THE MEN OF EAGLE
Waseche Bill jogged along the main street of Eagle, past log cabins,
board shacks, and the deceiving two-story fronts of one-story stores.
Now and then an acquaintance hailed him from the wooden sidewalk, and he
recognized others he knew, among the small knots of men who stood about
idly discussing the meagre news of the camp. At the Royal Palm Hotel, a
long, low, log building with a false front of boards, he swung in and,
passing around to the rear, turned his dogs into the stockade.
In the office, seated about the stove, were a dozen or more men, most of
whom Waseche knew. They greeted him loudly as he entered, and plied him
with a volley of questions.
"Where ye headed?"
"Thought ye'd struck it rich on Ten Bow?"
"D'ye hear about Camaron Creek?"
The newcomer removed his heavy _parka_ and joined the group, answering a
question here, and asking one there.
"How's Sam Morgan's boy comin' on? We heard how you an' him was pardners
an' had a big thing over on Ten Bow," inquired a tall man whose doleful
length of sallow countenance had earned him the nickname of Fiddle Face.
As he talked, this man gnawed the end of his prodigiously long mustache.
Waseche's eyes lighted at the mention of the boy.
"He's the finest kid eveh was, I reckon. Sma't as a steel trap, an' they
ain't nawthin' he won't tackle. C'n cook a meal o' vittles that'd make
yo' mouth wateh, an' jest nach'lly handles dogs like an ol' _tillicum_."
"How come ye ain't workin' yer claim?" asked someone.
"It's this-a-way," answered Waseche, addressing the group. "Mine's
Discovery, an' his'n's One Below, an' we th'ow'd in togetheh. 'Bout ten
foot down, mine sloped off into his'n--run plumb out. An' I come away
so's the kid'll have the claim cleah." A silence followed Waseche's
simple statement--a silence punctuated by nods of approval and
low-voiced mutterings of "Hard luck," and "Too bad." Fiddle Face was
first to speak.
"That's what I call a _man_!" he exclaimed, bringing his hand down on
Waseche's shoulder with a resounding whack.
"Won't ye step acrost to Hank's place an' have a drink?" invited a large
man, removing his feet from the fender of the big stove, and settling
the fur cap more firmly upon his head.
"No thanks, Joe. Fact is, I ain't took a drink fo' quite a spell. Kind
o' got out o' the notion, somehow."
"Well, sure seems funny to hear you refusin' a drink! Remember
Iditarod?" The man smiled.
"Oh, sure, I recollect. An' I recollect that it ain't neveh got me
nawthin' but misery an' an empty poke. But, it ain't so much that.
It's--well, it's like this: Sam Mo'gan, he ain't heah no mo' to look
afteh the kid, an'--yo' see, the li'l scamp, he's kind o' got it in his
head that they ain't no one jest like me--kind o' thinks I really 'mount
to somethin', an' what I say an' do is 'bout right. It don't stand to
reason I c'n make him b'lieve 'taint no good to drink licker, an' then
go ahead an' drink it myself--does it, now?"
"Sure don't!" agreed the other heartily. "An' that's what _I_ call a
man!" And the whack that descended upon Waseche's shoulder out-sounded
by half the whack of Fiddle Face.
After supper the men drifted out by twos and threes for their nightly
rounds of the camp's tawdry places of amusement. Waseche Bill, declining
their invitations, sat alone by the stove, thinking. The man was lonely.
Until this night he had had no time to realize how much he missed his
little partner, and his thoughts lingered over the long evenings when
they talked together in the cabin, and the boy would read aloud from the
illustrated magazines.
A chair was drawn up beside his, and the man called Joe laid a large
hand upon his knee.
"This here Sam Morgan's boy--does he favour Sam?" he asked.
"Like as two bullets--barrin' size," replied Waseche, without raising
his eyes.
"I s'pose you talked it over with the kid 'fore you come away?" Waseche
looked up.
"Why, no! I done left a lettah, an' come away while he was sleepin'."
"D'ye think he'll stand fer that?"
"I reckon he's got to. Course, it'll be kind o' hard on him, fust off,
me'be. Same as me. But it's bettah fo' him in the end. Why, his claim's
good fo' a million! An' the boys up to Ten Bow, they'll see him
through--McDougall, an' Dutch Henry, an' the rest. They-all think as
much of the boy as what I do." The big man at Waseche's side shook his
head doubtfully.
"I know'd Sam Morgan well," he said, fixing the other with his eyes. "He
done me a good turn onct an' he never asked no odds off'en no one. Now,
if the kid's jes' like him--s'pose he follers ye?"
"Cain't. He ain't got the dogs to."
The other smiled and dropped the subject.
"Where ye headin' fer, Waseche?" he asked, after a few moments of
silence.
"I aim to make a try fo' the Lillimuit."
"The Lillimuit!" exclaimed Joe. "Man, be ye crazy?"
"No. They's gold theh. I seen the nuggets Sven Carlson fetched back two
ye'rs ago."
"Yes! An' where's Sven Carlson now?"
"I don'no."
"An' no one else don't know, neither. He's dead--that's where he is!
Leastwise, he ain't never be'n heerd from after he started back fer the
Lillimuit."
"Want to go 'long?" asked Waseche, ignoring the other's statement.
"Who? Me! Not on yer life I don't--not to the Lillimuit! Not fer all
the gold in the world."
"Oh, I reckon 'tain't so bad as folks claim."
"Claim! Folks ain't in no shape to claim! They ain't no one ever come
back, 'cept Carlson--an' he was loco, an' went in agin--an' that's the
last of Carlson."
"What ails the country?" asked Waseche.
"They's talk of white Injuns, an' creeks that don't freeze, an'--well,
they don't no one really know, but Carlson." The man shrugged and
glanced over his shoulder. "If I was you, I'd hit the back trail. They's
a plenty fer two in the Ten Bow claim an' pardners is pardners."
Waseche ignored the suggestion:
"I'll be pullin' fer the Lillimuit in the mo'nin'. Sorry ye won't jine
me. I'll be rollin' in, now. Good-night."
"So long! An' good luck to ye. I sure hate to see ye go."
* * * * *
Early in the evening of the fourth day after Waseche Bill's departure
for the unknown Lillimuit Connie Morgan swung McDougall's ten-dog team
into Eagle.
The boy, heeding the advice of Black Jack Demaree, had curbed his
impatience and religiously held himself to a ten-hour schedule, and the
result was easily apparent in the way the dogs dashed up the steep trail
and swung into the well-packed street of the big camp.
In front of a wooden building marked "Post Office," he halted. A large
man, just emerging from the door, stared in amusement at the tiny
_parka_-clad figure that confronted him.
"Hello, son!" he called. "Where might you be headin' fer?"
"I'm hunting for Waseche Bill," the youngster replied. "Have you seen
him?"
"That'll be Scotty McDougall's team," observed the man.
"Yes, but have you seen Waseche?"
"You'll be Sam Morgan's boy," the man continued.
"Yes, sir."
"Well, come on along up to the _ho_tel."
"Is Waseche there?" eagerly inquired the boy.
"Well, no, he ain't jes' right there, this very minute," replied the
man, evasively.
"Where has he gone?" asked the boy, with a sudden fear in his heart.
"Oh, jes' siyou'd out on a little prospectin' trip. Come on, I'll give
ye a hand with the dogs--supper'll be about ready."
That evening Connie Morgan found himself the centre of an interested
group of miners--rough, kindly men, who welcomed him warmly, asked the
news of Ten Bow, and recounted in awkward, hesitating sentences stories
of his father. Before turning into the bunk assigned to him, the boy
sought out the proprietor of the hotel, who sat in the centre of an
interested group, discussing local politics with a man from Circle.
"I'll pay my bill now, because I want to hit the trail before
breakfast," he said, producing the well-filled pouch that Black Jack
Demaree had thrust into his hand. Big Jim Sontag chuckled way back in
his beard as he regarded his littlest guest.
"Go 'long, yo', sonny! Shove yo' poke in yo' pocket. Yo' welcome to stop
undeh my roof long as yo' want to. Why, if I was to cha'ge yo' fo' boa'd
an' lodgin' afteh what yo' pap done fo' me, up on Tillimik--hope the
wolves'll eat me, hide an' taller!"
The man called Joe came around the stove and stood looking down at the
boy.
"Look here, son, where you aimin' to hit fer so early in the mornin'?"
"Why, to find Waseche, of course!" The boy seemed surprised at the
question.
"To the Lillimuit!" someone gasped, but Joe silenced him.
"Son," he said, speaking slowly, "Waseche Bill's struck out fer the
Lillimuit--the country where men don't come back from. Waseche's a
man--an' a good one. He knows what he's up agin', an' if he wants to
take a chanct that's his business. But, jes' between us, Waseche won't
come back." The boy's small shoulders stiffened and his eyes flashed, as
the little face uptilted to look into the man's eyes.
"If Waseche don't come back, then I don't come back either!" he
exclaimed. "He's my _pardner_! I've _got_ to find him!"
"That's what I call a _man_!" yelled Fiddle Face, bringing his fist down
upon the table with a bang.
"Jes' the same, sonny," continued Joe, firmly, "we can't let ye go. We
owes it to you, an' we owes it to Sam Morgan. They's too many a good
man's bones layin' somewhere amongst them fiendish peaks an' passes,
now. No, son, you c'n stay in Eagle as long as you like, an' welcome.
Or, you c'n hit the trail fer Ten Bow. But you can't strike out fer the
Lillimuit--_an' that goes_!" There was finality in the man's tone, and
one swift glance into the faces of the others told the boy that they
were of the same mind, to a man. For the first time in his life, Connie
Morgan faced the opposition of men. Instinctively he knew that every
man in the room was his friend, but never in his life had he felt so
helplessly alone. What could one small boy do in the face of the
ultimatum of these men of the North? Tears rushed to his eyes and, for a
moment, threatened to overflow upon his cheeks, but, in that moment,
there arose before him the face of Waseche Bill--his "pardner." The
little fists clenched, the grey eyes narrowed, forcing back the hot
tears, and the tiny jaw squared to the gritting of his teeth.
[Illustration: "What could one small boy do in the face of the ultimatum
of these men of the North?"]
"Good-night," he said, and selecting a candle from among the many on
top of the rude desk, disappeared down the dark corridor between the
rows of stall-like rooms.
"Jes' fo' all the wo'ld like Sam Mo'gan," drawled big Jim Sontag. "I've
saw _his_ eyes squinch up, an' his jaw clamp shut, that-a-way, a many a
time--an' nary time but somethin' happened. We've shore got to keep an
eye on that young un, 'cause he aims to give us the slip in the
mo'nin'."
"Ye said somethin', then, Jim," agreed Fiddle Face, gnawing at his
mustache. "The kid's got sand, an' he's game plumb through, an' when he
starts somethin' he aims to finish it--which like his dad used to."
Connie Morgan, for all his tender years, knew men. He knew, when he left
the group about the stove, that they would expect him to try to slip out
of Eagle, and that if he waited until morning he would have no chance in
the world of eluding their vigilance. Minutes counted, for he also knew
that once on the trail, he need have no fear of pursuit; for no team in
the Yukon country, save only Dutch Henry's Hudson Bays, could come
anywhere near the trail record of McDougall's ten gaunt _malamutes_.
Pausing only long enough in the little room with its scrawling "No. 27"
painted on the door to wriggle into his _parka_ and snatch his cap from
the bunk, he stole cautiously down the narrow passage leading to the
rear of the ell, where a small door opened directly into the stockade.
With feverish haste he harnessed the dogs and opened the gate. In the
shadow of the building he paused and peered anxiously up and down the
street. No one was in sight and, through the heavily frosted windows of
the buildings, dull squares of light threw but faint illumination upon
the deserted thoroughfare.
"Mush! Mush!" he whispered, swinging the long team out onto the
hard-packed snow.
As he passed a store the door opened and a man stood outlined in the
patch of yellow light. Connie's heart leaped to his throat, but the man
only stared in evident surprise that any one would be hitting the trail
at that time of night, and then the door closed and the boy breathed
again. He wished that he could stop and lay in a supply of grub, but
dared not risk it. Better pay twice the price to some prospector, or
trapper, than risk being stopped.
Silently the sled glided over the smooth trail and slanted out onto the
river with Boris, Mutt, and Slasher capering in its wake.
Connie had only a vague notion as to the location of the unknown
Lillimuit. He knew that it lay somewhere among the unmapped headwaters
of Peel River, and that he must head up the Tatonduk and cross a divide.
Toward morning he halted at the mouth of a river that flowed in from the
north-east. A little-used trail was faintly discernible and the boy
called the old lead dog.
"Go find Waseche, Boris!" he cried, "go find him!" Notwithstanding the
fact that Waseche's trail was nearly five days old, the old dog sniffed
at the snow and, with a joyous yelp, headed up the smaller river.
The next morning there was consternation in Eagle, and a half-dozen dog
sleds hit the trail. About ten miles up the Tatonduk, the men of Eagle
met a half-breed trapper with an empty sled.
"Any one pass ye, goin' up?" asked Joe.
The trapper grinned.
"Yeste'day," he answered, "white man papoose"; he held his hand about
four feet from the snow. "Ten-dog team--Mush! Mush! Mush! Go like de
wolf! Stop on my camp. Buy all de grub. Nev' min' de cost--hur' up! He
try for catch white man, go by four sleeps ago." Joe cracked his whip
and the dogs leaped forward.
"You no catch!" the half-breed shouted. "Papoose, him go! go! go! Try
for mak' Lillimuit. Him no come back."
Disregarding the prediction of the half-breed, Joe, Fiddle Face, and big
Jim Sontag continued their pursuit of the flying dog team, despite the
fact that as they progressed the trail grew colder. After many days they
came to the foot of the great white divide and camped beneath overcast
skies, and in the morning a storm broke with unbelievable fury.
Every man, woman, and child in eastern Alaska remembers the great
blizzard that whirled out of the north on the morning of the third of
December and raged unabated for four days, ceased as suddenly as it
started, and then, for four days more, roared terrifically into the
north again.
On the ninth day, the three men burrowed from their shelter at the foot
of a perpendicular cliff. The trail was obliterated, and on every hand
they were confronted by huge drifts from ten to thirty feet in height,
while above them, clinging precariously to the steep side of the
mountain that divided them from the dreaded unknown, were vast ridges of
snow that momentarily threatened to tear loose and bury them beneath a
mighty avalanche.
Silently the men stared into each other's faces, and then--silently, for
none dared trust himself to speak--these big men of the North harnessed
their dogs and began the laborious homeward journey with heavy hearts.
* * * * *
And, at that very moment, a small boy, eighty miles beyond the
impassable barrier of the snow-capped divide, tunnelled through a huge
drift that sealed the mouth of an ice cavern in the side of an inland
glacier, and looked out upon the bewildering tangle of gleaming peaks.
Thanks to the unerring nose of old Boris, and the speed of McDougall's
sled dogs, the trail of Waseche had each day become warmer, and the
night before the storm, when Connie camped in the convenient ice-cavern,
he judged his partner to be only a day ahead. When the storm continued
day after day, he chafed at the delay, but comforted himself with the
thought that Waseche must also camp.
As he stood at the mouth of his cave gazing at the unfamiliar
mountains, towering range upon range, with their peaks glittering in the
cold rays of the morning sun, old Boris crowded past him and plunged
into the unbroken whiteness of the little valley. Round and round he
circled with lowered head. Up and down the jagged ice wall of the
glacier he ran, sniffing the snow and whining with eagerness to pick up
the trail that he had followed for so many days. And as the boy watched
him, a sudden fear clutched at his heart. For instead of starting off
with short, joyous yelps of confidence, the old dog continued his
aimless circling, and at length, as if giving up in despair, sat upon
his haunches, pointed his sharp muzzle skyward, and lifted his voice in
howl after quavering howl of disappointment.
"The trail is buried," groaned the boy, "and I had almost caught up with
him!" He glanced hopelessly up and down the valley, realizing for the
first time that the landmarks of the back trail were obliterated. His
eyes narrowed and he gritted his teeth:
"I'll find him yet," he muttered. "My Dad always played in hard
luck--but he never _quit_! I'll find Waseche--but, if I don't find him,
the big men back there that knew Sam Morgan--they'll know Sam Morgan's
boy was no quitter, either!" He turned away from the entrance and began
to harness the dogs.
* * * * *
Way down the valley, high on the surface of the glacier, Waseche Bill
stopped suddenly to listen. Faint and far, a sound was borne to his ears
through the thin, cold air. He jerked back his _parka_ hood and strained
to catch the faint echo. Again he heard it--the long, bell-like howl of
a dog--and as he listened, the man's face paled, and a strange prickling
sensation started at the roots of his hair and worked slowly along his
spine. For this man of the North knew dogs. Even in the white fastness
of the terrible Lillimuit he could not be mistaken.
"Boris! Boris!" he cried, and whirling his wolf-dogs in their tracks,
dashed over the windswept surface of the glacier in the direction of
the sound.
"I can't be wrong! I can't be wrong!" he repeated over and over again,
"I raised him from a pup!"