In Search of El Dorado: A Wanderer's Experiences
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Title: In Search of El Dorado: A Wanderer's Experiences
Author: Alexander MacDonald
Author of introduction, etc.: John Moresby
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IN SEARCH OF EL DORADO: A WANDERER'S EXPERIENCES ***
IN SEARCH OF EL DORADO
_THREE BOOKS OF_
_TRAVEL AND DESCRIPTION_
Siberia. A Record of Travel, Climbing and Exploration.
By SAMUEL TURNER, F.R.G.S. With about 100 Illustrations
and 2 Maps. Demy 8vo, cloth, =21s.= net.
Travels of a Naturalist in Northern Europe.
By J. A. HARVIE-BROWN, F.R.S.E., F.Z.S., Author of "Fauna of
the Moray Basin," "A Vertebrate Fauna of Orkney," &c.,&c.
With 4 Maps and many Illustrations. 2 vols. Royal 8vo,
cloth, =£3 3s.= net.
Russia Under the Great Shadow.
By LUIGI VILLARI, Author of "Giovanni Segantini," "Italian
Life in Town and Country," &c. With 85 Illustrations.
Demy 8vo, cloth, =10s. 6d.= net.
LONDON: T. FISHER UNWIN.
[Illustration: Yours Very Sincerely Alexander Macdonald.]
IN SEARCH OF EL DORADO
A WANDERER'S EXPERIENCES
BY
ALEXANDER MACDONALD
F.R.G.S.
WITH AN INTRODUCTION
BY ADMIRAL MORESBY
ILLUSTRATED
SECOND IMPRESSION
LONDON: T. FISHER UNWIN
1, ADELPHI TERRACE. MCMVI
FIRST EDITION 1905
SECOND IMPRESSION 1906
[_All rights reserved_]
TO
MY MOTHER
Introduction
"Good wine needs no bush," but because a man does not always himself see
the full scope of what he has written, an introduction may have its uses
for author and readers alike. And to me--the adventure of whose own
career has reached the inexorable _Finis_--these true stories of gold
and gem seeking have an interest beyond the mere record of peril and
achievement, though, in the words of Sir Philip Sidney, it "stirs the
heart like a trumpet-blast" when brave men come to grips with dangers
which (like the treasure-guarding dragons of fairy-tales) yield not only
their hoard, but their own strength, as reward to the conqueror.
And these are true romances--no fiction with its _Deus ex machina_ at
the psychological moment, but the unadorned risks, escapes, and failures
of adventurers on the quest of those strange commodities, seemingly
haunted by death and fear, from their secrecy in the recesses of the
earth till they shine with a sinister light in the crowns of kings or
make rough, for better handling, the sword-grips of warriors.
The quest of "El Dorado" begins with the history of man, and in pursuit
of the glittering phantom have "many souls of heroes gone down into
Hades," only that others might step into their empty places in the
ranks. For whatever is found, always just beyond reach flits what is not
found--what never will be, be it the golden city of Manoa, with its
palace of the Inca, "all the vessels of whose house and kitchen are of
gold, and in his wardrobe statues of gold which seemed giants, and
ropes, budgets, chests and troughs of gold," or the mysterious jewels of
the wisdom of Solomon, or the genie-guarded gems of the Arabian Nights.
The instinct of delight in this adventure which has dazzled the mind of
man from time immemorial is universal: it is a relish of youth which
persists into the old age of the world; it warms the coldest blood; and
our author, who has himself followed the mirage and felt the fascination
so keenly, is able to transmit the magic of the search to his readers.
Whether toiling over the Chilcoot Pass, hunger-pinched, and desperate
with cold and exhaustion, or thirst-tormented in the burning deserts of
Central Australia, the indomitable desire that drives him forward with
his comrades, drives us also on this modern Odyssey, where the Siren
sings on beaches of dead men's bones, and perils as terrible as any
man-devouring Cyclops lie in wait for the wanderers.
The author, leaving his book to the verdict of the public, is once more
an explorer in the Australian deserts, collecting who knows what strange
experiences for future use, so I may, in his absence, characterise him
as a born leader of men, a very prudent Odysseus; for what lesser
qualities could have held together so strangely assorted a band as the
rough-hewn Mac and Stewart and the gentleman adventurer Phil Morris?
Reticence is perhaps unavoidable, but one would willingly see and hear
more of the central figure than his own modesty allows him to give us.
Yet, as I said before, it is not only the adventure which gives a charm
to these studies of wild life. They are little epics of
comradeship--impressions of men to whom gold and jewels are much, but to
whom loyalty is the one thing better. It is good to see the yellow gleam
in the washings, and the milky fire of the Australian opal is worth the
perils endured, but there is also the abiding knowledge that quite other
and less elusive treasures reward the quest--courage, endurance, and
above all--"the manly love of comrades."
And to me--to whom some of these studies recall in keenest remembrance
scenes which I shall never behold again with my living eyes--there is
another point of view and one of wider interest. Such men, in working
out their own destiny, are evolving also the imperial destiny of the
Mother-Country. They break the path, and other feet follow. There is the
march of an army behind them, for they are the vanguard of
civilisation--the first spray of the tide that, however slowly it flows,
does not ebb. It is well, since the change must come, that these men, of
good home-spun stuff, honest and kindly in thought and deed, should be
among the forerunners of the race that will abide where it has set its
feet. Scotland need not be ashamed of her sons as they stand before us
in these true stories of daring and endurance, and speak with their
enemies in the gate.
The inexhaustible mineral and gem deposits of New Guinea are only
glanced at, but the description of those marvellous tropical forests,
through whose deep ravines rush the gold-bearing torrents, from which
"Mac" was able to wash out thirty pounds worth in one day, proves what
possibilities England possesses in that great island, and sheds light on
the policy of a time, now happily past, when I had hoisted the Flag, in
1872, and thus taken formal possession of Eastern New Guinea. I reported
to my chief, and his reply has a curious interest in view of many later
developments.
"Have we not enough tropical possessions, without requiring more? Enough
issues to sap the strength of our Englishmen, without giving Government
patronage to the infliction of new wounds on our body? Enough
circumstances in which there must be a subjected race alongside of our
English proprietors, without putting the Government stamp on a new
scheme which will help to demoralise us, and weaken our moral sense as
a nation?"
Such were the views of the Little Englanders thirty years ago. Such seem
strangely out of date when explorers of the Alexander Macdonald type are
tapping the remotest sources of commerce in the interests of the old
country.
So I leave the little band to the reader--very human, compound of great
generosities and small failings, travellers, like ourselves, on "the
Great Trail" that leads to the Mountains of the Moon, and beyond, but
always _men_, and knit together by so strong a bond that each might well
say of the other, with Walt Whitman--
"Bold, cautious, true, and my loving comrade."
J. MORESBY.
Admiral Rtd.
BLACKBECK,
_April 19, 1905_.
Preface
I desire to assure all readers of this book that the scenes here
depicted, and the events described, may be taken as faithful
representations from life. I would also add that the geographical
descriptions throughout are accurate in detail; my knowledge is borne of
long and varied experience in the countries of which I write.
A friendly critic, on reviewing my MSS., said that the book might be
misunderstood because of its containing the remarks and conversations of
my companions, which he considered could not very well have been
remembered by the writer. On this point, however, I beg to differ, and I
feel that I shall have the sympathy of my fellow-wanderers on my side.
When a man has travelled for many years with the same companions, and
has shared danger and sorrow and gladness with them, surely it is not
too much to assume that he must ultimately know their temperaments well,
and would scarcely need to draw upon his imagination when recalling
their various remarks on striking incidents.
At the conclusion of our Western Australian journey the outbreak of the
South African war caused a temporary disbandment of my party, all of
whose members served at the Front with the Australian Contingents
during the campaign. As a result it will be observed that in the third
part of this volume the narratives partake somewhat of a general nature,
and are also more or less disconnected.
Finally let me say in extenuation of any brusqueness or crudity of
expression which may be noticeable, that I write as a traveller whose
hand has more often gripped the rifle and sextant than the pen.
ALEXANDER MACDONALD.
ELCHO PARK, PERTH.
_March 1, 1905._
Contents
PAGE
INTRODUCTION vii
PREFACE xiii
PART I
THE FROZEN NORTH
UNDER THE SHADOW OF THE WHITE PASS 3
SHOOTING THE WHITE HORSE RAPIDS 16
THE LAND OF THE THRON-DIUCKS 24
THE FINDING OF "GOLD BOTTOM" CREEK 37
THE PERILS OF THE TRAIL 51
THE TENT AT CARIBOU CROSSING 60
ACROSS THE CHILCOOT PASS 70
PART II
UNDER THE SOUTHERN CROSS
THE FIVE-MILE RUSH 83
SINKING FOR GOLD 97
WE "STRIKE" GOLD 107
CAMP-FIRE REMINISCENCES 122
THE "SACRED" NUGGET 133
INTO THE "NEVER NEVER" LAND 146
EL DORADO! 159
WHERE THE PELICAN BUILDS ITS NEST 173
PART III
PROMISCUOUS WANDERINGS
IN THE AUSTRALIAN BACK-BLOCKS 199
ON THE OPAL FIELDS OF WHITE CLIFFS 220
PROSPECTING IN BRITISH NEW GUINEA 238
IN THE GUM-LAND OF WANGERI 256
WITH THE PEARLERS OF NORTH-WESTERN AUSTRALIA 271
List of Illustrations
PORTRAIT OF THE AUTHOR _Frontispiece_
A PARTY OF MINERS GOING IN BY THE SKAGWAY
OR WHITE PASS TRAIL _Facing p._ 7
THE CHILCOOT PASS " 16
KLONDIKE-BOUND MINERS AND THEIR OUTFITS
ON LAKE LINDERMAN " 22
AFTER THE RAPIDS " 22
PAN-WASHING IN SKOOKUM GULCH " 37
GOLD-BOTTOM CREEK " 47
DAWSON CITY " 54
ON THE SAFE SIDE OF THE PASS AGAIN--MAC,
SELF, STEWART " 79
STEWART PREPARING OUR FIRST MEAL " 89
"DISCOVERY" SHAFT--ON GOLD " 99
STEWART FINDS THE GROUND HARD " 106
NO. 2 CLAIM--JUST STRUCK GOLD " 114
OUR SHAFT " 122
NUGGETY DICK AND SILENT TED " 127
HAPPY JACK AND DEAD-BROKE SAM " 132
READY FOR THE RUSH " 139
A BREAKDOWN IN THE RUSH " 145
OUR LAST VIEW OF THE 5-MILE WORKING " 150
TAKING OUR POSITION " 159
A NATIVE CAMP " 165
EL DORADO! " 172
AN EXTINCT VOLCANO WE CAMPED ON " 182
THE ONLY CREATURES THAT CAN EXIST IN THE
N.W. INTERIOR " 195
AN EMU'S NEST " 200
"LEICHARDT'S TREE" " 213
The last trace found of the great explorer who
attempted to cross the interior and was never
heard of again.
A FAMOUS MINE IN THE GULF COUNTRY " 219
BORING FOR OPAL INDICATIONS " 224
THE BELLE OF THE BUSH--A SALVATION ARMY
CONVERT IN WHITE CLIFFS " 230
THE DINGOE OR NATIVE DOG " 237
CROCODILE JAWS " 243
THE GUM-DIGGERS' SWIMMING-POOL " 265
READY TO GO DOWN " 275
PART I
THE FROZEN NORTH
"And, as his strength
Failed him at length,
He met a pilgrim shadow--
'Shadow,' said he,
'Where can it be
This land of El Dorado?'
'Over the mountains
Of the moon,
Down in the valley of the Shadow,
Ride, boldly ride,'
The Shade replied
'If you seek for El Dorado.'"
UNDER THE SHADOW OF THE WHITE PASS
I have stumbled upon a few "tough" corners of the globe during my
wanderings beyond the outposts of civilisation, but I think the most
outrageously lawless quarter I ever struck was Skagway in the days of
its early infancy. Now, I am told, Skagway is a flourishing township,
boasting of the orthodox amount of "broad" streets and "palatial"
buildings for an American "boom" camp. This may be, though--unless the
geographical features of the district have altered--I can hardly credit
it. When I was there the embryo city balanced itself precariously along
the lower slopes of the White Pass, and a good percentage of the
population had to be content with huts built on piles within the tidal
limit of the Lynn Canal. In short, there was no room to build anything,
and Skagway existed simply because it marked the entry to the Yukon's
frozen treasure. Its permanent residents were, for the most part,
sharpers of the worst type; indeed, it seemed as if the scum of the
earth had hastened here to fleece and rob, or, failing those gentle
arts, to murder the unwary voyagers to or from the Golden North. There
was no law whatsoever; might was right, the dead shot only was immune
from danger.
It was late autumn in the year when the first news of Klondike riches
burst upon the world, when I, with my companion Mac, arrived at the head
of the Lynn inlet, _en route_ for the land of snows and nuggets. Our
ship, the _Rosalie_, carried a goodly number of passengers, but they
were mainly of the ruffian "store and saloon-keeper" variety, and few,
if any, of them ever got beyond the pass. The true gold-miner is
proverbially poor, and as yet his kind had not been numerous on the
trail. As for myself, I was enterprising if nothing else, and my
companion made up for my deficiencies in other respects. He was a
ferocious individual without a doubt, my worthy henchman; without him my
early journeyings would have ended before they had well begun, but,
being a hardened traveller, he knew how to adapt himself to
circumstances, and how to come off best in a scrimmage, both of which
traits were brought fully out before we had been long in the villainous
little camp of Skagway. Our first twenty-four hours' experiences may be
worth relating.
We were the only representatives of Old England in these uncouth parts
at this period, a fact which had not made us any more beloved by the
aggressively hostile Yankees on board the _Rosalie_. Times without
number they told me how the "great American nation" could wipe the
British Isles off the face of the earth at a moment's notice, and how a
"free-born American" was equal to a dozen Britishers, and how we two
would be swallowed alive by these same men should we dare say a word to
the contrary. We bore a good deal of this sort of thing in silence,
though occasionally throughout the protracted voyage my fiery
aide-de-camp retaliated angrily, and did considerable damage among his
tormentors, who proved to be warlike only in their speech. But this is a
digression, and though I could write pages on that momentous cruise--we
ran aground five times, and were practically wrecked twice--I must
desist and continue my narrative.
The first man we saw after being dumped on the muddy shores of Skagway
Bay was a short, red-headed individual, with ruddy countenance to match,
who fairly bristled with weapons of the most bloodthirsty description.
He approached Mac and me as we stood hesitatingly by the water's edge
looking around for some habitation wherein we might find refuge for the
first night of our sojourn in a strange land.
"Hallo, stranger!" he saluted, affably, firing a huge revolver
unpleasantly close to my ear in a most nonchalant manner.
"Hallo!" I said without enthusiasm, feeling cautiously in the rear of my
nether garments to make sure that my own gun was where it ought to be.
He seemed somewhat hurt at the stiffness of my rejoinder, and toyed
suggestively with his revolver for some moments without speaking.
Meanwhile Mac proceeded unconcernedly along the beach to where a huge
hulk lay moored, whose broad beam bore the legend in giant
letters--"Skagit Hotel. Recently of San Francisco. Finest accommodation
in town."
I was preparing to follow in my comrade's footsteps, marvelling at the
enterprise which had brought the old dismasted schooner so opportunely
to such a region; but my friend with the gun was not to be put off.
"Say, stranger," he growled, stepping before me, "you don't know who I
am, I reckon----"
"I don't," I interrupted, shortly, "and I am not over anxious to make
your acquaintance either."
He glared at me savagely for an instant, then broke out into a hearty
laugh. "For a darned Englisher you are mighty pert," he said, "an' I
won't slaughter you--just yet. Still, for your future benefit I may tell
you that my handle is Soapy Sam, an' I've planted considerable men like
you in my time. I'm a bad man, I is, but your ignorance saves ye."
The conversation was being uncomfortably prolonged; yet I dared not make
any movement. "What's the damage, Soapy?" I asked contritely. "I suppose
you are collecting toll in your polite way?"
He lowered his weapon and grinned. "Every tenderfoot as lands in this
here city has to play poker with me or fight," he acknowledged
smilingly.
I realised my position at once. It was painfully clear to me that the
"fight" would be all on one side, and could only end in one way so long
as Soapy held the "drop," and it was also clear that the alternative was
to submit to wholesale robbery. A loud shout at our back made us both
turn with alacrity, and behold there stood Mac with his long Winchester
repeater levelled fairly at Soapy Samuel's head. The wily individual had
scented danger, and had made a _détour_ expressly for my benefit.
"Say when," he murmured calmly, from behind his artillery, "and I'll
blow the deevil into vulgar fractions."
I stepped out of range of fire without delay. Soapy's fingers twitched
on the stock of his lowered revolver as his ferret-like eyes blinked
down the muzzle of the deadly tube, which never wavered a hair's
breadth. Then his weapon dropped from his nerveless hand, and slowly his
arms were upraised towards the sky, and he smiled an exceedingly sickly
smile.
"You've got the pull on me this time, partner," he said. "I caves."
At this moment a hoarse chorus of cheers rang out from the vicinity of
the Skagit Hotel. The inmates had assembled on the upper deck to witness
the discomfiture of their common enemy.
"Shoot him!" they roared; "he killed old Smith."
But Mac was not disposed to make himself public executioner. "Ye'd
better vanish, Soapy," he grunted.
[Illustration: A PARTY OF MINERS GOING IN BY THE SKAGWAY OR
WHITE PASS TRAIL.]
"Never mind the cannon ye dropped; it'll just suit me. Quick, fur I'm
getting nervish."
Soapy fled, slipping and stumbling through the snow in his intense
haste. But when he had placed a good hundred yards between him and his
conqueror, he turned and waved his hand cheerily.
"I bear no ill-will, boys," he shouted; "I was clean bested. But," and
he turned towards the _Skagit_, "I'll have it out with you afore long,
and don't forgit it."
A yell of derision greeted him in return. Apparently the _Skagit_
dwellers meant to take all chances with a light heart. Mac grounded his
rifle with a grunt of satisfaction.
"This is the deevil's ain country we've struck," he grumbled. "It's a
blessed thing I got insured afore I left auld Scotland." I agreed with
him heartily, and together we sought the hospitable shelter of the
stranded hotel, where we were welcomed effusively by the proprietor
thereof, a merry-faced Irishman of the name of O'Connor.
"We're chock full up, but we'll gladly make room for you, boys," he
said. "It wouldn't be safe to allow you to go up among Soapy's gang."
I expressed my gratitude for his tender solicitude, then made sundry
inquiries as to the prospects of crossing the pass within the next day
or so.
"You want to cross the pass?" he echoed, in amazement. "Why, you won't
be able to do that until next spring. The snows are on, and the trail is
blocked with hundreds of dead horses anyhow."
I had heard this statement so often of late that I was in nowise taken
aback. "We certainly did not come here for the good of our health," I
said. "We'll try the Chilcoot Pass if the Skagway route is impossible.
Dyea is not very far from here, I think?"
"Only about four miles round about," he replied. "It is at the head of
the inlet you would see before your ship branched in here. A mighty
miserable place it is, for the winds sweep right down from the sea
almost constantly."
"We didn't expect to find roses growing on the track," snorted Mac,
impatiently. "We'll try and get round to Dyea in the morning."
But now another difficulty arose. There were no boats to be had stout
enough to withstand the heavy gales which, as we had just been told,
blew ceaselessly up the funnel-like entrance to the Chilcoot Valley, and
even if there had been, our outfit of flour and miscellaneous foodstuffs
was rather an unwieldy factor to be considered.
"It's a maist ungodly country," commented Mac gloomily. "There seems to
be nae room for anybody but thieves an' murderers, and it' very funny
that there's no' an honest gold-miner among the lot."
Our fellow-passengers nearly all had found congenial quarters further
back in the city, and one or two had erected their tents on the beach,
forgetting in their haste to found a home that the tide would wash over
their camp site about twelve o'clock that same night. Yet no one cared
to inform them on the matter, and Mac watched their progress with
undisguised joy, and howled with delight when one of his old enemies
began to haul timber from the hillside for the purpose of building a
substantial edifice on the sinking sands.
"They might know that the old _Skagit_ couldn't have walked up here,"
laughed our host. "But they'll find out their mistake soon enough, I
reckon," and he chuckled, long and loudly.
Having partaken of dinner, Mac and I sallied forth to visit the
scattered array of huts and tents which constituted the town.
"Look out for Soapy Sam," warned a swarthy-visaged man in picturesque
attire. "He's a nasty sort of skunk to meet, even in the daytime, as you
already know. If ye get into trouble just yell on me--Black Harry is my
handle--and I'll be with you in a couple of shakes."
I thanked the dusky warrior, who indeed looked as if he could give a
very good account of himself when necessary, and with the butt of my
revolver clutched tightly in my hand, I walked citywards with Mac, who
gravely whistled selections from a hymn entitled, "There is a Happy
Land." On our arrival in Klondike Avenue, as the main thoroughfare was
elegantly styled, not a solitary individual was to be seen. The weather
was bitterly cold, and the denizens of the camp, with commendable good
sense, avoided all danger of frostbite by keeping within the shelter of
their wigwams. The deserted avenue was therefore a most dreary
spectacle, and the gathering shadows of night hanging over the grim pass
in the background did not tend to enliven the gloom of the scene.
"And to think that for the last fortnight I hae heard nothing but
stories o' American grit, American hardiness, American--everything,"
soliloquised Mac, sarcastically; "yet every deevil o' them is frichtened
o' catchin' cold--but hallo! what's this?"
He directed my gaze towards a flaring poster nailed to a tree. We
approached, and read the rude notice. "In the Skagit Hall to-night.
Grand concert. Miss Caprice, of New York, the world-famed variety
actress, will hold the camp in thrall. Leave your guns at home, and come
early to avoid the rush. N.B.--Poker tables have been fixed up for the
convenience of the audience."
The last clause gave the key to the whole concern. Miss Caprice--whoever
that might be--was merely an extra attraction. Appended was a weird
diagram purporting to be a sketch of the aforesaid Miss Caprice in
the intricacies of one of her dance specialities. Mac shuddered and
looked pained.
"This is maist decidedly no place for a white man," he asserted, with a
sigh. Then we turned and headed back for the _Skagit_, where in the
later hours the world-famed artiste was billed to disport herself. As we
passed by a large log structure set back among the trees, I was
surprised to hear a husky voice call out to us, and while we hesitated
the door of the hut swung open, and Soapy Sam appeared and beckoned
mysteriously. He apparently had discarded his armoury, but I was not
disposed to trust much to appearances, at which our old enemy looked
considerably aggrieved.
"I bear no grudge, boys," he said. "No man can say that Soapy Sam went
back on his word. You downed me fair."
"Then what is it?" I inquired suspiciously.
"Ye must admit, Soapy, ma man," added Mac drily, "that your reputation
even among yer ain folk is no' just rosy."
But Soapy was evidently determined not to be offended by anything we
might say. He approached with hands extended in token of good faith,
and, noting this, we stayed our progress and waited wonderingly to hear
what he wished to speak. He did not enlighten us much, however.
"I say, boys," he whispered when he came near, "can you both swim?"
Mac nodded. "But it wouldna be a pleasant diversion in this weather," he
remarked, with a shudder.
"Then don't go near the _Skagit_ to-night," said Soapy impressively.
"There's a storm rising, and I shouldn't wonder if the old barge bursts
her moorings before morning."
He was gone in an instant, and Mac and I gazed at each other in dismay.
"What can he mean?" I said.
"Heaven knows," growled Mac; "but we'll likely find out before very
long. He's a gey slippery customer, is Soapy, an' no' easily understood,
I'm thinkin'."
We continued on our course meditating deeply, but, no solution of the
mysterious warning presenting itself, it escaped our minds utterly in
the noisy excitement that prevailed on our return to the _Skagit_.
O'Connor, the proprietor, was all agog with the importance of his
position as master of ceremonies; he was busily superintending the
placing of a rickety old piano when we made our appearance, and he
immediately seized on Mac for a song during the evening, a favour which
was most promptly refused.
"Miss Caprice an' me wouldna suit on the same programme," was the worthy
diplomatist's excuse. "Get Black Harry an' Soapy Sam--"
"Soapy Sam is barred this circus," sternly interrupted O'Connor. "I'm
running a concert to-night, not a funeral undertaking establishment."
Assuredly Soapy Sam's prowess was no mean factor to be considered.
At 7 p.m. prompt--as advertised--the entertainment began. The room was
crowded with truly all sorts and conditions of men, and the air reeked
with tobacco smoke. The piano manipulator--a bewhiskered and
groggy-looking personage in top-boots--took his place with stately grace
as befitted the dignity of his office. He ran his fingers clumsily over
the keys as if seeking for some lost chord or combination, which,
however, he did not find, and then he rattled out an ear-shattering
melody in which the audience, after a moment's pause, joined lustily. In
the midst of the uproar thus let loose a gaudily-bedecked creature of
the female persuasion, wearing a grin that almost obliterated her
features, appeared on the raised stage at the end of the saloon, and
joined in the pandemonium, her shrill voice screaming out the touching
information that there would be "a hot time in the old town to-night,"
which coincided with the item on the programme.
This was Miss Caprice--a type of the "noble and enduring" women whom
recent "Klondike" novelists have portrayed so tenderly in their
"realistic" romances. Heaven forbid that the respectable British public
should be thus deceived. There was no woman with any claim to the name
on the long trail in these days.
It would be impossible to describe the course of that memorable
"concert." It continued in spasms--or turns, which I believe is the
correct term to use--far into the night, with occasional interruptions
in the shape of fights and wordy altercations among the poker players,
diversions which lent pleasurable variety to the entertainment, though
now and again it seemed as if a funeral or two would surely result
therefrom. But all smoothed off harmoniously under the influence of Miss
Caprice's moving melodies, which always were turned on at opportune
moments. Mac said that her voice was like unto the buzzing of a steam
saw in cross-grained wood, but perhaps he was prejudiced, or his
artistic senses a trifle too fine. Anyhow, she pleased the multitude
mightily, and they roared out their appreciation boisterously at the
conclusion of each of her vocal exercises, and implored her to continue
her soothing ditties unendingly. The too free use of the flowing bowl
was probably accountable for the warmth of their approval; but Miss
Caprice, having indulged in equal degree with her admirers, was getting
less and less able to trill forth sweet sounds for their edification,
and matters were fast beginning to assume a by no means inviting
aspect.
Several times during the progress of events Mac and I endeavoured to
make an unobtrusive exit, but all to no purpose.
Slowly the time dragged on its weary course, then suddenly I became
aware that the old _Skagit_ was rising with the incoming tide. She
swayed cumbrously once or twice, and her rotten timbers creaked and
groaned dismally under the strain, but no one seemed to consider these
indications worthy of attention, and the roystering chorus went on
without interruption. At intervals I could hear vague voices calling
excitedly without, and I guessed that the men who had built their homes
in the sand were having a bad time.
Another half-hour passed. By this time the taste of the audience had
reached the sentimental stage, and they loudly clamoured for a song
suited to their altered temperament. The accompanist, however, persisted
in playing the "hot time" tune to everything, so he was discharged with
ignominy by the scornful prima donna, who announced in broken accents
that she would give a rendering of "Ashtore" without musical assistance,
which was most unwise on her part. Still, she persisted at her task, and
got to the end of the first verse without mishap; but as she screamed
out the last wailing notes of the chorus the old _Skagit_ gave a sudden
lurch, and sent her reeling head foremost into the centre of the room.
"What's the matter with the darned barge?" howled several indignant
voices among the crowd, but no answer was forthcoming. The _Skagit_ at
that moment was seized with convulsions, and rolled and pitched in a
most unaccountable manner.
"Howlin' blazes!" yelled Black Harry. "The happy home must have broken
loose."
The rush that followed is beyond description. Mac and I, being less
affected by the motion of the hulk than the majority, reached the deck
first. Away far back to the right the lights of Skagway shimmered out
over the smooth waters of Skagway Bay. To the left the faint
illuminations of Healy's Store at Dyea shone at the head of the Chilcoot
Inlet, along which great seas were rolling in from the main channel. We
had drifted out with the ebbing tide, and we were now being borne
onwards by the uninterrupted ocean gales. If we escaped being dashed to
pieces against the rocky bluffs of the peninsula, we might be driven
ashore on the mud banks at Dyea; but it was certain that the _Skagit_
could not return to her wonted anchorage that night.
Loud and deep were the curses that now arose from all on board.
"It's Soapy Sam's work," howled O'Connor. "He must have cut the
moorings. He said he would do it."
Then I remembered Soapy's warning, but held my peace, and while the men
raved, and threatened, and prayed in turn, the old _Skagit_ dashed on
her new course, buffeted by the great seething rollers crowding in from
the sea, and spinning like a top in the swirling waters. Crash! At last
we had struck, and the surging waves swept over the deck in a copious
flood, and the night was filled with the shrieks of the frenzied band,
who feared the worst; but it was only a sand bar after all, the first of
a series of similar obstacles that bar the Dyea Channel at high water.
"We could never have got round here ourselves," muttered Mac, as we
stood watching the slowly-receding waves. "It is a fact that it's a gey
ill wind that blaws naebody good."
In a short space the _Skagit_ lay high and dry where she had been
deposited, and for the first time we learned that the Dyea Bar stretches
out three miles from the village. But I was satisfied. As Mac had
implied, the _Skagit_ had unconsciously done us a service of no mean
order in transporting our outfit nearer the Chilcoot Pass. With calm
contentment he and I sought peaceful slumber in the humble quarters
allotted to us earlier in the day, while the rest of the ship's
company--including Miss Caprice--started to climb the dividing mountain
ridge to Skagway on the trail of the elusive Soapy.
SHOOTING THE WHITE HORSE RAPIDS
It was a month later when we reached the shores of Lake Linderman _en
route_ for the frozen North. The Chilcoot Pass had presented an almost
impassable barrier to our advance; a light film of snow clung to the
bare rocks and filled the numberless crevices of the "Summit"--that last
grim climb, where the Dyea trail mounts all but perpendicularly upwards
to the blizzard-swept glacier cap of the pass--and no room for foothold
could be traced. It would be impossible to describe that frightful
climb. When we reached the top and saw far below the twisting line of
Indian "packers," who seemed to stick like flies to the white wall, we
could not understand how the ascent had been accomplished.
Crater Lake, on the "other" side, was covered with a broad sheet of ice
which was not sufficiently strong to bear our sleighs, or weak enough to
allow of a passage being broken for our portable canvas boat. Here we
were delayed many days, laboriously dragging our outfit to a less lofty
and more congenial climate.
Long Lake, Deep Lake, and Mud Lake were successfully negotiated in turn;
their waters glistened cold and cheerless, surrounded by the great snowy
peaks that were rapidly opening out into the magnificent Yukon valley.
Far down in the hollow, seemingly in a sunnier and well-timbered spot,
nestled Lake Linderman, and beyond, the Yukon channel could be traced
between the ever-widening mountain ranges. We had packed sleighs in
our outfit, not expecting to use them until we reached the Klondike
river, and how successful they might prove should it be necessary to
force a trail across the frozen waters was a matter for conjecture.
[Illustration: THE CHILCOOT PASS.]
At this time Linderman's shores were the scene of much bustle; many
intending voyagers were building their boats in feverish haste, for they
knew that the elements must soon lay firm grip on the waters, and render
their work useless.
Major Walsh, the Canadian Administrator of the Yukon Territory, had just
made his appearance from over the Skagway trail, and he was all
eagerness to proceed. He immediately bought--at fabulous prices--the
boats that were built, and, without a day's delay, set sail northwards
with his staff.
Two days after the Major's departure, I succeeded in purchasing a
twenty-feet "Dorie" from a disheartened miner who had decided to return
to Dyea, and wait for the ensuing spring.
I need not detail our journeyings for the next few days. Linderman was
sailed over within two hours, then the half-mile porterage between it
and Lake Bennet was accomplished after much labour. This latter lake is
twenty-eight miles in length, its northern extremity narrowing down to a
deep and swift-flowing channel, which extends but a few hundred yards
before expanding into a broad, shallow lake or lagoon, colloquially
known as "Caribou Crossing." The current here is sluggish, and the water
abounds in shoals and sandbanks, which at that time were a sore trial to
the adventuresome navigator with his precious freight of flour and other
necessaries.
Tagash Lake forms the next link in the great lake chain of the Yukon,
and it stretches full twenty-nine miles, then contracting to a
fierce-flowing stream by which the Canadian Customs Offices are now
stationed.
Beyond this is Marsh Lake, and here it was that our troubles began.
Not a breath of wind stirred the waters of the lake, and our
crudely-built dorie, containing 1,000 pounds of flour and 1,000 pounds
of miscellaneous foodstuffs, ploughed slowly through the wide expanse to
the accompaniment of much wheezing and groaning of oars, and an endless
string of forcible expletives that burst from the lips of my stalwart
companions, who provided the motive power of the ungainly craft. The
favouring wind had died away, and, unaided by the sails, we could make
but little headway over the still water. The weather had become
strangely cold considering the earliness of the season, and I was almost
benumbed as I sat in the steersman's perch, directing the course by
sundry sweeps of a great-bladed Indian paddle, which I wielded with both
hands.
"Keep it up, boys," I encouraged. "We are more than half-way through the
lake."
"Twa miles an 'oor," grunted Mac between his efforts. "This is the worst
boat I ever pulled."
Stewart, his companion, another brawny Scot who had joined me at Dyea,
rested his oar for a moment to breathe a sympathetic swear word of much
intensity; then together they bent to their labours, and the rasp of the
oars, and the brief swish of the eddying pools created, alone broke the
deadly quiet.
Towards nightfall I was surprised to notice here and there large sheets
of ice on the lake surface, and occasionally our heavily-laden boat
would grind against these obstacles, shouldering them off with much
effort: then my oarsmen's long sweeps would rend and split them as they
passed alongside.
It was very plain that the Yukon headwaters were fast freezing over.
"We'll have to keep going all night, boys," I said, "for we'll be ice
jammed if we camp anywhere around here."
The fierce torrent issuing from the end of the lake and rushing towards
the dread White Horse Rapids would in all probability be free from
ice--if we could reach that far.
Strenuously my companions pulled at their oars. The gloom deepened, then
the stars came out, and by their feeble light I could distinguish far
ahead a scintillating field of ice.
The sight caused me almost to despair--we had been sailing since early
morning, and were tired and very hungry.
Before I could get the head of our boat turned inshore, it had crashed
through several flaking sheets, and immediately after I realised that we
were hopelessly in an ice maze from which there seemed no exit.
"We'll gang straight on," said Mac, with determination, and he levered
powerfully with his oar against the frosted masses.
A quarter of an hour passed, then the up-turning stem of the dorie went
thud against an immovable barrier, and I knew that we were indeed
ice-jammed beyond the possibility of forcing a passage with the oars.
Nor could we return, for the ice-pack we had negotiated for miles was
now seemingly welded together in one solid mass.
Cautiously Mac put his moccasined foot over the prow and bore heavily on
the glittering ice; it neither strained nor yielded.
With a fervent malediction he jumped on "shore," and felt the edge of
the sheet.
"It's mair than twa inches," he said sorrowfully. "Hoo can we get
through this?"
Very sadly we got out of our boat, and, taking the cooking utensils, the
tent, and some flour and coffee, sought a sheltered spot among the dense
timber on the lake side. Soon we had almost forgotten our woes, and were
regaling ourselves with copious draughts of coffee and much hard damper.
From our tent door we could see our boat stuck fast amid the ice. How we
were to get it free I could not well imagine. In the morning, however,
we awoke with renewed energy and more hopeful hearts.
"We cannot have far to go, boys," I said. "We'll cut down a couple of
trees and use them to break a passage."
After breakfast we lost no time in making the effort. Armed with the
heavy logs, we re-embarked, and soon the ponderous hammers had begun
their work and a passage was slowly made towards the Yukon. With great
reluctance our boat moved ahead, leaving a trail of glittering ice
boulders. Mac leaned over the bow and opened the channel, while Stewart
and I belaboured the masses that closed in on either side.
About midday we neared the end of the lake, and the channel beyond
appeared a rippling, crackling flood of jagged ice-floes.
We felt the suction of the current long before we had reached the limit
of the ice-field. The sheets became thinner and broke away readily, so
that the oars came again into play, and we crashed onward impetuously on
the bosom of an irresistible stream.
At last we were free, and our boat dashed madly into the narrow egress,
bumping, grinding, and rocking against the detached fragments of ice
that appeared everywhere.
With a great effort we managed to slow our craft before coming into
contact with a sharp jutting rock that reared high in the middle of the
stream, and then we found that it required all our energies to evade the
miniature icebergs that rushed alongside. These floating dangers looked
harmless enough, yet they were fully six inches deep in the water, and
contact with them would result in much damage to the planks of our
dorie. Several times, indeed, we were almost overturned by colliding
with unusually large floes.
In another hour we had nearly navigated the extent of Miles's canyon,
and only several hundred yards ahead I noticed Major Walsh's flotilla,
buffetting the seething waters cumbrously, while the men at the oars
strained every muscle to escape the perils that abounded in their
course.
"We're not far away from the White Horse, boys," I said to my sturdy
henchmen, who were working away like galley slaves. They ceased their
labours for a moment to look round, and at once our vessel swung about
and drifted dangerously near the rocky river steeps.
"We maun keep a way on her," said Stewart.
"Let's ken when we're through," said Mac, and their oars cleft the water
like the paddle floats of a fast river steamer.
The current was flowing at the rate of ten miles an hour, and to keep a
steering way on our unwieldy barge was, as may be understood, no easy
matter.
Frantically I swung my paddle and strove my utmost to avert the calamity
that every moment seemed to threaten us.
We were rapidly gaining on Major Walsh's outfit. He had four boats in
all, three of them being clumsy barges laden entirely with provisions.
These latter were manned by several members of the North-West Mounted
Police, who worked their oars from difficult-looking perches among the
flour sacks.
The police boats, however, steered a very erratic course, sometimes
being carried forward almost on their beam ends. I guessed that the
heavily freighted craft had become unmanageable; certainly the steersmen
seemed to have no control. Yet I had little time to notice those ahead,
for our own "clipper" required every attention.
"Keep her going, boys," I yelled, as I worked my steering paddle with a
will, evading rocks, boulders, and ice floes in turn.
Suddenly the white dashing surf of the Rapids came into view, the river
narrowed to a fraction of its former width, and over the cataract a
jagged sea of the dangerous floes crackled and roared into the abyss
beyond.
I saw the Major's first boat fly like an arrow from the bow into the
heart of the boiling foam; it careened dangerously on taking the sweep,
then righted itself and disappeared into the flying mists.
"Steady, Mac!" I cried, as our craft entered the race. The dense spray
almost obscured the great deflecting rock, and we rushed seemingly to
destruction.
Then, before my eyes, there appeared an awful spectacle. Faster than I
can write the words--one, two, three--each of Major Walsh's three boats
reared high in the sleety mist and overturned one after the other as
they took the curve.
"Let her go, boys," I bellowed. "Bend to it." The crucial moment had
arrived; we were enveloped in foam, and were dashing straight towards
the torrent-deflecting bluff. I leaned far back over the stern of our
half-submerged boat, and with a mighty stroke of the paddle swung her
head round, and we grazed death by barely half a dozen inches.
[Illustration: AFTER THE RAPIDS.]
[Illustration: KLONDIKE-BOUND MINERS AND THEIR OUTFITS ON
LAKE LINDERMAN.]
A moment more and we were floating in almost placid waters. Beside us
bobbed three smashed boats. Major Walsh stood sorrowfully on shore
assisting dripping men from the water.
"It's all over, boys," I said to my crew; "you can ease off now," and I
steered for the beach and lent my aid in the work of rescue.
The half-drowned Canadians were dragged ashore gasping and almost
senseless, and while we scanned the grim waters anxiously for a trace of
one still missing, his body was tossed at our feet by the relentless
waves. Soon after, the sand was littered with sacks of flour, and beans,
and miscellaneous foodstuffs.
Several camps were in evidence around this melancholy spot, erected by
men who had lost their all in the rapids, and were only waiting a chance
to return to civilisation. They eagerly accepted the Major's offer to
purchase their scanty outfits, and without loss of time that intrepid
old Indian fighter had embarked again for the north. To him it was a
race with the elements, but the elements won after all, and compelled
him to make his winter camp at Big Salmon River, forty miles further
north, where we overtook him a few days later.
"It's no use my lads, you can't do it!" he said, on my reiterating my
intention of proceeding onwards. "Why, the river's frozen solid from
here to St. Michael's."
"Then we'll put skids under the old boat and make her into a sledge,"
quoth Mac, drily, and I hailed the suggestion with encouragement.
We duly arrived at Dawson City after many days and weeks of ceaseless
struggle with the elements on that long and terrible icy trail, and our
coming was received with rejoicings by the few half-starved miners who
at that time peopled the "City." We had proved the feasibility of an
over-ice route to Dyea.
THE LAND OF THE THRON-DIUCKS
The Klondike Valley in that winter was the scene of many stirring
incidents. Owing to the non-arrival of the Canadian Government
Commissioner and his police no law or order prevailed. To make matters
worse the utmost bitterness existed between the Canadian and American
sections of the community, each of whom claimed the rich gold-bearing
territory as being within their country's boundary. Quarrels more or
less serious were consequently of every-day occurrence. However, the
following incident involves no harrowing description of these fierce
skirmishes--though it might have led to a most sanguinary encounter with
the _true_ owners of the land.
Accompanied by "Cap." Campbell and "Alf" Mackay, two well-known miners,
my party set out on a prospecting expedition into the mountains flanking
the upper reaches of the Klondike River. We had one dog, a powerful
mastiff, named Dave, which had proved an invaluable companion to me on
our earlier prospecting journeys. Previous to this we had been very
successful in our quest for the yellow metal, having located three
creeks rich in the precious golden sand. But our eagerness seemed likely
to cost us dear, for our store of foodstuffs had become wonderfully
small, and we were many days' journey from our camp on Skookum Gulch,
where were our headquarters.
The return journey proved to be more difficult than we had anticipated;
the weather had been very severe for the last few days, and the snow on
the hillside was hard and dangerously slippery.
"We'll try a short cut over the mountains, boys," said Mackay, as we
strove vainly to reach the frozen river far beneath.
The Klondike takes many twists in its erratic course, and it so happened
that if we could cross a mountain spur we should strike the trail only a
few miles from Eldorado Creek.
"We'll make the attempt," I said, and Mac and Stewart concurred with
emphatic ejaculations. One sleigh carried the possessions of the whole
party, and it was tugged along by our combined efforts, including the
assistance of Dave, who struggled in his harness in the leader's
position. At last we surmounted the great glacier-capped ridge and
gingerly made a trail through a narrow ice-bound gulch issuing from the
crystal dome and marking a long line of gigantic ice boulders far into
the wooded slopes beyond.
We slid, and clambered, and buffeted with the snow wreaths and
intervening ice fields for over an hour, and then the gully led us
across a thickly-timbered flat well sheltered from the elements by the
surrounding mountains. At this stage we were, to judge by the lay of the
country, but a few miles from the main channel; but the afternoon was
far advanced and darkness was quickly closing over the valley, so that
further progress was rendered difficult. We were looking about for a
suitable camping ground when Mac, who had been closely examining the
landscape, gave a howl of delight. "Injuns!" he roared, "I see Injun
hooses!" Sure enough there appeared, nestling among the drooping pines,
a straggling array of Indian huts and several totem poles. Before I
could restrain them, my henchmen dropped their sleigh ropes and rushed
impetuously towards the supposed settlement, but their moccasined feet
stuck deeply in the soft snow under the trees, and, using my snowshoes
to good effect, I succeeded in rounding up the doughty pair before they
had gone far.
"It's an Indian village," I explained, "and not a circus."
"I ken weel what it is," indignantly howled Mac. "Hiv I no seen Injuns
afore? When I wis oot on the pampas o' Sooth America--"
But I listened no further, and Stewart condoled with his comrade in well
chosen words of sympathy.
"This is nae country for us, Mac," said he. "A lot o' Injun hooses,
wi'--wi' chunks o' caribou hangin' inside, an' we maunna touch them!" He
almost wept at the thought.
"Howlin' blazes, boys!" shouted the Captain, "them Injuns'd make ye into
mince pies at oncet; ye wur committin' sooicide!"
But Mackay smiled broadly and winked reassuringly at Mac, whereupon that
gentleman began to chuckle audibly.
"We've nae floor, an' nae bacon, an' nae beans--nae naething," he said
meaningly. "If you have no 'jeckshuns,'" added Mackay, addressing me
with much deliberation, "we'll camp a leetle furrer down."
I had no objections whatever. If I had, it might not have mattered much,
for my warlike retainers seemed on the verge of mutiny. So we proceeded
on our way, cautiously and silently, keeping in the densest shadows, and
as far distant from the village as we could conveniently get.
Ten minutes later our tent was fixed and our camp fire blazing brightly;
and Stewart, with a lugubrious countenance, busied himself preparing the
last of our hoarded stores. Our fare was certainly meagre and
unsatisfying, and unfortunately the keen air had given us extremely
healthy appetites. I am inclined to think, when I recall the matter,
that my share, as doled out by Stewart, with many a sigh at its
diminutive proportions, was unnecessarily meagre, and purposely served
so by that wily individual in order to destroy any conscientious
scruples I might have. If that was his purpose it succeeded admirably,
for when my humble repast was finished I felt hungrier than ever, and
had not the ghost of a scruple left.
"Talkin' about Injun villages," began Mackay, when the cooking utensils
had been cleared away, "I've niver seen wan yet that hadn't a winter
storehouse of dried salmon and cariboo somewheres handy."
"Ye're a man efter ma ain heart," beamingly interrupted Mac, and Stewart
murmured: "Dried cariboo!" and smacked his lips.
"As I was discoursin'," continued Mackay, "them Injuns hiv always got
rations hid away in their wigwams."
"Likewise a few tommy-hawks an' an assortment o' clubs," grimly edged in
the Captain.
No one seemed anxious to say anything in a direct sort of way, although
the general meaning was plain enough.
"To cut it short, boys," I ventured to remark, "you are in favour of
visiting the village to-night?"
"Fur reasons which it ain't necessary to shout out loud--precisely,"
answered Mackay.
After that further speech was superfluous, and we made hurried
preparations for our marauding journey. The Indians at this time were
very hostile towards the white invaders of their country, and there was
little reason to hope that they would either barter or sell any of their
stores to us. There is a proverb which states that "necessity knows no
law," and as we were in rather a sad plight we agreed with it to the
letter; there may have been room for some slight condonation of our
errors of reason at such a time. About eight o'clock that night we
sallied out, leaving Mac with the dog in charge of the sleigh, with
instructions to clear out lively should he hear a revolver shot. The
worthy Mac was much disgusted with his lot, and gave vent to his
annoyance in no stinted terms.
"It wis ma idee at first," he grumbled, "an' it's gey hard fur a man tae
be sacrifeeced tae wait here a' the time."
"You've got the healthiest job, my friend," said the Captain, "an' you
ought to be durned well pleased."
The moon shone brilliantly, illuminating the open snow patches and
shooting down through the heavy foliage myriad rays of dancing light. I
remember well how we had hoped for darkness, and how nervously we crept
along seeking the shelter of the deepest shadows. A death-like stillness
reigned; the thermometer in camp had registered 37 degrees below zero,
and we knew that the mercury would keep falling till midnight. Our faces
were quickly framed in icicles, and a thin dazzling frost draped us from
head to foot. We presented truly ghost-like figures, but we were too
much engrossed with other matters to notice our strange appearance. Soon
we arrived within sight of the village, and stealthily we manoeuvred
from tree to tree until we were but a few yards distant from the largest
logged structure. And still not a sound was heard; the frosted edifices
showed no sign of life within.
"Seems to me we're in luck," chuckled Mackay, gazing on the desolate
scene with evident enjoyment. "The population has evidently gone out
huntin' bear or moose deer, or some sich quodroo-ped, and thar shid
therefore be no call fur any skirmish. Put up your guns, boys," he
added, "there's nary soul in the village."
We were all greatly relieved at this, yet it was with a feeling of deep
humiliation that I approached the most imposing of the houses and began
to investigate the best and surest means of forcing an entry. I had seen
a few Indian buildings in my travels, but this one was unlike any design
I had ever witnessed. There appeared to be two heavily-barricaded wooden
windows in the usual places, but search as we might, no door could be
found.
"We'll try another," said Mackay, loath to acknowledge that the peculiar
structure was beyond his comprehension. We examined each one--there were
six in all--but they were alike in every particular, save that the one
which had first received our attention was larger than the others, and
had a very imposing totem pole in its foreground.
"The first was the most likely, boys," I said, "we'll go back to it."
And back we went.
Stewart was now working up something approaching a righteous wrath
against the "heathen sort o' buildin's." "I'll shin mak' a door," he
said, with emphasis, bracing his shoulders; then something caught his
eye on the rough planking walls, and he beckoned to me mysteriously
before applying his energy towards their demolition.
"What is it?" asked Mackay impatiently.
"Come and hold a match," I said. He did so, while I laboriously spelled
out a series of Chinook characters which had evidently been cut deep
into the wood through the agency of some sharp instrument, most probably
a tomahawk. The result was rather mystifying, for, translating into
English, I read twelve names ending with the words, "_Chief of the
Thron-Diucks_." Eleven of the names were simply unpronounceable, but the
last entry had a decidedly English appearance; it required no
translation, and read: "_King James the First, Chief of the
Thron-Diucks_."
"We've struck the King's house," said Mackay with a laugh. "The old
skunk and I hev niver agreed, so I hope he doesn't come along now."
"I thought he called himself 'James the Second,'" said the Captain
slowly.
But Stewart would wait no longer. "Staun clear, a'm comin'!" he cried,
and his voice rang with shivering distinctness through the air. With a
short rush he threw himself against the wooden barrier; the stout
timbers bent and quivered, but resisted the shock, and from within came
a harsh, tearing sound, terminating in a muffled crash, as of something
falling heavily. Again and again Stewart acted as a battering ram, but
only vague echoes rewarded his efforts; the logs were evidently
unusually firmly founded. The noises created by these various
onslaughts--and ultimately we had simultaneously applied all our
energies without avail--had a most demoralising effect upon us, and
after each attack we waited breathlessly until the echoes had died away.
Assuredly, if the Indians were within several miles of us, they could
not fail to hear the diabolical din we were creating.
We had been over an hour at our depredating labours, and I was beginning
to wish I had never sanctioned the expedition; then the indefatigable
Stewart made a discovery. We had hitherto neglected to examine the
barricaded holes which seemingly served as windows, deeming them too
securely fastened for our nefarious purpose; they were closed from the
inside, and were too high in any case to be within reach of Stewart's
impetuous shoulder, but now our strong man had but lightly pressed the
window-guard, and behold! it swung open. His hearty "hurroo" drew my
attention.
"For heaven's sake shut up!" I whispered angrily. But Mackay made even
more noise by exploding into a loud laugh, which resounded weirdly over
the tree-tops.
"Good fur you, Stewart!" he cried; "now we're right."
The Captain, like myself, was not very enthusiastic over our night's
exploit. "Let's get it over quickly, boys," he said. "Give me a lift-up,
Stewart." But Stewart had reserved to himself the honour of first entry,
and was even then dangling midway through the aperture, and squirming
his way forward vigorously. The opening was very small, not more than
two feet square, and as I watched my companion scrambling in, I thought
that if the level of the floor was lower than the surface without, which
is usually the case with Indian huts, considerable difficulty might be
experienced in making an exit! Stewart, however, was apparently troubled
by no unpleasant anticipations, and soon a crash, followed by an
ejaculation of much fervour, heralded his arrival on the other side of
the stoutly-timbered wall.
"Are you there?" cried Mackay, preparing to follow.
"Whaur did ye think a wis?" came the somewhat surly reply, and the
doughty warrior's voice sounded almost sepulchral as it floated out of
the darkness. Then he added enticingly, "Come in, ma man, come in, an'
bring a licht wi' ye, fur it's pitch dark, an' an' awfu' smelliferous."
To me the insinuating tone of my comrade's voice sounded suspicious, but
neither Mackay nor the Captain noticed anything unusual.
"I'll be with you in a jiff, Stewart, old man," said the former
gentleman, vainly striving to get his head and shoulders through the
aperture. But his body was somewhat rotund and made rather a tight fit
in the narrow entrance. "Push, ye beggars!" he gasped, and the Captain
and I went to his assistance, only to see him jerk suddenly forward and
disappear with a clatter inside, while Stewart's voice spluttered out in
firm protest, "Come awa' in, ma man, an' dinna block up the ventilator."
For some minutes longer I waited in suspense, while Mackay struck match
after match and spoke never a word, and Stewart kept up a continual flow
of mysterious grunts and sundry forcible expletives. I had a small piece
of candle in my pocket, and this I lit; then, with the Captain's aid, I
thrust my head through the window and surveyed the interior. Mackay
quickly seized the piece of tallow from my hand, and held it aloft, and
then I saw what had baffled the usually fluent descriptive powers of the
worthy Stewart and his fiery companion. The room was bare save for the
presence of several shelves roughly built up in the centre of the floor
and reaching almost to the roof, and on each of these shelves a massive
oblong box rested, the sides of which were heavily inlaid with silver or
some similar metal. The whole structure presented an appearance not
unlike a Chinese pagoda in miniature; the meaning of the arrangement was
more than I could understand. The noises which we had at first heard had
evidently been occasioned by the uppermost cases falling from their
resting-places, for Stewart was examining with much interest one of
several of the strange receptacles which were lying on the
heavily-logged floorway. As I gazed in mute wonder on the extraordinary
scene, I was quickly made aware that a wonderfully-powerful odour
pervaded the room. It assailed my nostrils and my eyes, causing me to
choke and blink, and finally withdraw my head into the pure air.
"It's the thickest perfume I've iver struck," groaned Mackay, and he
staggered against the weird-looking pagoda.
I heard a shuffling rattle, and looking in a second time, saw the
spidery monument sway, then fall with a dull hollow crash, scattering
its curious freight in all directions. At the same time a yell from
Stewart all but shattered my little remaining nerve, and he came leaping
wildly across the fallen boxes towards the narrow egress.
"A'm comin' oot!" he bellowed; then Mackay, forcing up behind, and
making strenuous endeavours to preserve his usual _sangfroid_, said
weakly, "I guess I need a breath of air also, boys."
To make matters worse, the Captain, who had been warily prospecting
around, now came rushing back, gesticulating energetically. "The whole
tribe is quite close, and comin' fur us!" he announced in a loud whisper
when he came near. Here was a predicament. The two eager individuals
whose heads were thrust appealingly out of the window, groaned in
anguish, for they could not get out without assistance, struggle as they
might.
"You had better stay right where you are, boys, and we'll come in too,"
I said to them hurriedly, for the shuffling of many snowshoes now
reached my ears, and there was no time to effect a rescue.
"Heaven knows what's goin' to be the end o' this," muttered the Captain
as he swung his lank frame through the opening. It took some time for
him to wriggle inside, and then I attempted the acrobatic performance
necessary to make an entry. I was just a little late, for, looking
around before making the final duck inwards I saw a number of
wild-looking figures approaching quickly over the snow. The moon then
encountered a belt of dense, fleecy clouds, and a welcome darkness
enveloped the landscape just as Stewart, with a grunt of satisfaction,
tugged me ingloriously into the odoriferous realms from which he had
been so desperately anxious to escape, and shut the heavy barricade. A
few minutes passed, during which time we were all but stifled by the
pungent air; then our miseries were forgotten in the danger
that threatened. Snowshoes hissed and skidded around our shelter, and
deep, guttural exclamations in the Chinook tongue sounded on every
side. And as I pieced together the various monosyllabic utterances, I
refrained from translating them to my companions, although I had a dim
idea that both Stewart and Mackay had fully decided that, whatever it
might be, the strange structure in which they were was certainly no
storehouse for dried caribou or salmon.
We had been barely five minutes in the dismal room, yet the time seemed
an age. The Indians contented themselves with circling round each house
in turn, keeping several yards distant from them, for a reason which was
now painfully apparent to me. I could stand it no longer. "Boys," I
said, "we've got to get out of this, lively, for the Indians will
probably patrol about till sunrise, and half an hour will just about
finish me."
"An' me," groaned Mackay.
The Captain, however, was not satisfied. "Look here, boys," he said, "I
don't hitch on to yer meaning a bit. Are the Injuns afraid to go into
their houses, or--I'm hanged if I can make out thish yer circus. Is this
an Injun village, or is it not?" he demanded.
There was no need to hide it from him further. "No, Captain," I replied,
"it's not."
"Then what place is this?" he asked slowly; and Stewart answered him in
dolorous tones--
"A graveyaird, Cap'n--an Injun graveyaird."
So it was. The cases contained but the dust of long-deceased warriors,
wrapped in blankets which were impregnated with a sickly-smelling scent
made by the Indians from the roots of certain plants. In the darkness I
could not see the Captain's face, and for some moments he said nothing,
then he spoke, musingly: "James the First" said he, "yes, I might have
known, for it is James the Second who is now Chief of the Thron-Diucks."
The swishing of snowshoes again sounded ominously near. We waited till
the Indians had passed; then Stewart, swinging open the barricade,
Mackay scrambled up, and was shot forward into the snow with our
combined effort. "Hurry up, boys," he cried, when he had recovered
himself; "they are at the end, and are just turning to come back."
Breathing heavily, Stewart was next propelled into the open; then came
my turn, the Captain being the tallest, waiting to the last; but tall as
he was he could only reach his head and a part of his shoulder through
the window, for the floorway was sunk considerably. No time was to be
lost. With a howl, Stewart gripped the outstretched arm, Mackay the
exposed shoulder, and both pulled as if for dear life. Despite the need
for silence, the Captain was but human.
"Howlin' tarnation, you're twistin' my neck off!" he yelled, as he was
yanked like a sportive fish on to the glistening snow.
"Run, ye deevils, run!" roared Stewart, himself setting the example.
There was much need. Scarcely twenty yards away fully a score of tall,
bemuffled warriors were speeding towards us, silent and grim, like a
raging Nemesis. On the impulse of the moment I discharged my revolver as
a signal to Mac to move ahead; then with a wholesome fear in our hearts
we set a course for the camp, where Dave, aroused by the revolver shot,
was baying loud and fiercely, and skipped over the intervening
snow-wreaths at an uncommonly lively rate.
Whether the Indians followed us, or whether they remained to make good
the work of our desecrating hands, we never learned, but I rather think
they waited to rebuild the tombs of their ancestors. They were certainly
not in evidence when we overtook Mac, and we gave a simultaneous shout
of relief.
"Whaur's the cariboo ye wis gaun tae fetch?" asked that gentleman in an
outburst of righteous indignation.
"Say nae mair, Mac. Say nae mair," eloquently pleaded Stewart, gripping
a rope and feverishly assisting the sleigh on its onward progress. "If
you had suffered what I hae suffered this nicht----" His voice failed
him, and Mac simmered down at once.
"Was it as bad's that?" said he commiseratingly.
"We'd better keep going all night, boys," Mackay hastily remarked, with
a furtive glance behind. "And to-morrow," he added, more cheerfully,
"we'll have a good blow-out at Skookum Gulch." And so it came to pass.
[Illustration: PAN-WASHING IN SKOOKUM GULCH.]
THE FINDING OF "GOLD BOTTOM" CREEK
As the season advanced the ground hardened so that with our primitive
fire-burning methods we could barely thaw more than eighteen inches of
gravel in the short day, and even this occasioned tedious labour. The
depth of bedrock was sixteen feet, and the frost had penetrated far
beyond this level, so that our tunnelling operations along the line of
the wash proceeded very slowly indeed. The miners around had begun to
flock into Dawson to frequent the saloons and gamble away their
hardly-earned gold, all declaring that it was too cold to work--the
thermometer registered 25 degrees below zero--and soon Skookum Gulch was
almost deserted. "Cap." Campbell and "Alf" Mackay alone remained to keep
us company.
My knowledge of the Chinook tongue had been of considerable service to
me, and the Indians inhabiting the upper Thron-Diuck valley occasionally
visited our camp, bringing many presents of dried salmon and caribou,
all of which Mac and Stewart accepted with voluble thanks. Then one day
"King James," the chief of the tribe, paid us the honour of a call.
"Why you dig, Mis'r Mac?" he interrogated, apparently much mystified to
see us excavating the ground.
"Fur GOLD, ye heathen," howled Stewart, popping his head above the
shaft.
King James did not understand the full significance of the remark, but
smiled indulgently when I translated it, and solemnly inclined his head
towards the speaker.
"You squaw," he said, "you squaw to Mis'r Mac." Which meant that he
considered Stewart somewhat presumptuous in addressing a chief of the
Thron-Diucks.
After much talk had been indulged in, King James appeared to realise
that we were really searching for gold, and had no idea of carrying away
or shifting the course of his river; and his dry old face spread out in
a broad grin when I explained that much gold, in our country, was
equivalent to many squaws. Suddenly he turned and strode solemnly
towards his sleigh, which was guarded by several richly-robed squaws and
half a dozen youthful warriors; and after groping among the bearskin
rugs for some time he came back to me, displaying in his greasy palm a
beautiful specimen of alluvial gold: it was large and flat, with smooth
surface and water-worn edges; it must have weighed at least three
ounces. I gazed in bewilderment; the Indians rarely looked for gold,
which to them was not even so valuable as silver, and the latter metal
they used only for making ornaments. Mac and Stewart were soon by my
side, and while we examined the specimen with undisguised interest, King
James lit his pipe--a former present from myself--and puffed leisurely,
eyeing me the while with a half-amused expression.
"What think o' that, Mis'r Mac?" he asked at length.
"It's good stuff, King James," I strove to answer in his language, and
with a sigh I offered it back. My surprise was great when he waved it
aside right royally, and placing his grimy hand on my shoulder in quite
a fatherly manner, he spoke out several sentences rapidly.
"Hold hard, King James," I cried. "I cannot follow you if you talk in
that fashion. Come into my tent and have some 'baccy."
He smiled benignly, and spoke a few words to the sleigh attendants, who
immediately unhitched the dogs and proceeded to build a fire near at
hand; then he followed me to my camp and ensconced himself by the stove.
I still carried the nugget in my hand, but obeying the old chief's
directions, I now placed it in a bottle with my other specimens and sat
down beside him. Stewart meanwhile turned his attention to culinary
matters, and while the billies boiled, King James and I conversed
earnestly on matters dear to the Indian heart.
He was no lover of the white men who had invaded his domain and driven
his people to seek the refuge of the mountain fastnesses, and he
intimated plainly enough that he should not be sorry to see Dawson City
speedily deserted by the white intruders. As for gold, the idea of grown
men seeking for the yellow metal aroused his keen amusement, and he was
very incredulous about my statements as to its value in the wigwams of
the white people. After the subject of his woes had been gone into at
great length, and our hearty sympathies enlisted, he remained silent for
a time as if absorbed in thought. Then his eyes surveyed the mining
implements and firearms in the tent, and finally rested upon my nugget
collection with a newly-awakened sparkle of interest.
"You come wi' me, Mis'r Mac," he said thoughtfully, after a long pause,
"Heap big bear on Thron-Diuck; you come wi' King James----"
I shook my head vigorously; we were not very anxious to shoot big game
at that time, but his hospitality would not be denied.
"Me show you whar big gold come from. Me show you Gold Bottom," he
hastened to add: "too much gold for white men in Dawson--me show _you_,
Mis'r Mac."
Stewart was so astounded at the old chief's last words, spoken in broken
English, that he nearly chopped his fingers with the axe instead of the
solidified flour he was preparing to bake.
"I'll gang," he bellowed.
"An' me," growled Mac, who, like his comrade, had only understood the
last sentence.
King James smoked stolidly for a few moments, then patted Stewart
patronisingly on the back. "You good squaw," he said, gazing at the
half-baked flour with much approval, "you come wi' me."
The appellation "squaw" by no means pleased the fiery Stewart, and he
would have burst out angrily had I not restrained him.
"Yes, I guess we'll go with you, King James," I replied. "I want to see
Gold Bottom Creek badly, and I don't anticipate any evil effects from
too much gold." And so the compact was made, and old "Leatherskin," as
Stewart promptly dubbed him, smiled softly when I explained to him the
workings of my big game rifle, and went into a transport of delight on
being presented with a serviceable Colt revolver and a box of
cartridges. Suddenly his face clouded, and he said anxiously--
"Only you come, Mis'r Mac; only you an' squaws."
I restrained my companions with difficulty from rushing at him to choke
back the objectionable epithet; then an idea struck me. I wanted "Cap"
Campbell and Mackay, my adjoining burrowers in the frozen gravel, to
accompany me; they had shared with us the plodding uncertainty of things
at Skookum Gulch, and I wanted them to reap some of the benefits
attached to the discovery of the mysteriously-famed "Gold Bottom" before
the district was rushed. I could hardly doubt that King James's
information was correct, and the specimen given me was sufficient for
even the most incredulous-minded person. The inducement was very real
indeed, but the chief would only allow Mis'r Mac an' squaws.
"All right, King James," I said, "but I have two more squaws." He eyed
me with a look that was fast changing from one of mere friendliness to
one of much respect.
"You great man, Mis'r Mac," he grunted. "Four squaws? Ugh!"
When he saw the brawny giants that Mac hastily called in, his surprise
was unbounded. "Good squaws," he chuckled.
"What in tarnation does the old skunk mean?" said Mackay, and Campbell's
anger was rising visibly.
"Look here, boys," I said. "King James has told me of a creek that is
lined with gold, and this is a sample"--I showed them the specimen
received. "He asks me to go and take charge of the lot, but only myself
and squaws. You had better be squaws for once in your lives. _Savez?_"
They did "_savez_," and made every effort to show their cordiality to
the King, who appreciated their advances with tolerant grace, but
grinned expansively when he saw their well-filled cartridge-belts.
Stewart made a triumphant success of his cooking that day, and in honour
of the occasion he filled the little "doughboys" with pieces of dried
apricots and peaches, and, indeed, everything in that line our larder
afforded. So luxurious a repast did he provide that King James sighed
regretfully when he rose to go.
"You come to-morra', Mis'r Mac!" he cried when he was rolled up in his
sleigh blankets, like, as Mac said, an Egyptian mummy.
"Right!" I answered, waving him goodbye. But he had not finished.
"Be sure bring cook squaw," he murmured contentedly.
The long whips cracked and the dogs bounded forward; the shriek of the
sleigh-runners effectually drowned Stewart's vehement curses; and the
King departed.
Next morning we started out for the Indian camp. Mac and Stewart had the
tents struck, and it with the blankets packed in neat rolls on our
sleigh soon after sunrise. Our rather small store of flour and other
necessaries found ample space on the same conveyance, and to this load
Dave was harnessed. Campbell and Mackay did not delay us; they were up
betimes and had their dog-sleigh ready with ours. The temperature this
morning registered 30 degrees below zero, and even while we were engaged
tying the sleigh ropes, long icicles formed at our chins and dripped
from our eyelashes.
"Are you ready, boys?" I cried to my freshly-acquired squaws.
"Right!" they responded with one voice.
"Gee up, Dave," said Mac, and with a bound and a shriek our sleigh led
the way towards the Klondike's unknown source. We were not much
concerned about leaving our properties on Skookum Gulch; it was not
likely that any one would "jump" our claims; the weather was too cold
for the tender feet of Dawson to venture out around the creeks. Soon we
left the Dome in the distance behind, and swiftly we crashed through the
powdered snow and blown ice on the main river. No white man, at this
time, had explored the head waters of the Klondike. In the earlier
season I had attempted the task, but was repelled by the deep gorges and
grim cañons that marked the river's channel for many miles when near an
outlying spur of the "Rockies." Now we forced a trail far beyond my
furthest travel, tracing here and there the track of the old chief's
sleigh where the runners had cut deep through the blistered ice. Our
visages were soon framed in icicles, and our cheeks rendered stiff by a
thin film, as of glass, which caused us much pain. Mac and Stewart
ambled beside the staggering dogs, occasionally helping them over
obstacles and badly-blown patches. For once they were forced to march in
silence, for their mouths were sealed as if by iron bands.
The Grand Cañon was entered soon after midday, and the majestic powers
of old King Frost had so metamorphosed the dark gorge that we made our
trail over the frozen torrent almost nervously. The great stalactites
and dripping ice cones shut out the sky completely, and we forged ahead
in a vague eerie shadow reflected from the translucent pillars. Here and
there the roar of the flood echoed from giant clefts in the ice, and
caused the glassy walls to quiver and crackle; then again came the
oppressive calm, broken only by the dull rumble of the rushing torrent
full fifty feet below.
It is impossible to picture the grandeur of an Alaskan cañon when the
elements hold it in thrall; there is nothing like it in the whole world.
Nevertheless, we were not sorry when we emerged into the comparatively
open country beyond, and picked up afresh the track of King James's
sleigh which we had been unable to trace in the gorge. Our destination
could not now be far distant, for the frowning peaks of the Rockies
loomed directly ahead, and the valley was rapidly becoming lost in the
minor ranges that appeared; we were surely near the mystic source of the
golden Klondike. The dogs never slackened their trot, though now and
then they staggered and stumbled over large ridges of blistered ice,
which cut their paws cruelly. Our moccasins were being quickly reduced
to shreds, and our clothing generally had become stiff with the frost
and rent in great holes by contact with the brittle, flaking ice. Few
white men would have dreamed of making such a journey on such a day. I
contented myself with that reflection, though probably the miners in
their snug huts at Dawson would have dubbed us colossal fools for
venturing so far back into the Indian territory; but gold was always an
irresistible incentive.
"I reckon," said Campbell, coming up from behind, and grimacing
frightfully as he spoke, while the ice shivered on his face with the
effort, "this is not much of a picnic, is it?"
It was some minutes before I could reply, and while I strove to coax the
muscles of my mouth to relax without doing serious injury to my
features, Stewart's hoary visage shook itself clear of its icy sheath
with a crackling, splintering sound, and his voice rang out--
"I see the Injun camp! Hurroo! D----!" The last expression was given in
a most sorrowful tone as he felt the blood trickle on his cheeks and
freeze into icy appendages.
"You've got to think a lot before speaking in this country," I
sympathised, but he would not open his mouth again.
Rounding a bluff, we saw, nestling in the shadow of a great pine-forest,
an array of mud huts and tepees covered with caribou skins. Many fires
were blazing in the vicinity, fed lavishly with logs drawn from the
wooded slope behind. A number of King James's subjects superintended
operations with unmoved faces; it was a routine to which they had long
become accustomed--for bear-fires were very necessary indeed in these
parts; Bruin had not yet reconciled himself to his winter slumber, and,
as I have noted, the Klondike valley was infested with various species
of his kind.
With a sigh of thankfulness I signalled to Mac to draw up alongside the
largest fire, and he needed no second bidding. A few moments more and we
were all eagerly thawing ourselves before the blaze. Even the dogs
crept as close as the burning logs allowed, and warmed their poor frozen
bodies on all sides, turning continually, as if on a revolving
toast-rack. From the most imposing hut now came rushing towards us King
James, with numerous squaws; and while the King congratulated me
effusively on my safe arrival, the squaws beamed coquettishly on my
companions, who felt in no wise complimented by their attentions.
"They tak' us fur squaws, Stewart!" howled Mac, more in sorrow than in
anger; then I heard them both with much deliberation calculate out the
value of the Queen squaw's dress as she stood by them, speaking words of
welcome in a tongue they could not understand.
"It's a rale guid beaver," I heard Mac say.
"An' what a bonny silver-tip cloak," burst in Stewart.
"An' the moccasins," continued the first speaker, "are faur ow'r guid
fur an Injun tae wear."
At this juncture I turned anxiously; I thought it very necessary.
"For heaven's sake, Mac," I said, "leave the squaw's beavers and
moccasins alone. We'll get murdered if old King James----"
"Wha's touchin' their belangin's?" interrupted Mac indignantly; but
despite his righteous outburst, I knew that he and his doughty comrade
would have had little qualms about appropriating the bonny beavers and
moccasins also. Their logic was vague, but conclusive enough to satisfy
themselves. However, with much grumbling they unharnessed Dave, and
started to erect the tent in a sheltered spot, Campbell and Mackay
having already got their smaller canvas home fixed up.
"It's fair disgracefu'," muttered Mac, as he pulled on the guy-rope,
"tae think o' livin' near Injuns! We're comin' faur doon in the world
surely."
"Ye're richt there," spoke Stewart mournfully; "bit, man, did ye ever
see sic a bonnie beaver?"
Next morning, when the dim grey light was beginning to appear, we set
out to explore the creek containing "too much gold." King James's sleigh
led the trail, for which I was truly thankful. The dangerous nature of
the route from the Indian camp was all too apparent. Miniature glaciers
hung perilously over each mountain ridge, and formed a sight well fitted
to unnerve any man but an Indian; and when we crawled over their glassy
surfaces, and slid down on the "other" side, it seemed to me that we
were running risks enough for all the gold in Klondike. We had not gone
very far, however, before King James drew up his dogs in the bed of a
deep chasm that traced directly from an enormous ice-field overhead. I
looked around and saw the frozen channel of the Thron-Diuck about a
hundred yards below; the King had taken us by a "short cut" over the
mountains rather than follow the much easier route by way of the main
river. For a moment I thought that he had purposely meant us to lose our
bearings, but he soon dispelled that fear.
"Gold Bottom here, Mis'r Mac," he said. "You dig." He measured about a
four-feet length on the snow, meaning, I suppose, that we should find
bedrock at that level. "You find much gold, Mis'r Mac, too much
gold----"
"Hold hard!" I interrupted; "I guess we'll deserve all we get. This is
the devil's own part of the world we've struck."
King James grinned incredulously, but kept silence; and arranging his
sleigh rugs, he whipped up his long line of dogs and sped back over the
trail we had just traversed. We watched him till his sleigh, careering
dangerously, rushed down into the valley beyond. The mining instincts
of Campbell and Mackay now overcame their dislike of our chill and
uncompromising surroundings.
[Illustration: GOLD-BOTTOM CREEK.]
"It looks likely country," said Campbell, "and I shouldn't wonder if
that glacier has worn down quite a lot of gold."
We were not long in pitching our tents and building several fires to
thaw off the icicles that clung to our faces; then we felt much more
enthusiastic over our prospects. The timber was plentiful, and close at
hand; we were far indeed from the madding crowd.
"We'll make a start, boys," I said; "we'll see whether old Leather-skin
spoke correctly."
My two companions were rather disconsolately surveying the scene.
"Too much gold!" muttered Mac in derision. "No vera likely. It wad tak'
hundreds o' thoosands o' pounds tae pey me fur ma sufferin's in this
God-forsaken country."
All day long we kept great logs burning over the frozen gravel silted up
on the edge of the channel. Slowly we excavated the "dirt" in fragments,
picking energetically at it after each fire had been cleared away. The
icy body of the creek had evidently long since been formed, for not a
drop of water flowed beneath; and after sinking a few feet we came to a
level where the frozen mass contracted from the old river-bed, leaving a
clear dry space in which a man could almost stand upright. We at once
abandoned our shaft, and crawled into the strange cavern formed. The
gravel over which the torrent had flowed was dry, and hard as flint. We
had reached bedrock on the true channel of the stream, and with water
still flowing overhead! A yet unfrozen fluid gurgled in the heart of the
great ice column above; the effect was wonderfully beautiful.
"I guess we'll stick to the shaft, boys," said Mackay; "this looks
uncanny," and he scrambled out; the idea of working underneath the
flowing stream was too much for him, though he was a veteran miner.
Campbell and I soon followed his example, leaving Mac and Stewart, who
were not easily daunted, to survey the wonders of Nature at their
leisure. They at once commenced picking the frozen channel, and the
thud! thud! of the blows came to our ears, as we stood by the fire
above, as the sonorous notes of a deep-toned bell. Already the murky
gloom of an Alaskan night was fast closing over, though it was yet but
two o'clock in the afternoon. Thud! thud! thud! went the pickaxes below,
and I marvelled at the persistence of my companions, for I knew they
could make little impression on the flinty sands.
Suddenly the echoes ceased, and the sounds of a wordy altercation
rumbled up towards us; a few minutes later Mac popped his head out of
the shaft and beckoned me mysteriously, then disappeared again.
Wonderingly I let myself down through the narrow aperture and wriggled
into the cavern. A strange sight met my gaze. A lighted stump of candle
was stuck in the ground, and its pale light, reflected against the
glistening roof, gave the scene a somewhat unearthly appearance. Stewart
was kneeling on the gravel, examining carefully a flat, pebble-shaped
stone; beside him was heaped quite a number of similar fragments, and
these were evidently the results of my companions' labours, for many
hollows in the channel showed where the pebbles had been extracted. When
I entered, Mac was feverishly rubbing one of the pieces against his
moccasined leg.
"What kind o' stane dae ye ca' that?" he asked eagerly, handing his
prize to me.
"I've tell't him it's ironstane," broke in Stewart in a convinced tone
of voice, "but Mac aye likes tae be contrairy."
The specimen given me was a rough and rusty-looking pebble, very much
water-worn. At first glance it certainly looked like ironstone, and its
weight proved it to be either of that nature or--I dared not hoped the
alternative. I took my sheath knife and endeavoured to scrape the edges,
but they were hard as flint.
"A kent it was ironstane," grumbled Stewart, yet I was not satisfied. I
held the specimen close to the candle-flame for several minutes until it
was heated throughout, then I again tried my knife on the edges. The
effect was astounding; the rusty iron coat peeled off as mud, and lo! a
nugget of shining gold was brought to view.
With a howl of delight Stewart started up, cracking his head against the
crystal ceiling in his haste. "Gold!" he shouted, and grabbed at the
handful of stones he had collected. "Mak' some mair," he said.
But there was no need to doubt further; every rusty-coloured pebble
unearthed was in truth a fine alluvial specimen of the precious metal,
and when scraped each tallied in every characteristic with King James's
nugget. The iron coating was but a frozen mud cement which had formed
over the irregularities of surface with vice-like tenacity. The bed of
the creek was indeed gold bottomed; the King had not stated wrongly.
Campbell and Mackay soon joined us; they had become alarmed at my
prolonged absence.
"This beats Bonanza and El Dorado hollow," was the first individual's
comment.
"Well, I'm jiggered!" feebly murmured Mackay, gazing blinkingly around.
The light danced and shone on the yellow fragments, and sparkled on the
crystal dome. The sight was truly gorgeous. Even the fabled Aladdin's
cave could hardly have surpassed the splendours of that Alaskan icy
vault.
It was plain to us that the depth of "pay gravel" could not be more than
a few inches at most; the steep declivity of the channel was a sure
proof of that fact, and our "find" would not, therefore, take long to
work out. It promised, however, to be the richest strike in the Klondike
valley. The gold being so close to the mother lode, which was,
unfortunately, covered by the glacier, was all of a coarse nature; none
of the pieces collected came under the pennyweight limit, and one
specimen we computed to be at least five ounces....
Such is the record of one of our prospecting trips to the glacier
streams of the Upper Klondike, and "Gold Bottom Creek" from that time
occupied an honoured place in every miner's reference book.
THE PERILS OF THE TRAIL
All through that dread winter no news reached civilisation from the
frozen El Dorado, no communication had been established with the great
mushroom city of the far Nor'-West, and only the wildest sort of
speculation could be indulged in as to the fate of the pioneer
inhabitants of the Klondike valley. Only too late was the knowledge
forced upon the almost fanatical gold-seekers that the iron grip of an
Arctic winter was upon them, effectually barring retreat and sealing the
narrow gates of the country against all further expeditions from the
outside. They had lived on in the steadfast belief that the "Great
American nation" would send in supplies in good time to prevent any
likelihood of starvation. But so ignorant was the world regarding the
nature of the northern land that many companies continued even at that
time in Seattle and San Francisco to outline in the press their plans
for sending stores to Dawson in the "coming" winter--this in November,
when the elements had already a vice-like grip of the country.
Several expeditions really started, but so ludicrous were their
equipments that they without exception failed to penetrate beyond the
coastal barriers--the grim old Chilcoot and the murderous Skagway trail.
And so in the "promised land" the chill November blasts were hushed and
the deadly quiet of a December frost reigned supreme. The majority of
the miners worked out on the creeks, but when the intense cold forced
them to cease their labours they flocked into Dawson and idly frequented
the saloons, bragging of their riches to their less favoured comrades,
and cursing the ungodly nature of the country in forcible language.
At this time very few had more than three months' provisions, and the
majority were at their last bag of flour. The stores would sell nothing
unless at fabulous prices. Everything commanded one dollar a pound. Even
salt, that cheap but necessary commodity, had the same value. Baking
powder was unpurchasable--there being none. Before long one hundred
dollars was offered and refused for a sack of rolled oats. The
restaurants for a time supplied "meals" at exorbitant charges, yet one
by one they had to give out for want of supplies. The end came when
seven dollars was asked and given freely for a meagre portion of bacon
and beans--the staple food of the Arctics. Only a few days did this
establishment--"Dawson's Last Hope"--hold out, and then the familiar
legend, "No supplies," was posted on the logged doorway. It was only
then that the real state of affairs was impressed upon the unthinking
people.
Many tragedies were enacted in that northern mining camp during the
weeks that followed. A kind of panic prevailed. Short rations was the
rule, and starvation only too frequent. There seemed nothing but death
ahead for all. On short rations, with the thermometer averaging
forty-five below zero! who could view such a prospect with equanimity?
Thefts of goods were often attempted, and almost invariably death by
revolver bullet was the end of the poor hungry would-be thief's career,
for the necessaries of life were more strictly guarded than gold. Gold
could not buy them. Many would have given their all gladly for a sack of
flour. Long before Christmas all work was suspended. The population took
to their log-huts, and barricaded every nook and cranny in vain
endeavour to keep out the cold. Daylight appeared at ten o'clock in the
morning, and night closed over the camp soon after three. The "city"
seemed deserted, all but for the presence of a few dog-sleighs, which
were constantly employed in carrying timber from the mountain-side. The
strong men who had dared the elements and dragged the gold from the
unwilling soil now gave way utterly. The keen air whetting their
appetites rendered their existence on short rations a long-drawn-out
agony. The weaker element soon fell ill, and then a reign of terror
began. Fever became prevalent, and the little cemetery soon had to be
extended to accommodate the many victims to its fury.
A "roll-up" of the miners was by unanimous consent held to reason out
the dangerous situation, and it was decided as a last desperate resource
to attempt the long overland route to Dyea across the treacherous
Chilcoot Pass. Until the arrival of my party over the ice none had
dreamed that such a journey was practicable. During the heart of an
Arctic winter, to march seven hundred miles over ice and unfathomed
snows! The idea seemed absurd, yet it now became the only hope of life
to all. That "roll-up" is pictured clearly before me now, and never
again do I expect to be present at a more cruelly dramatic gathering.
Starvation showed plainly on every face; each white frosted visage was
seamed and furrowed as if by a load of care. They were indeed a motley
crowd, comprising representatives of all nationalities. To me fell the
questionable honour of leadership. I was supposed to know the valley of
the Yukon better than any present, nearly all of whom had entered by
way of St. Michael's.
"All right, boys," I said, in answer to their request, "my party will
make the trail for you as far as Big Salmon River. Then Major Walsh may
be able to advise us what to do."
And so the strange company began its long and deadly march. Half a dozen
dog teams headed the column, after which came men pulling their own
sleighs, and at the rear wearily trudged the multitude who carried their
all in packs bound with straps to their shoulders. It was a strange and
pitiable spectacle at the start; what would it be at the finish?
The Stewart River was reached in four days, and here the "blown" ice was
almost insurmountable. It piled up in great blistering sheets, the
elevations in some places exceeding a height of twenty feet. Over these
obstacles the dog-sleighs crashed, breaking a way for the long trailing
human caravan. Moccasins were cut into shreds, and clothing soon became
tattered and torn. The thermometer had now dropped to fifty degrees
below zero, and many became frost-bitten. Not a few lost the use of
their arms, and marble-hued noses were common indeed.
Sometimes I would get well ahead of the main party, and from a
convenient point watched them approach and pass. A stranger sight could
not be imagined. The staggering line of dogs came first; over their
lowered heads the long whips cracked, and the poor brutes bounded
forward with nerve and life in every motion. Then the weary
sleigh-pullers passed in solemn array, shoulders bent and bodies leaning
forward. Their sleighs were pulled along to the accompaniment of the
harsh grinding sound emitted from the iron runners on the frozen snow.
Lastly, the "packers" straggled in Indian file, and they were surely a
sight to be viewed with mingled feelings. Tall men, short men, stout
men--and they were few--and thin men followed in miscellaneous order.
Some were lame, and limped painfully; some had their heads bandaged,
many wore nose coverings, and a few were minus the nose altogether.
Strange it was to see at intervals, when this almost weird procession
lagged to the rear, how strenuously they would endeavour to recover
ground, and when with one accord they broke into a run the spectacle
offered would have been laughable had it not been so seriously, so truly
a race for life.
[Illustration: DAWSON CITY.]
Salmon River was reached at last. Five men had died on the trail and two
were seriously ill, though they dragged themselves along, helped
occasionally by the dog-sleighs. Here I formally gave over my
responsible charge to Campbell and Mackay, and having been entrusted
with mails and despatches for the coast, with barely a halt pushed on
ahead with Mac and Stewart. Our stores had diminished greatly beyond my
calculations, and it was evident that an extreme effort must be made to
increase our rate of travel. Yet despite our utmost endeavours, when we
entered upon the snowy wastes of Marsh Lake we pulled a sleigh on which
reposed a few furs, a bag of mineral specimens, and about as much flour
as would make one good square meal.
For the last several days our progress had been severely hampered by the
increasing depth and softness of the snow filling the valley of the
Yukon as we approached nearer the dreaded pass. Our daily march since
leaving the northern capital had rarely fallen below twenty-eight miles,
until the unfrozen White Horse Rapids had stayed our advance and caused
us to make a wide _détour_; but now, do what we might in our
semi-famished condition, we could barely travel twenty miles in as many
hours, and full eighty miles yet intervened between us and the sea. On
this day we had been on the trail since sunrise, and the darkening
shadows of night were already beginning to creep over the billowy
wastes, though it was but two hours after noon.
"We are near the end of the lake, boys," I shouted encouragingly, as I
noticed the failing efforts of my companions. "We must try and reach
Tagash River to-night."
Mac groaned dismally, and Dave emitted a plaintive howl as he struggled
in his harness. Then Stewart, who had grown wofully cadaverous of late,
stopped and addressed his compatriot.
"I mind, Mac," said he, "that there used to be an Injun village aboot
here."
"I hae a disteenct recollection o' the place," returned Mac shortly,
bending to his labours afresh.
"We are passing that same village now," I cried cheerily. "That makes
ten miles since our last halt."
The sleigh stopped with a jerk; half a dozen log-huts with a like amount
of totem poles, were plainly observable among the dense timber on shore.
"Them Injuns must have something for eating in they houses," spoke Mac
thoughtfully, gazing at the rude structures intently.
"But we have nothing to barter, and we know they won't sell," I broke in
impatiently.
He made no reply to my remark, but turned to Stewart, who was evidently
in a fit of deep mental abstraction: "What's your idea, Stewart, ma
man?" he asked insinuatingly, and that individual responded promptly.
"I am wi' ye, Mac, every time, but I hope it's no' a graveyard like the
last we tackled." They threw down their sleigh-ropes simultaneously, and
were half-way to the village before I had recovered myself.
"Hold hard!" I roared. "What----"
Mac's substantial figure spun round at once. "We'll be back in a
meenit," he whispered mysteriously.
I loosened Dave from his harness, and hastened after the doughty pair,
expecting every instant to hear sounds of deadly strife, but all
remained silent as a tomb, and I shuddered with painful recollections. I
found them cavorting around the largest edifice in the group in a manner
that under different circumstances would have seemed ludicrous.
"There's naebody in the hooses," cried Stewart gleefully. "The whole
tribe must have gone out moose-hunting."
Not infrequently a village is entirely deserted in this way, and I
heaved a sigh of relief. "But they may be back at any time," I said,
glancing fearfully round.
Mac shrugged his shoulders; "I think, Stewart," he remarked in a most
matter-of-fact tone, "I think the door is the weakest place after all."
I swallowed my scruples at a gulp, and became interested in the
proceedings at once. Strangely enough, for the moment we all seemed to
have forgotten how very similarly our first escapade of the kind had
opened.
Crash! Mac's broad shoulder butted the barricaded doorway right
ponderously, but though the heavy logs quivered and bent, they resisted
the shock. And now Stewart braced himself for the attack, and together
they hurled themselves against the wavering supports. There was a
resounding echo as the entire structure gave way, and with many chuckles
of delight the adventurous couple disappeared within, while I remained
outside, my rifle at full cock, listening for the tramp of moccasined
feet that would herald the Indians' return. I heard Mac strike match
after match, muttering discontentedly the while, and Stewart's
dissatisfied grunts filled me with dismay. Was our depredating raid to
go unrewarded?
"There's jist the sma'est bit o' caribou ye could imagine in the hale
hoose," snorted Mac indignantly. "It wis high time the deevils went
huntin', I'm thinkin'."
"Let's try the other hooses," counselled Stewart.
At that moment Dave gave a long, low growl, and immediately an
indescribable chorus of yells issued from the forest near at hand. Then,
to my horror, I perceived numerous dark forms speeding towards me.
Instinctively I levelled my rifle, then by an extreme effort of will
lowered it again. We were surely in the wrong. "Come on, boys," I cried,
"we must run for it."
"Haud on till I get that bit o' caribou," murmured Mac desperately.
A moment more, and we made a wild burst in the direction of the sleighs,
pursued by a number of stalwart warriors, whose vengeful shouts inspired
our failing steps with an unwonted activity.
"Let's stop and fecht the deevils," implored Mac, as we grabbed the
ropes of our sadly-light conveyance, and even at that juncture he
examined his stolen piece of caribou with critical interest. "It's no'
fit for human use," he protested angrily. "I'm no' goin' to run for
nothing."
But the yelling horde at our heels made him think better of it, and
muttering sundry maledictions he hitched on to the rushing sleigh, and
lumbered manfully alongside his gloomy compatriot. Fear did certainly
lend wings to our flight, and by the time we had reached the outlet
leading to Tagash Lake, our pursuers were far in the rear, the obscuring
darkness probably being much in our favour. And then, as we hastened
over the shelving ice on the connecting river, we beheld a sight that
drew from us ejaculations of sheer chagrin. A great fire blazed on the
shores of the frozen stream, illuminating in the background a
solidly-built logged erection, and showing clearly the outlines of a
giant Union Jack fastened to a tree close by. Not a soul was in sight,
but I could fancy the comfortable group inside the generous dwelling
whiling away the time before a glowing stove or indulging in a luxurious
dinner.
"It's a Government station," I said drearily. "It must have been put
here just before the ice closed in."
We halted for an instant, and gazed wistfully at the snug police camp.
Here surely we might obtain some little stores for our urgent needs, but
how dared we ask? The Indians were British subjects, and would indeed be
treated with more consideration than we might expect, for it is the
policy of the Canadian authorities to protect, even to the outside
extreme, the rights of their dusky subjects. Then, again, we had been
long on the trail, and our clothing was rent and ragged. The police
might judge us by appearances, and then--I did not care to think what
might happen. Many thoughts flitted through my mind as we stood there
hesitatingly, and my worthy companions, by their silence, showed that
they too were thinking deeply. The unmusical cries of our pursuers
jarred on our meditations with seemingly awakening vigour.
"They've got our trail," I said sadly. "We'd better get along."
"Civilisashun be d----d," fervently, if ambiguously, muttered Mac and
Stewart almost with one voice, and we staggered out into the bleak,
snowy plains of Tagash Lake, and pursued a dogged course southward.
THE TENT AT CARIBOU CROSSING
It was midnight before we halted, and then we camped on the middle of
the frozen lake, and near the entrance to the Big Windy Arm; and here,
after a most miserable night, we were forced to abandon the greater part
of the stolen venison as being in itself but little satisfying to our
urgent needs. We started again before daybreak, steering by compass in
the darkness. Indeed, it was absolutely necessary that we should keep
moving if we would prevent the blood from freezing in our veins. Our
plight was surely an unenviable one, and as we stumbled on through the
ever-deepening snow, Mac and Stewart cursed the country endlessly in
choice vernacular; and even Dave, struggling desperately in his harness,
found opportunity to give his verdict in hoarse, muffled growls of deep
displeasure.
"We'll bile the first Injun we meet," said Stewart solemnly, after
several hours had passed in silence, and he shook his head clear of its
encompassing deposits of frosted snow and ice, and gazed at our meagre
sleigh-load with pensive eyes.
"I'm no sae sure that Injun is guid for eatin' ony mair than mummy
caribou," rejoined Mac after much thought. "I mind," he continued
ruminatively, "o' eatin' snake sausages in Sooth America, an' they were
wonderfu' paleetable, but Injun?" He shook his ice-enclustered head
doubtfully. The day was already drawing to a close; the sun had risen at
ten o'clock, and its short arc in the heavens was almost completed. The
time at which one usually expects to fortify the inner man had passed in
grim silence, and the darkening shadows were creeping over the billowy
white waste.
"We must reach Caribou Crossing to-night, boys," I said. "We dare not
camp again on the open lake in case a blizzard gets up and wipes us
out."
The blackness of night enveloped us completely, and the tingling
sensation in our cheeks warned us that the frost intensity was far below
the zero scale. Our moccasins sunk through a powdery fleece so crisp,
that it crushed like tinder beneath us, and the steel sleigh-runners
whistled harshly over the sparkling beady surface. The stars twinkled
and shone brilliantly, and great streaks of dazzling light shot at
intervals across the northern sky; the night effects were indeed
splendid beyond description, yet we were too much engrossed with more
practical matters to wax enthusiastic over astronomical glories.
Suddenly the sharp hiss-s of a sleigh reached our ears, then out of the
darkness came the sound of laboured breathing and smothered growls, as
of dogs straining under an undue load. Obeying a common impulse our
sorely-tried caravan came to a halt, Dave whining piteously and pawing
the ground impatiently, while my companions peered into the night
earnestly, then turned and gazed at me in silence. The hurrying sleigh
was fast approaching on a course that would lead it but a few yards to
our left. I was on the point of stepping forward to intercept the
advancing dog-team which was now showing dimly in the starlight, when
one of the two men who accompanied it spoke, and his voice sounded
distinctly in the still air.
"I thought I heard something," said he.
"What could you hear?" answered his companion gruffly. "There can't be
any one nearer than the station at Tagash, and it's far enough off yet,
worse luck."
"All the same," reiterated the first speaker, "I'm sure I heard
sleigh-runners skidding over the snow. It's mebbe some poor devils
coming out from Dawson."
They were almost beside us now, and I wondered that we had not been
noticed.
"You'll remember, Corporal," came the tones of the doubtful one in hard,
official accents, "that on no account can I give out any supplies. I
have my own men to provide for."
For the same reason that we had hurried past the station at Tagash
River, I had no desire to bring my party to official notice now; so,
inwardly cursing the niggardly captain, I decided to let the team pass
without soliciting relief. It was clearly a Government "outfit" for the
benefit of the men at Tagash. At a jerky trot the four leading dogs
swept by us, swaying wildly as they pulled in their traces. Four more
dogs followed, then a heavily-laden sleigh came creaking and groaning
through the snow, the runners sunk deep and churning up clouds of vapour
which almost hid from view the plump sacks of flour on board. The men
came after at an amble, their faces muffled so that they, apparently,
could neither turn to the right nor left. I could scarcely restrain my
companions at this point from breaking into a vehement denunciation of
the police captain and his corporal. They would, indeed, have stormed
the sleigh cheerfully, and meted out no gentle treatment to the owners
thereof. With energetic pantomimic gestures I implored them to be calm;
the team was fast being swallowed up in the gloom, but before it had
disappeared from our penetrating gaze a broken sentence floated back to
our ears: "Pity ... had to leave so much ... Caribou Crossing ... back
to-morrow.... D----d Klondikers."
For five minutes more we waited in silence, during which time Mac and
Stewart were effervescing to an alarming climax, then we gave full vent
to our joy. "Ho! ho! ho!" laughed my companions. "Pity left so much at
Caribou! D----d Klondikers! Ho! ho! ho!" Dave, too, seemed to
understand the situation, and promptly proceeded to bark out his
appreciation; but his exuberance was too noisy, so it was hurriedly
checked.
"Get under way, boys," I said, when my henchmen had recovered their
equanimity, "for we'll need to look lively before the trail is blotted
out." We had not spoken a word about the matter, yet there existed a
perfect understanding between us. If anything edible had been left at
Caribou Crossing we were determined to commandeer it.
The well-weighted sleigh had made an easily-observable trail; in the dim
starlight the twin furrows formed by the runners glittered and shone
like the yeasty foam from a ship's propeller. We carefully directed the
prow of our snow-ship into these well-padded channels, and with renewed
energy forged ahead, thinking longingly of what might await us at
Caribou. Soon the shadows on either side of the lake drew nearer and
nearer, and the steep, wooded shores of the dreary waterway narrowed
inwards, so that the feathery fronds of the stately pine-trees were
plainly discernible; we were approaching the entrance to Caribou
Crossing. Five minutes later we had passed through the narrow
channel--it was barely twenty yards across--and were speeding silently
over the deep drifts of snow which were wreathed in giant masses on the
surface of the frozen lagoon. The hitherto heavily-marked trail now
appeared blurred and indistinct, and the dense forests lining the
"crossing" threw a shadow on the track which effectually neutralised
the vague glimmer of the stars, so that we had literally to feel for the
deep sleigh channels.
"If I'm spared to come oot o' this," groaned Mac, as he crawled gingerly
on all fours across the drifts, "I'll never speak o' ma sufferin's, for
naebody could believe what I hae endured."
"I hae traivelled faur," supplemented Stewart, lifting up his voice in
pathetic appeal, "but I've never been sae afflicted."
Having now introduced the subject of their woes they proceeded to
comfort one another in well-chosen words of sympathy. "You'll suffer a
considerable amount more if you don't find the trail soon," I broke in
by way of getting their attention more concentrated on the very urgent
matter on hand. But Stewart would have one word more:
"I'll mak' a fine moniment tae ye, Mac, ma man," he said with a sigh,
adding lugubriously, "puir, puir Mac."
"I'll hae yer life for that, ye deevil," roared that irate gentleman,
getting to his feet suddenly, and in consequence floundering to the
waist in the chilly wreaths.
Again I essayed to interfere. "Seems to me, boys," I said, "that you'd
better reserve your energy----" A loud bark interrupted my further
speech, and Mac immediately bellowed,
"Dave has got the trail; come on, Stewart, an' we'll hae a glorious
feast o' Government stores very soon."
I thought he was anticipating over-much, but I took care to say nothing
to discourage the pair, who now, side by side, were crawling rapidly
over the snow, tracing a new series of markings which led into the heart
of the thick foliage on shore. I followed after my comrades with
alacrity, but the drifts were very wide and deep, and I sunk to the neck
in their icy folds, and was almost frozen before I managed to extricate
myself.
"Are you following the trail, boys?" I cried, "or is it a bear track you
are tracing up?" They were too much engrossed in their sleuth-hound
operations to notice my inquiry, but as I had reached the shelter of the
timber where the snow was but thinly laid, I now groped my way more
quickly forward, and overtook the keen-eyed couple as they stopped short
and emitted a simultaneous howl of delight.
"Got it! Got it!" they yelled in unison, and Dave made the wooded slopes
resound with his deep-mouthed bark.
"Got what?" I interrogated, when opportunity offered, for nothing but
absolute blackness surrounded us.
"Licht a match," joyously spoke Mac.
Somewhat mystified I struck a sulphur match and held it aloft, and by
its sputtering flame I saw before me a 10 × 12 tent, on the roof of
which was painted in huge black letters, "N.W.M.P."
"We certainly have got it," I said with much satisfaction, "and we'll
see what's inside without delay."
"Scotland yet!" roared Stewart, in an ecstasy of delight, performing a
few steps of the Highland fling as delicately as his heavily-padded
moccasins would permit. Mac was more practical; he proceeded to execute
what appeared in the gloom to be a solemn ghost dance, but in reality he
was searching for the "door" end of the tent.
"Haud yer noise, ye gomeril!" he said shortly, addressing his
pirouetting companion, "an' when ye've feenished capering ye'll mebbe
get a candle off the sleigh."
The candle was quickly forthcoming, and the flap of the tent discovered;
it was laced tightly with long strips of caribou hide, and so was not
easily located in the darkness. We were not long in forcing an entry,
the board-like canvas was rooted up from the snow where it had frozen
fast, several hoary branches were pushed away from the inside wall,
then we boldly took possession. At first survey our "find" seemed
disappointing, the tent was almost empty; only a few very
dilapidated-looking sacks were piled within, and the dripping icicles
from the ridge gave a most frigid aspect to a dismal enough scene. Mac,
however, was not discouraged. "There maun be something for eatin' in
they bags," he said cheerfully, which was logic of the clearest nature;
then he proceeded to explore their contents, and while thus engaged
Stewart gathered together some branches and started a bright blaze at
the doorway.
"There's flour in this ane!" announced Mac joyfully, "an' beans in
anither!" he supplemented; then his delighted cries were frequent.
"We've got a wee thing o' maist everything that's guid," he summed up
finally, issuing out into the ruddy glow of the fire, where the billies,
filled with rapidly-melting snow, were fizzling away merrily.
The good news affected Stewart visibly. "A'll mak' a gorgeous re-past
the nicht, ye deevils," said he, "A'll mak' a rale sumshus feast."
The keen edge of our appetite was dulled as a preliminary by copious
draughts of coffee and the remnants of the morning's damper, then
operations were begun for the "gorgeous feast." Mac obligingly acted as
cook's assistant, and chopped off from the solidified contents of the
sacks the requisite amount of flour and other ingredients necessary--and
I fear many that were not altogether necessary in the strict sense of
the word, for beans, and flour, and rolled oats, and rice did not seem
to me to be a correct combination. But I was a novice in these arts and
feared to speak, and the manufacture of the "sumshus repast" went on
apace.
The night was far advanced, yet for once on the long dreary march from
Dawson we were in no hurry to court slumber, although we had travelled
over thirty miles that day. I think Stewart sized up my own thoughts
rather clearly when he said, during a lull in his artistic labours,
"What fur should we gang awa' early the morn'? It wad be a rael pity tae
leave this mag-nificent camp."
"We might wait just a little too long, Stewart," I replied, and visions
of an angry captain and his stalwart followers floated unpleasantly
before my eyes.
It was near midnight when the gurgling billy was lifted from its perch
amid the glowing logs, and Stewart gingerly fished from its interior a
round steaming mass, neatly enclosed in an old oatmeal sack and tied at
the top. With deft fingers its author undid the wrappings, and lo! a
rubicund pudding of cannon-ball-like aspect greeted our expectant
visions, and was hailed with loud acclamation.
"Ever see a puddin' like that, Mac?" demanded Stewart, gazing at it
tenderly, and his cautious compatriot somewhat sadly replied--
"Only aince, Stewart, an' that wis when we found Gold Bottom Creek, an'
ye nearly killed King Jamie o' the Thronducks wi' indegestion."
The compliment was just a trifle vague, and was regarded with suspicion
by the prime conspirator, but he said no more, and we attacked the
"puddin'" in silence, and with a vigour borne of many days' travel on
short rations.
Despite its heterogeneous nature, Stewart's culinary creation proved a
veritable triumph to his art; at any rate it quickly disappeared from
view, even Dave's share being rather grudgingly given. Never, since we
had entered the country, had we fared so well, and when coiled up in our
blankets close to the blazing fire, we felt indeed at peace with all
mankind--including the police captain. All night long we kept the flames
replenished, and dreamily gazed at each other through the curling smoke,
for our unusual surfeit had banished sleep from our eyes. And but a few
yards away from the burning logs the air was filled with dancing frost
particles that seemed to form a white wall around us, for our
thermometer, hung on a branch near by, registered forty-two degrees
below zero. The long hours of darkness dragged slowly on, and it was
nearly eleven o'clock in the morning before the faint light of day
gradually dispelled the murky gloom, yet still we lolled laggard-like by
the fire, starvation did not force us on this morning, and we had not
rested these last six hundred miles. About noon, however, we decided to
get up and have breakfast, and after many abortive attempts we succeeded
in unwinding our bodies from the blankets in which they were swathed
like Egyptian mummies.
"It wis a gorgeous banquet," ruminated Mac, as he busied himself with
the sleigh and made fast thereon various little sacks appropriated from
the tent.
"There's nae man," responded Stewart with eloquence, "kin teach me
onything aboot cooking--especially puddens."
I now thought it advisable to examine the markings on the snow where the
trail had given us so much trouble on the night before. I could not yet
understand why a tent and stores should have been left at Caribou
Crossing, one of the most gloomy spots throughout the whole course of
the Yukon. "Be lively with the breakfast, boys," I said, "for I am
inclined to think the climate thirty miles further south will be
healthier for us to-night." And I made my way out to the edge of the
forest.
I reached the lakeside without difficulty; the keen frost of the
preceding hours had given a thick crust to the deep snow-drifts
intervening; I then made a careful scrutiny of the various sleigh-runner
channels which were plainly evident, and which united at the point where
we had to diverge into the wood. A double trail led southward towards
Lake Bennet, but a single one only continued its course to Tagash
station. At once the meaning was plain. Two sleighs had started from
Bennet station, and the drifts on Caribou proving unduly deterrent, one
sleigh load had been temporarily abandoned. I remembered the two teams
of dogs in the sleigh we had met. Everything was clear in an instant.
"Yes, we'll certainly be healthier in a more southerly latitude
to-night," I said to myself as I turned to go back to my companions. The
enticing odour of an unusually appetising breakfast greeted my nostrils,
and brought back a feeling of serene contentment. But my happiness was
shortlived. I had barely reached the camp fire when I became vaguely
conscious of some disturbing element in the air. I listened intently,
then faintly sounded the tinkle of sleigh bells in the distance, and now
and again the sharp crack of a dog-whip smote the keen air. There was no
need to explain matters; even Dave whined knowingly, and backed
voluntarily into his harness.
"Jist oor luck," grumbled Stewart, grabbing the cooked bacon and
thrusting it into one of the billies.
"It's a blessed thing," quoth Mac, philosophically, "that we had such a
magnee----"
"Are you ready, boys?" I interrupted. The bells sounded sharply now, and
I could hear the irascible captain cursing on the dogs.
"I'm staunin' by the ingines," grunted Mac.
"There's naething left," said Stewart, "unless we tak' the tent."
"Then full speed ahead," I cried; "we'll camp somewhere near the head of
Lake Bennet, to-night."
With a sharp jerk the sleigh bounded forward, keeping the shelter of the
timber for the first few hundred yards, then sweeping into the open at
the entrance to Lake Bennet, we forced a trail towards Lake Linderman at
an unusually rapid rate.
ACROSS THE CHILCOOT PASS
The snow was falling in thick, blinding sheets when we reached Lake
Linderman, and struggled up the first precipitous climb leading to the
dreaded Chilcoot.
A death-like stillness lingered in the valley; the towering mountain
peaks enclosing the chain of lakes had formed ample protection from the
elements; but soon we ascended into a different atmosphere, where the
wind burst upon us with dire force, and dashed the snow in clouds
against our faces. In vain we laboured on; my comrades sank at times to
their necks in the snow, even the sleigh was half buried in the seething
masses, and rolled over continuously. I alone had snow-shoes, and for
the first time in the seven hundred miles' trail we had traversed I
strapped the long Indian "runners" to my moccasins, and endeavoured to
pad a track for the following train, but the attempt proved futile. Two
hours after leaving the lake we had barely progressed a mile, and the
air was becoming dark and heavy with the increasing fury of the gale,
which tossed the white clouds aloft, and showered them over our
sorely-tried caravan. Never had we dreamed of encountering such weather.
We had come from the silent Klondike valley, where the tempests were
hushed by the Frost King, who reigned with iron hand.
At two in the afternoon we reached timber limit, and here a few stunted
trees showed their tips above the snow, but beyond the bleak surfaces
of Deep and Long Lakes appeared bare and forbidding, and the loud shriek
of the gathering gale warned us to venture no further that day. We
hurriedly scooped a hole in the snow, and lined it with our furs; then
the sleigh was mounted as a bulwark against the drifts, and we lay down
in our strange excavation, exhausted and utterly disheartened. Mac at
length broke the silence. "We might have a fire o' some sort," he said,
looking round. Very gingerly he and his companion crawled towards the
tree-tops, and broke off the tough green branches. After much coaxing
the unwilling wood ignited, and we clustered joyfully round the pungent
smoke--for there was little else--and endeavoured to infuse some warmth
into our frozen bodies. The thick blackness of night was rapidly closing
over, and the storm showed no signs of diminishing; so we obtained what
timber we could from the tree-tops, and stored it in our shelter to feed
the feeble fire through the long dreary night. Then we thawed some snow,
and boiled a "billy" of coffee, and the warm fluid helped to sustain us
greatly; but still the wind howled and the snow pattered down on our
faces with relentless force, and the drifts from the edge of our pit
ever and anon deluged us. How we passed that night is beyond
description. We huddled near to each other for warmth, while our dog
beside us groaned and shivered violently despite all our efforts to
protect him from the icy blasts.
Morning at last arrived, but no welcome light appeared; the air
continued murky and dense with flying snow. Ten o'clock, eleven, and
twelve passed, and we were beginning to despair of getting a start that
day. Then the gloom merged into a dull grey haze, and we could
distinguish faintly through the driving mists the glacier peaks flanking
Long Lake. We had thawed snow and made coffee for breakfast, but
notwithstanding that fortification we felt ill-prepared to renew our
battle with the elements.
"We'll make another try, boys," I said, after a brief survey around. "We
may reach the summit to-day, but the chances are against it."
Dave was again harnessed to the sleigh, and with three separate ropes
attached we straggled forward on different tracks, and pulled as if for
dear life. Slowly we forged ahead over Deep Lake, staggering, stumbling,
and floundering wildly. Even Dave sank in the yielding track, and his
efforts to extricate himself would have been amusing--under different
circumstances. As we proceeded the gale increased, and almost hurled us
back, and I noted with alarm the heavy gathering clouds that seemed to
hang between us and the pass; they spread rapidly, and with them came
fresh blasts that whistled across the white lake surface, and tore it
into heaving swells even as we looked. I prayed for light, but the gloom
deepened and the snow fell thicker and faster. At length we reached the
cañon leading to Crater Lake, and with every nerve strained we fought
our way forward literally foot by foot. The snow-wreaths here were of
extraordinary depths, and several times my companions would disappear
altogether, actually _swimming_ again to the surface, for only such a
motion would sustain the body on the broken snow.
At three o'clock we had travelled but two and a half miles, and the
storm was yet rising. Had we been provided with food our position would
not have caused us much alarm, but coffee had been our lot for
forty-eight hours, and now raw coffee alone must be our portion, for we
were above timber limit, and so could have no fire. Starvation from cold
and hunger combined promised to be rather a miserable finish to our
labours. The deep breathing of my companions betrayed their sufferings;
their weakened frames could ill endure such buffetings. At every other
step they would sink in the vapoury snow, while poor Dave's muffled
howls were pitiful to hear.
"We'll have to camp again, boys," I shouted. But where could we camp,
and preserve our already freezing bodies? As I have said, we were beyond
timber limit; only the dull, drifting snow appeared on every side, and
the darkness was quickly hiding even that from view. I relinquished my
sleigh rope, and battled forward against the blizzard alone. My
snow-shoes skimmed rapidly over the treacherous drifts, but the extreme
exertion was too much for me, and I had to come to a halt. The air in
such a latitude, and at a 3,500-feet altitude, is keen enough even when
there is no blizzard raging. In the few hundred yards I had sped ahead I
had left my comrades hopelessly behind; they were blotted from my sight
as if by an impenetrable pall. Suddenly, through a cleft in the driving
sleet, I caught a glimpse of a blue glistening mass close before me. I
remembered that I was in the vicinity of the large glacier at "Happy
Camp," but the glacier had evidently "calved," for it was formerly well
up the mountain side. I staggered over to it, and felt its glassy sides
with interest; then I noticed a great cavity between the giant mass and
the mountain-ledge. It was indeed a calved glacier, and in its fall it
had formed a truly acceptable place of shelter. I cried loudly to my
companions, but only the shriek of the blizzard was my reply. I was
afraid to leave my "find" in case I might not discover it again, so I
drew my Colt Navy and fired rapidly into the air. The sound seemed dull
and insignificant in the howling storm, but a feeble bark near at hand
answered back, and through the mists loomed my doughty henchmen with
their sleigh-ropes over their shoulders, and crawling on all fours
beside the dog. They had been forced to divide their weight over the
snow in this strange fashion, and even as it was they sank at intervals
with many a gasp and splutter into the great white depths. "Happy Camp!"
I cried.
"This is an end o' us a' noo," Mac wearily groaned, staggering into the
ice cavern.
"Happy Camp" was the name derisively applied to the vicinity in the
summer. It was then the first halting stage after crossing the pass, and
as no timber existed near, no fires could be made, and hence the name.
But what it was like at this time, in midwinter, is beyond my powers to
describe. Imagine a vast glittering field of ice stretching from the
peaks above to the frozen stream below, and a small idea of its miseries
as a camping-ground is at once apparent. Yet it was a welcome shelter to
us at such a time, and we dragged the sleigh into the dark aperture
thankfully, and, wrapping ourselves in our blankets, listened to the
moaning of the storm outside. At each great rush of wind the walls of
our cave would quiver and crackle, and far overhead a deep rumbling
broke at intervals upon our ears. Our glacier home was certainly no safe
retreat, for it was gradually, yet surely, moving downwards. My
companions recognised their perilous position immediately they heard the
well-known grinding sound, but they said nothing--they were evidently of
opinion that we were as safe inside as out, and, as Stewart afterwards
grimly said, "It would hae been an easier death onywey."
The cold was very intense, and we shivered in the darkness for hours
without a word being spoken. To such an extremity had we been reduced
that Mac and Stewart assiduously chewed the greasy strips of caribou
hide which did duty as moccasin laces, while I endeavoured, but with
little success, to swallow some dry coffee. If we could only have a
fire, I reasoned, we might live to see the morning, but without it
there seemed little hope.
We had all grown apathetic, and indeed were quite resigned to a horrible
fate. I was aroused from a lethargic reverie by the piteous cries of
Dave, who remained still harnessed. I patted his great shaggy head, and
pulling my sheath-knife, cut the traces that bound him. As I did so my
hand came in contact with the sleigh, and at once a new idea flashed
over me.
"Get up, boys!" I cried. "We've forgotten that the sleigh will burn."
In an instant they were on their feet. One thought was common to us
all--we must have a fire, no matter the cost. Mac lighted a piece of
candle, and stuck it on the hard ground. Then he and Stewart attacked
the sleigh energetically, and in a few moments the snow-ship that had
borne our all for seven hundred miles was reduced to splinters. Eagerly
we clustered round as the match was applied, and fanned the laggard
flame with our breaths until it burst out cheerily, crackling and
glowing, illuminating the trembling walls of the cavern, and causing the
crystal roof to scintillate with a hundred varying hues. Sparingly Mac
fed the flame; if we could only keep it alive till morning the blizzard
might have abated. Piece by piece the wood was applied, and the feeble
fire was maintained with anxious care. Hour after hour passed, and still
the blizzard howled, and the swirling snow-drifts swept to our feet as
we bent over our one frail comfort, and protected the wavering flame
from the smothering sleet.
At various times throughout the weary hours I fancied I could hear a
faint moaning without our shelter, but the inky blackness of the night
obscured all vision, and after aimlessly groping in the snow for some
minutes after each alarm, I had to crawl back benumbed and helpless.
"It must have been the wind," said Stewart.
"There's nae man could cross the pass last night," spoke Mac.
Dave lay coiled up on my blanket apparently fast asleep. The noble
animal had had nothing to eat for two days, and I feared he would not
wake again. Suddenly, however, he started up, growling hoarsely. The
moaning sound again reached our ears, prolonged and plaintive. Then came
the sharp whistle of the blizzard, clear, decisive. There could be no
mistake. Assuredly some unfortunate was out in the cruel storm. Our
four-footed companion struggled to his feet with an effort, and swaying
erratically, he rushed from the cave whining dolefully. We gazed at each
other in silence; we dreaded the discovery we were about to make.
"Keep the fire alight as a guide to us, Mac," I said, and Stewart and I
went out into the storm. And now Dave's deep-mouthed barks penetrated
the dense mists, and we crawled towards the cañon in the direction of
the sound; but we had not far to go. A few yards from our retreat I felt
Dave's furry body at my knees, and then my hand came in contact with a
human form half buried in the drifts.
"It's a man, Stewart," I said, and he answered with a groan of sympathy.
We extricated the stiff, frozen body from the engulfing snow and dragged
it tenderly towards the light we had left; and there, in that miserable
spot, we strove to bring back the life that had all but fled.
"We have nothing to gie him," said Mac hopelessly; "an' the fire's gone
oot."
"There should be some coffee," I answered, "and the furs and my long
boots will burn."
Soon our treasured possessions smouldered and flamed; boots, moccasins,
silver-tipped furs--all that we had that would simmer or burn was
sacrificed, and a piece of ice from the wall was thawed and slowly
boiled. When the hot fluid was forced between his lips the rescued man
opened his eyes and looked around. Soon he had recovered sufficiently to
speak a few words. He had ventured across the Chilcoot, despite all
warnings from the miners at Sheep Camp. He had wandered over Crater Lake
all day, not knowing where the valley lay owing to the dense mists
prevailing. "The blizzard has been blowing on the pass for two days,"
said he; "your light attracted me last night, but I could not reach it."
Such was the tale of the poor victim of the pass; he died before
morning, despite our struggles to save him, and we felt that we could
not survive him long.
No light appeared at ten o'clock, nor was there any promise of the
blinding storm abating. Our fire had gone out, and we sat in darkness
beside the lifeless body we had saved from the snows.
"We'll make another try, boys," I said. "We may as well go under trying,
if it has to be."
Our load was small enough now; the pity was we had not lightened it
sooner. I strapped the small mail-bag to my shoulders; my comrades
carried all further impedimenta, and, leaving the dead man in his icy
vault we staggered into the darkness and forced an erratic track towards
the Chilcoot Pass. Crater Lake was reached in two hours; I could only
guess we had arrived at it by the evenness of the surface, the air was
so dense that objects could not be distinguished even a few feet
distant. I tried to fix a bearing by compass, but the attempt was
futile, the needle swaying to all points in turn, owing to the magnetic
influences around. Then we _felt_ for the mountain-side on the left, and
staggered over the blast-blown rocks and glaciers along its precipitous
steeps.
As we neared the summit the howl of the blizzard increased to a shrill,
piercing whistle, but we now were sheltered by the pass, and the fierce
blast passed overhead. All this time we forced onward through a murky
gloom with our bodies joined with ropes that we might not lose one
another. At three in the afternoon I calculated that we were near the
crucial point at which the final ascent can be negotiated, and we left
the white shores of Crater Lake and clambered up into the rushing mists
where the blizzard shrieked and moaned alternately, and hurled huge
blocks of glacier ice and frozen snow down into the Crater valley. The
top was reached at last, and no words of mine can describe the inferno
that raged on that dread summit. We lay flat on our faces and writhed
our way forward through a bubbling, foaming mass of snow and ice. Our
bodies were cut and bruised with the flying _débris_, and our clothing
was torn to rags. The blizzard had now attained an extraordinary pitch,
the mountain seemed to rock and tremble with its fury, and inch by inch
we crawled towards the perpendicular declivity leading to the
"Scales"--full eight hundred feet of almost sheer descent. Cautiously we
manoeuvred across the great glacier that rests in the Devil's
Cauldron--a cup-shaped hollow in the top of the notorious pass--and at
once the blaze of a fire burst before our eyes, illuminating the
apparently bottomless depths beyond.
The ice-field on which we lay overhung the rocks to a dangerous degree,
and I realised that we must make the descent from some other part of the
semicircular ridge. We crept back hurriedly, and as we stood gasping in
the "cauldron" before making a _détour_ to find a possible trail, a
mighty rumbling shook the pass, and we clutched at the snow around,
which flew upwards in great geyser-like columns, almost smothering us in
its descending showers. The overlapping ice had plunged into the valley,
carrying with it hundreds of tons of accumulated snow; we escaped the
powerful suction by a few yards only.
[Illustration: ON THE SAFE SIDE OF THE PASS AGAIN.
MAC--SELF--STEWART.]
When we approached the edge a second time a smooth, unbroken snowsteep
marked the trail of the glacier, and to it we consigned ourselves,
literally sliding down into the black depths. We were precipitated into
an immense wreath of snow covering the scales for over a hundred feet.
The fire had been blotted out with the icy deluge, but luckily, as we
learned later, the fire-feeders had abandoned their post long before the
avalanche had come down. Three hours later we arrived at Sheep Camp, and
entered the Mascotte saloon, where the assembled miners were clustered
round a huge stove in the centre of the room, listening to the ominous
shriek of the gale outside.
No one dared venture out that night, but in the morning the four days'
blizzard had spent itself, and we formed a party to explore the damage
done. A light railway that had been laid to the Scales was completely
demolished, and half down to Sheep Camp the channel of the Chilcoot
River was filled with enormous ice boulders. An avalanche had also
fallen on Crater Lake during the night, and when we had painfully
climbed the now bare summit the frozen plateau beyond was rent for
nearly a mile with enormous gashes over ten feet in width, and the ice
cleavage showed down as far as the eye could reach.
PART II
UNDER THE SOUTHERN CROSS
THE FIVE-MILE RUSH
It was a very hot day in September when we arrived at Perth, Western
Australia, and hastened to put up at the nearest hotel to the station,
which happened to bear the common enough title of the "Royal."
We had come up with the mail train from Albany, where the P. & O.
steamers then called, and even Westralia's most ardent admirers would
hesitate to claim comfort as one of the features of the Colony's railway
system. So we arrived, after a long night's misery, dusty and
travel-stained. No one attempts to keep clean in the land of "Sand, sin,
and sorrow," for the simple reason that, according to the nature of
things there, such a luxurious state of æsthetic comfort can never be
attained. The streets were sandy, and as a natural sequence the
atmosphere was not of ethereal quality. The people were sandy and
parched-looking, and we found the interior of the hotel little better
than the outside, so far as the presence of the powdery yellow grains
was concerned.
In the darkened bedrooms the hum of the festive mosquito was heard, and
my companions chuckled at the sound.
"It's a lang time since I heard they deevils," said Mac; then he
proceeded, "Noo, oot on the Pampas----"
"D--n the Pampas!" roared Stewart, as he clutched wildly at one of the
pests that had been quietly resting on his cheek for full half a
minute.
"Ye've pushioned that onfort'nate beast," Mac retorted, with unruffled
serenity; "noo, can ye no let the puir thing dee in peace?"
We remained but a short time in Perth; it is a neatly-laid-out little
city with streets running off at right angles to each other, and
containing a fair sprinkling of fine buildings, among which may be
mentioned the General Post Office and Lands Offices, and they are
palatial edifices indeed. The Botanical Gardens are small, yet very
pretty; and here, instead of the usual garden loafer, may be found many
weary-eyed and parchment-skinned gold-diggers from the "fields," whose
one idea of a holiday lies in a visit to Perth or Fremantle, where they
stroll about or recline on the artificially-forced grass plots of these
towns, and wile the weary hours away.
The Swan River at Perth forms an exquisite piece of scenery, which
redeems the environs of the sandy city from utter ugliness. Innumerable
black swans swim hither and thither on its placid waters, and by the
sloping banks, well fringed with rushes, many notable yachting clubs
have their pavilions. There is nothing in this Capital of the Western
Colony to attract. Even to the casual observer it is plain that the
bustling, Oriental-looking town is essentially a gateway to the
goldfields, and little more. Fremantle, on the other hand, is the Port,
and chief engineering and commercial centre.
At this period I was, like most erratic travellers, without a definite
object in view. In a certain hazy way I thought that we should visit the
mining districts at once, as we had done in other and more impracticable
countries; yet I was aware that the known Westralian goldfields were by
no means so new as the "finds" in North-West Canada, and in consequence
the ground might be over-pegged or long since rushed.
"The countrie is big enuff," said Mac when I mentioned my doubts, "an'
we'll mebbe find anither Gold Bottom Creek faurer oot than onybody has
gaed."
"We're better diggin' holes, even if they are duffers," spoke Stewart,
"than makin' oorsel's meeserable at hame." Which argument in a sense
settled the matter, and I forthwith purchased tickets for Kalgoorlie,
with the intention of penetrating thence towards the far interior.
It is a weary journey eastward from Perth, and one that cannot be too
quickly passed over. The single narrow-gauge line has been laid without
any attempt at previous levelling, and the snorting little engine puffs
over switchback undulations ceaselessly, at a speed that averages nearly
sixteen miles an hour. It is a fortunate circumstance for the fresh
enthusiast from "home" that the "Kalgoorlie Mail" leaves Perth in the
evening. The discomfort experienced in the midnight ride is bad enough,
but he is mercifully spared from viewing the "scenery" along the route,
which would assuredly have a most demoralising effect: Western Australia
must be taken gradually.
The Coolgardie "rush" may be fresh in the minds of most people. The
township now stands almost deserted, bearing little trace of former
glory; and yet it is but a few years since the railway was pushed out to
this remote settlement. Southern Cross, two hundred miles nearer the
coast, was formerly the terminus of all traffic, and the hardy pioneers
of Coolgardie daringly ventured on foot from this point, as did also the
vast numbers who "followed the finds."
Very insidiously Kalgoorlie has risen to high eminence as a mining
centre; it accomplished the eclipse of its sister camp some time ago,
and by reason of its deep lodes it is likely to retain its supremacy
indefinitely. To the individual miners a new strike or location is
considered to be "played out" when limited liability companies begin to
appear in their midst, as only in rare cases can fossickers succeed in
competition with machinery. However, the flat sand formations around
Kalgoorlie have proved one of the exceptions to this rule, and the
alluvial digger may still sink his shallow shaft here with every hope of
success, and even in the proved "deep" country surface indications are
abundant.
When my little party stepped from the train at Kalgoorlie, we saw before
us a scattered array of wooden and galvanised-iron houses,
white-painted, and glistening dully in the sunlight through an extremely
murky atmosphere. On closer acquaintance the heterogeneous erections
resolved themselves into a wide principal thoroughfare, aptly named
Hannan's Street, after the honoured prospector of the Camp's main reef,
and a number of side paths that bore titles so imposing that my memory
at once reverted to the fanciful names distinguishing the crude log
shanties of Dawson, where there were: Yukon Avenue, Arctic Mansions,
Arcadian Drive, and Eldorado Terrace. Here, in keeping with the latitude
of the city, more salubrious, if equally fantastic, were the various
designations of the alleys and byways.
In the near distance we could see the towering tappet heads of the
widely-known Great Boulder mine, and the din created by the revolving
hammers of the ever-active stamping machinery assailed our ears as an
indescribable uproar. But beyond the dust and smoke of these
Nature-combating engines of civilisation, the open desert, dotted with
its stunted mulga and mallee growths, shimmered back into the horizon.
Here and there a dump or mullock heap showed where the alluvial miner
had staked his claim, but for the most part the landscape was unbroken
by any sign of habitation.
"There's a lot of room in this country, boys," I said, as we stood
unobserved in the middle of the street and took in the scene.
"It's a deevil o' a funny place," Mac ventured doubtfully.
"It's a rale bonnie place," reproved Stewart, whom the inexpressible
gloom peculiar to the interior country had not yet affected. "I'm
thinkin'," he continued, with asperity, "that ane or twa men o' pairts
like oorsel's were jist needed at this corner o' the warld."
"In ony case," Mac now agreed, "it's better than being meeserable at
hame."
Instead of seeking the hospitality of one of the numerous hotels close
by, we decided to begin our campaign in earnest right away, and get
under canvas as a proper commencement. So we prospected around for a
good camping site, and that same night we slept in our tent, erected
about a mile distant from the township.
There was no water in our vicinity, and next morning Stewart set out
with two newly-purchased water-bags to obtain three gallons of the very
precious fluid at a condensing establishment we had noticed on the
previous night, where, at sixpence a gallon, a tepid brackish liquid was
sparingly dispensed. It should be understood that water, in most parts
of Western Australia, is more difficult to locate than gold, and when
obtained it is usually as a dense solution, salt as the sea, and
impregnated with multitudinous foreign elements extremely difficult to
precipitate.
"There's aye something tae contend wi' in furrin countries," Mac
philosophised, as he leisurely proceeded to build a fire for cooking
operations. "In Alaska there wis snaw, an' Chilkoots, an' mony ither
trifles; bit here there's naething much objeckshunable let alane the
sand an' want o' watter."
I agreed with him if only for the sake of avoiding an argument. "There
may be a few--insects along with the sand, Mac," I hazarded cheerfully,
and then I went into the tent to arrange the breakfast utensils.
"Insecks!" cried he derisively after me. "Wha cares fur insecks, I shid
like tae ken? What herm is there in a wheen innocent muskitties, fur
instance? Insecks! Humph!"
The absurdity of my remark seemed to tickle him vastly, and as he broke
the eucalyptus twigs preparatory to setting a match to the pile he had
collected, he continued to chuckle audibly. Then suddenly there was
silence, a silence so strange that I felt impelled to look out of the
tent and see what had happened; but before I had time to set down the
tinware cups I held in my hands, his voice broke out afresh. "Insecks!"
I heard him mutter. "Noo A wunner----; bit no, that canna be, fur snakes
hiv'na got feet, an' this deevil's weel supplied i' that direction. It's
a bonnie beast, too. I wunner if it bites?" I gathered from these
remarks that the valiant Mac had made the acquaintance of some unknown
species of "insect" with which he was unduly interested. "If it's an
inseck," came the voice again, "this countrie maun be an
ex-tra-ord'nar'----Haud aff! ye deevil. Haud off! I tell ye." I
hastened outside just in time to see my companion ruthlessly slaughter a
large-sized centipede, which had evidently refused to be propitiated by
his advances.
"It's a vera re-markable thing," said he, looking up with a perfectly
grave countenance, "hoo they--insecks--persist in bringin' destruckshun
on themsel's. I wis just pokin' this onfort'nate beast wi' a stick--in a
freen'ly wey, ye ken--an' the deevil made a rin at me, wi' malishus
intent, I'm thinkin', an' noo he's peyed the penalty o' his misguided
ackshun."
[Illustration: STEWART PREPARING OUR FIRST MEAL.]
"In future, Mac," I warned, "you'd better not attempt to get on friendly
terms with these--insects; a bite from a centipede might kill you."
"I'll gie ye best about the insecks," he returned thoughtfully, applying
a match to the pile, "bit ye'll admit," he added, after some moments'
pause, "that it's maist ex-tra-ord'nar' tae see insecks o' sich
onnaitural descripshun rinnin' aboot on the face o' the earth."
I fully concurred, much to his satisfaction, and just then Stewart
arrived, perspiring under his watery load.
"Dae ye mean tae tell me," howled the new-comer, addressing no one in
particular, "that ye hiv'na got the fire ken'l'd yet?"
"Ca' canny, Stewart, ca' canny," sternly admonished the guilty one.
"There's been a narrow escape here, ma man, a verra narrow escape."
Stewart's ruddy face blanched slightly, then slowly regained its colour
when the slain centipede was pointed out. "Ye've raelly had a
providenshul escape, Mac," said he. "Noo, staun aside an' let me get on
wi' the cookin'."
Our first breakfast in camp was an unqualified success; it was not a
very elegant repast, certainly, but the traveller must learn to forego
all luxuries and enjoy rough fare, and we had already served our
apprenticeship in that direction. Stewart, however, had lost none of his
art in matters culinary, and, as he himself averred, could cook
"onything frae a muskittie tae an Injun," so we had every reason to be
contented.
"If we wur only camped aside a second Gold Bottom!" sighed Mac, getting
his pipe into working order.
"It's a bonnie countrie," mused his companion, "wi' a bonnie blue sky
abune, an' what mair could a man want?"
"I think we have had no cause to complain, so far, boys," was my
addition to the conversation, "and I'll go into the township in an hour
or so and make investigations as to the latest strikes. To-morrow we may
make a definite camp."
And so the early day passed while we rested and smoked, and recalled our
grim experiences in the land of snows.
"It's mebbe wrang tae mak' compairisons," grunted Mac, "bit gie me the
sunshine an' the floo'ers----"
"An' the centipedes!" Stewart slyly interpolated.
"D--n centipedes!" roared Mac; then he recovered himself. "Mak' nae mair
allushuns, ma man," said he with dignity. "An' hoo daur ye spile ma
poetic inspirashun?"
The sun was now well overhead and shooting down intense burning rays;
the sky was cloudless, and not a breath stirred the branches of the
dwarfed eucalyptii on the plains.
"It's a g-glorious day," murmured Stewart, mopping his perspiring
forehead.
Mac chuckled: "Wait till ye see some o' the insecks the sun'll bring
out," said he, "ye'll be fairly bamfoozled."
At this moment I was surprised to notice a man, armed with pick and
shovel, approaching rapidly in our direction. As he came near I saw that
he bore, strapped to his shoulders, a bundle of wooden pegs which had
evidently been hastily cut from the outlying timber. "Some energetic
individual thinks we have made a find at this camp," I thought; but I
was mistaken. The stranger made as if to pass a good way off our tent;
then he hesitated, looked back, apprehensively, it seemed to me, and
came quickly towards us.
"What in thunder does yer mean by campin' here, mates?" he demanded
hurriedly, grounding his shovel impatiently and letting his eyes roam in
an unseeing manner over the surrounding country.
I had barely time to explain that ours was only a temporary camp, when,
without a word, he shouldered his shovel and sped onwards into the
brush.
"Maist onmainnerly behaviour," Mac snorted wrathfully. "Noo, if I meet
that man again, I'll----" He stopped suddenly. "Ho, ho!" he chuckled,
"there's mair o' them comin'; I begin tae smell a rat." We now observed
what had caused the sudden flight of our visitor. Rushing from every
shanty near the township, and issuing from the main street in a chaotic
mass, a perfect sea of men bearing axes and picks and shovels came
surging down on us. As we looked the fleeter members of the "rush"
forged quickly ahead, so that the spectacle soon appeared as a medley
army advancing desperately at the double in Indian file.
There was no need to be in ignorance as to what it meant; we had seen
the same thing often enough in Alaska when strikes on the Upper Klondike
were frequent.
"Get the tent down, boys," I said, "and follow on when you're ready.
I'll represent this camp and see that it is not last on the programme."
Even before I had finished speaking, my companions were tugging wildly
at the guy ropes, and loosening the wall pegs of the tent.
"We'll no be faur ahint," growled Mac from beneath the canvas folds
which in his zeal he had brought down upon himself.
"Ye shid let me gang first," grumbled Stewart, "fur ye ken weel that I
can sprint wi' ony man."
I seized an axe and shovel and awaited the approach of the van-leader of
the struggling line of humanity, who was fast drawing near: not knowing
the destination of the rush, it was necessary that I should follow some
one who did. I had not long to wait. A lean, lanky true son of the bush,
with nether garments held in position by an old cartridge belt, burst
through the brushwood a few yards wide of us. His leathery face showed
not the slightest trace of emotion, and though the heat was sweltering
not a drop of perspiration beaded on his forehead. Heaven knows how
often he may have taken part in a rush and been disappointed.
"Mornin', boys," he said genially. "Fust-class exercise, this," and he
passed at a regular swinging pace, with eyes fixed straight ahead,
steering a direct course.
"He gangs like clockwork," said Mac admiringly, gazing after him; "bit
haud on. What's this comin'?"
The second runner was now coming forward at a rate that was rapidly
annihilating distance; he had passed the bulk of the others since he had
joined the race, and I had been much interested in watching his
progress.
"Guid Lor'," ejaculated Stewart, stopping in his work of rolling up the
tent, and gazing at the approaching runner in dismay. "Did ye ever see
onything like that in a' yer born days?"
There was ample excuse for his astonishment. The fleeing figure was
hatless, and otherwise ludicrously garbed--for Westralia. What Stewart
called a "lang-tailie coat" spread out behind him like streamers in a
breeze, a "biled" collar had, in the same gentleman's terse language,
"burst its moorings" and projected in two miniature wings at the back of
his ears, and a shirt that had once been white, bosomed out expansively
through an open vest. Yet, notwithstanding his cumbrous habiliments, he
had well outdistanced his nearest "hanger-on," and it was plain that the
wiry sandgroper still in front would have to screw on more speed if he
meant to keep his lead long.
With lengthy strides the strangely-garbed runner shot past; in his hand
he gripped a spade, which tended to make his appearance the more
wonderful, but that he meant business was very evident.
"Fur Heaven's sake, pit aff the coat!" howled Stewart, and Mac toned
down the impertinence of the remark by adding stentoriously--
"Ye'll rin lichter withoot it, ma man."
The individual addressed slowed up at once. "Thanks for the idea, boys,"
said he good-naturedly, and he promptly discarded the objectionable
emblem of civilised parts and threw it carelessly into a mulga bush.
Then noting that he was a good way in advance of the main army, he
mopped his streaming face and gave the information, "There's been a big
strike at the Five Mile, boys, wherever that may be. I am letting the
first man steer the way on purpose."
"Ye're a daisy tae rin," admiringly spoke Mac, seizing the tent and a
packet of miscellaneous merchandise, while Stewart feverishly gathered
up the remainder of our meagre belongings. He of the "biled shirt" now
set down to work again, making a pace which I, who had joined in the
chase, found hard indeed to emulate; and my companions, heavily laden as
they were, hung into our rear like leeches.
Far behind we could hear the sand crunch under hundreds of feet, and the
mallee shrubs crackling and breaking, but hardly a word was spoken. Mile
after mile we crashed through the endless brush and over the monotonous
iron-shot plains. Mac puffed and blowed like some huge grampus, and
Stewart's deep breathing sounded like the exhaust expirations of an
overworked steam engine.
"Keep her gaun, Mac; keep her gaun," this personage would splutter when
his more portly comrade showed signs of flagging, which well he might,
considering that he clutched in his arms a weight of nearly forty
pounds.
"Wha's stoppin'? ye inseegneeficant broken-winded donkey engine!"
retorted his aggravated compatriot, rolling along manfully.
But the race was nearly over. Half a mile further on the land dipped
ever so slightly, and in the gentle hollow formed about a dozen men
rushed madly about, pacing off prospectors' claims, and driving rude
pegs at the boundary corners.
The sight had an exhilarating effect on Mac and Stewart, and with wild
shouts they quickly drew up the little distance they had lost, and would
have passed my white-shirted pacemaker and myself were we not compelled
for very shame to keep our lead if we died for it.
"By Jove!" panted he of the strange garments, "these beggars behind can
run."
And Mac at his heels chivalrously grunted between his breaths, "I've
never had a harder tussle tae keep up ma deegnity--no never."
A few minutes more, and we reached the field of operations. The men
there were too busy marking off their properties to give us much
attention. I noticed swiftly that our first visitor of the few words had
his claim neatly pegged, and was sitting in the middle of it,
complacently smoking. He must have received special information of the
find or he could not have got away so much before the others. Our second
passing acquaintance--he of the emotionless countenance who had steered
our quartet unknowingly--had got in a hundred yards ahead of us, and he
was now coolly cutting pegs with which to mark his chosen area.
"It's a deep alluvial leader, mate," he said to me. Then he added
obligingly, "I guess I knows the lie of the kintry, an' if ye hitch on
at the end o' my boundaries, ye'll likely sink on it, plumb."
The advice of an experienced miner should always be accepted; and while
Mac and Stewart were felling several small trees for use as
marking-posts, I proceeded to line off the direction of our claim as
suggested by the angle of my adviser's corner channels. I performed this
work with much care, knowing how slim are one's chances of holding any
gold-bearing area at a rush unless the holder's title is beyond dispute
according to official regulations.
The straggling body of men was now beginning to appear on the crest of
the undulation which marked the only visible natural boundary of the
valley; in less than three minutes the madly-striving crowd would be
upon us, and we should be assuredly swamped by its numbers so that no
pegs could be driven. Then I noticed the man who had doffed his
fashionable coat to oblige Stewart, standing dejectedly near by; his
sleeves were rolled up, displaying splendidly-formed muscles, and he
held his shovel loosely in his hand as if uncertain what to do with it.
"Better get your pegs fixed quickly," I advised.
But he shook his head rather sadly. "I haven't got an axe," he said,
"and--and I'm new to this sort of thing."
Mac had by this time obtained the four blazed posts necessary to denote
our "three-men square," and Stewart promptly began to smite them into
position in their proper places.
"If ye'll alloo me," said Mac, "I'll get the bitties o' sticks fur ye;
I'd be vera sorry tae a bonnie rinner like you left in the cauld."
But there was no time now.
"Shift out our posts instead, Mac," I instructed, "we'll make a four-men
lot of it and divide afterwards."
Our white-shirted associate looked at me gratefully, and held out his
hand. "My name is Philip Morris," he said. "I am an Englishman, just out
from the old country."
A swaying mob of perspiring and fiery-eyed men of all nationalities now
flooded the valley as a tumultuous sea of humanity, and scattered in
twos and fours throughout its entire length.
"You've struck a circus for a start, Morris," I said. "I think we'll all
remember the Five-Mile Rush."
SINKING FOR GOLD
Next morning the Five-Mile Flat was the scene of extraordinary activity.
Tents sprung up like mushrooms in all directions, and the thud, thud of
picks sounded incessantly. It was almost pitiful to witness the feverish
eagerness with which most of the diggers tried to bottom on their
claims. The depth of the Lead at Discovery shaft was given out to be
only forty feet, but the strata encountered before that level was
reached had been of a flinty impervious nature, necessitating the use of
much giant powder.
At least the original prospectors, who were camped near to us, gave me
that information in a fit of generosity when they learned that I had
some little experience of geological formations. They even allowed me to
descend their shaft--most unheard-of thing--and compute the angle and
dip of the lode for the benefit of the general assembly; a privilege
which was duly appreciated, as it enabled me to calculate the proper
position in our own claim at which to sink. The lode, so called, proved
to be an auriferous wash, or alluvial gutter, the bed of an extremely
ancient watercourse, probably silted up long before the time of the
Pharaohs.
Our newly-acquired companion, who had already won the good graces of
both Mac and Stewart, astonished me greatly, while I was expounding my
theories on these matters for his special edification, by making
several courteous corrections to my statements, so that I was forced to
tread more cautiously; and when I had finished, he capped my argument
with a lucid technical discourse and much scientific addenda.
"You certainly know a fair-sized amount for an inexperienced man," I
said, with some irritation; but he hastened to explain.
"My knowledge is purely theoretical," he replied. "Perhaps I should not
have spoken."
His admirable good sense appealed to Mac's idea of fairness. "I'm
thinkin'," began that gentleman, gazing at me reproachfully, "I'm
thinkin' that oor freen Phil-ip is a vera modest man, a vera modest man
indeed."
"I'm o' the opeenion," cried Stewart, from the interior of the tent,
"that if he keeps awa' frae tailie coats, and dresses rashunal, he'll be
a rale orniment tae ony camp."
The young man was much moved by these expressions of good-will; but when
I asked him to mark off his allotment on our too large mining territory,
he stubbornly refused. "If it had not been for your kindness I should
have no claim to any corner of the ground," he said.
I explained, however, that Mac, Stewart, and myself would not be allowed
by law to possess a four-men holding, and therefore there was no
kindness on my part in giving him back his own. Yet still he hesitated.
"I am all alone, boys," he said at last, "and I don't think I could do
much damage to the ground by myself. Might I come in with you?"
This was a _dénoûement_ I had not anticipated, though in some
unaccountable manner I felt drawn to the stranger; still, the vision of
his coat-tails fluttering in the wind could not be dispelled.
"What do you say, Mac?" I asked, expecting a gruff rejoinder in the
negative; but the answer agreeably surprised me.
[Illustration: "DISCOVERY" SHAFT--ON GOLD.]
"He's a man o' pairts like oorsel's, a modest man, an' a golologist
forbye," replied Mac, grandiloquently; "it wud be sinfu' tae refuse him
oor guid company."
Then Stewart, who had been paying great attention, rushed from the tent
and added his testimony. "Tailie coat or no tailie coat," he shouted,
"he's a guid man, as I kin testeefy, an' me an' Mac'll be prood tae hae
him wi' us. Forbye," he continued, "he's a Breetisher, an' tho' he isna
Scotch, me an' Mac'll look ower that fau't wi' muckle tolerashun."
"I wis aboot tae re-mark----" began Mac, but Stewart had not completed
his peroration.
"Haud yer tongue, Mac," said he sternly; "ye ken weel yer nae speaker
like me." Then he resumed the flow of his eloquence: "An' noo," he said,
"on behauf o' Mac--wha is a man o' disteenction tho' he disna look
it--an' in conformeety wi' ma ain incleenations, I hae pleesure in
signifyin' oor muckle approval o' yer qualities."
The candidate for admission to our illustrious company looked gratified,
as well he might, and straightening his tall form he endeavoured to make
suitable reply to the expectant couple.
"Gentlemen!" said he, and at the word Mac hitched up his nether garments
and looked solemn, while Stewart coughed discreetly. "Gentlemen,"
repeated "tailie coat" in a voice that seemed to issue from his boots,
"it is with considerable feeling of elation that I have heard your
extemporaneous----"
"Haud on!" howled Mac in horror; "ye'll dae, ma man, ye'll dae. Come on,
Stewart." And as they walked sorrowfully apart Stewart's voice floated
back plaintively,
"Noo, Mac, hoo am I gaun tae keep up oor digneety efter
that--ex-tem-por-anee----! He's deceived us, Mac; he's a lamb in sheep's
ooter gairments, he is."
"Well, Phil," I said, when they had disappeared within the tent, "I
think we'll get along all right."
"I feel at home already," he replied, looking towards the tent in grim
amusement, "and enthusiastic enough to swing a pick with either Mac or
Stewart, and that means much, I think."
"It does," I agreed with significance, and we went off to mark the site
of our prospective shaft.
It was nearly midday before we commenced to excavate the ground, and by
that time most of the miners around had penetrated several feet of the
top sandy formation in their various claims. But haste is not always
advisable under such circumstances, and I preferred to make as sure as
possible of the lode's position within our pegs before sinking, and so
obviate any necessity for laborious "driving" when bedrock was reached.
We were fortunately in the "shallowest" ground, being within a hundred
yards of the forty-feet level strike, which meant, judging by the dip or
inclination of the auriferous wash, that we should probably find bottom
about fifty feet down. As for the numbers below us, they might have to
sink over a hundred feet, and even then miss the golden leader, so
elusive are these subterranean channels.
The usual size of prospectors' shafts on any goldfield is five feet six
inches long, by two feet six inches wide, and this just permits of
sufficient room for one man to wield a pick. The aim of every miner on
an unproved field is to get down to bedrock with the least possible
labour, which is also the speediest method. A shaft can be widened
afterwards when it has been found worth while, but it is always well to
refrain from shovelling out two or three tons of granite-like substance,
as is done by most "new chums," merely for the sake of having more
elbow-room during the trying process of sinking.
After our experience with the frozen gravel at Klondike, it almost
seemed like child's play to dig out the comparatively loose sand
conglomeration which formed the topmost layer in the line of our
descent. There was no fire-burning necessary here, but Nature,
nevertheless, had made the balance even, for the auriferous levels in
Alaska were rarely half as deep as even the shallow gutter we were now
searching for. And again, in frozen ground the surface formations are
naturally the hardest, whereas in most other workings that order is
reversed.
"It's a pleesure tae work i' this grund," was Mac's statement, when,
after scarcely two hours' labour, he stood nearly waist deep in the new
shaft. With much foresight, that wily individual had volunteered to sink
the first few feet alone. "I'm just burstin' wi' surplush energy," he
explained to Stewart, "an' you can dae twa or three fit o' the easy
stuff when I'm feenished."
"It's rale conseederate o' ye, Mac," said Stewart feelingly, with
thoughts on the nature of things at Skookum Gulch, and he went inside
the tent to try if anything edible could be gathered together for lunch,
a matter on which he said he had "graive doots."
Our new comrade, whom we had already begun to address as "Phil," quickly
showed himself to be a very worthy addition to our party. After
exploring the scrub for timber suitable for banking-up purposes, and
drawing back a goodly load, he politely insisted on Mac taking a spell
while he swung the pick. "I can see," he said diplomatically, "that you
would soon work yourself to death out of sheer consideration for
others."
"Dae ye think sae?" grunted he in the shaft cautiously, pausing in his
labours.
"I do, indeed," reiterated Phil with much earnestness.
Then Mac laid down his weapon, and leaning back lazily in his excavation
made further circuitous inquiry. "Ye've never dug holes afore, Phil?"
said he; and receiving a negative answer, he supplemented, "An' ye ken
that ironstane is a wee bit--weel, I'll say solid?"
"Yes, I can understand that much," admitted Phil wonderingly.
"Weel," continued Mac, lowering his voice, "I've come on a bed o' it the
noo, an' I'm jist makin' the tap o't clean an' tidy fur Stewart when he
comes. He thinks he can equal me at onything, an' I've got tae check
that fause impreshun. Dae ye savy?"
"Mac," said Phil with decision, "he'll be a smart man that gets the
better of you."
"I've traivelled a bit," returned the schemer shortly, "an' Stewart's
sometimes ill tae pit up wi'. I'll gie ye a bonnie saft bit tae
practeese on efterwards," he added after a pause.
A little later Stewart announced that he had got some rice and "tinned
dog" cooked. "I houp ye'll excuse the rice," said he, "it's a bit podgy,
fur there wis vera little watter tae bile it in."
"Ye're looking rale worried-like, Stewart," said Mac sympathetically, as
he gulped down his portion of the roasted grains. "It's exerceese ye're
needin', I'm thinkin'."
"Mebbe it is," sighed Stewart dolorously.
"Weel," spoke Mac again, "ye can try an' wear doon the shaft a bit in
the efternoon, an' me an' Phil 'll gang into the city an' get
some tasty bits o' provisions. I'm vera concerned aboot ye, ma man."
It was indeed very necessary that we should obtain supplies without
delay, for our stores consisted only of the remnants carried so
hurriedly from our previous camp. Already, the first flush of excitement
having died away, representatives from the different claims were
hurrying towards the township on a similar mission. Enthusiasm and an
empty stomach seldom agree. But here a difficulty arose. Phil's wardrobe
was painfully small; his once spotless shirt was now yellow with sand,
and almost torn into shreds, and the rest of his limited apparel was in
such a state of disrepair, owing to his scramble through the brush,
that, as Mac said, he looked "hardly respeectable."
"Ye can hae ma jecket," said Stewart magnanimously, "seein' that it wis
on ma account ye pit aff the tailie coat."
Phil accepted the offer promptly. "There's a wonderful change in my
appearance since I left the Old Country a few short weeks ago," said he,
surveying his dilapidated garb ruefully.
"I shid think sae," grinned Mac. "It wud be a rale treat tae see ye walk
doon Peecadeely in they claes." And they departed.
"Dae ye tell me that Mac has gaun doon five fit?" asked Stewart, when we
were alone.
"I believe he has," I replied, "but in this country it is easy to dig
near the surface where the sand has not even solidified."
"Easy or no' easy," responded Stewart impressively, baring his strong
right arm, "what Mac can dae, I'll dae. Wha pu'd harder than I did gaun
tae Klonduk?" he demanded, making a digression, but I waived the
question.
"Let me know when you have had enough of the shaft," I said, "and I'll
relieve you."
"Umph!" he grunted, ignoring my remark in turn, "Five feet! Whaur's the
pick?" And he strode off to emulate his comrade's achievement.
A few moments later a series of sharp metallic echoes issued from the
shaft mouth, intimating that Stewart had attacked a hard unyielding
substance. Then, not wishing to be present when he desisted from his
labours, I made my way stealthily to the adjoining claim and entered
into conversation with its owner; but still the unsympathetic ring of
steel meeting some kindred element reached my ears, and I sorrowed for
the unfortunate Stewart right deeply.
The wiry sandgroper whom I interviewed was not one of the bustling kind.
I found him enjoying a siesta under the scant shade of the solitary
mulga bush on his domain, and scaring the numberless flies away by his
vigorous snores. It was almost impossible to realise that he was the
valiant runner of the day before. "Mornin', mate," said he, rubbing his
eyes, after I had hustled him gently. It was late afternoon, but that
was a small matter, and I did not trouble to correct him; and we talked
together on mining subjects for about an hour.
"I ain't wan o' them cusses," he said, "that tries to git disappinted
early. My tactics is: git thar in the fust place--at which you'll allow
I is no slouch, nuther?" I made the necessary allowance, and he
proceeded. "In the second place, thar ain't no call to be desp'rit'ly
excited; thishyer life won't change worse'n a muskitter whether we does
git to bottom on a spec. three or four days sooner or later." I ventured
to remark that his reasonings did him credit. "I does philosophise a
bit, mate," he agreed languidly. Then there followed a long silence,
during which I missed the regular thuds of Stewart's pick, and wondered
where that persistent gentleman had gone.
Suddenly a noise as of thunder startled me; it was succeeded by an
explosion that shook the ground under our feet. "By the Great Howlin'
Billy!" ejaculated my leather-skinned companion, "somebody's fired your
shaft." I looked in time to see great boulders of jagged ironstone, and
a dense volume of sand, hurled from the mouth of the narrow pit where
Stewart had been working.
Filled with a vague fear I rushed to the scene of the disturbance, where
the sand-clouds were fast settling, and just as I arrived I beheld
Stewart calmly coming out towards me from behind Phil's timber pile,
where he had been sheltered. My surprise was so great that for the
moment speech failed me, and I looked vacantly at the shaft and at my
companion in turn. Then he took pity on me, and condescended to explain.
"It's a' richt. I'm nae pheenix," he announced cheerfully, and he led me
to the mouth of the shaft, which no longer retained its oblong contour,
but was ragged and rent with the upheaval. "I wis lookin' fur ye aboot
an hour since," he continued further, "tae get yer opeenion concernin' a
sort o' irin furmashun what wis gi'en me sair trouble, bit as I could'na
see ye, I kent ye could rely on ma guid jidgement tae dae what I thocht
best----"
"But I was not aware that we had any gelignite or giant powder in our
possession," I interrupted.
"Nae mair we had," said he, "bit I kept ane or twa extra speecial
cartreedges what we used fur burstin' glashiers oot in Alaskie--as
samples, ye ken--an' I pit them a' in. They've made a vera bonnie hole,"
he wound up; "that's the best o' they labour-savin' devices."
On examination it was found that the ironstone bar had been completely
shattered, and little trouble was experienced in removing the remaining
fragments. The cavity wherein it had rested was fully five feet deep, so
that Mac's plot for outwitting his rival had proved a signal failure.
It was six o'clock when we descried Mac and Phil returning from
Kalgoorlie, laden with stores; darkness was rapidly closing over the
valley, so that their forms could not be distinguished until they were
quite close. Then Stewart uttered a howl of rage. "They've brocht back
the tailie coat," he cried feebly, and in strutted Mac, wearing not only
that hateful garment, but also having perched on his head at a rakish
tilt a highly-burnished silk hat.
"We fund the hat a wee bit faurer on than the coatie," said he, doffing
his glossy headgear and gazing at it admiringly.
"If ye've ony regaird fur ma feelin's, ye'll pit them baith awa' at
aince," Stewart implored, much affected.
His compatriot gazed at him commiseratingly. "Ye've been workin' ow'er
hard the day, ma man," said he, "yer nerves are in a gey bad state, I'm
thinkin'. Hoosomever," he added sternly after brief thought, "it's
ongratefu' on your pairt tae despise the gairment, fur I promised Phil
that ye shid hae it, purvided ye had sunk aboot three feet the day.
Which," he climaxed, nonchalantly, "I hae nae doot ye hae dune?"
Stewart beamed. "I apologeese, Mac," he said, "noo gie me the coatie."
"Hoo muckle hae ye sunk?" demanded the generous giver, much taken aback.
"Full five feet," came the smiling answer. "Mac, ma vera dear freen,
ye've made a ser'us mistak' this time."
Mac stood as if transfixed, gazing appealingly at Phil, who seemed
equally amazed; then he turned without a word and rushed out to the
shaft. When he came back a moment later, he stripped off the coat and
handed it to Stewart. "I'm prood o' ye, ma man," he said with an effort;
"ye're an indiveedual o' muckle strategy."
Then Phil joined in with commendable tact. "You've still got the hat,
Mac," laughed he, "it's a fair divide."
[Illustration: STEWART FINDS THE GROUND HARD.]
WE "STRIKE" GOLD
For over a week sinking operations on the Five-Mile Flat were continued
with unabated vigour, and then a hush of expectation seemed to fall over
the community, for the miners in the shallow ground at the head of the
lead were nearing bottom, and the vast array who had pegged along the
supposed course of the auriferous wash ceased their labours and waited
in tremulous eagerness for reports from Nos. 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, and 7, below
Discovery. There was good reason for anxiety. If these claims bottomed
on pipe-clay deposits or other barren clayey formations, little hope
could be entertained for those who had followed their line of guidance.
The direction of the golden channel certainly could not be ascertained
by judging the lie of the country on the surface, for it was almost
absolutely flat, and bore not the slightest resemblance to the original
country far beneath. Practical tracing from claim to claim was the only
method by which a miner could safely calculate, and that meant that
those a little way off the first proved shaft, and all following
claim-holders, must either be possessed of a vast amount of hope and
energy or an equal amount of patience. It is not unusual, also, to find
a deep lead suddenly "fizzle" out with little warning; and again, it
seldom fails to create consternation and disappointment at an anxious
time by shooting off at right angles, or diverging into numerous
infinitesimal leaderettes.
So it was that when the first flush of excitement had died away
attention was turned to those claims mentioned, and for the time all
work was suspended. We, at No. 7, were still several feet above the
level at which we had calculated to find bottom. Since Stewart so
peremptorily burst out the ironstone bar we had encountered nothing but
a series of sand formations, which we managed to crash through at the
rate of five feet each day, and now our shaft measured fully forty-one
feet in depth.
My companions worked like Trojans in their efforts to reach gold-paying
gravel before their neighbours. Neither Stewart nor Mac had the
slightest fear of our shaft proving a duffer, and their extreme
confidence was so infecting that Phil forswore many of his pet
geological theories in order to fall into line with their ideas. "After
all," he said to me, "geological rules seem to be flatly contradicted by
the arrangement of the formations here, and only the old adage holds
good, that an ounce of practice is worth a ton of theory."
"It looks that way," I answered, "yet I do not like the look of these
enormous bodies of sandstone. If I were to go by my experience in other
countries, I should promptly forsake this ground and look for more
promising tracts."
We were standing by the windlass pulling up the heavy buckets of
conglomerate material which Mac was picking below with much gusto. The
glare of the sun reached barely half-way down the shaft, and the
solitary worker was beyond our gaze, but well within hearing,
nevertheless, for his voice rumbled up from the depths in strong
protest.
"I'll no hae mae idees corrupted wi' sich fulish argiment. Naitur has
wyes o' her ain, an' whaur golologists think gold is, ye may be sure
there's nane; bit whaur it raelly is, there ignorant golologists insist
it insna. There's nae pleasin' some fouk."
We kept silence, and, after waiting vainly for our comment, Mac again
attacked the solid sandstone with sullen ferocity.
The air was close and sultry, and the dumps thrown up from the many
shafts around glistened in the intense light and crumbled off into the
heat haze as filmy clouds of dust. The entire landscape seemed as a
biographic picture, and affected the eyes in similar degree. It was a
typical Westralian day. Thud! thud! went Mac's pick, and now and then
came a grunt of annoyance from that perspiring individual as an
unusually refractory substance would temporarily defy his strength.
We leaned against the windlass barrel, awaiting his call of "Bucket!"
which would intimate that further material was accumulated below, and
ready for discharge into the outer air. Few men were about, unless at
No. 2 shaft, where there was much activity. On the adjoining lot our
friend of the leathery skin--who rejoiced in the title of "Emu
Bill"--dozed under the shade of a rudely-erected wigwam.
"It's a bit warm," ventured Phil. He was not quite sure of his ground,
and did not wish to exaggerate.
"It's d--d hot!" rolled a well-known voice from the depths, and Stewart
within the tent sang gaily an adaption from "Greenland's icy mountains."
When quiet was restored I looked again towards No. 2, and at that moment
a red handkerchief fluttered to the top of a tiny flagpole surmounting
the windlass, and hung limp. A moment later a long, hoarse cheer swept
the flat from end to end, and, as if by magic, each claim appeared fully
manned, and a sea of faces turned in our direction. No. 2 had signalled,
"On Gold."
"Staun by the windlass! I'm comin' up!" roared Mac, who had vaguely
heard the sound-waves pass overhead and was wondering what had happened.
"Gold struck on No. 2, Mac!" I shouted, and Phil, who had not quite
understood, staggered in amazement, loosening with his feet a quantity
of sand and rubble which descended with much force on Mac's upturned
face, and interrupted a second passionate appeal to "Staun by the
windlass!"
"I'll hae yer life fur that, ye deevil!" he spluttered. "Ye did it on
purpose."
Then Stewart came upon the scene in great haste. "I tell't ye sae! I
tell't ye sae!" he cried, and for the especial benefit of his isolated
companion he bellowed down, "They've got gold at number twa, Mac! Oceans
o't!"
Mac was then half-way to the surface, with one foot resting in the empty
bucket attached to the cable, and both hands gripping the strong wire
rope, which strained and rasped as it slowly coiled on the wooden drum.
He was no light weight, and Phil and I felt our muscles twitch as we
held against the windlass arm at each dead centre, for there was no
ratchet arrangement attached to prevent a quick rush back, and our heavy
bucket-load made the safety of his position somewhat doubtful by swaying
the rope impatiently, and indulging in other restless antics.
However, when he came near the light and saw how matters stood he became
quiet as a lamb; but the sight of his face smeared with the grime so
recently deposited upon it, and wearing an intensely savage expression,
was too much for our gravity, and our efforts faltered.
"Hang on, ye deevils!" pathetically implored he, as he felt himself
tremble in the balance. Then seeing Stewart's face peering down upon
him, he besought his aid. "Staun by the winlass, Stewart, ma man," he
entreated, "or I'll never see auld Scotland again."
But Stewart was at that moment seized with a paroxysm of laughter. The
appeal was vain, and his comrade, being now near _terra firma_, and
comparatively safe, again addressed him.
"Git oot o' ma sicht, ye red-heided baboon!" said he. "Nae wuner they
couldna work the winlass wi' you staunin' aside them."
It is an unwritten law on most goldfields throughout the world where the
individual miner tries his luck that a flag be at once hoisted over
every shaft that bottoms on paying gravel. It is a pretty custom, and a
generous one to the less fortunate diggers, who judge by the progressing
line of flags whether their own remote claims may have a chance of
intercepting the golden channel. As it happened in this case, No. 2
shaft could hardly have failed to pick up the lead, which had been
traced in its direction to the boundaries of Discovery claim. Still,
there was much rejoicing when the red symbol went up, and for the rest
of the day a renewed activity was in force to the uttermost end of the
Flat. Even "Emu Bill," as our near neighbour was picturesquely styled,
felt called upon to do a little work; but, as he took care to explain,
he did it only to satisfy mining regulations, which demand that a
certain amount of labour must be performed each day. "You'll notice,"
said he, "that 3, 4, and 5 hiv tacked on d'reckly in line--as they
thought--an' you'll furrer notice thishyer propperty, No. 6, an' yer
own, No. 7, hiv not exzactly played foller the leader." Which was true;
for Emu Bill's claim had taken only a diagonal guidance from its
predecessor, and ours continued the altered route, while those following
varied considerably between the two angles thus given.
"When you sees a flag floatin' on No. 3, boys," continued he
meditatively, "it's time to pack up your traps, an', as I said afore, I
believe in waitin' events an' jedgin' accordin'."
"Hoo lang hae you been diggin' holes in this countrie, Leatherskin?"
Stewart politely inquired. And he of the weary countenance chewed his
quid reflectively for several minutes ere he made reply.
"I reckon over a dozen years," he said at length, "in which time I
perspected Coolgardie an' Kalgoorlie wi' old Pat Hannan when there was
nothin' but niggers within' a couple of hundred miles of us."
"A'm o' the opeenion," announced Mac, "that what Mr. Leatherskin disna
ken aboot the vagaries o' his ain playgrun' is no worth menshun."
"Seven is supposed to be a lucky number," spoke Phil, "and I think it
will prove so with us."
After which Emu Bill went back to slumber, and Phil went down to labour
in the shaft. "You've got tae mind," instructed Mac, who manipulated his
descent, "when you want the bucket jist lift up yer voice tae that
effeck, and I'll drap it doon gently on the end o' the rope."
Phil promised, and was speedily lowered into the darkness, and Mac,
neglecting his post at once, came round into the tent, where Stewart and
myself were trying hard to find a half-hour's oblivion in the realms of
dreamland, and the myriad flies buzzing everywhere were trying equally
hard, and with greater success, to prevent our succumbing to the soft
influence. Mac's entrance at this moment was particularly distasteful to
his comrade, who was just on the verge of sweet unconsciousness, and
whose essayed snores were beginning to alarm the flies besieging his
face.
"Go awa' oot this meenit, Mac," said he, opening his eyes, "and tak' yer
big feet aff ma stummick at aince."
Just then a far-away cry of "Bucket" was vaguely heard, and calmly
ignored by the new-comer. "Stewart, ma man," he began, sitting down on a
portion of the weary one's anatomy, "I wis wantin' tae get yer idees on
one or twa maitters o' scienteefic interest."
"Get out, Mac!" I ordered. But he seemed not to hear, and another hoarse
call for "Bucket" passed unobserved.
"I wis wantin', for instance," he continued earnestly, "tae speak wi' ye
ser'usly on metapheesical quest-shuns----"
"Let me alane!" Stewart howled, writhing in torment. But his visitor was
not to be shaken off.
Five minutes later a stentorian yell from the shaft intimated that
Phil's patience was being unduly strained, and Mac reluctantly desisted
from expounding further the intricacies of science, and rose to go. As
may be understood, the bottom of a narrow and deep pit is not the most
pleasant of places in which to idle away the time, and Phil, after
digging as much as the limited area of operations would allow, was
filled with wrath at the neglect of his associate, and cursed that
worthy gentleman with fervour between his shouts. "Bucket!" he roared,
for the twentieth time, and Mac, who was then scrambling towards the
windlass, inwardly commented on the unusual savageness of the voice.
"He's a wee bit annoyed," he murmured. "I'll better try an' propeetiate
him." So he leaned his head over the shaft mouth and whispered in
winning tones, "Are ye vera faur doon, Pheel-up?"
"Lower away the bucket, you flounder-faced mummy!" came the prompt
reply, which penetrated the darkness in sharp staccato syllables.
Mac looked pained. "Noo, if that had been Stewart," he muttered grimly,
"I wud a kent weel what tae dae, bit being the golologist----" He shook
his head feebly, and reached for the hide bucket, which was lying near.
Then, forgetting in the flurry of the moment to hitch it on to the rope,
he let it descend at the fastest speed the law of gravity would permit.
"Staun frae under!" he yelled, realising too late what he had done; but
in such a narrow space there was no room for dodging, and the leathern
receptacle struck the unfortunate man below with more force than was
agreeable. "Ye brocht it on yersel'," consolingly spoke Mac. "It's a
veesitation o' Providence fur miscain' me sae sairly."
The words that greeted his ears were eloquent and emphatic, and he
marched into the tent in high dudgeon. "Gang an' pull the golologist oot
o' the shaft," said he to Stewart. "He's in the position o' a humourist,
an' he canna see throo't."
Perhaps there are few who could have smiled and looked pleasant under
similar circumstances; but the "golologist" was of a forgiving nature,
and his enmity dissolved when he reached the surface.
"You'll admit, Mac," he said, after allowances had been made on both
sides, "that I had some slight cause for grumbling, and in your
magnanimity you might have spared me your last forcible addition to the
argument."
"That wis a mistak'," Mac replied apologetically. "I had the baggie in
ma haun, meanin' tae send it doon in orthodox manner; bit yer injudishus
remarks made me nervish, and doon it drappit, sudden-like."
After these explanations peace reigned again; but Stewart's rest had
been so rudely broken that he now thought to work off his lassitude by
an hour's graft with the pick. We had arranged ourselves into shifts,
which went on and off alternately, or otherwise, as we thought fit; but
it was my plan to reach bedrock without delay, so the shaft was never
allowed to remain long unoccupied. Leaving Mac and Phil to attend to
culinary matters, I went out with Stewart, and, after lowering him into
the Stygian gloom, kept watch by the windlass until the night closed
over and Phil announced that tea was ready.
[Illustration: NO. 2 CLAIM--JUST STRUCK GOLD.]
Two more days passed uneventfully. The hourly-expected bulletin of good
news from No. 3 was being long deferred, and vague fears were beginning
to be expressed that all was not satisfactory there. It was known that
Nos. 3, 4, and 5 had put on extra shifts in the last few nights, and the
depths of their sinkings must at this time have exceeded fifty feet. We
at No. 7 awaited developments with keen interest. It was natural that we
should hope for the worst at No. 3, for, as Emu Bill had said, we were
on an entirely different tack, and might cease our labours when the
gaudy emblem appeared over that claim. In these two days progress had
been very slow with us, for a hard bar of conglomerate quartz had
intervened at the 45-foot level, and we dared not use gelignite in case
the heavy discharge might bring the upper walls inward and render our
whole work useless.
It is always precarious to use blasting powder of any description at the
deep levels of an alluvial shaft, and the more so when the upper
formations have proved to be of non-cohesive nature. So we were
compelled to laboriously pick the unyielding mass where we might, and
otherwise drill and shatter it with hammers.
On the morning of the third day after the flag had been raised at No. 2
the Emu seemed to awake from his lethargy in earnest, and set to work
with right good-will to make up for lost time.
"You wasn't
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