MISTER SQUIGG
It was a jovial gathering that crowded the little cabin on the Kandik
where the men of the North feasted until far into the night, and told
tales, and listened to wondrous adventures in the gold country. But most
eagerly they listened to Connie Morgan and Waseche Bill, with their
marvellous tales of the Lillimuit--and Carlson's cans of gold.
"We've a yarn worth the tellin' ourself!" exclaimed the man called
Joe--the man who tried to dissuade Waseche Bill and prevent Connie
Morgan from venturing into the unknown. "Ye sh'd o' seen 'em come! Flat
on his belly a-top the sled--an' the dogs runnin' low an' true! A bunch
of us was watchin' the trail f'r Black Jack Demaree an' the Ragged Falls
mail: 'Here he comes!' someone yells, an' way down the river we seen a
speck--a speck that grow'd until it was a dog team an' a man.
_Jeerushelam_, but he was a-comin'! 'Twornt no time till he was clost
enough to see 'twornt Black Jack. A cold day, it was--reg'lar bitin',
nippin' cold--with the wind, an' the sweep o' the river. An' here come
the team on the high lope, an' a-whippin' along behind 'em, the lightest
loaded outfit man ever seen hauled--jest a man, an' a blanket, an' two
tomater cans. Flat, he laid--low to the sweep o' the wind, one arm
around the cans, an' the other a-holdin' onto the sled f'r all he was
worth. The man was O'Brien, yonder; an' up the bank he shot, fair
burnin' the snow, whirled amongst us, an' piled the outfit up ag'in' Big
Jim's stockade. The nex' we know'd was a yell from Fiddle Face, here:
"'It's McDougall's dogs!' An' before the Irishman c'd get onto his feet,
Fiddle Face was a-top him with a hand at his throat. 'Where's the kid?'
he howls in O'Brien's ear, 'Where's Sam Morgan's boy?' Fiddle Face's
voice ain't no gentle murmur--when he yells. But the rest of us didn't
hear it--us that was ontanglin' the dogs. F'r, in the mix-up, the cover
had come off one of them tomater cans, an' there on the snow was nuggets
o' _gold_--jest a-layin' there dull an' yaller, in a heap on the top o'
the snow." Joe paused, held a sputtering sulphur match to the bowl of
his pipe, and, after a few deep puffs, continued: "Ye know how the sight
o' raw gold, that-a-way, gets _to_ ye--when ye've put in the best an'
the hardest years o' yer life a-grubbin' an' a-gougin' f'r it? Ye know
the feelin' that comes all to onct about yer belt line, an' how yer head
feels sort o' light, an' yer face burns, an' ye want to holler, an'
laugh, an' cry all to onct? Well, that was us, a-standin' there by the
stockade--all but Fiddle Face. Him an' O'Brien was a-wallerin'
grip-locked in the snow, an' Fiddle Face was a-hollerin' over an' over
ag'in: 'Where's that kid? Where's that kid?' an' all the while a-chokin'
of O'Brien so's he couldn't answer. Presen'ly we noticed 'em an' drug
'em apart. An' right then every man jack o' us forgot the gold. F'r, on
a sudden, we remembered that little kid--the gameness of him--an' how
he'd give us the slip an' took off alone into a country we didn't none
o' us dast to go to--way long in the fore part o' the winter. We jerked
O'Brien to his feet an' hustled him into the _ho_tel, an' by that time
he'd got back his wind, an' he was a-tellin', an' a-beggin' us not to
lose no time, but to pack a outfit an' hit f'r a little cabin on the
Kandik. 'He's there!' he hollers. 'An' his pardner, too! They're
starvin'. I've got the gold to pay f'r the grub--take it! Take it all!
Only git back to 'em! I know'd we all couldn't make it, travellin' heavy
an' slow with the outfit an' a crippled man to boot.'
"Big Jim Sontag goes out an' scoops up the gold where it laid
_forgot_--an' then he comes back into the room an' walks straight over
to where O'Brien was a-standin': 'We'll go!' says Jim, _'an' you'll go,
too_! An', if there's a cabin, like you say, an' they're there, why
_you_ can't spend no gold in Eagle!' Jim steps closter--so clost that
his nose stops within two inches of O'Brien's, an' his eyes a-borin'
clean through to the back of O'Brien's head: 'But if they _ain't_
there,' he says, low an' quiet like, '_then you don't spend no gold in
Eagle, neither--see?_' An' then Jim turns to us: 'Who'll go 'long?' he
hollers. 'That there boy is Sam Morgan's boy--we all know'd Sam Morgan!'
We sure did--an' we like to tore Jim's roof off a-signifyin'. Then, we
slung our outfits together an' hit the trail. An' now, boys," Joe rose
to his feet and crossed to the bunk where the Irishman sat between
Connie and Waseche Bill, "it's up to us to signify onct more." And, for
the first time in his life, O'Brien, whose lot in the world had always
been an obscure and a lowly one, came to know something of what it meant
to have earned the regard of _men_!
The journey down the Kandik was uneventful, and four days later the
reinforced outfit camped at the junction of the lesser river with the
mighty Yukon. Late that night the men of the North sat about the camp
fire and their talk was of rich strikes, and stampedes, and the unsung
deeds of men.
Connie Morgan listened with bated breath to tales of his father. Waseche
Bill learned from the lips of the men of Eagle of the boy's escape from
the hotel, and of his dash for the Lillimuit that ended, so far as the
men who followed were concerned, at the foot of the snow-piled Tatonduk
divide. And the men of Eagle learned of the Lillimuit, and the white
Indians, and of the death of Carlson, and lastly, of the Ignatook, the
steaming creek with its floor of gold.
"An' we-all ah goin' back theah, sometime," concluded Waseche. "Me an'
the kid, heah, an' O'Brien, if he'll go--" To their surprise, O'Brien
leaped to his feet:
"Ye c'n count me in!" he cried. "Foive days agone no power on earth c'd
av dhrug me back into that land av th' cheerless cowld. But, now, 'tis
dif'runt, an' if th' sun shoines war-rum enough f'r th' loikes av
ye--an' th' b'y, here--phy, ut shoines war-rum enough f'r Pathrick
O'Brien--av ut river shoines at all."
"That's what I call a man!" yelled Fiddle Face, and subsided instantly,
for Waseche Bill was speaking.
"As I was goin' on to say: with us will be some of the boys from Ten
Bow--McDougall, an' Dutch Henery, an' Dick Colton, an' Scotty
McCollough, an' Black Jack Demaree from Ragged Falls, an'--well, how
about it, boys? The gold is theah, an' me an' the kid, we aim to let ouh
frien's in on this heah strike. We'll sho' be proud to have yo'-all jine
us." With a loud cheer, the men accepted Waseche's invitation--they had
seen O'Brien's gold.
"Jes' keep it undeh yo' hats till the time comes," cautioned Waseche.
"We-all will slip yo'-all the wehd, an' we don't want no tinhawns, noah
_chechakos_, noah pikehs along, 'cause the Ignatook stampede is goin' to
be a stampede of _tillicums_!"
In the morning the partners, accompanied by O'Brien, said good-bye to
the men of Eagle and headed down the great river for the mouth of the
Ten Bow. On the third day, only a short distance above the place where
the Ten Bow trail swerved from the Yukon between two high bluffs, they
came upon the camp of an Indian. The red man was travelling light. He
had just come out of the hills, and with him were Waseche Bill's
dogs--the _malamutes_ whose sudden stampede had led the lost wayfarers
through the narrow pass to the crest of the Kandik divide, and--Alaska!
"Wheah'd yo' get them dawgs?" asked Waseche, pointing to the
_malamutes_. The Indian waved his arm in the direction of the hills, and
Waseche nodded:
"Them's _my_ dawgs--_nika komooks_."
The Indian scowled and shook his head.
"Dem Pete Mateese dog," he grunted surlily.
"Pete Mateese!" cried Connie. "Do you know Pete Mateese? Who is he? Where
is he? We want to find him."
The Indian glowered sullenly.
"W'at y'u wan' Pete Mateese?" he asked.
"We want to find him. We've got good news for him. He's rich--plenty
gold." At the words the Indian laughed--not a mirthful laugh, but a
sneering, sardonic laugh of unbelief.
"White man beeg liar--all. Pete Mateese, she Injun--breed. White man no
tell Injun 'bout gol'. Me'be so white man steal Injun gol'."
With Irish impetuosity, O'Brien leaped forward.
"Take thot back, ye rid shpalpeen!" he cried, shaking a huge fist under
the Indian's nose. "Av ye say wan more wor-rd ag'in' th' b'y, Oi'll
choke th' gizzard out av ye befoor ye say ut!"
Waseche Bill held up a restraining hand.
"Take it easy, O'Brien, don't le's nobody huht anybody. Le's get the
straight of this heah. Primary an' fo'most, we-all want to find out if
Pete Mateese _pulled out_ on Carlson, oah, did he aim to go back." At
the mention of Carlson's name the Indian turned quickly toward Waseche.
"Y'u know Carlson?" he asked. Waseche Bill nodded.
"Yeh, I did know him."
"Wher' Carlson?"
"Dead." As Waseche pronounced the word the Indian shook his head sadly.
"Carlson good white man. All good white man dead. Sam Morgan, she dead,
too."
"Sam Morgan!" exclaimed Connie. "What do you know of Sam Morgan?"
"Sam Morgan good to Injun. Me--mos' die, once--fi', seex winter 'go, in
de beeg snow. Sam Morgan com' 'long. Hav' one small piece bacon--one
small lump suet--eighteen mile--Hesitation. Me--I got no grub. Fi', seex
day I ain' got no grub. Seek lak leetle baby. Sam Morgan, she mak' me
eat--sam' lak heem. Den she peek me oop an' car' me--all night--all day.
Nex' night, me'be so we no mak'. See de light in leetle cabin, an' den
we com' Hesitation. Bot' of us, we pret' near die. An' Sam Morgan, she
laugh." The old Indian paused and regarded the boy curiously: "Y'u know
Sam Morgan?" he asked. The boy's eyes were very bright, and he cleared
his throat huskily.
"Sam Morgan was my father," he said, in a low, unsteady tone. The Indian
stalked to the boy and, pausing directly before him, lifted the small
chin and gazed long and searchingly into the upturned grey eyes.
"Uh-huh," he grunted, "y'u Sam Morgan boy. Me hear 'bout y'u in Ten
Bow."
"Where is Pete Mateese?" persisted Connie. The Indian no longer
hesitated.
"Pete Mateese, she Ten Bow. Work hard for de money to buy grub an' tak'
back to Carlson--way back, pas' de divide, in de lan' of Niju Tah--de
lan' of de bad man, dead. But, she don' git no money. Meestaire Squeeg,
she cheat Pete Mateese."
"Who is Misteh Squigg?" asked Waseche Bill.
"Meestaire Squeeg she leetle man. Got de nose lak de fox, an' de bad eye
lak' de snake. All tam he mak' Pete Mateese work ver' mooch. Tell heem,
he mak' plent' money. But she no giv' heem no money--always Pete Mateese
got it comin'--she got to wait. Som' day Meestaire Squeeg she pull
out--den Pete Mateese got nut'in."
"Yo' say he's a li'l slit-eyed runt--rat-faced--with a squeaky voice?"
Waseche mimicked Mr. Squigg's tone. The Indian nodded emphatically, and
for a long time Waseche was silent--thinking.
"An' yo' say these heah is Pete Mateese's dawgs?" Again the Indian
nodded, and Waseche Bill's eyes narrowed: "An' yo' say they ah in Ten
Bow--Pete Mateese an' this heah Misteh Squigg?"
"Ten Bow," repeated the Indian. "Meestaire Squeeg, she tak' de gol' an'
buy de claim." Waseche Bill turned to the others:
"Come on, we'll hit the trail!" And then, to the Indian, "Yo' come, too,
an' fetch them dawgs." Connie noticed that his big partner's voice was
very low, and once, turning quickly, he surprised the cold, hard gleam
in the grey eyes.
"He must be the same man that tried to make me give up my claim, the
time I beat out the Ten Bow stampede," confided the boy, as he mushed
beside Waseche's sled.
"Oh, he did--did he?" asked the man, in the same low, hard tone. "We'll
jest count that in, too."
"What do you mean? Do you know Mr. Squigg?"
"No. But I _will_," drawled Waseche. "Yo' see, kid, he's the man I
bought them dawgs off of last fall in Eagle. Come along, now, le's mush.
I'm gettin' plumb anxious to meet up with this heah Misteh Squigg."