Chapter III: Part I: The Frozen North (2)

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.

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.

"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.

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."