cards with a dexterous flip to each player.

Miners were buying chips from a man at the bar, who with a pair of gold

scales was weighing out dust in payment.

My companion pointed to an inner room with a closed door.

"The Klondike Kings are in there, hard at it. They've been playing now

for twenty-four hours, and goodness knows when they'll let up."

At that moment a peremptory bell rang from the room and a waiter

hurried up.

"There they are," said my friend, as the door opened. "There's Black

Jack and Stillwater Willie and Claude Terry and Charlie Haw."

Eagerly I looked in. The men were wearied, their faces haggard and

ghastly pale. Quickly and coolly they fingered the cards, but in their

hollow eyes burned the fever of the game, a game where golden eagles

were the chips and thousand-dollar jack-pots were unremarkable. No doubt

they had lost and won greatly, but they gave no sign. What did it

matter? In the dumps waiting to be cleaned up were hundreds of thousands

more; while in the ground were millions, millions.

All but Locasto were medium-sized men. Stillwater Willie was in

evening-dress. He wore a red tie in which glittered a huge diamond pin,

and yellow tan boots covered with mud.

"How did he get his name?" I asked.

"Well, you see, they say he was the only one that funked the Whitehorse

Rapids. He's a high flier, all right."

The other two were less striking. Haw was a sandy-haired man with

shifty, uneasy eyes; Terry of a bulldog type, stocky and powerful. But

it was Locasto who gripped and riveted my attention.

He was a massive man, heavy of limb and brutal in strength. There was a

great spread to his shoulders and a conscious power in his every

movement. He had a square, heavy chin, a grim, sneering mouth, a falcon

nose, black eyes that were as cold as the water in a deserted shaft. His

hair was raven dark, and his skin betrayed the Mexican strain in his

blood. Above the others he towered, strikingly masterful, and I felt

somehow the power that emanated from the man, the brute force, the

remorseless purpose.

Then the waiter returned with a tray of drinks and the door was closed.

"Well, you've seen him now," said Chester of the Police. "Your only

plan, if you want to speak to him, is to wait till the game breaks up.

When poker interferes with your business, to the devil with your

business. They won't be interrupted. Well, old man, if you can't be

good, be careful; and if you want me any time, ring up the town station.

Bye, bye."

He sauntered off. For a time I strolled from game to game, watching the

expressions on the faces of the players, and trying to take an interest

in the play. Yet my mind was ever on the closed door and my ear strained

to hear the click of chips. I heard the hoarse murmurs of their voices,

an occasional oath or a yawn of fatigue. How I wished they would come

out! Women went to the door, peered in cautiously, and beat a hasty

retreat to the tune of reverberated curses. The big guns were busy; even

the ladies must await their pleasure.

Oh, the weariness of that waiting! In my longing for Berna I had worked

myself up into a state that bordered on distraction. It seemed as if a

cloud was in my brain, obsessing me at all times. I felt I must

question this man, though it raised my gorge even to speak of her in his

presence. In that atmosphere of corruption the thought of the girl was

intolerably sweet, as of a ray of sunshine penetrating a noisome

dungeon.

It was in the young morn when the game broke up. The outside air was

clear as washed gold; within it was foul and fetid as a drunkard's

breath. Men with pinched and pallid faces came out and inhaled the

breeze, which was buoyant as champagne. Beneath the perfect blue of the

spring sky the river seemed a shimmer of violet, and the banks dipped

down with the green of chrysoprase.

Already a boy was sweeping up the dirty, nicotine-frescoed sawdust from

the floor. (It was his perquisite, and from the gold he panned out he

ultimately made enough to put him through college.) Then the inner door

opened and Black Jack appeared.

CHAPTER III

He was wan and weary. Around his sombre eyes were chocolate-coloured

hollows. His thick raven hair was disordered. He had lost heavily, and,

bidding a curt good-bye to the others, he strode off. In a moment I had

followed and overtaken him.

"Mr. Locasto."

He turned and gave me a stare from his brooding eyes. They were vacant

as those of a dope-fiend, vacant with fatigue.

"Jack Locasto's my name," he answered carelessly.

I walked alongside him.

"Well, sir," I said, "my name's Meldrum, Athol Meldrum."

"Oh, I don't care what the devil your name is," he broke in petulantly.

"Don't bother me just now. I'm tired."

"So am I," I said, "infernally tired; but it won't hurt you to listen to

my name."

"Well, Mr. Athol Meldrum, good-day."

His voice was cold, his manner galling in its indifference, and a sudden

anger glowed in me.

"Hold on," I said; "just a moment. You can very easily do me an immense

favour. Listen to me."

"Well, what do you want," he demanded roughly; "work?"

"No," I said, "I just want a scrap of information. I came into the

country with some Jews the name of Winklestein. I've lost track of them

and I think you may be able to tell me where they are."

He was all attention now. He turned half round and scrutinised me with

deliberate intensity. Then, like a flash, his rough manner changed. He

was the polished gentleman, the San Francisco club-lounger, the man of

the world.

He rasped the stubble on his chin; his eyes were bland, his voice smooth

as cream.

"Winklestein," he echoed reflectively, "Winklestein; seems to me I do

remember the name, but for the life of me I can't recall where."

He was watching me like a cat, and pretending to think hard.

"Was there a girl with them?"

"Yes," I said eagerly, "a young girl."

"A young girl, ah!" He seemed to reflect hard again. "Well, my friend,

I'm afraid I can't help you. I remember noticing the party on the way

in, but what became of them I can't think. I don't usually bother about

that kind of people. Well, good-night, or good-morning rather. This is

my hotel."

He had half entered when he paused and turned to me. His face was

urbane, his voice suave to sweetness; but it seemed to me there was a

subtle mockery in his tone.

"I say, if I should hear anything of them, I'll let you know. Your

name? Athol Meldrum--all right, I'll let you know. Good-bye."

He was gone and I had failed. I cursed myself for a fool. The man had

baffled me. Nay, even I had hurt myself by giving him an inkling of my

search. Berna seemed further away from me than ever. Home I went,

discouraged and despairful.

Then I began to argue with myself. He must know where they were, and if

he really had designs on the girl and was keeping her in hiding my

interview with him would alarm him. He would take the first opportunity

of warning the Winklesteins. When would he do it? That very night in all

likelihood. So I reasoned; and I resolved to watch.

I stationed myself in a saloon from where I could command a view of his

hotel, and there I waited. I think I must have watched the place for

three hours, but I know it was a weariful business, and I was heartsick

of it. Doggedly I stuck to my post. I was beginning to think he must

have evaded me, when suddenly coming forth alone from the hotel I saw my

man.

It was about midnight, neither light nor dark, but rather an absence of

either quality, and the Northern sky was wan and ominous. In the crowded

street I saw Locasto's hat overtopping all others, so that I had no

difficulty in shadowing him. Once he stopped to speak to a woman, once

to light a cigar; then he suddenly turned up a side street that ran

through the red-light district.

He was walking swiftly and he took a path that skirted the swamp behind

the town. I had no doubt of his mission. My heart began to beat with

excitement. The little path led up the hill, clothed with fresh foliage

and dotted with cabins. Once I saw him pause and look round. I had

barely time to dodge behind some bushes, and feared for a moment he had

seen me. But no! on he went again faster than ever.

I knew now I had divined his errand. He was at too great pains to cover

his tracks. The trail had plunged among a maze of slender cotton-woods,

and twisted so that I was sore troubled to keep him in view. Always he

increased his gait and I followed breathlessly. There were few cabins

hereabouts; it was a lonely place to be so near to town, very quiet and

thickly screened from sight. Suddenly he seemed to disappear, and,

fearing my pursuit was going to be futile, I rushed forward.

I came to a dead stop. There was no one to be seen. He had vanished

completely. The trail climbed steeply up, twisty as a corkscrew. These

cursed poplars, how densely they grew! Blindly I blundered forward. Then

I came to a place where the trail forked. Panting for breath I hesitated

which way to take, and it was in that moment of hesitation that a heavy

hand was laid on my shoulder.

"Where away, my young friend?" It was Locasto. His face was

Mephistophelian, his voice edged with irony. I was startled I admit, but

I tried to put a good face on it.

"Hello," I said; "I'm just taking a stroll."

His black eyes pierced me, his black brows met savagely. The heavy jaw

shot forward, and for a moment the man, menacing and terrible, seemed to

tower above me.

"You lie!" like explosive steam came the words, and wolf-like his lips

parted, showing his powerful teeth. "You lie!" he reiterated. "You

followed me. Didn't I see you from the hotel? Didn't I determine to

decoy you away? Oh, you fool! you fool! who are you that would pit your

weakness against my strength, your simplicity against my cunning? You

would try to cross me, would you? You would champion damsels in

distress? You pretty fool, you simpleton, you meddler----"

Suddenly, without warning, he struck me square on the face, a blinding,

staggering blow that brought me to my knees as falls a pole-axed steer.

I was stunned, swaying weakly, trying vainly to get on my feet. I

stretched out my clenched hands to him. Then he struck me again, a

bitter, felling blow.

I was completely at his mercy now and he showed me none. He was like a

fiend. Rage seemed to rend him. Time and again he kicked me, brutally,

relentlessly, on the ribs, on the chest, on the head. Was the man going

to do me to death? I shielded my head. I moaned in agony. Would he never

stop? Then I became unconscious, knowing that he was still kicking me,

and wondering if I would ever open my eyes again.

CHAPTER IV

"Long live the cold-feet tribe! Long live the soreheads!"

It was the Prodigal who spoke. "This outfit buying's got gold-mining

beaten to a standstill. Here I've been three weeks in the burg and got

over ten thousand dollars' worth of grub cached away. Every pound of it

will net me a hundred per cent. profit. I'm beginning to look on myself

as a second John D. Rockefeller."

"You're a confounded robber," I said. "You're working a cinch-game.

What's your first name? Isaac?"

He turned the bacon he was frying and smiled gayly.

"Snort away all you like, old sport. So long as I get the mon you can

call me any old name you please."

He was very sprightly and elate, but I was in no sort of mood to share

in his buoyancy. Physically I had fully recovered from my terrible

manhandling, but in spirit I still writhed at the outrage of it. And the

worst was I could do nothing. The law could not help me, for there were

no witnesses to the assault. I could never cope with this man in bodily

strength. Why was I not a stalwart? If I had been as tall and strong as

Garry, for instance. True, I might shoot; but there the Police would

take a hand in the game, and I would lose out badly. There seemed to be

nothing for it but to wait and pray for some means of retaliation.

Yet how bitterly I brooded over the business. At times there was even

black murder in my heart. I planned schemes of revenge, grinding my

teeth in impotent rage the while; and my feelings were complicated by

that awful gnawing hunger for Berna that never left me. It was a perfect

agony of heart, a panic-fear, a craving so intense that at times I felt

I would go distracted with the pain of it.

Perhaps I am a poor sort of being. I have often wondered. I either feel

intensely, or I am quite indifferent. I am a prey to my emotions, a

martyr to my moods. Apart from my great love for Berna it seemed to me

as if nothing mattered. All through these stormy years it was like

that--nothing else mattered. And now that I am nearing the end of my

life I can see that nothing else has ever mattered. Everything that

happened appealed to me in its relation to her. It seemed to me as if I

saw all the world through the medium of my love for her, and that all

beauty, all truth, all good was but a setting for this girl of mine.

"Come on," said Jim; "let's go for a walk in the town."

The "Modern Gomorrah" he called it, and he was never tired of

expatiating on its iniquity.

"See that man there?" he said, pointing to a grey-haired pedestrian, who

was talking to an emphatic blonde. "That man's a lawyer. He's got a

lovely home in Los Angeles, an' three of the sweetest girls you ever

saw. A young fellow needed to have his credentials O. K.'d by the Purity

Committee before he came butting round that man's home. Now he's off to

buy wine for Daisy of the Deadline."

The grey-haired man had turned into a saloon with his companion.

"Yes, that's Dawson for you. We're so far from home. The good old

moralities don't apply here. The hoary old Yukon won't tell on us. We've

been a Sunday School Superintendent for ten years. For fifty more we've

passed up the forbidden fruit. Every one else is helping themselves.

Wonder what it tastes like? Wine is flowing like water. Money's the

cheapest thing in sight. Cut loose, drink up. The orchestra's a-goin'.

Get your partners for a nice juicy two-step. Come on, boys!"

He was particularly bitter, and it really seemed in that general lesion

of the moral fibre that civilisation was only a makeshift, a veneer of

hypocrisy.

"Why should we marvel," I said, "at man's brutality, when but an æon ago

we all were apes?"

Just then we met the Jam-wagon. He had mushed in from the creeks that

very day. Physically he looked supreme. He was berry-brown, lean,

muscular and as full of suppressed energy as an unsprung bear-trap.

Financially he was well ballasted. Mentally and morally he was in the

state of a volcano before an eruption.

You could see in the quick breathing, in the restlessness of this man,

a pent-up energy that clamoured to exhaust itself in violence and

debauch. His fierce blue eyes were wild and roving, his lips twitched

nervously. He was an atavism; of the race of those white-bodied,

ferocious sea-kings that drank deep and died in the din of battle. He

must live in the white light of excitement, or sink in the gloom of

despair. I could see his fine nostrils quiver like those of a charger

that scents the smoke of battle, and I realised that he should have been

a soldier still, a leader of forlorn hopes, a partner of desperate

hazards.

As we walked along, Jim did most of the talking in his favourite

morality vein. The Jam-wagon puffed silently at his briar pipe, while I,

very listless and downhearted, thought largely of my own troubles. Then,

in the middle of the block, where most of the music-halls were situated,

suddenly we met Locasto.

When I saw him my heart gave a painful leap, and I think my face must

have gone as white as paper. I had thought much over this meeting, and

had dreaded it. There are things which no man can overlook, and, if it

meant death to me, I must again try conclusions with the brute.

He was accompanied by a little bald-headed Jew named Spitzstein, and we

were almost abreast of them when I stepped forward and arrested them. My

teeth were clenched; I was all a-quiver with passion; my heart beat

violently. For a moment I stood there, confronting him in speechless

excitement.

He was dressed in that miner's costume in which he always looked so

striking. From his big Stetson to his high boots he was typically the

big, strong man of Alaska, the Conqueror of the Wild. But his mouth was

grim as granite, and his black eyes hard and repellent as those of a

toad.

"Oh, you coward!" I cried. "You vile, filthy coward!"

He was looking down on me from his imperious height, very coolly, very

cynically.

"Who are you?" he drawled; "I don't know you."

"Liar as well as coward," I panted. "Liar to your teeth. Brute, coward,

liar----"

"Here, get out of my way," he snarled; "I've got to teach you a lesson."

Once more before I could guard he landed on me with that terrible

right-arm swing, and down I went as if a sledgehammer had struck me.

But instantly I was on my feet, a thing of blind passion, of desperate

fight. I made one rush to throw myself on this human tower of brawn and

muscle, when some one pinioned me from behind. It was Jim.

"Easy, boy," he was saying; "you can't fight this big fellow."

Spitzstein was looking on curiously. With wonderful quickness a crowd

had collected, all avidly eager for a fight. Above them towered the

fierce, domineering figure of Locasto. There was a breathless pause,

then, at the psychological moment, the Jam-wagon intervened.

The smouldering fire in his eye had brightened into a fierce joy; his

twitching mouth was now grim and stern as a prison door. For days he had

been fighting a dim intangible foe. Here at last was something human and

definite. He advanced to Locasto.

"Why don't you strike some one nearer your own size?" he demanded. His

voice was tense, yet ever so quiet.

Locasto flashed at him a look of surprise, measuring him from head to

foot.

"You're a brute," went on the Jam-wagon evenly; "a cowardly brute."

Black Jack's face grew dark and terrible. His eyes glinted sparks of

fire.

"See here, Englishman," he said, "this isn't your scrap. What are you

butting in about?"

"It isn't," said the Jam-wagon, and I could see the flame of fight

brighten joyously in him. "It isn't, but I'll soon make it mine. There!"

Quick as a flash he dealt the other a blow on the cheek, an open-handed

blow that stung like a whiplash.

"Now, fight me, you coward."

There and then Locasto seemed about to spring on his challenger. With

hands clenched and teeth bared, he half bent as if for a charge. Then,

suddenly, he straightened up.

"All right," he said softly; "Spitzstein, can we have the Opera House?"

"Yes, I guess so. We can clear away the benches."

"Then tell the crowd to come along; we'll give them a free show."

* * * * *

I think there must have been five hundred men around that ring. A big

Australian pugilist was umpire. Some one suggested gloves, but Locasto

would not hear of it.

"No," he said, "I want to mark the son of a dog so his mother will never

know him again."

He had become frankly brutal, and prepared for the fray exultantly. Both

men fought in their underclothing.

Stripped down, the Jam-wagon was seen to be much the smaller man, not

only in height, but in breadth and weight. Yet he was a beautiful figure

of a fighter, clean, well-poised, firm-limbed, with a body that seemed

to taper from the shoulders down. His fair hair glistened; his eyes were

wary and cool, his lips set tightly. In the person of this living

adversary he was fighting an unseen one vastly more dread and terrific.

Locasto looked almost too massive. His muscles bulged out. The veins in

his forearms were cord-like. His great chest seemed as broad as a door.

His legs were statuesque in their size and strength. In that camp of

strong men probably he was the most powerful.

And nowhere in the world could a fight have been awaited with greater

zest. These men, miners, gamblers, adventurers of all kinds, pushed and

struggled for a place. A great joy surged through them at the thought

of the approaching combat. Keen-eyed, hard-breathing, a-thrill with

expectation, the crowd packed closer and closer. Outside, people were

clamouring for admission. They climbed on the stage, and into the boxes.

They hung over the galleries. All told, there must have been a thousand

of them.

As the two men stood up it was like the lithe Greek athlete compared

with the brawny Roman gladiator. "Three to one on Locasto," some one

shouted. Then a great hush came over the house, so that it might have

been empty and deserted. Time was called. The fight began.

CHAPTER V

With one tiger-rush Locasto threw himself on his man. There was no

preliminary fiddling here; they were out for blood, and the sooner they

wallowed in it the better. Right and left he struck with mighty swings

that would have felled an ox, but the Jam-wagon was too quick for him.

Twice he ducked in time to avoid a furious blow, and, before Locasto

could recover, he had hopped out of reach. The big man's fist swished

through the empty air. He almost overbalanced with the force of his

effort, but he swung round quickly, and there was the Jam-wagon, cool

and watchful, awaiting his next attack.

Locasto's face grew fiendish in its sinister wrath; he shot forth a foul

imprecation, and once more he hurled himself resistlessly on his foe.

This time I thought my champion must go down, but no! With a dexterity

that seemed marvellous, he dodged, ducked and side-stepped; and once

more Locasto's blows went wide and short. Jeers began to go up from the

throng. "Even money on the little fellow," sang out a voice with the

flat twang of a banjo.

Locasto glared round on the crowd. He was accustomed to lord it over

these men, and the jeers goaded him like banderilleros goad a bull.

Again and again he repeated his tremendous rushes, only to find his

powerful arms winnowing the empty air, only to see his agile antagonist

smiling at him in mockery from the centre of the ring. Not one of his

sledgehammer smashes reached their mark, and the round closed without a

blow having landed.

From the mob of onlookers a chorus of derisive cheers went up. The

little man with the banjo voice was holding up a poke of dust. "Even

money on the little one." A hum of eager conversation broke forth.

I was at the ring-side. At the beginning I had been in an agony of fear

for the Jam-wagon. Looking at the two men, it seemed as if he could

hardly hope to escape terrible punishment at the hands of one so

massively powerful, and every blow inflicted on him would have been like

one inflicted on myself. But now I took heart and looked forward with

less anxiety.

Again time was called, and Locasto sprang up, seemingly quite refreshed

by his rest. Once more he plunged after his man, but now I could see his

rushes were more under control, his smashing blows better timed, his

fierce jabs more shrewdly delivered. Again I began to quake for the

Jam-wagon, but he showed a wonderful quickness in his footwork, darting

in and out, his hands swinging at his sides, a smile of mockery on his

lips. He was deft as a dancing-master; he twinkled like a gleam of

light, and amid that savage thresh of blows he was as cool as if he were

boxing in the school gymnasium.

"Who is he?" those at the ring-side began to whisper. Time and again it

seemed as if he were cornered, but in a marvellous way he wormed

himself free. I held my breath as he evaded blow after blow, some of

which seemed to miss him by a mere hair's breadth. He was taking

chances, I thought, so narrowly did he permit the blows to miss him. I

was all keyed up, on edge with excitement, eager for my man to strike,

to show he was not a mere ring-tactician. But the Jam-wagon bided his

time.

And so the round ended, and it was evident that the crowd was of the

same opinion as myself. "Why don't he mix up a little?" said one. "Give

him time," said another. "He's all right: there's some class to that

work."

Locasto came up for the third round looking sobered, subdued, grimly

determined. Evidently he had made up his mind to force his opponent out

of his evasive tactics. He was wary as a cat. He went cautiously. Yet

again he assumed the aggressive, gradually working the Jam-wagon into a

corner. A collision was inevitable; there was no means of escape for my

friend; that huge bulk, with its swinging, flail-like arms, menaced him

hopelessly.

Suddenly Locasto closed in. He swooped down on the Jam-wagon. He had

him. He shortened his right arm for a jab like the crash of a

pile-driver. The arm shot out, but once again the Jam-wagon was not

there. He ducked quickly, and Locasto's great fist brushed his hair.

Then, like lightning, the two came to a clinch. Now, thought I, it's all

off with the Jam-wagon. I saw Locasto's eyes dilate with ferocious joy.

He had the other in his giant arms; he could crush him in a mighty hug,

the hug of a grizzly, crush him like an egg-shell. But, quick as the

snap of a trap, the Jam-wagon had pinioned his arms at the elbow, so

that he was helpless. For a moment he held him, then, suddenly releasing

his arms, he caught him round the body, shook him with a mighty

side-heave, gave him the cross-buttock, and, before he could strike a

single blow, threw him in the air and dashed him to the ground.

"Time!" called the umpire. It was all done so quickly it was hard for

the eye to follow, but a mighty cheer went up from the house. "Two to

one on the little fellow," called the banjo-voice. Suddenly Locasto rose

to his feet. He was shamed, angered beyond all expression. Heaving and

panting, he lurched to his corner, and in his eyes there was a look that

boded ill for his adversary.

Time again. With the lightness of a panther the Jam-wagon sprang into

the centre of the ring. More than halfway he met Locasto, and now his

intention seemed to be to draw his man on rather than to avoid him. I

watched his every movement with a sense of thrilling fascination. He had

resumed his serpentine movements, advancing and retreating with

shadow-like quickness, feinting, side-stepping, pawing the air till he

had his man baffled and bewildered. Yet he never struck a blow.

All this seemed to be getting on Locasto's nerves. He was going steadily

enough, trying by every means in his power to get the other man to "mix

it up." He shouted the foulest abuse at him. "Stand up like a man, you

son of a dog, and fight." The smile left the Jam-wagon's lips, and he

settled down to business.

I saw him edging up to Locasto. He feinted wildly, then, stepping in

closely, he swung a right and left to Black Jack's face. A moment later

he was six feet away, with a bitter smile on his lips.

With a fierce bellow of rage Locasto, forgetting all his caution,

charged him. He smashed his heavy right with all its might for the

other's face, but, quick as the quiver of a bow-string, the Jam-wagon

side-stepped and the blow missed. Then the Jam-wagon shifted and brought

his left, full-weight, crash on Locasto's mouth.

At that fierce triumphant blow there was the first dazzling blood-gleam,

and the crowd screeched with excitement. In a wild whirlwind of fury

Locasto hurled himself on the Jam-wagon, his arms going like windmills.

Any one of these blows, delivered in a vital spot, would have meant

death, but his opponent was equal to this blind assault. Dodging,

ducking, side-stepping, blocking, he foiled the other at every turn,

and, just before the round ended, drove his left into the pit of the big

man's stomach, with a thwack that resounded throughout the building.

Once more time was called. The Jam-wagon was bleeding about the

knuckles. Several of Locasto's teeth had been loosened, and he spat

blood frequently. Otherwise he looked as fit as ever. He pursued his

man with savage determination, and seemed resolved to get in a deadly

body-blow that would end the fight.

It was pretty to see the Jam-wagon work. He was sprightly as a ballet

dancer, as, weaving in and out, he dodged the other's blows. His arms

swung at his sides, and he threw his head about in a manner insufferably

mocking and tantalising. Then he took to landing light body-blows, that

grew more frequent till he seemed to be beating a regular tattoo on

Locasto's ribs. He was springy as a panther, elusive as an eel. As for

Locasto, his face was sober now, strained, anxious, and he seemed to be

waiting with menacing eyes to get in that vital smash that meant the

end.

The Jam-wagon began to put more force into his arms. He drove in a

short-arm left to the stomach, then brought his right up to the other's

chin. Locasto swung a deadly knock-out blow at the Jam-wagon, which just

grazed his jaw, and the Jam-wagon retaliated with two lightning rights

and a nervous left, all on the big man's face.

Then he sprang back, for he was excited now. In and out he wove. Once

more he landed a hard left on Locasto's heaving stomach, and then,

rushing in, he rained blow after blow on his antagonist. It was a

furious mix-up, a whirling storm of blows, brutal, savage and murderous.

No two men could keep up such a gait. They came into a clinch, but this

time the Jam-wagon broke away, giving the deadly kidney blow as they

parted. When time was called both men were panting hard, bruised and

covered with blood.

How the house howled with delight! All the primordial brute in these men

was glowing in their hearts. Nothing but blood could appease it. Their

throats were parched, their eyes wild.

Round six. Locasto sprang into the centre of the ring. His face was

hideously disfigured. Only in that battered, blood-stained mask could I

recognise the black eyes gleaming deadly hatred. Rushing for the

Jam-wagon, he hurled him across the ring. Again charging, he overbore

him to the floor, but failed to hold him.

Then in the Jam-wagon there awoke the ancient spirit of the Berserker.

He cared no more for punishment. He was insensible to pain. He was the

sea-pirate again, mad with the lust of battle. Like a fiend he tore

himself loose, and went after his man, rushing him with a swift,

battering hail of blows around the ring. Like a tiger he was, and the

violent lunges of Locasto only infuriated him the more.

Now they were in a furious mix-up, and suddenly Locasto, seizing him

savagely, tried to whip him smashing to the floor. Then the wonderful

agility of the Englishman was displayed. In a distance of less than a

two-foot drop he turned completely like a cat. Leaping up, he was free,

and, getting a waist-hold with a Cornish heave, he bore Locasto to the

floor. Quickly he changed to a crotch-lock, and, lastly, holding

Locasto's legs, he brought him to a bridge and worked his weight up on

his body.

Black Jack, with a mighty heave, broke away and again regained his

feet. This seemed to enrage the Jam-wagon the more, for he tore after

his man like a maddened bull. Getting a hold with incredible strength,

he lifted him straight up in the air and hurled him to the ground with

sickening force.

Locasto lay there. His eyes were closed. He did not move. Several men

rushed forward. "He's all right," said a medical-looking individual;

"just stunned. I guess you can call the fight over."

The Jam-wagon slowly put on his clothes. Once more, in the person of

Locasto, he had successfully grappled with "Old Man Booze." He was badly

bruised about the body, but not seriously hurt in any way. Shudderingly

I looked down at Locasto's face, beaten to a pulp, his body livid from

head to foot. And then, as they bore him off to the hospital, I realised

I was revenged.

"Did you know that man Spitzstein was charging a dollar for admission?"

queried the Prodigal.

"No!"

"That's right. That darned little Jew netted nearly a thousand dollars."

CHAPTER VI

"Let me introduce you," said the Prodigal, "to my friend the 'Pote.'"

"Glad to meet you," said the Pote cheerfully, extending a damp hand.

"Just been having a dishwashing bee. Excuse my dishybeel."

He wore a pale-blue undershirt, white flannel trousers girt round the

waist with a red silk handkerchief, very gaudy moccasins, and a rakish

Panama hat with a band of chocolate and gold.

"Take a seat, won't you?" Through his gold-rimmed spectacles his eyes

shone benevolently as he indicated an easy-looking chair. I took it. It

promptly collapsed under me.

"Ah, excuse me," he said; "you're not onto the combination of that

chair. I'll fix it."

He performed some operation on it which made it less unstable, and I sat

down gingerly.

I was in a little log-cabin on the hill overlooking the town. Through

the bottle window the light came dimly. The walls showed the bark of

logs and tufts of intersecting moss. In the corner was a bunk over which

lay a bearskin robe, and on the little oblong stove a pot of beans was

simmering.

The Pote finished his dishwashing and joined us, pulling on an old

Tuxedo jacket.

"Whew! Glad that job's over. You know, I guess I'm fastidious, but I

can't bear to use a plate for more than three meals without passing a

wet rag over it. That's the worst of having refined ideas, they make

life so complex. However, I mustn't complain. There's a monastic

simplicity about this joint that endears it to me. And now, having

immolated myself on the altar of cleanliness, I will solace my soul with

a little music."

He took down a banjo from the wall and, striking a few chords, began to

sing. His songs seemed to be original, even improvisations, and he sang

them with a certain quaintness and point that made them very piquant. I

remember one of the choruses. It went like this:

"In the land of pale blue snow

Where it's ninety-nine below,

And the polar bears are dancing on the plain,

In the shadow of the pole,

Oh, my Heart, my Life, my Soul,

I will meet thee when the ice-worms nest again."

Every now and then he would pause to make some lively comment.

"You've never heard of the blue snow, Cheechako? The rabbits have blue

fur, and the ptarmigans' feathers are a bright azure. You've never had

an ice-worm cocktail? We must remedy that. Great dope. Nothing like

ice-worm oil for salads. Oh, I forgot, didn't give you my card."

I took it. It was engraved thus:

OLLIE GABOODLER.

Poetic Expert.

Turning it over, I read:

Graduate of the University of Hard Knocks.

All kinds of verse made to order with efficiency and

dispatch.

Satisfaction guaranteed or money returned.

A trial solicited.

In Memoriam Odes a specialty.

Ballads, Rondeaux and Sonnets at modest prices.

Try our lines of Love Lyrics.

Leave orders at the Comet Saloon.

I stared at him curiously. He was smoking a cigarette and watching me

with shrewd, observant eyes. He was a blond, blue-eyed, cherubic youth,

with a whimsical mouth that seemed to alternate between seriousness and

fun.

He laughed merrily at my look of dismay.

"Oh, you think it's a josh, but it's not. I've been a 'ghost' ever since

I could push a pen. You know Will Wilderbush, the famous novelist? Well,

Bill died six years ago from over-assiduous cultivation of John

Barleycorn, and they hushed it up. But every year there's a new novel

comes from his pen. It's 'ghosts.' I was Bill number three. Isn't it

rummy?"

I expressed my surprise.

"Yes, it's a great joke this book-faking. Wouldn't Thackeray have

lambasted the best sellers? A fancy picture of a girl on the cover,

something doing all the time, and a happy ending--that's the recipe. Or

else be as voluptuous as velvet. Wait till my novel, 'Three Minutes,'

comes out. Order in advance."

"Indeed I will," I said.

He suddenly became grave.

"If I only could take the literary game seriously I might make good. But

I'm too much of a 'farceur.' Well, one day we'll see. Maybe the North

will inspire me. Maybe I'll yet become the Spokesman of the Frozen

Silence, the Avatar of the Great White Land."

He strutted up and down, inflating his chest.

"Have you framed up any dope lately?" asked the Prodigal.

"Why, yes; only this morning, while I was eating my beans and bacon, I

dashed off a few lines. I always write best when I'm eating. Want to

hear them?"

He drew from his pocket an old envelope.

"They were written to the order of Stillwater Willie. He wants to

present them to one of the Labelle Sisters. You know--that fat lymphatic

blonde, Birdie Labelle. It is short and sweet. He wants to have it

engraved on a gold-backed hand-mirror he's giving her.

"I see within my true love's eyes

The wide blue spaces of the skies;

I see within my true love's face

The rose and lily vie in grace;

I hear within my true love's voice

The songsters of the Spring rejoice.

Oh, why need I seek Nature's charms--

I hold my true love in my arms.

"How'll that hit her? There's such a lot of natural beauty about

Birdie."

"Do you get much work?" I asked.

"No, it's dull. Poetry's rather a drug on the market up here. It's just

a side-line. For a living I clean shoes at the 'Elight' Barbershop--I,

who have lingered on the sunny slopes of Parnassus, and quenched my

soul-thirst at the Heliconian spring--gents' tans a specialty."

"Did you ever publish a book?" I asked.

"Sure! Did you never read my 'Rhymes of a Rustler'? One reviewer would

say I was the clear dope, the genuine eighteen-carat, jewelled-movement

article; the next would aver I was the rankest dub that ever came down

the pike. They said I'd imitated people, people I'd never read, people

I'd never heard of, people I never dreamt existed. I was accused of

imitating over twenty different writers. Then the pedants got after me,

said I didn't conform to academic formulas, advised me to steep myself

in tradition. They talked about form, about classic style and so on. As

if it matters so long as you get down the thing itself so that folks can

see it, and feel it go right home to their hearts. I can write in all

the artificial verse forms, but they're mouldy with age, back numbers.

Forget them. Quit studying that old Greek dope: study life, modern life,

palpitating with colour, crying for expression. Life! Life! The sunshine

of it was in my heart, and I just naturally tried to be its singer."

"I say," said the Prodigal from the bunk where he was lounging, in a

haze of cigarette smoke, "read us that thing you did the other day, 'The

Last Supper.'"

The Pote's eyes twinkled with pleasure.

"All right," he said. Then, in a clear voice, he repeated the following

lines:

"THE LAST SUPPER.

Marie Vaux of the Painted Lips,

And the mouth so mocking gay;

A wanton you to the finger tips,

That break men's hearts in play;

A thing of dust I have striven for,

Honour and Manhood given for,

Headlong for ruin driven for--

And this is the last, you say:

Drinking your wine with dainty sips,

Marie Vaux of the Painted Lips.

Marie Vaux of the Painted Lips,

Long have you held your sway;

I have laughed at your merry quips,

Now is my time to pay.

What we sow we must reap again;

When we laugh we must weep again;

So to-night we will sleep again,

Nor wake till the Judgment Day.

'Tis a prison wine that your palate sips,

Marie Vaux of the Painted Lips.

Marie Vaux of the Painted Lips,

Down on your knees and pray;

Pray your last ere the moment slips,

Pray ere the dark and the terror grips,

And the bright world fades away:

Pray for the good unguessed of us,

Pray for the peace and rest of us.

Here comes the Shape in quest of us,

Now must we go away--

You and I in the grave's eclipse,

Marie Vaux of the Painted Lips."

Just as he finished there came a knock at the door, and a young man

entered. He had the broad smiling face of a comedian, and the bulgy

forehead of a Baptist Missionary. The Pote introduced him to me.

"The Yukon Yorick."

"Hello," chuckled the newcomer, "how's the bunch? Don't let me stampede

you. How d'ye do, Horace! Glad to meet you." (He called everybody

Horace.) "Just come away from a meeting of my creditors. What's that?

Have a slab of booze? Hardly that, old fellow, hardly that. Don't tempt

me, Horace, don't tempt me. Remember I'm only a poor working-girl."

He seemed brimming over with jovial acceptance of life in all its

phases. He lit a cigar.

"Say, boys, you know old Dingbats the lawyer. Ha, yes. Well, met him on

Front Street just now. Says I: 'Horace, that was a pretty nifty spiel

you gave us last night at the Zero Club.' He looked at me all tickled up

the spine. Ha, yes. He was pleased as Punch. 'Say, Horace,' I says, 'I'm

on, but I won't give you away. I've got a book in my room with every

word of that speech in it.' He looked flabbergasted. So I have--ha, yes,

the dictionary."

He rolled his cigar unctuously in his mouth, with many chuckles and a

histrionic eye.

"No, don't tempt me, Horace. Remember, I'm only a poor working-girl.

Thanks, I'll just sit down on this soap-box. Knew a man once, Jobcroft

was his name, Charles Alfred Jobcroft, sat down on a custard pie at a

pink tea; was so embarrassed he wouldn't get up. Just sat on till every

one else was gone. Every one was wondering why he wouldn't budge: just

sat tight."

"I guess he _cussed hard_," ventured the Prodigal.

"Oh, Horace, spare me that! Remember I'm only a poor working-girl.

Hardly that, old fellow. Say, hit me with a slab of booze quick. Make

things sparkle, boys, make things sparkle."

He drank urbanely of the diluted alcohol that passed for whisky.

"Hit me easy, boys, hit me easy," he said, as they refilled his glass.

"I can't hold my hootch so well as I could a few summers ago--and many

hard Falls. Talking about holding your 'hooch,' the best I ever saw was

a man called Podstreak, Arthur Frederick Podstreak. You couldn't get

that man going. The way he could lap up the booze was a caution. He

would drink one bunch of boys under the table, then leave them and go on

to another. He would start in early in the morning and keep on going

till the last thing at night. And he never got hilarious even; it didn't

seem to phase him; he was as sober after the twentieth drink as when he

started. Gee! but he was a wonder."

The others nodded their heads appreciatively.

"He was a fine, healthy-looking chap, too; the booze didn't seem to hurt

him. Never saw such a constitution. I often watched him, for I suspected

him of 'sluffing,' but no! He always had a bigger drink than every one

else, always drank whisky, always drank it neat, and always had a chaser

of water after. I said to myself: 'What's your system?' and I got to

studying him hard. Then, one day, I found him out."

"What was it?"

"Well, one day I noticed something. I noticed he always held his glass

in a particular way when he drank, and at the same time he pressed his

stomach in the region of the 'solar plexus.' So that night I took him

aside.

"'Look here, Podstreak,' I said, 'I'm next to you.' I really wasn't, but

the bluff worked. He grew white.

"'For Heaven's sake, don't give me away,' he cried; 'the boys'll lynch

me.'

"'All right,' I said; 'if you'll promise to quit.'

"Then he made a full confession, and showed me how he did it. He had an

elastic rubber bag under his shirt, and a tube going up his arm and down

his sleeve, ending in a white nozzle inside his cuff. When he went to

empty his glass of whisky he simply pressed some air out of the rubber

bag, put the nozzle in the glass, and let it suck up all the whisky. At

night he used to empty all the liquor out of the bag and sell it to a

saloon-keeper. Oh, he was a phoney piece of work.

"'I've been a total abstainer (in private) for seven years,' he told me.

'Yes,' I said, 'and you'll become one in public for another seven.' And

he did."

Several men had dropped in to swell this Bohemian circle. Some had

brought bottles. There was a painter who had been "hung," a Mus Bac., an

ex-champion amateur pugilist, a silver-tongued orator, a man who had

"suped" for Mansfield, and half a dozen others. The little cabin was

crowded, the air hazy with smoke, the conversation animated. But mostly

it was a monologue by the inimitable Yorick.

Suddenly the conversation turned to the immorality of the town.

"Now, I have a theory," said the Pote, "that the regeneration of Dawson

is at hand. You know Good is the daughter of Evil, Virtue the offspring

of Vice. You know how virtuous a man feels after a jag. You've got to

sin to feel really good. Consequently, Sin must be good to be the means

of good, to be the raw material of good, to be virtue in the making,

mustn't it? The dance-halls are a good foil to the gospel-halls. If we

were all virtuous, there would be no virtue in virtue, and if we were

all bad no one would be bad. And because there's so much bad in this old

burg of ours, it makes the good seem unnaturally good."

The Pote had the floor.

"A friend of mine had a beautiful pond of water-lilies. They painted the

water exultantly and were a triumphant challenge to the soul. Folks came

from far and near to see them. Then, one winter, my friend thought he

would clean out his pond, so he had all the nasty, slimy mud scraped

away till you could see the silver gravel glimmering on the bottom. But

the lilies, with all their haunting loveliness, never came back."

"Well, what are you driving at, you old dreamer?"

"Oh, just this: in the nasty mud and slime of Dawson I saw a lily-girl.

She lives in a cabin by the Slide along with a Jewish couple. I only

caught a glimpse of her twice. They are unspeakable, but she is fair

and sweet and pure. I would stake my life on her goodness. She looks

like a young Madonna----"

He was interrupted by a shout of cynical laughter.

"Oh, get off your foot! A Madonna in Dawson--Ra! Ra!"

He shut up abashed, but I had my clue. I waited until the last noisy

roisterer had gone.

"In the cabin by the Slide?" I asked.

He started, looked at me searchingly: "You know her?"

"She means a good deal to me."

"Oh, I understand. Yes, that long, queer cabin highest up the hill."

"Thanks, old chap."

"All right, good luck." He accompanied me to the door, staring at the

marvel of the glamorous Northern midnight.

"Oh, for a medium to express it all! Your pedantic poetry isn't big

enough; prose isn't big enough. What we want is something between the

two, something that will interpret life, and stir the great heart of the

people. Good-night."

CHAPTER VII

Very softly I approached the cabin, for a fear of encountering her

guardians was in my heart. It was in rather a lonely place, perched at

the base of that vast mountain abrasion they call the Slide, a long, low

cabin, quiet and dark, and surrounded by rugged boulders. Carefully I

reconnoitered, and soon, to my infinite joy, I saw the Jewish couple

come forth and make their way townward. The girl was alone.

How madly beat my heart! It was a glooming kind of a night, and the

cabin looked woefully bleak and solitary. No light came through the

windows, no sound through the moss-chinked walls. I drew near.

Why this wild commotion of my being? What was it? Anxiety, joy, dread? I

was poised on the pinnacle of hope that overhangs the abyss of despair.

Fearfully I paused. I was racked with suspense, conscious of a longing

so poignant that the thought of disappointment became insufferable pain.

So violent was my emotion that a feeling almost of nausea overcame me.

I knew now that I cared for this girl more than I had ever thought to

care for woman. I knew that she was dearer to me than all the world

else; I knew that my love for her would live as long as life is long.

I knocked at the door. No answer.

"Berna," I cried in a faltering whisper.

Came the reply: "Who is there?"

"Love, love, dear; love is waiting."

Then, at my words, the door was opened, and the girl was before me. I

think she had been lying down, for her soft hair was a little ruffled,

but her eyes were far too bright for sleep. She stood gazing at me, and

a little fluttering hand went up to her heart as if to still its

beating.

"Oh, my dear, I knew you were coming."

A great radiance of joy seemed to descend on her.

"You knew?"

"I knew, yes, I knew. Something told me you were come at last. And I've

waited--how I've waited! I've dreamed, but it's not a dream now, is it,

dear; it's you?"

"Yes, it's me. I've tried so hard to find you. Oh, my dear, my dear!"

I seized the sweet, soft hand and covered it with kisses. At that moment

I could have kissed the shadow of that little hand; I could have fallen

before her in speechless adoration; I could have made my heart a

footstool for her feet; I could have given her, O, so gladly, my paltry

life to save her from a moment's sorrow--I loved her so, I loved her so!

"High and low I've sought you, beloved. Morning, noon and night you've

been in my brain, my heart, my soul. I've loved you every moment of my

life. It's been desire feeding despair, and, O, the agony of it! Thank

God, I've found you, dear! thank God! thank God!"

O Love, look down on us and choir your harmonies! Transported was I,

speaking with whirling words of sweetest madness, tremulous, uplifted

with rapture, scarce conscious of my wild, impassioned metaphors. It was

she, most precious of all creation; she, my beloved. And there, in the

doorway, she poised, white as a lily, lustrous-eyed, and with hair soft

as sunlit foam. O Divinity of Love, look down on us thy children; fold

us in thy dove-soft wings; illumine us in thy white radiance; touch us

with thy celestial hands. Bless us, Love!

How vastly alight were the grey eyes! How ineffably tender the sweet

lips! A faint glow had come into her cheeks.

"O, it's you, really, really you at last," she cried again, and there

was a tremor, the surface ripple of a sob in that clear voice. She

fetched a deep sigh: "And I thought I'd lost you forever. Wait a moment.

I'll come out."

Endlessly long the moment seemed, yet wondrously irradiate. The shadow

had lifted from the world; the skies were alight with gladness; my heart

was heaven-aspiring in its ecstasy. Then, at last, she came.

She had thrown a shawl around her shoulders, and coaxed her hair into

charming waves and ripples.

"Come, let us go up the trail a little distance. They won't be back for

nearly an hour."

She led the way along that narrow path, looking over her shoulder with a

glorious smile, sometimes extending her hand back to me as one would

with a child.

Along the brow of the bluff the way wound dizzily, while far below the

river swept in a giant eddy. For a long time we spoke no word. 'Twas as

if our hearts were too full for utterance, our happiness too vast for

expression. Yet, O, the sweetness of that silence! The darkling gloom

had silvered into lustrous light, the birds were beginning again their

mad midnight melodies. Then, suddenly turning a bend in the narrow

trail, a blaze of glory leapt upon our sight.

"Look, Berna," I cried.

The swelling river was a lake of saffron fire; the hills a throne of

rosy garnet; the sky a dazzling panoply of rubies, girdled with flames

of gold. We almost cringed, so gorgeous was its glow, so fierce its

splendour.

Then, when we had seated ourselves on the hillside, facing the

conflagration, she turned to me.

"And so you found me, dear. I knew you would, somehow. In my heart I

knew you would not fail me. So I waited and waited. The time seemed

pitilessly long. I only thought of you once, and that was always. It was

cruel we left so suddenly, not even time to say good-bye. I can't tell

you how bad I felt about it, but I could not help myself. They dragged

me away. They began to be afraid of you, and he bade them leave at once.

So in the early morning we started."

"I see, I see." I looked into the pools of her eyes; I sheathed her

white hands in my brown ones, thrilling greatly at the contact of them.

"Tell me about it, child. Has he bothered you?"

"Oh, not so much. He thinks he has me safe enough, trapped, awaiting his

pleasure. But he's taken up with some woman of the town just now.

By-and-bye he'll turn his attention to me."

"Terrible! Terrible! Berna, you wring my heart. How can you talk of such

things in that matter-of-fact way--it maddens me."

An odd, hard look ridged the corners of her mouth.

"I don't know. Sometimes I'm surprised at myself how philosophical I'm

getting."

"But, Berna, surely nothing in this world would ever make you yield? O,

it's horrible! horrible!"

She leaned to me tenderly. She put my arms around her neck; she looked

at me till I saw my face mirrored in her eyes.

"Nothing in the world, dear, so long as I have you to love me and help

me. If ever you fail me, well, then it wouldn't matter much what became

of me."

"Even then," I said, "it would be too awful for words. I would rather

drag your body from that river than see you yield to him. He's a

monster. His very touch is profanation. He could not look on a woman

without cynical lust in his heart."

"I know, my boy, I know. Believe me and trust me. I would rather throw

myself from the bluff here than let him put a hand on me. And so long as

I have your love, dear, I'm safe enough. Don't fear. O, it's been

terrible not seeing you! I've craved for you ceaselessly. I've never

been out since we came here. They wouldn't let me. They kept in

themselves. He bade them. He has them both under his thumb. But now, for

some reason, he has relaxed. They're going to open a restaurant

downtown, and I'm to wait on table."

"No, you're not!" I cried, "not if I have anything to say in the matter.

Berna, I can't bear to think of you in that garbage-heap of corruption

down there. You must marry me--now."

"Now," she echoed, her eyes wide with surprise.

"Yes, right away, dear. There's nothing to prevent us. Berna, I love

you, I want you, I need you. I'm just distracted, dear. I never know a

moment's peace. I cannot take an interest in anything. When I speak to

others I'm thinking of you, you all the time. O, I can't bear it,

dearest; have pity on me: marry me now."

In an agony of suspense I waited for her answer. For a long time she sat

there, thoughtful and quiet, her eyes cast down. At last she raised them

to me.

"You said one year."

"Yes, but I was sorry afterwards. I want you now. I can't wait."

She looked at me gravely. Her voice was very soft, very tender.

"I think it better we should wait, dear. This is a blind, sudden desire

on your part. I mustn't take advantage of it. You pity me, fear for me,

and you have known so few other girls. It's generosity, chivalry, not

love for poor little me. O, we mustn't, we mustn't. And then--you might

change."

"Change! I'll never, never change," I pleaded. "I'll always be yours,

absolutely, wholly yours, little girl; body and soul, to make or to mar,

for ever and ever and ever."

"Well, it seems so sudden, so burning, so intense, your love, dear. I'm

afraid, I'm afraid. Maybe it's not the kind that lasts. Maybe you'll

tire. I'm not worth it, indeed I'm not. I'm only a poor ignorant girl.

If there were others near, you would never think of me."

"Berna," I said, "if you were among a thousand, and they were the most

adorable in all the world, I would pass over them all and turn with joy

and gratitude to you. Then, if I were an Emperor on a throne, and you

the humblest in all that throng, I would raise you up beside me and call

you 'Queen.'"

"Ah, no," she said sadly, "you were wise once. I saw it afterwards.

Better wait one year."

"Oh, my dearest," I reproached her, "once you offered yourself to me

under any conditions. Why have you changed?"

"I don't know. I'm bitterly ashamed of that. Never speak of it again."

She went on very quietly, full of gentle patience.

"You know, I've been thinking a great deal since then. In the long, long

days and longer nights, when I waited here in misery, hoping always you

would come to me, I had time to reflect, to weight your words. I

remember them all: 'love that means life and death, that great dazzling

light, that passion that would raise to heaven or drag to hell.' You

have awakened the woman in me; I must have a love like that."

"You have, my precious; you have, indeed."

"Well, then, let me have time to test it. This is June. Next June, if

you have not made up your mind you were foolish, blind, hasty, I will

give myself to you with all the love in the world."

"Perhaps _you_ will change."

She smiled a peculiar little smile.

"Never, never fear that. I will be waiting for you, longing for you,

loving you more and more every day."

I was bitterly cast down, crestfallen, numbed with the blow of her

refusal.

"Just now," she said, "I would only be a drag on you. I believe in you.

I have faith in you. I want to see you go out and mix in the battle of

life. I know you will win. For my sake, dear, win. I would handicap you

just now. There are all kinds of chances. Let us wait, boy, just a

year."

I saw the pathetic wisdom of her words.

"I know you fear something will happen to me. No! I think I will be

quite safe. I can withstand him. After a while he will leave me alone.

And if it should come to the worst I can call on you. You mustn't go too

far away. I will die rather than let him lay a hand on me. Till next

June, dear, not a day longer. We will both be the better for the wait."

I bowed my head. "Very well," I said huskily; "and what will I do in the

meantime?"

"Do! Do what you would have done otherwise. Do not let a woman divert

the current of your life; let her swim with it. Go out on the creeks!

Work! It will be better for you to go away. It will make it easier for

me. Here we will both torture each other. I, too, will work and live

quietly, and long for you. The time will pass quickly. You will come and

see me sometimes?"

"Yes," I answered. My voice choked with emotion.

"Now we must go home," she said; "I'm afraid they will be back."

She rose, and I followed her down the narrow trail. Once or twice she

turned and gave me a bright, tender look. I worshipped her more than

ever. Was there ever maid more sweet, more gentle, more quick with

anxious love? "Bless her, O bless her," I sighed. "Whatever comes, may

she be happy." I adored her, but a great sadness filled my heart, and

never a word I spoke.

We reached the cabin, and on the threshold she paused. The others had

not yet returned. She held out both hands to me, and her eyes were

glittering with tears.

"Be brave, my dearest; it's all for my sake--if you love me."

"I love you, my darling; anything for your sake. I'll go to-morrow."

"We're betrothed now, aren't we, dearest?"

"We're betrothed, my love."

She swayed to me and seemed to fit into my arms as a sword fits into its

sheath. My lips lay on hers, and I kissed her with a passionate joy. She

took my face between her hands and gazed at me long and earnestly.

"I love you, I love you," she murmured; "next June, my darling, next

June."

Then she gently slipped away from me, and I was gazing blankly at the

closed door.

"Next June," I heard a voice echo; and there, looking at me with a

smile, was Locasto.

CHAPTER VIII

It comes like a violent jar to be awakened so rudely from a trance of

love, to turn suddenly from the one you care for most in all the world,

and behold the one you have best reason to hate. Nevertheless, it is not

in human nature to descend rocket-wise from the ethereal heights of

love. I was still in an exalted state of mind when I turned and

confronted Locasto. Hate was far from my heart, and when I saw the man

himself was regarding me with no particular unfriendliness, I was

disposed to put aside for the moment all feelings of enmity. The

generosity of the victor glowed within me.

As he advanced to me his manner was almost urbane in its geniality.

"You must forgive me," he said, not without dignity, "for overhearing

you; but by chance I was passing and dropped upon you before I realised

it."

He extended his hand frankly.

"I trust my congratulations on your good luck will not be entirely

obnoxious. I know that my conduct in this affair cannot have impressed

you in a very favourable light; but I am a badly beaten man. Can't you

be generous and let by-gones be by-gones? Won't you?"

I had not yet come down to earth. I was still soaring in the rarefied

heights of love, and inclined to a general amnesty towards my enemies.

As he stood there, quiet and compelling, there was an assumption of

frankness and honesty about this man that it was hard to withstand. For

the nonce I was persuaded of his sincerity, and weakly I surrendered my

hand. His grip made me wince.

"Yes, again I congratulate you. I know and admire her. They don't make

them any better. She's pure gold. She's a little queen, and the man she

cares for ought to be proud and happy. Now, I'm a man of the world, I'm

cynical about woman as a rule. I respect my mother and my

sisters--beyond that----" He shrugged his shoulders expressively.

"But this girl's different. I always felt in her presence as I used to

feel twenty-five years ago when I was a youth, with all my ideals

untarnished, my heart pure, and woman holy in my sight."

He sighed.

"You know, young man, I've never told it to a soul before, but I'd give

all I'm worth--a clear million--to have those days back. I've never been

happy since."

He drew away quickly from the verge of sentiment.

"Well, you mustn't mind me taking an interest in your sweetheart. I'm

old enough to be her father, you know, and she touches me strangely.

Now, don't distrust me. I want to be a friend to you both. I want to

help you to be happy. Jack Locasto's not such a bad lot, as you'll find

when you know him. Is there anything I can do for you? What are you

going to do in this country?"

"I don't quite know yet," I said. "I hope to stake a good claim when the

chance comes. Meantime I'm going to get work on the creeks."

"You are?" he said thoughtfully; "do you know any one?"

"No."

"Well, I'll tell you what: I've got laymen working on my Eldorado claim;

I'll give you a note to them if you like."

I thanked him.

"Oh, that's all right," he said. "I'm sorry I played such a mean part in

the past, and I'll do anything in my power to straighten things out.

Believe me, I mean it. Your English friend gave me the worst drubbing of

my life, but three days after I went round and shook hands with him.

Fine fellow that. We opened a case of wine to celebrate the victory. Oh,

we're good friends now. I always own up when I'm beaten, and I never

bear ill-will. If I can help you in any way, and hasten your marriage to

that little girl there, well, you can just bank on Jack Locasto: that's

all."

I must say the man could be most conciliating when he chose. There was a

gravity in his manner, a suave courtesy in his tone, the heritage of his

Spanish forefathers, that convinced me almost in spite of my better

judgment. No doubt he was magnetic, dominating, a master of men. I

thought: there are two Locastos, the primordial one, the Indian, who had

assaulted me; and the dignified genial one, the Spaniard, who was

willing to own defeat and make amends. Why should I not take him as I

found him?

So, as he talked entertainingly to me, my fears were dissipated, my

suspicions lulled. And when we parted we shook hands cordially.

"Don't forget," he said; "if you want help bank on me. I mean it now, I

mean it."

* * * * *

'Twas early in the bright and cool of the morning when we started for

Eldorado, Jim and I. I had a letter from Locasto to Ribwood and Hoofman,

the laymen, and I showed it to Jim. He frowned.

"You don't mean to say you've palled up with that devil," he said.

"Oh, he's not so bad," I expostulated. "He came to me like a man and

offered me his hand in friendship. Said he was ashamed of himself. What

could I do? I've no reason to doubt his sincerity."

"Sincerity be danged. He's about as sincere as a tame rattlesnake. Put

his letter in the creek."

But no! I refused to listen to the old man.

"Well, go your own gait," he said; "but don't say that I didn't warn

you."

We had crossed over the Klondike to its left limit, and were on a

hillside trail beaten down by the feet of miners and packers. Cabins

clustered on the flat, and from them plumes of violet smoke mounted into

the golden air. Already the camp was astir. Men were chopping their

wood, carrying their water. The long, long day was beginning.

Following the trail, we struck up Bonanza, a small muddy stream in a

narrow valley. Down in the creek-bed we could see ever-increasing signs

of an intense mining activity. On every claim were dozens of cabins, and

many high cones of greyish muck. We saw men standing on raised platforms

turning windlasses. We saw buckets come up filled with the same dark

grey dirt, to be dumped over the edge of the platform. Sometimes, where

the dump had gradually arisen around man and windlass, the platform in

the centre of that dark-greyish cone was twenty feet high.

Every mile the dumps grew more numerous, till some claims seemed covered

with them. Looking down from the trail, they were like innumerable

anthills blocking up the narrow channel, and around them swarmed the

little ant-men in never-resting activity. The golden valley opened out

to us in a vista of green curves, and the cleft of it was packed with

tents, cabins, dumps and tailing piles, all bedded in a blue haze of

wood fires.

"Look at that great centipede striding across the valley," I said.

"Yes," said Jim, "it's a long line of sluice-boxes. See the water

a-shinin' in the sun. Looks like some big golden-backed caterpillar."

The little ants were shovelling into it from one of their heaps, and

from that point it swirled on into the stream, a current of mud and

stone.

"Seems to me that stream would wash away all the gold," I said. "I know

it's all caught in the riffles, but I think if that dump was mine I

would want sluice-boxes a mile long and about sixteen hundred riffles.

But I guess they know what they are doing."

About noon we descended into the creek-bed and came to the Forks. It was

a little town, a Dawson in miniature, with all its sordid aspects

infinitely accentuated. It had dance-halls, gambling dens and many

saloons: every convenience to ease the miner of the plethoric poke.

There in the din and daze and dirt we tarried awhile; then, after eating

heartily, we struck up Eldorado.

Here was the same feverish activity of gold-getting. Every claim was

valued at millions, and men who had rarely owned enough to buy a decent

coat were crying in the saloons because life was not long enough to

allow them to spend their sudden wealth. Nevertheless, they were making

a good stab at it. At the Forks I enquired regarding Ribwood and

Hoofman: "Goin' to work for them, are you? Well, they've got a blamed

hard name. If you get a job elsewhere, don't turn it down."

Jim left me; he would work on no claim of Locasto's, he said. He had a

friend, a layman, who was a good man, belonged to the Army. He would try

him. So we parted.

Ribwood was a tall, gaunt Cornishman, with a narrow, jutting face and a

gloomy air; Hoofman, a burly, beet-coloured Australian with a bulging

stomach.

"Yes, we'll put you to work," said Hoofman, reading the letter. "Get

your coat off and shovel in."

So, right away, I found myself in the dump-pile, jamming a shovel into

the pay-dirt and swinging it into a sluice-box five feet higher than my

head. Keeping at this hour after hour was no fun, and if ever a man

desisted for a moment the hard eyes of Hoofman were upon him, and the

gloomy Ribwood had snatched up a shovel and was throwing in the muck

furiously.

"Come on, boys," he would shout; "make the dirt fly. 'Taint every part

of the world you fellers can make your ten bucks a day."

And it can be said that never labourer proved himself more worthy of his

hire than the pick-and-shovel man of those early days. Few could stand

it long without resting. They were lean as wolves those men of the dump

and drift, and their faces were gouged and grooved with relentless toil.

Well, for three days I made the dirt fly; but towards quitting time, I

must say, its flight was a very uncertain one. Again I suffered all the

tortures of becoming toil-broken, the old aches and pains of the tunnel

and the gravel-pit. Towards evening every shovelful of dirt seemed to

weigh as much as if it was solid gold; indeed, the stuff seemed to get

richer and richer as the day advanced, and during the last half-hour I

judged it must be nearly all nuggets. The constant hoisting into the

overhead sluice-box somehow worked muscles that had never gone into

action before, and I ached elaborately.

In the morning the pains were fiercest. How I groaned until the muscles

became limber. I found myself using very rough language, groaning,

gritting my teeth viciously. But I stayed with the work and held up my

end, while the laymen watched us sedulously, and seemed to grudge us

even a moment to wipe the sweat out of our blinded eyes.

I was glad, indeed, when, on the evening of the third day, Ribwood came

to me and said:

"I guess you'd better work up at the shaft to-morrow. We want a man to

wheel muck."

They had a shaft sunk on the hillside. They were down some forty feet

and were drifting in, wheeling the pay-dirt down a series of planks

placed on trestles to the dump. I gripped the handles of a wheelbarrow

loaded to overspilling, and steered it down that long, unsteady gangway

full of uneven joins and sudden angles. Time and again I ran off the

track, but after the first day I became quite an expert at the business.

My spirits rose. I was on the way of becoming a miner.

CHAPTER IX

Turning the windlass over the shaft was a little, tough mud-rat, who

excited in me the liveliest sense of aversion. Pat Doogan was his name,

but I will call him the "Worm."

The Worm was the foulest-mouthed specimen I have yet met. He had the

lowest forehead I have ever seen in a white man, and such a sharp,

ferrety little face. His reddish hair had the prison clip, and his

little reddish eyes were alive with craft and cruelty. I noticed he

always regarded me with a peculiarly evil grin, that wrinkled up his

cheeks and revealed his hideously blackened teeth. From the first he

gave me a creepy feeling, a disgust as if I were near some slimy

reptile.

Yet the Worm tried to make up to me. He would tell me stories blended of

the horrible and the grotesque. One in particular I remember.

"Youse wanta know how I lost me last job. I'll tell youse. You see, it

was like dis. Dere was two Blackmoor guys dat got into de country dis

Spring; came by St. Michaels; Hindoos dey was. One of dem 'Sicks' (an'

dey looked sick, dey was so loose an' weary in der style) got a job from

old man Gustafson down de shaft muckin' up and fillin' de buckets.

"Well, dere was dat Blackmoor down in de deep hole one day when I comes

along, an' strikes old Gus for a job. So, seein' as de man on de

windlass wanted to quit, he passed it up to me, an' I took right hold

an' started in.

"Say, I was feelin' powerful mean. I'd just finished up a two weeks'

drunk, an' you tink de booze wasn't workin' in me some. I was seein' all

kinds of funny t'ings. Why, as I was a-turnin' away at dat ol' windlass

dere was red spiders crawlin' up me legs. But I was wise. I wouldn't

look at dem, give dem de go-by. Den a yeller rat got gay wid me an' did

some stunts on me windlass. But still I wouldn't let on. Den dere was

some green snakes dat wriggled over de platform like shiny streaks on de

water. Sure, I didn't like dat one bit, but I says, 'Dere ain't no

snakes in de darned country, Pat, and you knows it. It's just a touch of

de horrors, dat's all. Just pass 'em up, boy; don't take no notice of

dem.'

"Well, dis went on till I begins to get all shaky an' jumpy, an' I was

mighty glad when de time came to quit, an' de boys down below gives me

de holler to pull dem up.

"So I started hoistin' wid dose snakes an' spiders an' rats jus'

cavortin' round me like mad, when all to once who should I hoist outa de

bowels of de earth but de very devil himself.

"His face was black. I could see de whites of his eyes, an' he had a big

dirty towel tied round his head. Well, say, it was de limit. At de sight

of dat ferocious monster comin' after old Pat I gives one yell, drops

de crank-handle of de windlass, an' makes a flyin' leap down de dump. I

hears an awful shriek, an' de bucket an' de devil goes down smash to de

bottom of de shaft, t'irty-five feet. But I kep' on runnin'. I was so

scared.

"Well, how was I to know dey had a Blackmoor down dere? He was a stiff

when dey got him up, but how was I to know? So I lost me job."

On another occasion he told me:

"Say, kid, youse didn't know as I was liable to fits, did youse? Dat's

so; eppylepsy de doctor tells me. Dat's what I am scared of. You see,

it's like dis: if one of dem fits should hit me when I'm hoistin' de

boys outer de shaft, den it would be a pity. I would sure lose me job

like de oder time."

He was the most degraded type of man I had yet met on my travels, a

typical degenerate, dirty, drunken, diseased. He had three suits of

underclothing, which he never washed. He would wear through all three in

succession, and when the last got too dirty for words he would throw it

under his trunk and sorrowfully go back to the first, keeping up this

rotation, till all were worn out.

One day Hoofman told me he wanted me to go down the shaft and work in

the drift. Accordingly, next morning I and a huge Slav, by name Dooley

Rileyvich, were lowered down into the darkness.

The Slav initiated me. Every foot of dirt had to be thawed out by means

of wood fires. We built a fire at the far end of the drift every night,

covering the face we were working. First we would lay kindling, then

dry spruce lying lengthways, then a bank of green wood standing on end

to keep in the heat and shed the dirt that sloughed down from the roof.

In the morning our fire would be burned out, and enough pay-dirt thawed

to keep us picking all day.

Down there I found it the hardest work of all. We had to be careful that

the smoke had cleared from the drift before we ventured in, for

frequently miners were asphyxiated. Indeed, the bad air never went

entirely away. It made my eyes sore, my head ache. Yet, curiously

enough, so long as you were below it did not affect you so much. It was

when you stepped out of the bucket and struck the pure outer air that

you reeled and became dizzy. It was blinding, too. Often at supper have

my eyes been so blurred and sore I had to grope around uncertainly for

the sugar bowl and the tin of cream.

In the drift it was always cool. The dirt kept sloughing down on us, and

we had really gone in too far for our own safety, but the laymen cared

little for that. At the end of the drift the roof was so low we were

bent almost double, picking at the face in all kinds of cramped

positions, and dragging after us the heavy bucket. To the big Slav it

was all in the day's work, but to me it was hard, hard.

The shaft was almost forty feet deep. For the first ten feet a ladder

ran down it, then stopped suddenly as if the excavators had decided to

abandon it. I often looked at this useless bit of ladder and wondered

why it had been left unfinished.

Every morning the Worm hoisted us down into the darkness, and at night

drew us up. Once he said to me:

"Say, wouldn't it be de tough luck if I was to take a fit when I was

hoistin' youse up? Such a nice bit of a boy, too, an' I guess I'd lose

my job over de head of it."

I said: "Cut that out, or you'll have me so scared I won't go down."

He grinned unpleasantly and said nothing more. Yet somehow he was

getting on my nerves terribly.

It was one evening we had banked our fires and were ready to be hoisted

up. Dooley Rileyvich went first, and I watched him blot out the bit of

blue for a while. Then, slowly, down came the bucket for me.

I got in. I was feeling uneasy all of a sudden, and devoutly wished I

were anywhere else but in that hideous hole. I felt myself leave the

ground and rise steadily. The walls of the shaft glided past me. Up, up

I went. The bit of blue sky grew bigger, bigger. There was a star

shining there. I watched it. I heard the creak, creak of the windlass

crank. Somehow it seemed to have a sinister sound. It seemed to say:

"Have a care, have a care, have a care." I was now ten feet from the

top. The bucket was rocking a little, so I put out my hand and grasped

the lowest rung of the ladder to steady myself.

Then, at that instant, it seemed the weight of the bucket pressing up

against my feet was suddenly removed, and my arm was nigh jerked out of

its socket. There I was hanging desperately on the lowest rung of the

ladder, while, with a crash that made my heart sick, the bucket dashed

to the bottom. At last, I realised, the Worm had had his fit.

Quickly I gripped with both hands. With a great effort I raised myself

rung by rung on the ladder. I was panic-stricken, faint with fear; but

some instinct had made me hold on desperately. Dizzily I hung all

a-shudder, half-sobbing. A minute seemed like a year.

Ah! there was the face of Dooley looking down on me. He saw me clinging

there. He was anxiously shouting to me to come up. Mastering an

overpowering nausea I raised myself. At last I felt his strong arm

around me, and here I swear it on a stack of Bibles that brutish Slav

seemed to me like one of God's own angels.

I was on firm ground once more. The Worm was lying stiff and rigid.

Without a word the stalwart Slav took him on his brawny shoulder. The

creek was downhill but fifty yards. Ere we reached it the Worm had

begun to show signs of reviving consciousness. When we got to the edge

of the icy water he was beginning to groan and open his eyes in a dazed

way.

"Leave me alone," he says to Rileyvich; "you Slavonian swine, lemme go."

Not so the Slav. Holding the wriggling, writhing little man in his

powerful arms he plunged him heels over head in the muddy current of the

creek.

"I guess I cure dose fits anyway," he said grimly.

Struggling, spluttering, blaspheming, the little man freed himself at

last and staggered ashore. He cursed Rileyvich most comprehensively. He

had not yet seen me, and I heard him wailing:

"Sure de boy's a stiff. Just me luck; I've lost me job."

CHAPTER X

"You'd better quit," said the Prodigal.

It was the evening of my mishap, and he had arrived unexpectedly from

town.

"Yes, I mean to," I answered. "I wouldn't go down there again for a

farm. I feel as weak as a sick baby. I couldn't stay another day."

"Well, that goes," said he. "It just fits in with my plans. I'm getting

Jim to come in, too. I've realised on that stuff I bought, made over

three thousand clear profit, and with it I've made a dicker for a

property on the bench above Bonanza, Gold Hill they call it. I've a

notion it's all right. Anyway, we'll tunnel in and see. You and Jim will

have a quarter share each for your work, while I'll have an extra

quarter for the capital I've put in. Is it a go?"

I said it was.

"Thought it would be. I've had the papers made out; you can sign right

now."

So I signed, and next day found us all three surveying our claim. We put

up a tent, but the first thing to do was to build a cabin. Right away we

began to level off the ground. The work was pleasant, and conducted in

such friendship that the time passed most happily. Indeed, my only worry

was about Berna. She had never ceased to be at the forefront of my mind.

I schooled myself into the belief that she was all right, but, thank

God, every moment was bringing her nearer to me.

One morning, when we were out in the woods cutting timber for the cabin,

I said to Jim:

"Did you ever hear anything more about that man Mosely?"

He stopped chopping, and lowered the axe he had poised aloft.

"No, boy; I've had no mail at all. Wait awhile."

He swung his axe with viciously forceful strokes. His cheery face had

become so downcast that I bitterly blamed myself for my want of tact.

However, the cloud soon passed.

About two days after that the Prodigal said to me:

"I saw your little guttersnipe friend to-day."

"Indeed, where?" I asked; for I had often thought of the Worm, thought

of him with fear and loathing.

"Well, sir, he was just getting the grandest dressing-down I ever saw a

man get. And do you know who was handing it to him--Locasto, no less."

He lit a cigarette and inhaled the smoke.

"I was just coming along the trail from the Forks when I suddenly heard

voices in the bush. The big man was saying:

"'Lookee here, Pat, you know if I just liked to say half a dozen words I

could land you in the penitentiary for the rest of your days.'

"Then the little man's wheedling voice:

"'Well, I did me best, Jack. I know I bungled the job, but youse don't

want to cast dem t'ings up to me. Dere's more dan me orter be in de

pen. Dere's no good in de pot callin' de kettle black, is dere?'

"Then Black Jack flew off the handle. You know he's got a system of

manhandling that's near the record in these parts. Well, he just landed

on the little man. He got him down and started to lambast the Judas out

of him. He gave him the 'leather,' and then some. I guess he'd have done

him to a finish hadn't I been Johnnie on the spot. At sight of me he

gives a curse, jumps on his horse and goes off at a canter. Well, I

propped the little man against a tree, and then some fellows came along,

and we got him some brandy. But he was badly done up. He kept saying:

'Oh, de devil, de big devil, sure I'll give him his before I get

t'rough.' Funny, wasn't it?"

"Yes, it's strange;" and for some time I pondered over the remarkable

strangeness of it.

"That reminds me," said Jim; "has any one seen the Jam-wagon?"

"Oh yes," answered the Prodigal; "poor beggar! he's down and out. After

the fight he went to pieces, every one treating him, and so on. You

remember Bullhammer?"

"Yes."

"Well, the last I saw of the Jam-wagon--he was cleaning cuspidors in

Bullhammer's saloon."

* * * * *

We had hauled the logs for the cabin, and the foundation was laid. Now

we were building up the walls, placing between every log a thick

wadding of moss. Every day saw our future home nearer completion.

One evening I spied the saturnine Ribwood climbing the hill to our tent.

He hailed me:

"Say, you're just the man I want."

"What for?" I asked; "not to go down that shaft again?"

"No. Say! we want a night watchman up at the claim to go on four hours a

night at a dollar an hour. You see, there's been a lot of sluice-box

robberies lately, and we're scared for our clean-up. We're running two

ten-hour shifts now and cleaning up every three days; but there's four

hours every night the place is deserted, and Hoofman proposed we should

get you to keep watch."

"Yes," I said; "I'll run up every evening if the others don't object."

They did not; so the next night, and for about a dozen after that, I

spent the darkest hours watching on the claim where previously I had

worked.

There was never any real darkness down there in that narrow valley, but

there was dusk of a kind that made everything grey and uncertain. It was

a vague, nebulous atmosphere in which objects merged into each other

confusedly. Bushes came down to within a few feet of where we were

working, dense-growing alder and birch that would have concealed a whole

regiment of sluice-robbers.

It was the dimmest and most uncertain hour of the four, and I was

sitting at my post of guard. As the night was chilly I had brought

along an old grey blanket, similar in colour to the mound of the

pay-dirt. There had been quite a cavity dug in the dump during the day,

and into this I crawled and wrapped myself in my blanket. From my

position I could see the string of boxes containing the riffles. Over me

brooded the vast silence of the night. By my side lay a loaded shot-gun.

"If the swine comes," said Ribwood, "let him have a clean-up of lead

instead of gold."

Lying there, I got to thinking of the robberies. They were remarkable.

All had been done by an expert. In some cases the riffles had been

extracted and the gold scooped out; in others a quantity of mercury had

been poured in at the upper end of the boxes, and, as it passed down,

the "quick" had gathered up the dust. Each time the robbers had cleaned

up from two to three thousand dollars, and all within the past month.

There was some mysterious master-crook in our midst, one who operated

swiftly and surely, and left absolutely no clue of his identity.

It was strange, I thought. What nerve, what cunning, what skill must

this midnight thief be possessed of! What desperate chances was he

taking! For, in the miners' eyes, cache-stealing and sluice-box robbing

were in the same category, and the punishment was--well, a rope and the

nearest tree of size. Among those strong, grim men justice would be

stern and swift.

I was very quiet for a while, watching dreamily the dark shadows of the

dusk.

Hist! What was that? Surely the bushes were moving over there by the

hillside. I strained my eyes. I was right: they were.

I was all nerves and excitement now, my heart beating wildly, my eyes

boring through the gloom. Very softly I put out my hand and grasped the

shot-gun.

I watched and waited. A man was parting the bushes. Stealthily, very

stealthily, he peered around. He hesitated, paused, peered again,

crouched on all-fours, crept forward a little. Everything was quiet as a

grave. Down in the cabins the tired men slept peacefully; stillness and

solitude.

Cautiously the man, crawling like a snake, worked his way to the

sluice-boxes. None but a keen watcher could have seen him. Again and

again he paused, peered around, listened intently. Very carefully, with

my eyes fixed on him, I lifted the gun.

Now he had gained the shadow of the nearest sluice-box. He clung to the

trestle-work, clung so closely you could scarce tell him apart from it.

He was like a rat, dark, furtive, sinister. Slowly I lifted the gun to

my shoulder. I had him covered.

I waited. Somehow I was loath to shoot. My nerves were a-quiver. Proof,

more proof, I said. I saw him working busily, lying flat alongside the

boxes. How crafty, how skilful he was! He was disconnecting the boxes.

He would let the water run to the ground; then, there in the exposed

riffles, would be his harvest. Would I shoot ... now ... now....

Then, in the midnight hush, my gun blazed forth. With one scream the man

tumbled down, carrying along with him the disconnected box. The water

rushed over the ground in a deluge. I must capture him. There he lay in

that pouring stream.... Now I had him.

In that torrent of icy water I grappled with my man. Over and over we

rolled. He tried to gouge me. He was small, but oh, how strong! He held

down his face. Fiercely I wrenched it up to the light. Heavens! it was

the Worm.

I gave a cry of surprise, and my clutch on him must have weakened, for

at that moment he gave a violent wrench, a cat-like twist, and tore

himself free. Men were coming, were shouting, were running in from all

directions.

"Catch him!" I cried. "Yonder he goes."

But the little man was shooting forward like a deer. He was in the

bushes now, bursting through everything, dodging and twisting up the

hill. Right and left ran his pursuers, mistaking each other for the

robber in the semi-gloom, yelling frantically, mad with the excitement

of a man-hunt. And in the midst of it all I lay in a pool of mud and

water, with a sprained wrist and a bite on my leg.

"Why didn't you hold him?" shouted Ribwood.

"I couldn't," I answered. "I saved your clean-up, and he got some of the

lead. Besides, I know who he is."

"You don't! Who is he?"

"Pat Doogan."

"You don't say. Well, I'm darned. You're sure?"

"Dead sure."

"Swear it in Court?"

"I will."

"Well, that's all right. We'll get him. I'll go into town first thing in

the morning and get out a warrant for him."

He went, but the next evening back he returned, looking very surly and

disgruntled.

"Well, what about the warrant?" said Hoofman.

"Didn't get it."

"Didn't get----"

"No, didn't get it," snapped Ribwood. "Look here, Hoofman, I met

Locasto. Black Jack says Pat was cached away, dead to all the world, in

the backroom of the Omega Saloon all night. There's two loafers and the

barkeeper to back him up. What can we do in the face of that? Say, young

feller, I guess you mistook your man."

"I guess I did not," I protested stoutly.

They both looked at me for a moment and shrugged their shoulders.

CHAPTER XI

Time went on and the cabin was quietly nearing completion. The roof of

poles was in place. It only remained to cover it with moss and

thawed-out earth to make it our future home. I think these were the

happiest days I spent in the North. We were such a united trio. Each was

eager to do more than the other, and we vied in little acts of mutual

consideration.

Once again I congratulated myself on my partners. Jim, though sometimes

bellicosely evangelical, was the soul of kindly goodness, cheerfulness

and patience. It was refreshing to know among so many sin-calloused men

one who always rang true, true as the gold in the pan. As for the

Prodigal, he was a Prince. I often thought that God at the birth of him

must have reached out to the sunshine and crammed a mighty handful of it

into the boy. Surely it is better than all the riches in the world to

have a temperament of eternal cheer.

As for me, I have ever been at the mercy of my moods, easily elated,

quickly cast down. I have always been abnormally sensitive, affected by

sunshine and by shadows, vacillating, intense in my feelings. I was

truly happy in those days, finding time in the long evenings to think of

the scenes of stress and sorrow I had witnessed, reconstructing the

past, and having importune me again and again the many characters in my

life drama.

Always and always I saw the Girl, elusively sweet, almost unreal, a

thing to enshrine in that ideal alcove of our hearts we keep for our

saints. (And God help us always to keep shining there a great light.)

Many others importuned me: Pinklove, Globstock, Pondersby, Marks, old

Wilovich, all dead; Bullhammer, the Jam-wagon, Mosher, the Winklesteins,

plunged in the vortex of the gold-born city; and lastly, looming over

all, dark and ominous, the handsome, bold, sinister face of Locasto.

Well, maybe I would never see any of them again.

Yet more and more my dream hours were jealously consecrated to Berna.

How ineffably sweet were they! How full of delicious imaginings! How

pregnant of high hope! O, I was born to love, I think, and I never loved

but one. This story of my life is the story of Berna. It is a thing of

words and words and words, yet every word is Berna, Berna. Feel the

heartache behind it all. Read between the lines, Berna, Berna.

Often in the evenings we went to the Forks, which was a lively place

indeed. Here was all the recklessness and revel of Dawson on a smaller

scale, and infinitely more gross. Here were the dance-hall girls, not

the dazzling creatures in diamonds and Paris gowns, the belles of the

Monte Carlo and the Tivoli, but drabs self-convicted by their coarse,

puffy faces. Here the men, fresh from their day's work, the mud of the

claim hardly dry on their boot-tops, were buying wine with nuggets they

had filched from sluice-box, dump and drift.

There was wholesale robbery going on in the gold-camp. On many claims

where the owners were known to be unsuspicious, men would work for small

wages because of the gold they were able to filch. On the other hand,

many of the operators were paying their men in trade-dust valued at

sixteen dollars an ounce, yet so adulterated with black sand as to be

really worth about fourteen. All these things contributed to the low

morale of the camp. Easy come, easy go with money, a wild intoxication

of success in the air; gold gouged in glittering heaps from the ground

during the day, and at night squandered in a carnival of lust and sin.

The Prodigal was always "snooping" around and gleaning information from

most mysterious sources. One evening he came to us.

"Boys, get ready, quick. There's a rumour of a stampede for a new creek,

Ophir Creek they call it, away on the other side of the divide

somewhere. A prospector went down ten feet and got fifty-cent dirt.

We've got to get in on this. There's a mob coming from Dawson, but we'll

get there before the rush."

Quickly we got together blankets and a little grub, and, keeping out of

sight, we crawled up the hill under cover of the brush. Soon we came to

a place from which we could command a full view of the valley. Here we

lay down, awaiting developments.

It was at the hour of dusk. Scarfs of smoke wavered over the cabins down

in the valley. On the far slope of Eldorado I saw a hawk soar upwards.

Surely a man was moving amid the brush, two men, a dozen men, moving in

single file very stealthily. I pointed them out.

"It's the stampede," whispered Jim. "We've got to get on to the trail of

that crowd. Travel like blazes. We can cut them off at the head of the

valley."

So we struck into the stampede gait, a wild, jolting, desperate pace,

that made the wind pant in our lungs like bellows, and jarred our bones

in their sockets. Through brush and scrub timber we burst. Thorny vines

tore at us detainingly, swampy niggerheads impeded us; but the

excitement of the stampede was in our blood, and we plunged down

gulches, floundered over marshes, climbed steep ridges and crashed

through dense masses of underwood.

"Throw away your blankets, boys," said the Prodigal. "Just keep a little

grub. Eldorado was staked on a stampede. Maybe we're in on another

Eldorado. We must connect with that bunch if we break our necks."

It was hours after when we overtook them, about a dozen men, all in the

maddest hurry, and casting behind them glances of furtive apprehension.

When they saw us they were hugely surprised. Ribwood was one of the

party.

"Hello," he says roughly; "any more coming after you boys?"

"Don't see them," said the Prodigal breathlessly. "We spied you and

cottoned on to what was up, so we made a fierce hike to get in on it.

Gee, I'm all tuckered out."

"All right, get in line. I guess there's lots for us all. You're in on a

good thing, all right. Come along."

So off we started again. The leader was going like one possessed. We

blundered on behind. We were on the other side of the divide looking

into another vast valley. What a magnificent country it was! What a

great manoeuvring-ground it would make for an army! What splendid

open spaces, and round smooth hills, and dimly blue valleys, and silvery

winding creeks! It was veritably a park of the Gods, and enclosing it

was the monstrous, corrugated palisade of the Rockies.

But there was small time to look around. On we went in the same mad,

heart-breaking hurry, mile after mile, hour after hour.

"This is going to be a banner creek, boys," the whisper ran down the

line. "We're in luck. We'll all be Klondike Kings yet."

Cheering, wasn't it? So on we went, hotter than ever, content to follow

the man of iron who was guiding us to the virgin treasure.

We had been pounding along all night, up hill and down dale. The sun

rose, the dawn blossomed, the dew dried on the blueberry; it was

morning. Still we kept up our fierce gait. Would our leader never come

to his destination? By what roundabout route was he guiding us? The sun

climbed up in the blue sky, the heat quivered; it was noon. We panted as

we pelted on, parched and weary, faint and footsore. The excitement of

the stampede had sustained us, and we scarcely had noted the flight of

time. We had been walking for fourteen hours, yet not a man faltered. I

was ready to drop with fatigue; my feet were a mass of blisters, and

every step was intolerable pain to me. But still our leader kept on.

"I guess we'll fool those trying to follow us," snapped Ribwood grimly.

Suddenly the Prodigal said to me: "Say, you boys will have to go on

without me. I'm all in. Go ahead, I'll follow after I'm rested up."

He dropped in a limp heap on the ground and instantly fell asleep.

Several of the others had dropped out too. They fell asleep where they

gave up, utterly exhausted. We had now been going sixteen hours, and

still our leader kept on.

"You're pretty tough for a youngster," growled one of them to me. "Keep

it up, we're almost there."

So I hobbled along painfully, though the desire to throw myself down was

becoming imperative. Just ahead was Jim, sturdily holding his own. The

others were reduced to a bare half-dozen.

It was about four in the afternoon when we reached the creek. Up it our

leader plunged, till he came to a place where a rude shaft had been dug.

We gathered around him. He was a typical prospector, a child of hope,

lean, swarthy, clear-eyed.

"Here it is, boys," he said. "Here's my discovery stake. Now you fellows

go up or down, anywhere you've a notion to, and put in your stakes. You

all know what a lottery it is. Maybe you'll stake a million-dollar

claim, maybe a blank. Mining's all a gamble. But go ahead, boys. I wish

you luck."

So we strung out, and, coming in rotation, Jim and I staked seven and

eight below discovery.

"Seven's a lucky number for me," said Jim; "I've a notion this claim's a

good one."

"I don't care," I said, "for all the gold in the world. What I want is

sleep, sleep, rest and sleep."

So I threw myself down on a bit of moss, and, covering my head with my

coat to ward off the mosquitoes, in a few minutes I was dead to the

world.

CHAPTER XII

I was awakened by the Prodigal.

"Rouse up," he was saying; "you've slept right round the clock. We've

got to get back to town and record those claims. Jim's gone three hours

ago."

It was five o'clock of a crystal Yukon morning, with the world clear-cut

and fresh as at the dawn of Things. I was sleep-stupid, sore, stiff in

every joint. Racking pains made me groan at every movement, and the

chill night air had brought on twinges of rheumatism. I looked at my

location stake, beside which I had fallen.

"I can't do it," I said; "my feet are out of business."

"You must," he insisted. "Come, buck up, old man. Bathe your feet in the

creek, and then you'll feel as fit as a fighting-cock. We've got to get

into town hot-foot. They've got a bunch of crooks at the gold office,

and we're liable to lose our claims if we are late."

"Have you staked, too?"

"You bet. I've got thirteen below. Hurry up. There's a wild bunch coming

from town."

I groaned grievously, yet felt mighty refreshed by a dip in the creek.

Then we started off once more. Every few moments we would meet parties

coming post-haste from town. They looked worn and jaded, but spread

eagerly up and down. There must have been several hundred of them, all

sustained by the mad excitement of the stampede.

We did not take the circuitous route of the day before, but one that

shortened the distance by some ten miles. We travelled a wild country,

crossing unknown creeks that have since proved gold-bearing, and

climbing again the high ridge of the divide. Then once more we dropped

down into the Bonanza basin, and by nightfall we had reached our own

cabin.

We lay down for a few hours. It seemed my weary head had just touched

the pillow when once more the inexorable Prodigal awakened me.

"Come on, kid, we've got to get to Dawson when the recording office

opens." So once more we pelted down Bonanza. Fast as we had come, we

found many of those who had followed us were ahead. The North is the

land of the musher. In that pure, buoyant air a man can walk away from

himself. Any one of us thought nothing of a fifty-mile tramp, and one of

eighty was scarcely considered notable.

It was about nine in the morning when we got to the gold office. Already

a crowd of stampeders were waiting. Foremost in the crowd I saw Jim. The

Prodigal looked thoughtful.

"Look here," he said, "I guess it's all right to push in with that

bunch, but there's a slicker way of doing it for those that are 'next.'

Of course, it's not according to Hoyle. There's a little side-door where

you can get in ahead of the gang. See that fellow, Ten-Dollar Jim they

call him; well, they say he can work the oracle for us."

"No," I said, "you can pay him ten dollars if you like. I'll take my

chance in the regulation way."

So the Prodigal slipped away from me, and presently I saw him admitted

at the side entrance. Surely, thought I, there must be some mistake. The

public would not "stand for" such things.

There was quite a number ahead of me, and I knew I was in for a long

wait. I will never forget it. For three days, with the exception of two

brief sleep-spells, I had been in a fierce helter-skelter of excitement,

and I had eaten no very satisfying food. As I stood in that sullen crowd

I swayed with weariness, and my legs were doubling under me. Invisible

hands were dragging me down, throwing dust in my eyes, hypnotising me

with soporific gestures. I staggered forward and straightened up

suddenly. On the outskirts of the crowd I saw the Prodigal trying to

locate me. When he saw me he waved a paper.

"Come on, you goat," he shouted; "have a little sense. I'm all fixed

up."

I shook my head. An odd sense of fair play in me made me want to win the

game squarely. I would wait my turn. Noon came. I saw Jim coming out,

tired but triumphant.

"All right," he megaphoned to me; "I'm through. Now I'll go and sleep my

head off."

How I envied him. I felt I, too, had a "big bunch" of sleep coming to

me. I was moving forward slowly. Bit by bit I was wedging nearer the

door. I watched man after man push past the coveted threshold. They

were all miners, brawny, stubble-chinned fellows with grim, determined

faces. I was certainly the youngest there.

"What have you got?" asked a thick-set man on my right.

"Eight below," I answered.

"Gee! you're lucky."

"What'll you take for it?" asked a tall, keen-looking fellow on my left.

"Five thousand."

"Give you two."

"No."

"Well, come round and see me to-morrow at the Dominion, and we'll talk

it over. My name's Gunson. Bring your papers."

"All right."

Something like dizziness seized me. Five thousand! The crowd seemed to

be composed of angels and the sunshine to have a new and brilliant

quality of light and warmth. Five thousand! Would I take it? If the

claim was worth a cent it ought to be worth fifty thousand. I soared on

rosy wings of optimism. I revelled in dreams. My claim! Mine! Eight

below! Other men had bounded into affluence. Why not I?

No longer did I notice the flight of time. I was ready to wait till

doomsday. A new lease of strength came to me. I was near the wicket now.

Only two were ahead of me. A clerk was recording their claims. One had

thirty-four above, the other fifty-two below. The clerk looked

flustered, fatigued. His dull eyes were pursy with midnight debauches;

his flesh sagged. In contrast with the clean, hard, hawk-eyed miners, he

looked blotched and unwholesome.

Crossly he snatched from the other two their miner's certificates, made

the entries in his book, and gave them their receipts. It was my turn

now. I dashed forward eagerly. Then I stopped, for the man with the

bleary eyes had shut the wicket in my face.

"Three o'clock," he snapped.

"Couldn't you take mine?" I faltered; "I've been waiting now these

seven hours."

"Closing time," he ripped out still more tartly; "come again to-morrow."

There was a growling thunder from the crowd behind, and the weary,

disappointed stampeders slouched away.

Body and soul of me craved for sleep. Beyond an overwhelming desire for

rest, I was conscious of nothing else. My eyelids were weighted with

lead. I lagged along dejectedly. At the hotel I saw the Prodigal.

"Get fixed up?"

"No, too late."

"You'd better take advantage of the general corruption and the services

of Ten-Dollar Jim."

I was disheartened, disgusted, desperate.

"I will," I said. Then, throwing myself on the bed, I launched on a

dreamless sea of sleep.

CHAPTER XIII

Next morning bright and early found me at the side-door, and the tall man

admitted me. I slipped a ten-dollar gold piece into his palm, and

presently found myself waiting at the yet unopened wicket. Outside I

could see the big crowd gathering for their weary wait. I felt a

sneaking sense of meanness, but I did not have long to enjoy my

despicable sensations.

The recording clerk came to the wicket. He was very red-faced and

watery-eyed. Involuntarily I turned my head away at the reek of his

breath.

"I want to record eight below on Ophir," I said.

He looked at me curiously. He hesitated.

"What name?" he asked.

I gave it. He turned up his book.

"Eight below, you say. Why, that's already recorded."

"Can't be," I retorted. "I just got down from there yesterday after

planting my stakes."

"Can't help it. It's recorded by some one else, recorded early

yesterday."

"Look here," I exclaimed; "what kind of a game are you putting up on me?

I tell you I was the first on the ground. I alone staked the claim."

"That's strange," he said. "There must be some mistake. Anyway, you'll

have to move on and let the others get up to the wicket. You're

blocking the way. All I can do is to look into the matter for you, and

I've got no time now. Come back to-morrow. Next, please."

The next man pushed me aside, and there I stood, gaping and gasping. A

man in the waiting line looked at me pityingly.

"It's no use, young fellow; you'd better make up your mind to lose that

claim. They'll flim-flam you out of it somehow. They've sent some one

out now to stake over you. If you kick, they'll say you didn't stake

proper."

"But I have witnesses."

"It don't matter if you call the Angel Gabriel to witness, they're going

to grab your claim. Them government officials is the crookedest bunch

that ever made fuel for hell-fire. You won't get a square deal; they're

going to get the fat anyhow. They've got the best claims spotted, an'

men posted to jump them at the first chance. Oh, they're feathering

their nests all right. They're like a lot of greedy pike just waiting to

gobble down all they can. A man can't buy wine at twenty dollars per,

and make dance-hall Flossies presents of diamond tararas on a government

salary. That's what a lot of them are doing. Wine and women, and their

wives an' daughters outside thinkin' they're little tin gods. Somehow

they've got to foot the bill. Oh, it's a great country."

I was stunned with disappointment.

"What you want," he continued, "is to get a pull with some of the

officials. Why, there's friends of mine don't need to go out of town to

stake a claim. Only the other day a certain party known to me, went

to--well, I mustn't mention names, anyway, he's high up in the

government, and a friend of Quebec Suzanne's,--and says to him,'I want

you to get number so and so on Hunker recorded for me. Of course I

haven't been able to get out there, but--'

"The government bug puts his hands to his ears. 'Don't give me any

unnecessary information,' he says; 'you want so and so recorded, Sam.

Well, that's all right. I'll fix it.'

"That was all there was to it, and when next day a man comes in

post-haste claiming to have staked it, it was there recorded in Sam's

name. Get a stand-in, young fellow."

"But surely," I said, "somehow, somewhere there must be justice. Surely

if these facts were represented at Ottawa and proof forthcoming----"

"Ottawa!" He gave a sniffing laugh. "Ottawa! Why, it's some of the big

guns at Ottawa that's gettin' the cream of it all. The little fellows

are just lapping up the drips. Look at them big concessions they're

selling for a song, good placer ground that would mean pie to the poor

miner, closed tight and everlastingly tied up. How is it done? Why,

there's some politician at the bottom of the whole business. Look at the

liquor permits--crude alcohol sent into the country by the thousand

gallons, diluted to six times its bulk, and sold to the poor prospector

for whisky at a dollar a drink. An' you can't pour your own drinks at

that."

"Well," I said, "I'm not going to be cheated out of my claim. If I've

got to move Heaven and earth----"

"You'll do nothing of the kind. If you get sassy there's the police to

put the lid on you. You can talk till you're purple round the gills. It

won't cut no figure. They've got us all cinched. We've just got to take

our medicine. It's no use goin' round bellyaching. You'd better go away

and sit down."

And I did.

CHAPTER XIV

I had to see Berna at once. Already I had paid a visit to the Paragon

Restaurant, that new and glittering place of resort run by the

Winklesteins, but she was not on duty. I saw Madam, resplendent in her

false jewellery, with her beetle-black hair elaborately coiffured, and

her large, bold face handsomely enamelled. She looked the picture of

fleshy prosperity, a big handsome Jewess, hawk-eyed and rapacious. In

the background hovered Winklestein, his little, squeezed-up, tallowy

face beaded with perspiration. But he was dressed quite superbly, and

his moustache was more wondrously waxed than ever.

I mingled with the crowd of miners, and in my rough garb, swarthy and

bearded as I was, the Jewish couple did not know me. As I paid her,

Madam gave me a sharp glance. But there was no recognisant gleam in her

eyes.

In the evening I returned. I took a seat in one of the curtained boxes.

At the long lunch-counter rough-necked fellows perched on tripod stools

were guzzling food. The place was brilliantly lit up, many-mirrored and

flashily ornate in gilt and white. The bill of fare was elaborate, the

prices exalted. In the box before me a white-haired lawyer was

entertaining a lady of easy virtue; in the box behind, a larrikin

quartette from the Pavilion Theatre were holding high revelry. There

was no mistaking the character of the place. In the heart of the city's

tenderloin it was a haunt of human riff-raff, a palace of gilt and

guilt, a first scene in the nightly comedy of "The Lobster."

I was feeling profoundly depressed, miserable, disgusted with

everything. For the first time I began to regret ever leaving home. Out

on the creeks I was happy. Here in the town the glaring corruption of

things jarred on my nerves.

And it was in this place Berna worked. She waited on these wantons; she

served those swine. She heard their loose talk, their careless oaths.

She saw them foully drunk, staggering off to their shameful

assignations. She knew everything. O, it was pitiful; it sickened me to

the soul. I sat down and buried my face in my hands.

"Order, please."

I knew that sweet voice. It thrilled me, and I looked up suddenly. There

was Berna standing before me.

She gave a quick start, then recovered herself. A look of delight came

into her eyes, eager, vivid delight.

"My, how you frightened me, I wasn't expecting you. Oh, I am so glad to

see you again."

I looked at her. I was conscious of a change in her, and the

consciousness came with a sense of shearing pain.

"Berna," I said, "what are you doing with that paint on your face?"

"Oh, I'm sorry." She was rubbing distressfully at a dab of rouge on her

cheek. "I knew you would be cross, but I had to; they made me. They said

I looked like a spectre at the feast with my chalk face; I frightened

away the customers. It's just a little pink,--all the women do it. It

makes me look happier, and it doesn't hurt me any."

"What I want is to see in your cheeks, dear, the glow of health, not the

flush of a cosmetic. However, never mind. How are you?"

"Pretty well----" hesitatingly.

"Berna," boomed the rough, contumacious voice of Madam, "attend to the

customers."

"All right," I said; "get me anything. I just wanted to see you."

She hurried away. I saw her go behind the curtains of one of the closed

boxes carrying a tray of dishes. I heard coarse voices chaffing her. I

saw her come out, her cheeks flushed, yet not with rouge. A miner had

tried to detain her. Somehow it all made me writhe, agitated me so that

I could hardly keep my seat.

Presently she came hurrying round, bringing me some food.

"When can I see you, girl?" I asked.

"To-night. See me home. I'm off at midnight."

"All right. I'll be waiting."

She was kept very busy, and, though once or twice a tipsy roysterer

ventured on some rough pleasantry, I noticed with returning satisfaction

that most of the big, bearded miners treated her with chivalrous

respect. She was quite friendly with them. They called her by name, and

seemed to have a genuine affection for her. There was a protective

manliness in the manner of these men that reassured me. So I swallowed

my meal and left the place.

"That's a good little girl," said a grizzled old fellow to me, as he

stood picking his teeth energetically outside the restaurant. "Straight

as a string, and there ain't many up here you can say that of. If any

one was to try any monkey business with that little girl, sir, there's a

dozen of the boys would make him a first-rate case for the hospital

ward. Yes, siree, that's a jim-dandy little girl. I just wish she was my

darter."

In my heart I blessed him for his words, and pressed on him a fifty-cent

cigar.

Again I wandered up and down the now familiar street, but the keen edge

of my impression had been blunted. I no longer took the same interest in

its sights. More populous it was, noisier, livelier than ever. In the

gambling-annex of the Paystreak Saloon was Mr. Mosher shuffling and

dealing methodically. Everywhere I saw flushed and excited miners, each

with his substantial poke of dust. It was usually as big as a

pork-sausage, yet it was only his spending-poke. Safely in the bank he

had cached half a dozen of them ten times as big.

These were the halcyon days. Success was in the air. Men were drunk with

it; carried off their feet, delirious. Money! It had lost its value.

Every one you met was "lousy" with it; threw it away with both hands,

and fast as they emptied one pocket it filled up the others. Little

wonder a mad elation, a semi-frenzy of prodigality prevailed, for every

day the golden valley was pouring into the city a seemingly exhaustless

stream of treasure.

I saw big Alec, one of the leading operators, coming down the street

with his men. He carried a Winchester, and he had a pack-train of

burros, each laden down with gold. At the bank flushed and eager mobs

were clamouring to have their pokes weighed. In buckets, coal-oil cans,

every kind of receptacle, lay the precious dust. Sweating clerks were

handling it as carelessly as a grocer handles sugar. Goldsmiths were

making it into wonders of barbaric jewellery. There seemed no limit to

the camp's wealth. Every one was mad, and the demi-mondaine was queen of

all.

I saw Hewson and Mervin. They had struck it rich on a property they had

bought on Hunker. Fortune was theirs.

"Come and have a drink," said Hewson. Already he had had many. His face

was relaxed, flushed, already showing signs of a flabby degeneration. In

this man of iron sudden success was insidiously at work, enervating his

powers.

Mervin, too. I caught a glimpse of him, in the doorway of the Green Bay

Tree. The Maccaroni Kid had him in tow, and he was buying wine.

I looked in vain for Locasto. He was on a big debauch, they told me.

Viola Lennoir had "got him going."

At midnight, at the door of the Paragon, I was waiting in a fever of

impatience when Berna came out.

"I'm living up at the cabin," she said; "you can walk with me as far as

that. That is, if you want to," she added coquettishly.

She was very bright and did most of the talking. She showed a vast joy

at seeing me.

"Tell me what you've been doing, dear--everything. Have you made a

stake? So many have. I have prayed you would, too. Then we'll go away

somewhere and forget all this. We'll go to Italy, where it's always

beautiful. We'll just live for each other. Won't we, honey?"

She nestled up to me. She seemed to have lost much of her shyness. I

don't know why, but I preferred my timid, shrinking Berna.

"It will take a whole lot to make me forget this," I said grimly.

"Yes, I know. Isn't it frightful? Somehow I don't seem to mind so much

now. I'm getting used to it, I suppose. But at first--O, it was

terrible! I thought I never could stand it. It's wonderful how we get

accustomed to things, isn't it?"

"Yes," I answered bitterly.

"You know, those rough miners are good to me. I'm a queen among them,

because they know I'm--all right. I've had several offers of marriage,

too, really, really good ones from wealthy claim-owners."

"Yes," still more bitterly.

"Yes, young man; so you want to make a strike and take me away to

Italy. Oh, how I plan and plan for us two. I don't care, my dearest, if

you haven't got a cent in the world, I'm yours, always yours."

"That's all right, Berna," I said. "I'm going to make good. I've just

lost a fifty-thousand dollar claim, but there's more coming up. By the

first of June next I'll come to you with a bank account of six figures.

You'll see, my little girl. I'm going to make this thing stick."

"You foolish boy," she said; "it doesn't matter if you come to me a

beggar in rags. Come to me anyway. Come, and do not fail."

"What about Locasto?" I asked.

"I've scarcely seen anything of him. He leaves me alone. I think he's

interested elsewhere."

"And are you sure you're all right, dear, down there?"

"Quite sure. These men would risk their lives for me. The other kind

know enough to leave me alone. Besides, I know better now how to take

care of myself. You remember the frightened cry-baby I used to be--well,

I've learned to hold my own."

She was extraordinarily affectionate, full of unexpected little ways of

endearment, and clung to me when we parted, making me promise to return

very soon. Yes, she was my girl, devoted to me, attached to me by every

tendril of her being. Every look, every word, every act of her expressed

a bright, fine, radiant love. I was satisfied, yet unsatisfied, and once

again I entreated her.

"Berna, are you sure, quite sure, you're all right in that place among

all that folly and drunkenness and vice? Let me take you away, dear."

"Oh, no," she said very tenderly; "I'm all right. I would tell you at

once, my boy, if I had any fear. That's just what a poor girl has to put

up with all the time; that's what I've had to put up with all my life.

Believe me, boy, I'm wonderfully blind and deaf at times. I don't think

I'm very bad, am I?"

"You're as good as gold."

"For your sake I'll always try to be," she answered.

As we were kissing good-bye she asked timidly:

"What about the rouge, dear? Shall I cease to use it?"

"Poor little girl! Oh no, I don't suppose it matters. I've got very

old-fashioned ideas. Good-bye, darling."

"Good-bye, beloved."

I went away treading on sunshine, trembling with joy, thrilled with love

for her, blessing her anew.

Yet still the rouge stuck in my crop as if it were the symbol of some

insidious decadence.

CHAPTER XV

It was about two months later when I returned from a flying visit to

Dawson.

"Lots of mail for you two," I cried, exultantly bursting into the cabin.

"Mail? Hooray!"

Jim and the Prodigal, who were lying on their bunks, leapt up eagerly.

No one longs for his letters like your Northern exile, and for two whole

months we had not heard from the outside.

"Yes, I got over fifty letters between us three. Drew about a dozen

myself, there's half a dozen for you, Jim, and the balance for you, old

sport."

I handed the Prodigal about two dozen letters.

"Ha! now we'll have the whole evening just to browse on them. My, what a

stack! How was it you had a time getting them?"

"Well, you see, when I got into town the mail had just been sorted, and

there was a string of over three hundred men waiting at the general

delivery wicket. I took my place at the tail-end of the line, and every

newcomer fell in behind me. My! but it was such weary waiting, moving up

step by step; but I'd just about got there when closing-time came. They

wouldn't give out any more mail--after my three hours' wait, too."

"What did you do?"

"Well, it seems every one gives way to the womenfolk. So I happened to

see a girl friend of mine, and she said she would go round first thing

in the morning and enquire if there were any letters for us. She brought

me this bunch."

I indicated the pile of letters.

"I'm told lots of women in town make a business of getting letters for

men, and charge a dollar a letter. It's awful how hard it is to get

mail. Half of the clerks seem scarcely able to read the addresses on the

envelopes. It's positively sad to watch the faces of the poor wretches

who get nothing, knowing, too, that the chances are there is really

something for them sorted away in a wrong box."

"That's pretty tough."

"Yes, you should have seen them; men just ravenous to hear from their

families; a clerk carelessly shuffling through a pile of letters.

'Beachwood, did you say? Nope, nothing for you.' 'Hold on there! what's

that in your hand? Surely I know my wife's writing.' 'Beachwood--yep,

that's right. Looked like Peachwood to me. All right. Next there.' Then

the man would go off with his letter, looking half-wrathful,

half-radiant. Well, I enjoyed my trip, but I'm glad I'm home."

I threw myself on my bunk voluptuously, and began re-reading my letters.

There were some from Garry and some from Mother. While still

unreconciled to the life I was leading, they were greatly interested in

my wildly cheerful accounts of the country. They were disposed to be

less censorious, and I for my part was only too glad Mother was well

enough to write, even if she did scold me sometimes. So I was able to

open my mail without misgivings.

But I was still aglow with memories of the last few hours. Once more I

had seen Berna, spent moments with her of perfect bliss, left her with

my mind full of exaltation and bewildered gratitude. She was the perfect

answer to my heart's call, a mirror that seemed to flash back the

challenge of my joy. I saw the love mists gather in her eyes, I felt her

sweet lips mould themselves to mine, I thrilled with the sheathing

ardour of her arms. Never in my fondest imaginings had I conceived that

such a wealth of affection would ever be for me. Buoyant she was, brave,

inspiring, and always with her buoyancy so wondrous tender I felt that

willingly would I die for her.

Once again I told her of my fear, my anxiety for her safety among those

rough men in that cesspool of iniquity. Very earnestly she strove to

reassure me.

"Oh, my dear, it is in those rough men, the uncouth, big-hearted miners,

that I place my trust. They know I'm a good girl. They wouldn't say a

coarse thing before me for the world. You've no idea the chivalrous

respect they show for me, and the rougher they are the finer their

instincts seem to be. It's the others, the so-called gentlemen, who

would like to take advantage of me if they could."

She looked at me with bright, clear eyes, fearless in their scorn of

sham and pretence.

"Then there are the women. It's strange, but no matter how degraded

they are they try to shield and protect me. Only last week Kimona Kate

made a fearful scene with her escort because he said something bad

before me. I'm getting tolerant. Oh, you've no idea until you know them

what good qualities some of these women have. Often their hearts are as

big as all outdoors; they would nurse you devotedly if you were sick;

they would give you their last dollar if you were in want. Many of them

have old mothers and little children they're supporting outside, and

they would rather die than that their dear ones should know the life

they are living. It's the men, the men that are to blame."

I shook my head sadly.

"I don't like it, Berna, I don't like it at all. I hate you to know the

like of such people, such things. I just want you to be again the dear,

sweet little girl I first knew, all maidenly modesty and shuddering

aversion of evil."

"I'm afraid, dear, I shall never be that again," she said sorrowfully;

"but am I any the worse for knowing? Why should you men want to keep all

such knowledge to yourselves? Is our innocence simply to be another name

for ignorance?"

She put her arms round my neck and kissed me fervently.

"Oh, no, my dear, my dear. I have seen the vileness of things, and it

only makes me more in love with love and beauty. We'll go, you and I, to

Italy very soon, and forget, forget. Even if we have to toil like

peasants in the vineyards we'll go, far, far away."

So I felt strengthened, stimulated, gladdened, and, as I lay on my bunk

listening to the merry crackle of the wood fire, I was in a purring

lethargy of content. Then I remembered something.

"Oh, say, boys, I forgot to tell you. I met McCrimmon down the creek.

You remember him on the trail, the Halfbreed. He was asking after you

both; then all at once he said he wanted to see us on important

business. He has a proposal to make, he says, that would be greatly to

our advantage. He's coming along this evening.--What's the matter, Jim?"

Jim was staring blankly at one of the letters he had received. His face

was a picture of distress, misery, despair. Without replying, he went

and knelt down by his bed. He sighed deeply. Slowly his face grew calm

again; then I saw that he was praying. We were silent in respectful

sympathy, but when, in a little, he got up and went out, I followed him.

"Had bad news, old man?"

"I've had a letter that's upset me. I'm in a terrible position. If ever

I wanted strength and guidance, I want it now."

"Heard about that man?"

"Yes, it's him, all right; it's Mosher. I suspicioned it all along.

Here's a letter from my brother. He says there's no doubt that Mosher is

Moseley."

His eyes were stormy, his face tragic in its bitterness.

"Oh, you don't know how I worshipped that woman, trusted her, would have

banked my life on her; and when I was away making money for her she ups

and goes away with that slimy reptile. In the old days I would have torn

him to pieces, but now----"

He sighed distractedly.

"What am I to do? What am I to do? The Good Book says forgive your

enemies, but how can I forgive a wrong like that? And my poor girl--he

deserted her, drove her to the streets. Ugh! if I could kill him by slow

torture, gloat over his agony--but I can't, can I?"

"No, Jim, you can't do anything. Vengeance is the Lord's."

"Yes, I know, I know. But it's hard, it's hard. O my girl, my girl!"

Tears overran his cheeks. He sat down on a log, burying his face in his

hands.

"O God, help and sustain me in this my hour of need."

I was at a loss how to comfort him, and it was while I was waiting there

that suddenly we saw the Halfbreed coming up the trail.

"Better come in, Jim," I said, "and hear what he's got to say."

CHAPTER XVI

We made McCrimmon comfortable. We kept no whisky in the cabin, but we

gave him some hot coffee, which he drank with great satisfaction. Then

he twisted a cigarette, lit it, and looked at us keenly. On his brown,

flattish face were remarkable the impassivity of the Indian and the

astuteness of the Scot. We were regarding him curiously. Jim had

regained his calm, and was quietly watchful. The Prodigal seemed to have

his ears cocked to listen. There was a feeling amongst us as if we had

reached a crisis in our fortunes.

The Halfbreed lost no time in coming to the point.

"I like you boys. You're square and above-board. You're workers, and you

don't drink--that's the main thing.

"Well, to get right down to cases. I'm a bit of a mining man. I've mined

at Cassiar and Caribou, and I know something of the business. Now I've

got next to a good thing.--I don't know how good yet, but I'll swear to

you it's a tidy bit. There may be only ten thousand in it, and there may

be one hundred and ten. It's a gambling proposition, and I want

pardners, pardners that'll work like blazes and keep their faces shut.

Are you on?"

"That's got us kodaked," said the Prodigal. "We're that sort, and if the

proposition looks good to us we're with you. Anyway, we're clams at

keeping our food-traps tight."

"All right; listen. You know the Arctic Transportation Co. have claims

on upper Bonanza--well, a month back I was working for them. We were

down about twenty feet and were drifting in. They set me to work in the

drift. The roof kept sloughing in on me, and it was mighty dangerous. So

far we hadn't got pay-dirt, but their mining manager wanted us to drift

in a little further. If we didn't strike good pay in a few more feet we

were to quit.

"Well, one morning I went down and cleaned away the ash of my fire. The

first stroke of my pick on the thawed face made me jump, stare, stand

stock-still, thinking hard. For there, right in the hole I had made, was

the richest pocket I ever seen."

"You don't say! Are you sure?"

"Why, boys, as I'm alive there was nuggets in it as thick as raisins in

a Christmas plum-duff. I could see the yellow gleam where the pick had

grazed them, and the longer I looked the more could I see."

"Good Lord! What did you do?"

"What did I do! I just stepped back and picked at the roof for all I was

worth. A big bunch of muck came down, covering up the face. Then, like a

crazy man, I picked wherever the dirt seemed loose all the way down the

drift. Great heaps of dirt caved in on me. I was stunned, nearly buried,

but I did the trick. There were tons of dirt between me and my find."

We gasped with amazement.

"The rest was easy. I went up the shaft groaning and cursing. I

pretended to faint. I told them the roof of the drift had fallen in on

me. It was rotten stuff, anyway, and they knew it. They didn't mind me

risking my life. I cursed them, said I would sue the Company, and went

off looking too sore for words. The Manager was disgusted, he went down

and took a look at things; declared he would throw up the work at that

place; the ground was no good. He made that report to the Company."

The Halfbreed looked round triumphantly.

"Now, here's the point. We can get a lay on that ground. One of you boys

must apply for it. They mustn't know I'm in with you, or they would

suspect right away. They're none too scrupulous themselves in their

dealings."

He paused impressively.

"You cinch that lay agreement. Get it signed right away. We'll go in and

work like Old Nick. We'll make a big clean-up by Spring. I'll take you

right to the gold. There's thousands and thousands lying snug in the

ground just waiting for us. It's right in our mit. Oh, it's a cinch, a

cinch!"

The Halfbreed almost grew excited. Bending forward, he eyed us keenly.

In a breathless silence we stared at each other.

"Well," I objected, "seems to be putting up rather a job on the

Company."

Jim was silent, but the Prodigal cut in sharply:

"Job nothing--it's a square proposition. We don't know for certain that

gold's there. Maybe it's only a piffling pocket, and we'll get souped

for our pains. No, it seems to me it's a fair gambling proposition.

We're taking all kinds of chances. It means awful hard work; it means

privation and, maybe, bitter disappointment. It's a gamble, I tell you,

and are we going to be such poor sports as turn it down? I for one am

strongly in favour of it. What do you say? A big sporting chance--are

you there, boys, are you there?"

He almost shouted in his excitement.

"Hush! Some one might hear you," warned the Halfbreed.

"Yes, that's right. Well, it looks mighty good to me, and if you boys

are willing we'll just draw up papers and sign an agreement right away.

Is it a go?"

We nodded, so he got ink and paper and drew up a form of partnership.

"Now," said he, his eyes dancing, "now, to secure that lay before any

one else cuts in on us. Gee! but it's getting dark and cold outdoors

these days. Snow falling; well, I must mush to Dawson to-night."

He hurried on some warm, yet light, clothing, all the time talking

excitedly of the chance that fortune had thrown in our way, and gleeful

as a schoolboy.

"Now, boys," he says, "hope I'll have good luck. Jim, put in a prayer

for me. Well, see you all to-morrow. Good-bye."

* * * * *

It was late next night when he returned. We were sitting in the cabin,

anxious and expectant, when he threw open the door. He was tired, wet,

dirty, but irrepressibly jubilant.

"Hurrah, boys!" he cried. "I've cinched it. I saw Mister Manager of the

big Company. He was very busy, very important, very patronising. I was

the poor miner seeking a lay. I played the part well. He began by

telling me he didn't want to give any lays at present; just wanted to

stand me off, you know; make me more keen. I spoke about some of their

ground on Hunker. He didn't seem enthusiastic. Then, at last, as if in

despair, I mentioned this bit on Bonanza. I could see he was itching to

let me have it, but he was too foxy to show it. He actually told me it

was an extra rich piece of ground, when all the time he knew his own

mining engineer had condemned it."

The Prodigal's eyes danced delightedly.

"Well, we sparred round a bit like two fake fighters. My! but he was

wily, that old Jew. Finally he agreed to let me have it on a

fifty-per-cent. basis. Don't faint, boys. Fifty per cent., I said. I'm

sorry. It was the best I could do, and you know I'm not slow. That means

they get half of all we take out. Oh, the old shark! the robber! I tried

to beat him down, but he stood pat; wouldn't budge. So I gave in, and we

signed the lay agreement, and now everything's in shape. Gee whiz!

didn't I give a sigh of relief when I got outside! He thinks I'm the

fall guy, and went off chuckling."

He raised his voice triumphantly.

"And now, boys, we've got the ground cinched, so get action on

yourselves. Here's where we make our first real stab at fortune. Here's

where we even up on the hard jabs she's handed us in the past; here's

where we score a bull's-eye, or I miss my guess. The gold's there, boys,

you can bank on that; and the harder we work the more we're going to get

of it. Now, we're going to work hard. We're going to make ordinary hard

work look like a Summer vacation. We're going to work for all we're

worth--and then some. Are you there, boys, are you there?"

"We are," we shouted with one accord.

CHAPTER XVII

There was no time to lose. Every hour for us meant so much more of that

precious pay-dirt that lay under the frozen surface. The Winter leapt on

us with a swoop, a harsh, unconciliating Winter, that made out-door work

an unmitigated hardship. But there was the hope of fortune nerving and

bracing us, till we lost in it all thought of self. Nothing short of

desperate sickness, death even, would drive us from our posts. It was

with this dauntless spirit we entered on the task before us.

And, indeed, it was one that called for all in a man of energy and

self-sacrifice. There was wood to get for the thawing of the ground;

there was a cabin to be built on the claim; and, lastly, there was a

vast dump to be taken out of the ground for the spring sluicing. We

planned things so that no man would be idle for a moment, and so that

every ounce of strength expended would show its result.

The Halfbreed took charge, and we, recognising it as his show, obeyed

him implicitly. He decided to put down two holes to bed-rock, and, after

much deliberation, selected the places. This was a matter for the

greatest judgment and experience, and we were satisfied that he had

both.

We ran up a little cabin and banked it nearly to the low eaves with

snow. By-and-bye more fell on the roof to the depth of three feet, so

that the place seemed like a huge white hummock. Only in front could you

recognise it as a cabin by the low doorway, where we had always to stoop

on entering. Within were our bunks, a tiny stove, a few boxes to sit on,

a few dishes, our grub; that was all. Often we regretted our big cabin

on the hill, with its calico-lined "den" and its separate kitchen. But

in this little box of a home we were to put in many weary months.

Not that the time seemed long to us; we were too busy for that. Indeed,

often we wished it were twice as long. Snow had fallen in September, and

by December we were in an Arctic world of uncompromising harshness. Day

after day the glass stood between forty and fifty below zero. It was

hatefully, dangerously cold. It seemed as if the frost-fiend had a cruel

grudge against us. It made us grim--and careful. We didn't talk much in

those days. We just worked, worked, worked, and when we did talk it was

of our work, our ceaseless work.

Would we strike it rich? It was all a gamble, the most exciting gamble

in the world. It thrilled our day hours with excitement; it haunted our

sleep; it lent strength to the pick-stroke and vigour to the

windlass-crank. It made us forget the bitter cold, till some one would

exclaim, and gently knead the fresh snow on our faces. The cold burned

our cheeks a fierce brick-red, and a frostbite showed on them like a

patch of white putty. The old scars, never healing, were like blotches

of lamp-black.

But neither cold nor fatigue could keep us away from the shaft and the

drift. We had gone down to bed-rock, and were tunnelling in to meet the

hole the Halfbreed had covered up. So far we had found nothing. Every

day we panned samples of the dirt, always getting colours, sometimes a

fifty-cent pan, but never what we dreamed of, hoped for.

"Wait, boys, till we get a two-hundred-dollar pan, then we'll begin to

whoop it up some."

Once the Company Manager came down on a dog-team. He looked over our

shaft. He wore a coon coat, with a cap of beaver, and huge fur mits hung

by a cord around his neck. He was massive and impassive. Spiky icicles

bristled around his mouth.

"What luck, boys?" His breath came like steam.

"None, so far," we told him, wearily, and off he went into the frozen

gloom, saying he hoped we would strike it before long.

"Wait a while."

We were working two men to a shaft, burning our ground over night. The

Prodigal and I manned the windlasses, while the old miners went down the

drifts. It was a cold, cold job standing there on that rugged platform

turning the windlass-crank. Long before it was fairly light we got to

our posts, and lowered our men into the hole. The air was warmer down

there; but the work was harder, more difficult, more dangerous.

At noon there was no sunshine, only a wan, ashen light that suffused the

sky. A deathlike stillness lay on the valley, not a quiver or movement

in leaf or blade. The snow was a shroud, smooth save where the funereal

pines pricked through. In that intensity of cold, that shivering agony

of desolation, it seemed as if nature was laughing at us--the Cosmic

Laugh.

Our meals were hurriedly cooked and bolted. We grudged every moment of

our respite from toil. At night we often were far too weary to undress.

We lost our regard for cleanliness; we neglected ourselves. Always we

talked of the result of the day's panning and the chances of to-morrow.

Surely we would strike it soon.

"Wait awhile."

Colder it grew and colder. Our kerosene flowed like mush. The water

froze solid in our kettle. Our bread was full of icy particles.

Everything had to be thawed out continually. It was tiresome,

exasperating, when we were in such a devil of a hurry. It kept us back;

it angered us, this pest of a cold. Our tempers began to suffer. We were

short, taciturn. The strain was beginning to tell on us.

"Wait awhile."

Then, one afternoon, the Something happened. It was Jim who was the

chosen one. About three o'clock he signalled to be hoisted up, and when

he appeared he was carrying a pan of dirt. "Call the others," he said.

All together in the little cabin we stood round, while Jim washed out

the pan in snow-water melt over our stove. I will never forget how

eagerly we watched the gravel, and the whirling, dexterous movements of

the old man. We could see gleams of yellow in the muddy water. Thrills

of joy and hope went through us. We had got the thing, the big thing, at

last.

"Hurry, Jim," I said, "or I'll die of suspense."

Patiently he went on. There it was at last in the bottom of the

pan--sweeter to our eyes than to a woman the sight of her first-born.

There it lay, glittering, gleaming gold, fine gold, coarse gold, nuggety

gold.

"Now, boys, you can whoop it up," said Jim quietly; "for there's many

and many a pan like it down there in the drift."

But never a whoop. What was the matter with us? When the fortune we had

longed for so eagerly came at last, we did not greet it even with a

cheer. Oh, we were painfully silent.

Solemnly we shook hands all round.

CHAPTER XVIII

"Now to weigh it," said the Prodigal.

On the tiny pair of scales we turned it out--ninety-five dollars' worth.

Well, it was a good start, and we were all possessed with a frantic

eagerness to go down in the drift. I crawled along the tunnel. There, in

the face of it, I could see the gold shining, and the longer I looked

the more I seemed to see. It was rich, rich. I picked out and burnished

a nugget as large as a filbert. There were lots of others like it. It

was a strike. The question was: how much was there of it? The Halfbreed

soon settled our doubts on that score.

"It stands to reason the pay runs between where I first found it and

where we've struck it now. That alone means a tidy stake for each of us.

Say, boys, if you were to cover all that distance with twenty-dollar

gold pieces six feet wide, and packed edge to edge, I wouldn't take them

for our interest in that bit of ground. I see a fine big ranch in

Manitoba for my share; ay, and hired help to run it. The only thing that

sticks in my gullet is that fifty per cent. to the Company."

"Well, we can't kick," I said; "we'd never have got the lay if they'd

had a hunch. My! won't they be sore?"

Sure enough, in a few days the news leaked out, and the Manager came

post-haste.

"Hear you've struck it rich, boys."

"So rich that I guess we'll have to pack down gravel from the benches to

mix in before we can sluice it," said the Prodigal.

"You don't say. Well, I'll have to have a man on the ground to look

after our interests."

"All right. It means a good thing for you."

"Yes, but it would have meant a better if we had worked it ourselves.

However, you boys deserve your luck. Hello, the devil----"

He turned round and saw the Halfbreed. He gave a long whistle and went

away, looking pensive.

* * * * *

It was the night of the discovery when the Prodigal made us an address.

"Look here, boys; do you know what this means? It means victory; it

means freedom, happiness, the things we want, the life we love. To me it

means travel, New York, Paris, evening dress, the opera. To McCrimmon

here it means his farm. To each according to his notion, it means the

'Things That Matter.'

"Now, we've just begun. The hardest part is to come, is to get out the

fortune that's right under our feet. We're going to get every cent of

it, boys. There's a little over three months to do it in, leaving about

a month to make sluice-boxes and clean up the dirt. We've got to work

like men at a burning barn. We've worked hard, but we've got to go some

yet. For my part, I'm willing to do stunts that will make my previous

record look like a plugged dime. I guess you boys all feel the same

way."

"You bet we do."

"Well, nuf sed; let's get busy."

So, once more, with redoubled energy, we resumed our tense, unremitting

round of toil. Now, however, it was vastly different. Every bucket of

dirt meant money in our pockets, every stroke of the pick a dollar. Not

that it was all like the first rich pocket we had struck. It proved a

most erratic and puzzling paystreak--one day rich beyond our dreams,

another too poor to pay for the panning. We swung on a pendulum of hope

and despair. Perhaps this made it all the more exciting, and stimulated

us unnaturally, and always we cursed that primitive method of mining

that made every bucket of dirt the net result of infinite labor.

Every day our two dumps increased in size (for we had struck pay on the

other shaft), and every day our assurance and elation increased

correspondingly. It was bruited around that we had one of the richest

bits of ground in the country, and many came to gaze at us. It used to

lighten my labours at the windlass to see their looks of envy and to

hear their awe-stricken remarks.

"That's one of them," they would say; "one of the lucky four, the lucky

laymen."

So, as the facts, grossly exaggerated, got noised abroad, they came to

call us the "Lucky Laymen."

Looking back, there will always seem to me something weird and

incomprehensible in those twilight days, an unreality, a vagueness like

some dreary, feverish dream. For three months I did not see my face in a

mirror. Not that I wanted to, but I mention this just to show how little

we thought of ourselves.

In like manner, never did I have a moment's time to regard my inner self

in the mirror of consciousness. No mental analysis now; no long hours of

retrospection, no tête-à-tête interviews with my soul. At times I felt

as if I had lost my identity. I was a slave of the genie Gold, releasing

it from its prison in the frozen bowels of the earth. I was an automaton

turning a crank in the frozen stillness of the long, long night.

It was a life despotically objective, and now, as I look back, it seems

as if I had never lived it at all. I seem to look down a long, dark

funnel and see a little machine-man bearing my semblance, patiently,

steadily, wearily turning the handle of a windlass in the clear,

lancinating cold of those sombre, silent days.

I say "bearing my outward semblance," and yet I sometimes wonder if that

rough-bearded figure in heavy woollen clothes looked the least like me.

I wore heavy sweaters, mackinaw trousers, thick German socks and

moccasins. From frequent freezing my cheeks were corroded. I was

miserably thin, and my eyes had a wild, staring expression through the

pupils dilating in the long darkness. Yes, mentally and physically I was

no more like myself than a convict enduring out his life in the soulless

routine of a prison.

The days were lengthening marvellously. We noted the fact with dull

joy. It meant more light, more time, more dirt in the dump. So it came

about that, from ten hours of toil, we went to twelve, to fourteen;

then, latterly, to sixteen, and the tension of it was wearing us down to

skin and bone.

We were all feeling wretched, overstrained, ill-nourished, and it was

only voicing the general sentiment when, one day, the Prodigal remarked:

"I guess I'll have to let up for a couple of days. My teeth are all on

the bum. I'm going to town to see a dentist."

"Let me look at them," said the Halfbreed.

He looked. The gums were sullen, unwholesome-looking.

"Why, it's a touch of scurvy, lad; a little while, and you'd be spitting

out your teeth like orange pips; your legs would turn black, and when

you squeezed your fingers into the flesh the hole would stay. You'd get

rotten, then you'd mortify and die. But it's the easiest thing in the

world to cure. Nothing responds to treatment so readily."

He made a huge brew of green-spruce tea, of which we all partook, and in

a few days the Prodigal was fit again.

It was mid-March when we finished working out our ground. We had done

well, not so well, perhaps, as we had hoped for, but still magnificently

well. Never had men worked harder, never fought more desperately for

success. There were our two dumps, pyramids of gold-permeated dirt at

whose value we could only guess. We had wrested our treasure from the

icy grip of the eternal frost. Now it remained--and O, the sweetness of

it--to glean the harvest of our toil.

CHAPTER XIX

"The water's beginning to run, boys," said the Halfbreed. "A few more

days and we'll be able to start sluicing."

The news was like a flood of sunshine to us. For days we had been fixing

up the boxes and getting everything in readiness. The sun beat strongly

on the snow, which almost visibly seemed to retreat before it. The

dazzlingly white surface was crisp and flaky, and around the tree boles

curving hollows had formed. Here and there brown earth peered nakedly

through. Every day the hillside runnels grew in strength.

We were working at the mouth of a creek down which ran a copious little

stream all through the Springtime. We tapped it some distance above us,

and ran part of it along our line of sluice-boxes. These boxes went

between our two dumps, so that it was easy to shovel in from both sides.

Nothing could have been more convenient.

At last, after a day of hot sunshine, we found quite a freshet of water

coming down the boxes, leaping and dancing in the morning light. I

remember how I threw in the first shovelful of dirt, and how good it was

to see the bright stream discolour as our friend the water began his

magic work. For three days we shovelled in, and on the fourth we made a

clean-up.

"I guess it's time," said Jim, "or those riffles will be gettin' choked

up."

And, sure enough, when we ran off the water there were some of them

almost full of the yellow metal, wet and shiny, gloriously agleam in the

morning light.

"There's ten thousand dollars if there's an ounce," said the Company's

man, and the weigh-up proved he was right. So the gold was packed in two

long buckskin pokes and sent into town to be deposited in the bank.

Day after day we went on shovelling in, and about twice a week we made a

clean-up. The month of May was half over when we had only a third of our

dirt run through the boxes. We were terribly afraid of the water failing

us, and worked harder than ever. Indeed, it was difficult to tell when

to leave off. The nights were never dark now; the daylight was over

twenty hours in duration. The sun described an ellipse, rising a little

east of north and setting a little west of north. We shovelled in till

we were too exhausted to lift another ounce. Then we lay down in our

clothes and slept as soon as we touched the pillow.

"There's eighty thousand to our credit in the bank, and only a third of

our dump's gone. Hooray, boys!" said the Prodigal.

About one o'clock in the morning the birds began to sing, and the sunset

glow had not faded from the sky ere the sunrise quickened it with life

once more. Who that has lived in the North will ever forget the charm,

the witchery of those midnight skies, where the fires of the sun are

banked and never cold? Surely, long after all else is forgotten, will

linger the memory of those mystic nights with all their haunting spell

of weird, disconsolate solitude.

One afternoon I was working on the dump, intent on shovelling in as much

dirt as possible before supper, when, on looking up, who should greet me

but Locasto. Since our last interview in town I had not seen him, and,

somehow, this sudden sight of him came as a kind of a shock. Yet the

manner of the man as he approached me was hearty in the extreme. He held

out his great hand to me, and, as I had no desire to antagonise him, I

gave him my own.

He was riding. His big, handsome face was bronzed, his black eyes clear

and sparkling, his white teeth gleamed like mammoth ivory. He certainly

was a dashing, dominant figure of a man, and, in spite of myself, I

admired him.

His manner in his salutation was cordial, even winning.

"I've just been visiting some of my creek properties," he said. "I heard

you fellows had made a good strike, and I thought I'd come down and

congratulate you. It is pretty good, isn't it?"

"Yes," I said; "not quite so good as we expected, but we'll all have a

tidy sum."

"I'm glad. Well, I suppose you'll go outside this Fall."

"No, I think I'll stay in. You see, we've the Gold Hill property, which

looks promising; and then we have two claims on Ophir."

"Oh, Ophir! I don't think you'll ever take a fortune out of Ophir. I

bought a claim there the other day. The man pestered me, so I gave him

five thousand for it, just to get rid of him. It's eight below."

"Why," I said, "that's the claim I staked and got beaten out of."

"You don't say so. Well, now, that's too bad. I bought it from a man

named Spankiller; his brother's a clerk in the gold office. Tell you

what I'll do. I'll let you have it for the five thousand I gave for it."

"No," I answered, "I don't think I want it now."

"All right; think it over, anyway. If you should change your mind, let

me know. Well, I must go. I've got to get into town to-night. That's my

mule-train back there on the trail. I've got pretty nearly ten thousand

ounces over there."

I looked and saw the mules with the gold-packs slung over their backs.

There were four men to guard them, and it seemed to me that in one of

these men I recognised the little wizened figure of the Worm.

I shivered.

"Yes, I've done pretty well," he continued; "but it don't make any

difference. I spend it as fast as I get it. A month ago I didn't have

enough ready cash to pay my cigar bill, yet I could have gone to the

bank and borrowed a hundred thousand. It was there in the dump. Oh, it's

a rum business this mining. Well, good-bye."

He was turning to go when, suddenly, he stopped.

"Oh, by the way, I saw a friend of yours before I left. No need to

mention names, you lucky dog. When's the big thing coming off? Well, I

must congratulate you again. She looks sweeter than ever. Bye-bye."

He was off, leaving a very sinister impression on my mind. In his

parting smile there was a trace of mockery that gravely disquieted me. I

had thought much of Berna during the past few months, but as the gold

fever took hold of me I put her more and more from my mind. I told

myself that all this struggle was for her. In the thought that she was

safe I calmed all anxious fear. Sometimes by not thinking so much of

dear ones, one can be more thoughtful of them. So it was with me. I knew

that all my concentration of effort was for her sake, and would bring

her nearer to me. Yet at Locasto's words all my old longing and

heartache vehemently resurged.

In spite of myself, I was the prey of a growing uneasiness. Things

seemed vastly different, now success had come to me. I could not bear to

think of her working in that ambiguous restaurant, rubbing shoulders

with its unspeakable habitués. I wondered how I had ever deceived myself

into thinking it was all right. I began to worry, so that I knew only a

trip into Dawson would satisfy me. Accordingly, I hired a big Swede to

take my place at the shovel, and set out once more on the hillside trail

for town.

CHAPTER XX

I found the town more animated than ever, the streets more populous, the

gaiety more unrestrained. Everywhere were flaunting signs of a plethoric

wealth. The anxious Cheechako had vanished from the scene, and the

victorious miner masqueraded in his place. He swaggered along in the

glow of the Spring sunshine, a picture of perfect manhood, bronzed and

lean and muscular. He was brimming over with the exuberance of health.

He had come into town to "live" things, to transmute this yellow dust

into happiness, to taste the wine of life, to know the lips of flame.

It was the day of the Man with the Poke. He was King. The sheer

animalism of him overflowed in midnight roysterings, in bacchanalian

revels, in debauches among the human débris of the tenderloin.

Every one was waiting for him, to fleece him, rob him, strip him. It was

also the day of the man behind the bar, of the gambler, of the harpy.

My strange, formless fears for Berna were soon set at rest. She was

awaiting me. She looked better than I had ever seen her, and she

welcomed me with an eager delight that kindled me to rapture.

"Just think of it," she said, "only two weeks, and we'll be together for

always. It seems too good to be true. Oh, my dear, how can I ever love

you enough? How happy we are going to be, aren't we?"

"We're going to be happier than any two people ever were before," I

assured her.

We crossed the Yukon to the green glades of North Dawson, and there, on

a little rise, we sat down, side by side. How I wish I could put into

words the joy that filled my heart! Never was lad so happy as I. I spoke

but little, for love's silences are sweeter than all words. Well, well I

mind me how she looked: just like a picture, her hands clasped on her

lap, her eyes star-bright, angel-sweet, mother-tender. From time to time

she would give me a glance so full of trust and love that my heart would

leap to her, and wave on wave of passionate tenderness come sweeping

over me.

It may be there was something humble in my stintless adoration; it may

be I was like a child for the pleasure of her nearness; it may be my

eyes told all too well of the fire that burned within me, but O, the

girl was kind, gentler than forgiveness, sweeter than all heaven.

Caressingly she touched my hair. I kissed her fingers, kissed them again

and again; and then she lifted my hand to her lips, and I felt her kiss

fall upon it. How wondrously I tingled at the touch. My hand seemed mine

no longer--a consecrated thing. Proud, happy me!

"Yes," she went on, "doesn't it seem as if we were dreaming? You know, I

always thought it was a dream, and now it's coming true. You'll take me

away from this place, won't you, boy?--far, far away. I'll tell you

now, dear, I've borne it all for your sake, but I don't think I could

bear it any longer. I would rather die than sink in the mire, and yet

you can't imagine how this life affects one. It's sad, sad, but I don't

get shocked at things in the way I used to. You know, I sometimes think

a girl, no matter how good, sweet, modest to begin with, placed in such

surroundings could fall gradually."

I agreed with her. Too well I knew I was becoming calloused to the evils

around me. Such was the insidious corruption of the gold-camp, I now

regarded with indifference things that a year ago I would have shrunk

from with disgust.

"Well, it will be all over very soon, won't it, dear? I don't know what

I'd have done if it hadn't been for the rough miners. They've been so

kind to me. When they saw I was straight and honest they couldn't be

good enough. They shielded me in every way, and kept back the other kind

of men. Even the women have been my friends and helped me."

She looked at me archly.

"And, you know, I've had ever so many offers of marriage, too, from

honest, rough, kindly men--and I've refused them ever so gracefully."

"Has Locasto ever made any more overtures?"

Her face grew grave.

"Yes, about a month ago he besieged me, gave me no rest, made all kinds

of proposals and promises. He wanted to divorce his 'outside' wife and

marry me. He wanted to settle a hundred thousand dollars on me. He tried

everything in his power to force me to his will. Then, when he saw it

was no use, he turned round and begged me to let him be my friend. He

spoke so nicely of you. He said he would help us in any way he could.

He's everything that's kind to me now. He can't do enough for me. Yet,

somehow, I don't trust him."

"Well, my precious," I assured her, "all danger, doubt, despair, will

soon be over. Locasto and the rest of them will be as shadows, never to

haunt my little girl again. The Great, Black North will fade away, will

dissolve into the land of sunshine and flowers and song. You will forget

it."

"The Great Black North.--I will never forget it, and I will always bless

it. It has given me my love, the best love in all the world."

"O my darling, my Life, I'll take you away from it all soon, soon. We'll

go to my home, to Garry, to Mother. They will love you as I love you."

"I'm sure I will love them. What you have told me of them makes them

seem very real to me. Will you not be ashamed of me?"

"I will be proud, proud of you, my girl."

Ah, would I not! I looked at that flower-like face the sunshine

glorified so, the pretty, bright hair falling away from her low brow in

little waves, the lily throat, the delicately patrician features, the

proud poise of her head. Who would not have been proud of her? She awoke

all that was divine in me. I looked as one might look on a vision,

scarce able to believe it real.

Suddenly she pointed excitedly.

"Look, dear, look at the rainbow. Isn't it wonderful? Isn't it

beautiful?"

I gazed in rapt admiration. Across the river a shower had fallen, and

the clouds, clearing away abruptly, had left there a twin rainbow of

matchless perfection. Its double arch was poised as accurately over the

town as if it had been painted there. Each hoop was flawless in form,

lovely in hue, tenderly luminous, exquisite in purity. Never had I seen

the double iris so immaculate in colouring, and, with its bases resting

on the river, it curved over the gold-born city like a frame of ethereal

beauty.

"Does it not seem, dear, like an answer to our prayer, an omen of good

hope, a promise for the future?"

"Yes, beloved, our future, yours and mine. The clouds are rolling away.

All is bright with sunshine once again, and God sends His rainbow to

cheer and comfort us. It will not be long now. On the first day of June,

beloved, I will come to you, and we will be made man and wife. You will

be waiting for me, will you not?"

"Yes, yes, waiting ever so eagerly, my lover, counting every hour, every

minute."

I kissed her passionately, and we held each other tightly for a moment.

I saw come into her eyes that look which comes but once into the eyes of

a maid, that look of ineffable self-surrender, of passionate

abandonment. Life is niggard of such moments, yet can our lives be

summed up in them.

She rested her head on my shoulder; her lips lay on mine, and they

moved faintly.

"Yes, lover, yes, the first of June. Don't fail me, honey, don't fail

me."

We parted, buoyant with hope, in an ecstasy of joy. She was for me, this

beautiful, tender girl, for me. And the time was nigh when she should be

mine, mine to adore until the end. Always would she be by my side; daily

could I plot and plan to give her pleasure; every hour by word and look

and act could I lavish on her the exhaustless measure of my love. Ah!

life would be too short for me. Could aught in this petty purblind

existence of ours redeem it and exalt it so: her love, this pure sweet

girl's, and mine. Let nations grapple, let Mammon triumph, let

pestilence o'erwhelm; what matter, we love, we love. O proud, happy me!

* * * * *

I got back to the claim. Everything was going merrily, but I felt little

desire to resume my toil. I was strangely wearied, worn out somehow. Yet

I took up my shovel again with a body that rebelled in every tissue.

Never had I felt like this before. Something was wrong with me. I was

weak. At night I sweated greatly. I cared not to eat.

* * * * *

"Well," said the Prodigal, "it's all over but the shouting. From my

calculations we've cleaned up two hundred and six thousand dollars.

That's a hundred and three between us four. It's cost us about three to

get out the stuff; so there will be, roughly speaking, about

twenty-five thousand for each of us."

How jubilant every one was looking--every one but me. Somehow I felt as

if money didn't matter just then, for I was sick, sick.

"Why, what's the matter?" said the Prodigal, staring at me curiously.

"You look like a ghost."

"I feel like one, too," I answered. "I'm afraid I'm in for a bad spell.

I want to lie down awhile, boys ... I'm tired.... The first of June,

I've got a date on the first of June. I must keep it, I must.... Don't

let me sleep too long, boys. I mustn't fail. It's a matter of life and

death. The first of June...."

Alas, on the first of June I lay in the hospital, raving and tossing in

the clutches of typhoid fever.

CHAPTER XXI

I was lying in bed, and a heavy weight was pressing on me, so that, in

spite of my struggles, I could not move. I was hot, insufferably hot.

The blood ran boiling through my veins. My flesh was burning up. My

brain would not work. It was all cobwebs, murky and stale as a

charnel-house. Yet at times were strange illuminations, full of terror

and despair. Blood-red lights and purple shadows alternated in my

vision. Then came the dreams.

* * * * *

There was always Berna. Through a mass of grimacing, greed-contorted

faces gradually there formed and lingered her sweet and pensive one. We

were in a strange costume, she and I. It seemed like that of the early

Georges. We were running away, fleeing from some one. For her sake a

great fear and anxiety possessed me. We were eloping, I fancied.

There was a marsh to cross, a hideous quagmire, and our pursuers were

close. We started over the quaking ground, then, suddenly, I saw her

sink. I rushed to aid her, and I, too, sank. We were to our necks in the

soft ooze, and there on the bank, watching us, was the foremost of our

hunters. He laughed at our struggles; he mocked us; he rejoiced to see

us drown. And in my dream the face of the man seemed strangely like

Locasto.

* * * * *

We were in a bower of roses, she and I. It was still further back in

history. We seemed to be in the garden of a palace. I was in doublet and

hose, and she wore a long, flowing kirtle. The air was full of fragrance

and sunshine. Birds were singing. A fountain scattered a shower of

glittering diamonds on the breeze. She was sitting on the grass, while I

reclined by her side, my head lying on her lap. Above me I could see her

face like a lily bending over me. With dainty fingers she crumpled a

rose and let the petals snow down on me.

Then, suddenly, I was seized, torn away from her by men in black, who

roughly choked her screams. I was dragged off, thrown into a foul cell,

left many days. Then, one night, I was dragged forth and brought before

a grim tribunal in a hall of gloom and horror. They pronounced my

doom--Death. The chief Inquisitor raised his mask, and in those gloating

features I recognised--Locasto.

* * * * *

Again it seemed as if I were still further back in history, in some city

under the Roman rule. I was returning from the Temple with my bride. How

fair and fresh and beautiful she was, garlanded with flowers and

radiantly happy. Again it was Berna.

Suddenly there are shouts, the beating of drums, the clash of cymbals.

The great Governor of the Province is coming. He passes with his

retinue. Suddenly he catches sight of her whom I have but newly wed. He

stops. He asks who is the maid. They tell him. He looks at me with

haughty contempt. He gives a sign. His servants seize her and drag her

screaming away. I try to follow, to kill him. I, too, am seized,

overpowered. They bind me, put out my eyes. The Roman sees them do it.

He laughs as the red-hot iron kisses my eye-balls. He mocks me, telling

me what a dainty feast awaits him in my bride. Again I see Locasto.

* * * * *

Then came another phase of my delirium, in which I struggled to get to

her. She was waiting for me, wanting me, breaking her heart at my delay.

O, Berna, my soul, my life, since the beginning of things we were fated.

'Tis no flesh love, but something deeper, something that has its source

at the very core of being. It is not for your sweet face, your gentle

spirit, my own, that you are dearer to me than all else: it is

because--you are you. If all the world were to turn against you, flout

you, stone you, then would I rush to your side, shield you, die with

you. If you were attainted with leprosy, I would enter the lazar-house

for your sake.

"O Berna, I must see you, I must, I must. Let me go to her ... now ...

dear! She's calling me. She's in trouble. Oh, for the love of God, let

me go ... let me go, I say.... Curse you, I will. She's in trouble. You

can't hold me. I'm stronger than you all when she calls.... Let me ...

let me.... Oh, oh, oh ... you're hurting me so. I'm weak, yes, weak as

a baby.... Berna, my child, my poor little girl, I can do nothing.

There's a mountain weighing me down. There's a slab of gold on my chest.

They're burning me up. My veins are on fire. I can't come.... I can't,

dear.... I'm tired...."

Then the fever, the ravings, the wild threshing of my pillow, all passed

away, and I was left limp, weak, helpless, resigned to my fate.

I was on the sunny slope of convalescence. The Prodigal had remained

with me as long as I was in danger, but now that I had turned the

corner, he had gone back to the creeks, so that I was left with only my

thoughts for company. As I turned and twisted on my narrow cot it seemed

as if the time would never pass. All I wanted was to get better fast,

and to get out again. Then, I thought, I would marry Berna and go

"outside." I was sick of the country, of everything.

I was lying thinking over these things, when I became aware that the man

in the cot to the right was trying to attract my attention. He had been

brought in that very morning, said to have been kicked by a horse. One

of his ribs was broken, and his face badly smashed. He was in great

pain, but quite conscious, and he was making stealthy motions to me.

"Say, mate," he said, "I piped you off soon's I set me lamps on you.

Don't youse know me?"

I looked at the bandaged face wonderingly.

"Don't you spot de man dat near let youse down de shaft?"

Then, with a great start, I saw it was the Worm.

"'Taint no horse done me up," he said in a hoarse whisper; "'twas a man.

You know de man, de worst devil in all Alaska, Black Jack. Bad luck to

him! He knocked me down and give me de leather. But I'm goin' to get

even some day. I'm just laying for him. I wouldn't be in his shoes for

de richest claim in de Klondike."

The man's eyes glittered vengefully between the white bandages.

"'Twas all on account of de little girl he done it. You know de girl I

mean. Black Jack's dead stuck on her, an' de furder she stands him off

de more set he is to get her. Youse don't know dat man. He's never had

de cold mit yet."

"Tell me what's the matter, for Heaven's sake."

"Well, when youse didn't come, de little girl she got worried. I used to

be doin' chores round de restaurant, an' she asks me to take a note up

to you. So I said I would. But I got on a drunk dat day, an' for a week

after I didn't draw a sober breath. When I gets around again I told her

I'd seen you an' given you de note an' you was comin' in right away."

"Heaven forgive you for that."

[Illustration: Then, as I hung half in, half out of the window, he

clutched me by the throat]

"Yep, dat's what I say now. But it's all too late. Well, a week went on

an' you never showed up, an' meantime Locasto was pesterin' her cruel.

She got mighty peaked like, pale as a ghost, an' I could see she cried

most all her nights. Den she gives me anudder note. She gives me a

hundred dollars to take dat note to you. I said she could lay on me dis

time. I was de hurry-up kid, an' I starts off. But Black Jack must have

cottoned on, for he meets me back of de town an' taxes me wid takin' a

message. Den he sets on me like a wild beast an' does me up good and

proper. But I'll fix him yet."

"Where are the notes?" I cried.

"In de pocket of me coat. Tell de nurse to fetch in me clothes, an' I'll

give dem to youse."

The nurse brought the clothes, but the little man was too sore to move.

"Feel in de inside pocket."

There were the notes, folded very small, and written in pencil. There

was a strange faintness at my heart, and my fingers trembled as I opened

them. Fear, fear was clutching me, compressing me in an agonising grip.

Here was the first.

"My Darling Boy: Why didn't you come? I was all ready for you. O,

it was such a terrible disappointment. I've cried myself to sleep

every night since. Has anything happened to you, dear? For Heaven's

sake write or send a message. I can't bear the suspense.

"Your loving

"Berna."

Blankly, dully, almost mechanically, I read the second.

"O, come, my dear, at once. I'm in serious danger. He's grown

desperate. Swears if he can't get me by fair means he'll have me by

foul. I'm terribly afraid. Why ar'n't you here to protect me? Why

have you failed me? O, my darling, have pity on your poor little

girl. Come quickly before it is too late."

It was unsigned.

Heavens! I must go to her at once. I was well enough. I was all right

again. Why would they not let me go to her? I would crawl on my hands

and knees if need be. I was strong, so strong now.

Ha! there were the Worm's clothes. It was after midnight. The nurse had

just finished her rounds. All was quiet in the ward.

Dizzily I rose and slipped into the frayed and greasy garments. There

were the hospital slippers. I must wear them. Never mind a hat.

I was out in the street. I shuffled along, and people stared at me, but

no one delayed me. I was at the restaurant now. She wasn't there. Ah!

the cabin on the hill.

I was weaker than I had thought. Once or twice in a half-fainting

condition I stopped and steadied myself by holding a sapling tree. Then

the awful intuition of her danger possessed me, and gave me fresh

strength. Many times I stumbled, cutting myself on the sharp boulders.

Once I lay for a long time, half-unconscious, wondering if I would ever

be able to rise. I reeled like a drunken man. The way seemed endless,

yet stumbling, staggering on, there was the cabin at last.

A light was burning in the front room. Some one was at home at all

events. Only a few steps more, yet once again I fell. I remember

striking my face against a sharp rock. Then, on my hands and knees, I

crawled to the door.

I raised myself and hammered with clenched fists. There was silence

within, then an agitated movement. I knocked again. Was the door ever

going to be opened? At last it swung inward, with a suddenness that

precipitated me inside the room.

The Madam was standing over me where I had fallen. At sight of me she

screamed. Surprise, fear, rage, struggled for mastery on her face. "It's

him," she cried, "_him_." Peering over her shoulder, with ashy,

horrified face, I saw her trembling husband.

"Berna," I gasped hoarsely. "Where is she? I want Berna. What are you

doing to her, you devils? Give her to me. She's mine, my promised bride.

Let me go to her, I say."

The woman barred the way.

All at once I realised that the air was heavy with a strange odour, the

odour of _chloroform_. Frenzied with fear, I rushed forward.

Then the Amazon roused herself. With a cry of rage she struck me.

Savagely both of them came for me. I struggled, I fought; but, weak as I

was, they carried me before them and threw me from the door. I heard the

lock shoot; I was outside; I was impotent. Yet behind those log

walls.... Oh, it was horrible! horrible! Could such things be in God's

world? And I could do nothing.

I was strong once more. I ran round to the back of the cabin. She was in

there, I knew. I rushed at the window and threw myself against it. The

storm frame had not been taken off. Crash! I burst through both sheets

of glass. I was cruelly cut, bleeding in a dozen places, yet I was half

into the room. There, in the dirty, drab light, I saw a face, the

fiendish, rage-distorted face of my dream. It was Locasto.

He turned at the crash. With a curse he came at me. Then, as I hung half

in, half out of the window, he clutched me by the throat. Using all his

strength, he raised me further into the room, then he hurled me

ruthlessly out onto the rocks outside.

I rose, reeling, covered with blood, blind, sick, speechless. Weakly I

staggered to the window. My strength was leaving me. "O God, sustain me!

Help me to save her."

Then I felt the world go blank. I swayed; I clutched at the walls; I

fell.

There I lay in a ghastly, unconscious heap.

I had lost!

BOOK IV

THE VORTEX

He burned a hole in the frozen muck;

He scratched the icy mould;

And there in six-foot dirt he struck

A sack or so of gold.

He burned a hole in the Decalogue,

And then it came about--

For Fortune's only a lousy rogue--

His "pocket" petered out.

And lo! it was but a year all told,

When there in the shadow grim,

But six feet deep in the icy mould,

They burned a hole for him.

--"The Yukoner."

CHAPTER I

"No, no, I'm all right. Really I am. Please leave me alone. You want me

to laugh? Ha! Ha! There! Is that all right now?"

"No, it isn't all right. It's very far from all right, my boy; and this

is where you and your little uncle here are going to have a real heart

to heart talk."

It was in the big cabin on Gold Hill, and the Prodigal was addressing

me. He went on:

"Now, look here, kid, when it comes to expressing my feelings I'm in the

kindergarten class; when it comes to handing out the high-toned dope I

drop my cue every time; but when I'm needed to do the solid pardner

stunt then you don't need to holler for me--I'm there. Well, I'm giving

you a straight line of talk. Ever since the start I've taken a strong

notion to you. You've always been ace-high with me, and there never will

come the day when you can't eat on my meal-ticket. We tackled the Trail

of Trouble together. You were always wanting to lift the heavy end of

the log, and when the God of Cussedness was doing his best to rasp a man

down to his yellow streak, you showed up white all through. Say, kid,

we've been in tight places together; we've been stacked up against hard

times together: and now I'll be gol-darned if I'm going to stand by and

see you go downhill, while the devil oils the bearings."

"Oh, I'm all right," I protested.

"Yes, you're all right," he echoed grimly. "In an impersonation of an

'all-right' man it's the hook for yours. I've seen 'all-right' men like

you hitting the hurry trail for the boneyard before now. You're 'all

right'! Why, for the last two hours you've been sitting with that

'just-break-the-news-to mother' expression of yours, and paying no more

heed to my cheerful brand of conversation than if I had been a measly

four-flusher. You don't eat more than a sick sparrow, and often you

don't bat an eye all night. You're looking worse than the devil in a

gale of wind. You've lost your grip, my boy. You don't care whether

school keeps or not. In fact, if it wasn't for your folks, you'd as lief

take a short cut across the Great Divide."

"You're going it a little strong, old man."

"Oh no, I'm not. You know you're sick of everything. Feel as if life's a

sort of penitentiary, and you've just got to do time. You don't expect

to get any more fun out of it. Look at me. Every day's my sunshine day.

If the sky's blue I like it; if it's grey I like it just as well. I

never worry. What's the use? Yesterday's a dead one; to-morrow's always

to-morrow. All we've got's the 'now,' and it's up to us to live it for

all we're worth. You can use up more human steam to the square inch in

worrying than you can to the square yard in hard work. Eliminate worry

and you've got the only system."

"It's all very well for you to preach," I said, "you forget I've been a

pretty sick man."

"That's no nursemaid's dream. You almost cashed in. Typhoid's a serious

proposition at the best; but when you take a crazy streak on top of it,

make a midnight getaway from the sick-ward and land up on the Slide

looking as if you'd been run through a threshing machine, well, you're

sure letting death get a short option on you. And you gave up. You

didn't want to fight. You shirked, but your youth and constitution

fought for you. They healed your wounds, they soothed your ravings, they

cooled your fever. They were a great team, and they pulled you through.

Seems as if they'd pulled you through a knot-hole, but they were on to

their job. And you weren't one bit grateful--seemed to think they had no

business to butt in."

"My hurts are more than physical."

"Yes, I know; there was that girl. You seemed to have a notion that that

was the only girl on God's green brush-pile. As I camped there by your

bedside listening to your ravings, and getting a strangle-hold on you

when you took it into your head to get funny, you blabbed out the whole

yarn. Oh, sonny, why didn't you tell your uncle? Why didn't you put me

wise? I could have given you the right steer. Have you ever known me

handle a job I couldn't make good at? I'm a whole matrimonial bureau

rolled into one. I'd have had you prancing to the tune of the wedding

march before now. But you kept mum as a mummy. Wouldn't even tell your

old pard. Now you've lost her."

"Yes, I've lost her."

"Did you ever see her after you came out of the hospital?"

"Once, once only. It was the first day. I was as thin as a rail, as

white as the pillow from which I had just raised my head. Death's

reprieve was written all over me. I dragged along wearily, leaning on a

stick. I was thinking of her, thinking, thinking always. As I scanned

the faces of the crowds that thronged the streets, I thought only of her

face. Then suddenly she was before me. She looked like a ghost, poor

little thing; and for a fluttering moment we stared at each other, she

and I, two wan, weariful ghosts."

"Yes, what did she say?"

"Say! she said nothing. She just looked at me. Her face was cold as ice.

She looked at me as if she wanted to _pity_ me. Then into her eyes there

came a shadow of bitterness, of bitterness and despair such as might

gloom the eyes of a lost soul. It unnerved me. It seemed as if she was

regarding me almost with horror, as if I were a sort of a leper. As I

stood there, I thought she was going to faint. She seemed to sway a

moment. Then she drew a great, gasping breath, and turning on her heel

she was gone."

"She cut you?"

"Yes, cut me dead, old fellow. And my only thought was of love for her,

eternal love. But I'll never forget the look on her face as she turned

away. It was as if I had lashed her with a whip. My God!"

"And you've never seen her since?"

"No, never. That was enough, wasn't it? She didn't want to speak to me

any more, never wanted to set eyes on me any more. I went back to the

ward; then, in a little, I came on here. My body was living, but my

heart was dead. It will never live again."

"Oh, rot! You mustn't let the thing down you like that. It's going to

kill you in the end. Buck up! Be a man! If you don't care to live for

yourself, live for others. Anyway, it's likely all for the best. Maybe

love had you locoed. Maybe she wasn't really good. See now how she lives

openly with Locasto. They call her the Madonna; they say she looks more

like a virgin-martyr than the mistress of a dissolute man."

I rose and looked at him, conscious that my face was all twisted with

the pain of the thought.

"Look here," I said, "never did God put the breath of life into a better

girl. There's been foul play. I know that girl better than any one in

the world, and if every living being were to tell me she wasn't good I

would tell them they lied, they lied. I would burn at the stake

upholding that girl."

"Then why did she turn you down so cruelly?"

"I don't know; I can't understand it. I know so little about women. I

have not wavered a moment. To-day in my loneliness and heartbreak I

care and hunger for her more than ever. She's always here, right here in

my head, and no power can drive her out. Let them say of her what they

will, I would marry her to-morrow. It's killing me. I've aged ten years

in the last few months. Oh, if I only could forget."

He looked at me thoughtfully.

"I say, old man, do you ever hear from your old lady?"

"Every mail."

"You've often told me of your home. Say! just give us a mental frame-up

of it."

"Glengyle? Yes. I can see the old place now, as plainly as a picture:

the green, dimpling hills all speckled with sheep; the grey house

nestling snugly in a grove of birch; the wild water of the burn leaping

from black pool to pool, just mad with the joy of life; the midges

dancing over the water in the still sunshine, and the trout jumping for

them--oh, it's the bonny, bonny place. You would think so too. You would

like it, tramping knee-deep in the heather, to see the moorcock rise

whirring at your feet; you would like to set sail with the fisher folk

after the silver herring. It would make you feel good to see the calm

faces of the shepherds, the peace in the eyes of the women. Ay, that was

the best of it all, the Rest of it, the calm of it. I was pretty happy

in those days."

"You were happy--then why not go back? That's your proper play; go back

to your Mother. She wants you. You're pretty well heeled now. A little

money goes a long way over there. You can count on thirty thousand.

You'll be comfortable; you'll devote yourself to the old lady; you'll be

happy again. Time's a regular steam-roller when it comes to smoothing

out the rough spots in the past. You'll forget it all, this place, this

girl. It'll all seem like the after effects of a midnight Welsh rabbit.

You've got mental indigestion. I hate to see you go. I'm really sorry to

lose you; but it's your only salvation, so go, go!"

Never had I thought of it before. Home! how sweet the word seemed.

Mother! yes, Mother would comfort me as no one else could. She would

understand. Mother and Garry! A sudden craving came over me to see them

again. Maybe with them I could find relief from this awful agony of

heart, this thing that I could scarce bear to think of, yet never ceased

to think of. Home! that was the solution of it all. Ah me! I would go

home.

"Yes," I said, "I can't go too soon; I'll start to-morrow."

So I rose and proceeded to gather together my few belongings. In the

early morning I would start out. No use prolonging the business of my

going. I would say good-bye to those two partners of mine, with a grip

of the hand, a tear in the eye, a husky: "Take care of yourself." That

would be all. Likely I would never see them again.

Jim came in and sat down quietly. The old man had been very silent of

late. Putting on his spectacles, he took out his well-worn Bible and

opened it. Back in Dawson there was a man whom he hated with the hate

that only death can end, but for the peace of his soul he strove to

conquer it. The hate slumbered, yet at times it stirred, and into the

old man's eyes there came the tiger-look that had once made him a force

and a fear. Woe betide his enemy if that tiger ever woke.

"I've been a-thinkin' out a scheme," said Jim suddenly, "an' I'm a-goin'

to put all of that twenty-five thousand of mine back into the ground.

You know us old miners are gamblers to the end. It's not the gold, but

the gettin' of it. It's the excitement, the hope, the anticipation of

one's luck that counts. We're fighters, an' we've just got to keep on

fightin'. We can't quit. There's the ground, and there's the precious

metals it's a-tryin' to hold back on us. It's up to us to get them out.

It's for the good of humanity. The miner an' the farmer rob no one. They

just get down to that old ground an' coax it an' beat it an' bully it

till it gives up. They're working for the good of humanity--the farmer

an' the miner." The old man paused sententiously.

"Well, I can't quit this minin' business. I've just got to go on so

long's I've got health an' strength; an' I'm a-goin' to shove all I've

got once more into the muck. I stand to make a big pile, or lose my

wad."

"What's your scheme, Jim?"

"It's just this: I'm goin' to install a hydraulic plant on my Ophir

Creek claim, I've got a great notion of that claim. It's an

out-of-sight proposition for workin' with water. There's a little stream

runs down the hill, an' the hill's steep right there. There's one

hundred feet of fall, an' in Spring a mighty powerful bunch of water

comes a-tumblin' down. Well, I'm goin' to dam it up above, bring it down

a flume, hitch on a little giant, an' turn it loose to rip an' tear at

that there ground. I'm goin' to begin a new era in Klondike minin'."

"Bully for you, Jim."

"The values are there in the ground, an' I'm sick of the old slow way of

gettin' them out. This looks mighty good to me. Anyway, I'm a-goin' to

give it a trial. It's just the start of things; you'll see others will

follow suit. The individual miner's got to go; it's only a matter of

time. Some day you'll see this whole country worked over by them big

power dredges they've got down in Californy. You mark my words, boys;

the old-fashioned miner's got to go."

"What are you going to do?"

"Well, I've written out for piping an' a monitor, an' next Spring I hope

I'll have the plant in workin' order. The stuff's on the way now. Hullo!

Come in!"

The visitors were Mervin and Hewson on their way to Dawson. These two

men had been successful beyond their dreams. It was just like finding

money the way fortune had pushed it in front of their noses. They were

offensively prosperous; they reeked of success.

In both of them a great change had taken place, a change only too

typical of the gold-camp. They seemed to have thawed out; they were

irrepressibly genial; yet instead of that restraint that had formerly

distinguished them, there was a grafted quality of weakness, of

flaccidity, of surrender to the enervating vices of the town.

Mervin was remarkably thin. Dark hollows circled his eyes, and a curious

nervousness twisted his mouth. He was "a terror for the women," they

said. He lavished his money on them faster than he made it. He was

vastly more companionable than formerly, but somehow you felt his

virility, his fighting force had gone.

In Hewson the change was even more marked. Those iron muscles had

couched themselves in easy flesh; his cheeks sagged; his eyes were

bloodshot and untidy. Nevertheless he was more of a good fellow, talked

rather vauntingly of his wealth, and affected a patronising manner. He

was worth probably two hundred thousand, and he drank a bottle of brandy

a day.

In the case of these two men, as in the case of a thousand others in the

gold-camp, it seemed as if easy, unhoped-for affluence was to prove

their undoing. On the trail they had been supreme; in fen or forest, on

peak or plain, they were men among men, fighting with nature savagely,

exultantly. But when the fight was over their arms rested, their muscles

relaxed, they yielded to sensuous pleasures. It seemed as if to them

victory really meant defeat.

As I went on with my packing I paid but little heed to their talk. What

mattered it to me now, this babble of dumps and dust, of claims and

clean-ups? I was going to thrust it all behind me, blot it clean out of

my memory, begin my life anew. It would be a larger, more luminous life.

I would live for others. Home! Mother! again how exquisitely my heart

glowed at the thought of them.

Then all at once I pricked up my ears. They were talking of the town, of

the men and women who were making it famous (or rather infamous), when

suddenly they spoke the name of Locasto.

"He's gone off," Mervin was saying; "gone off on a big stampede. He got

pretty thick with some of the Peel River Indians, and found they knew of

a ledge of high-grade, free-milling quartz somewhere out there in the

Land Back of Beyond. He had a sample of it, and you could just see the

gold shining all through it. It was great stuff. Jack Locasto's the last

man to turn down a chance like that. He's the worst gambler in the

Northland, and no amount of wealth will ever satisfy him. So he's off

with an Indian and one companion, that little Irish satellite of his,

Pat Doogan. They have six months' grub. They'll be away all winter."

"What's become of that girl of his?" asked Hewson, "the last one he's

been living with? You remember she came in on the boat with us. Poor

little kid! Blast that man anyway. He's not content with women of his

own kind, he's got to get his clutches on the best of them. That was a

good little girl before he got after her. If she was a friend of mine

I'd put a bullet in his ugly heart."

Hewson growled like a wrathful bear, but Mervin smiled his cynical

smile.

"Oh, you mean the Madonna," he said; "why, she's gone on the

dance-halls."

They continued to talk of other things, but I did not hear them any

more. I was in a trance, and I only aroused when they rose to go.

"Better say good-bye to the kid here," said the Prodigal; "he's going to

the old country to-morrow."

"No, I'm not," I answered sullenly; "I'm just going as far as Dawson."

He stared and expostulated, but my mind was made up. I would fight,

fight to the last.