Lost Face..............................................................................................................................................................1

It was the end. Subienkow had travelled a long trail of bitterness and horror, homing like a dove for the

capitals of Europe, and here, farther away than ever, in Russian America, the trail ceased. He sat in the snow,

arms tied behind him, waiting the torture. He stared curiously before him at a huge Cossack, prone in the

snow, moaning in his pain. The men had finished handling the giant and turned him over to the women. That

Subienkow looked on, and shuddered. He was not afraid to die. He had carried his life too long in his hands,

on that weary trail from Warsaw to Nulato, to shudder at mere dying. But he objected to the torture. It

offended his soul. And this offence, in turn, was not due to the mere pain he must endure, but to the sorry

spectacle the pain would make of him. He knew that he would pray, and beg, and entreat, even as Big Ivan

and the others that had gone before. This would not be nice. To pass out bravely and cleanly, with a smile and

a jestah! that would have been the way. But to lose control, to have his soul upset by the pangs of the flesh,

to screech and gibber like an ape, to become the veriest beastah, that was what was so terrible.

There had been no chance to escape. From the beginning, when he dreamed the fiery dream of Poland's

independence, he had become a puppet in the hands of Fate. From the beginning, at Warsaw, at St.

Petersburg, in the Siberian mines, in Kamtchatka, on the crazy boats of the furthieves, Fate had been driving

him to this end. Without doubt, in the foundations of the world was graved this end for him for him, who

was so fine and sensitive, whose nerves scarcely sheltered under his skin, who was a dreamer, and a poet, and

an artist. Before he was dreamed of, it had been determined that the quivering bundle of sensitiveness that

constituted him should be doomed to live in raw and howling savagery, and to die in this far land of night, in

He sighed. So that thing before him was Big IvanBig Ivan the giant, the man without nerves, the man of

iron, the Cossack turned freebooter of the seas, who was as phlegmatic as an ox, with a nervous system so

low that what was pain to ordinary men was scarcely a tickle to him. Well, well, trust these Nulato Indians to

find Big Ivan's nerves and trace them to the roots of his quivering soul. They were certainly doing it. It was

inconceivable that a man could suffer so much and yet live. Big Ivan was paying for his low order of nerves.

Subienkow felt that he could not stand the Cossack's sufferings much longer. Why didn't Ivan die? He would

go mad if that screaming did not cease. But when it did cease, his turn would come. And there was Yakaga

awaiting him, too, grinning at him even now in anticipationYakaga, whom only last week he had kicked

out of the fort, and upon whose face he had laid the lash of his dogwhip. Yakaga would attend to him.

Doubtlessly Yakaga was saving for him more refined tortures, more exquisite nerveracking. Ah! that must

have been a good one, from the way Ivan screamed. The squaws bending over him stepped back with

laughter and clapping of hands. Subienkow saw the monstrous thing that had been perpetrated, and began to

laugh hysterically. The Indians looked at him in wonderment that he should laugh. But Subienkow could not

This would never do. He controlled himself, the spasmodic twitchings slowly dying away. He strove to think

of other things, and began reading back in his own life. He remembered his mother and his father, and the

little spotted pony, and the French tutor who had taught him dancing and sneaked him an old worn copy of

Voltaire. Once more he saw Paris, and dreary London, and gay Vienna, and Rome. And once more he saw

that wild group of youths who had dreamed, even as he, the dream of an independent Poland with a king of

Poland on the throne at Warsaw. Ah, there it was that the long trail began. Well, he had lasted longest. One

by one, beginning with the two executed at St. Petersburg, he took up the count of the passing of those brave

spirits. Here one had been beaten to death by a jailer, and there, on that bloodstained highway of the exiles,

where they had marched for endless months, beaten and maltreated by their Cossack guards, another had

dropped by the way. Always it had been savagery brutal, bestial savagery. They had diedof fever, in the

mines, under the knout. The last two had died after the escape, in the battle with the Cossacks, and he alone

had won to Kamtchatka with the stolen papers and the money of a traveller he had left lying in the snow.

It had been nothing but savagery. All the years, with his heart in studios, and theatres, and courts, he had been

hemmed in by savagery. He had purchased his life with blood. Everybody had killed. He had killed that

traveller for his passports. He had proved that he was a man of parts by duelling with two Russian officers on

a single day. He had had to prove himself in order to win to a place among the fur thieves. He had had to

win to that place. Behind him lay the thousandyearslong road across all Siberia and Russia. He could not

escape that way. The only way was ahead, across the dark and icy sea of Bering to Alaska. The way had led

from savagery to deeper savagery. On the scurvyrotten ships of the furthieves, out of food and out of

water, buffeted by the interminable storms of that stormy sea, men had become animals. Thrice he had sailed

east from Kamtchatka. And thrice, after all manner of hardship and suffering, the survivors had come back to

Kamtchatka. There had been no outlet for escape, and he could not go back the way he had come, for the

Again, the fourth and last time, he had sailed east. He had been with those who first found the fabled Seal

Islands; but he had not returned with them to share the wealth of furs in the mad orgies of Kamtchatka. He

had sworn never to go back. He knew that to win to those dear capitals of Europe he must go on. So he had

changed ships and remained in the dark new land. His comrades were Slavonian hunters and Russian

adventurers, Mongols and Tartars and Siberian aborigines; and through the savages of the new world they

had cut a path of blood. They had massacred whole villages that refused to furnish the furtribute; and they,

in turn, had been massacred by ships' companies. He, with one Finn, had been the sole survivor of such a

company. They had spent a winter of solitude and starvation on a lonely Aleutian isle, and their rescue in the

But always the terrible savagery had hemmed him in. Passing from ship to ship, and ever refusing to return,

he had come to the ship that explored south. All down the Alaska coast they had encountered nothing but

hosts of savages. Every anchorage among the beetling islands or under the frowning cliffs of the mainland

had meant a battle or a storm. Either the gales blew, threatening destruction, or the war canoes came off,

manned by howling natives with the war paint on their faces, who came to learn the bloody virtues of the

searovers' gunpowder. South, south they had coasted, clear to the mythland of California. Here, it was

said, were Spanish adventurers who had fought their way up from Mexico. He had had hopes of those

Spanish adventurers. Escaping to them, the rest would have been easya year or two, what did it matter

more or lessand he would win to Mexico, then a ship, and Europe would be his. But they had met no

Spaniards. Only had they encountered the same impregnable wall of savagery. The denizens of the confines

of the world, painted for war, had driven them back from the shores. At last, when one boat was cut off and

every man killed, the commander had abandoned the quest and sailed back to the north.

The years had passed. He had served under Tebenkoff when Michaelovski Redoubt was built. He had spent

two years in the Kuskokwim country. Two summers, in the month of June, he had managed to be at the head

of Kotzebue Sound. Here, at this time, the tribes assembled for barter; here were to be found spotted

deerskins from Siberia, ivory from the Diomedes, walrus skins from the shores of the Arctic, strange stone

lamps, passing in trade from tribe to tribe, no one knew whence, and, once, a huntingknife of English make;

and here, Subienkow knew, was the school in which to learn geography. For he met Eskimos from Norton

Sound, from King Island and St. Lawrence Island, from Cape Prince of Wales, and Point Barrow. Such

It was a vast region these trading savages came from, and a vaster region from which, by repeated trade, their

stone lamps and that steel knife had come. Subienkow bullied, and cajoled, and bribed. Every farjourneyer

or strange tribesman was brought before him. Perils unaccountable and unthinkable were mentioned, as well

as wild beasts, hostile tribes, impenetrable forests, and mighty mountain ranges; but always from beyond

came the rumour and the tale of white skinned men, blue of eye and fair of hair, who fought like devils and

who sought always for furs. They were to the eastfar, far to the east. No one had seen them. It was the

It was a hard school. One could not learn geography very well through the medium of strange dialects, from

dark minds that mingled fact and fable and that measured distances by "sleeps" that varied according to the

difficulty of the going. But at last came the whisper that gave Subienkow courage. In the east lay a great river

where were these blueeyed men. The river was called the Yukon. South of Michaelovski Redoubt emptied

another great river which the Russians knew as the Kwikpak. These two rivers were one, ran the whisper.

Subienkow returned to Michaelovski. For a year he urged an expedition up the Kwikpak. Then arose

Malakoff, the Russian half breed, to lead the wildest and most ferocious of the hell's broth of mongrel

adventurers who had crossed from Kamtchatka. Subienkow was his lieutenant. They threaded the mazes of

the great delta of the Kwikpak, picked up the first low hills on the northern bank, and for half a thousand

miles, in skin canoes loaded to the gunwales with tradegoods and ammunition, fought their way against the

fiveknot current of a river that ran from two to ten miles wide in a channel many fathoms deep. Malakoff

decided to build the fort at Nulato. Subienkow urged to go farther. But he quickly reconciled himself to

Nulato. The long winter was coming on. It would be better to wait. Early the following summer, when the ice

was gone, he would disappear up the Kwikpak and work his way to the Hudson Bay Company's posts.

Malakoff had never heard the whisper that the Kwikpak was the Yukon, and Subienkow did not tell him.

Came the building of the fort. It was enforced labour. The tiered walls of logs arose to the sighs and groans of

the Nulato Indians. The lash was laid upon their backs, and it was the iron hand of the freebooters of the sea

that laid on the lash. There were Indians that ran away, and when they were caught they were brought back

and spreadeagled before the fort, where they and their tribe learned the efficacy of the knout. Two died

under it; others were injured for life; and the rest took the lesson to heart and ran away no more. The snow

was flying ere the fort was finished, and then it was the time for furs. A heavy tribute was laid upon the tribe.

Blows and lashings continued, and that the tribute should be paid, the women and children were held as

Well, it had been a sowing of blood, and now was come the harvest. The fort was gone. In the light of its

burning, half the furthieves had been cut down. The other half had passed under the torture. Only

Subienkow remained, or Subienkow and Big Ivan, if that whimpering, moaning thing in the snow could be

called Big Ivan. Subienkow caught Yakaga grinning at him. There was no gainsaying Yakaga. The mark of

the lash was still on his face. After all, Subienkow could not blame him, but he disliked the thought of what

Yakaga would do to him. He thought of appealing to Makamuk, the headchief; but his judgment told him

that such appeal was useless. Then, too, he thought of bursting his bonds and dying fighting. Such an end

would be quick. But he could not break his bonds. Caribou thongs were stronger than he. Still devising,

another thought came to him. He signed for Makamuk, and that an interpreter who knew the coast dialect

"Oh, Makamuk," he said, "I am not minded to die. I am a great man, and it were foolishness for me to die. In

He looked at the moaning thing that had once been Big Ivan, and stirred it contemptuously with his toe.

"I am too wise to die. Behold, I have a great medicine. I alone know this medicine. Since I am not going to

Subienkow debated with himself for a moment, as if loth to part with the secret.

"I will tell you. A little bit of this medicine rubbed on the skin makes the skin hard like a rock, hard like iron,

so that no cutting weapon can cut it. The strongest blow of a cutting weapon is a vain thing against it. A bone

knife becomes like a piece of mud; and it will turn the edge of the iron knives we have brought among you.

The chief made the sign; and when he was loosed Subienkow rolled a cigarette and lighted it.

"This is foolish talk," said Makamuk. "There is no such medicine. It cannot be. A cutting edge is stronger

The chief was incredulous, and yet he wavered. He had seen too many deviltries of furthieves that worked.

"It is a very great medicine. It has saved my life many times. I want a sled and dogs, and six of your hunters

to travel with me down the river and give me safety to one day's sleep from Michaelovski Redoubt."

Subienkow shrugged his shoulders and remained silent. He blew cigarette smoke out on the icy air, and

"That scar!" Makamuk said suddenly, pointing to the Pole's neck, where a livid mark advertised the slash of a

knife in a Kamtchatkan brawl. "The medicine is not good. The cutting edge was stronger than the medicine."

"It was a strong man that drove the stroke." (Subienkow considered.) "Stronger than you, stronger than your

Again, with the toe of his moccasin, he touched the Cossacka grisly spectacle, no longer consciousyet in

"Also, the medicine was weak. For at that place there were no berries of a certain kind, of which I see you

"I will let you go down river," said Makamuk; "and the sled and the dogs and the six hunters to give you

"You are slow," was the cool rejoinder. "You have committed an offence against my medicine in that you did

not at once accept my terms. Behold, I now demand more. I want one hundred beaver skins." (Makamuk

"I want one hundred pounds of dried fish." (Makamuk nodded, for fish were plentiful and cheap.) "I want two

sledsone for me and one for my furs and fish. And my rifle must be returned to me. If you do not like the

"You can send twenty hunters with me," Subienkow went on. "You see, I must get the berries and the roots

with which to make the medicine. Then, when you have brought the two sleds and loaded on them the fish

and the beaver skins and the rifle, and when you have told off the six hunters who will go with methen,

when all is ready, I will rub the medicine on my neck, so, and lay my neck there on that log. Then can your

strongest hunter take the axe and strike three times on my neck. You yourself can strike the three times."

Makamuk stood with gaping mouth, drinking in this latest and most wonderful magic of the furthieves.

"But first," the Pole added hastily, "between each blow I must put on fresh medicine. The axe is heavy and

"All that you have asked shall be yours," Makamuk cried in a rush of acceptance. "Proceed to make your

Subienkow concealed his elation. He was playing a desperate game, and there must be no slips. He spoke

"You have been slow. My medicine is offended. To make the offence clean you must give me your

He pointed to the girl, an unwholesome creature, with a cast in one eye and a bristling wolftooth. Makamuk

was angry, but the Pole remained imperturbable, rolling and lighting another cigarette.

In the silence that followed, the dreary northland scene faded before him, and he saw once more his native

land, and France, and, once, as he glanced at the wolftoothed girl, he remembered another girl, a singer and

"To go down the river with me." Subienkow glanced over her critically. "She will make a good wife, and it is

Again he remembered the singer and dancer and hummed aloud a song she had taught him. He lived the old

life over, but in a detached, impersonal sort of way, looking at the memorypictures of his own life as if they

were pictures in a book of anybody's life. The chief's voice, abruptly breaking the silence, startled him

"It shall be done," said Makamuk. "The girl shall go down the river with you. But be it understood that I

"But each time I shall put on the medicine," Subienkow answered, with a show of illconcealed anxiety.

"You shall put the medicine on between each blow. Here are the hunters who shall see you do not escape. Go

Makamuk had been convinced of the worth of the medicine by the Pole's rapacity. Surely nothing less than

the greatest of medicines could enable a man in the shadow of death to stand up and drive an old woman's

"Besides," whispered Yakaga, when the Pole, with his guard, had disappeared among the spruce trees, "when

"But how can I destroy him?" Makamuk argued. "His medicine will not let me destroy him."

"There will be some part where he has not rubbed the medicine," was Yakaga's reply. "We will destroy him

through that part. It may be his ears. Very well; we will thrust a spear in one ear and out the other. Or it may

The chief nodded. "You are wise, Yakaga. If he possesses no other devilthings, we will then destroy him."

Subienkow did not waste time in gathering the ingredients for his medicine, he selected whatsoever came to

hand such as spruce needles, the inner bark of the willow, a strip of birch bark, and a quantity of

mossberries, which he made the hunters dig up for him from beneath the snow. A few frozen roots

Makamuk and Yakaga crouched beside him, noting the quantities and kinds of the ingredients he dropped

"Andoh, yes, one other thingthe finger of a man. Here, Yakaga, let me cut off your finger."

"There be plenty of fingers lying around," Yakaga grunted, indicating the human wreckage in the snow of the

"Then shall you have the finger of a live man." Yakaga strode over to the Cossack and sliced off a finger.

"He is not yet dead," he announced, flinging the bloody trophy in the snow at the Pole's feet. "Also, it is a

Subienkow dropped it into the fire under the pot and began to sing. It was a French lovesong that with great

"Without these words I utter into it, the medicine is worthless," he explained. "The words are the chiefest

"Not until after the test. When the axe flies back three times from my neck, then will I give you the secret of

"My medicine is always good. However, if it is not good, then do by me as you have done to the others. Cut

me up a bit at a time, even as you have cut him up." He pointed to the Cossack. "The medicine is now cool.

With great gravity he slowly intoned a line of the "Marseillaise," at the same time rubbing the villainous brew

An outcry interrupted his playacting. The giant Cossack, with a last resurgence of his tremendous vitality,

had arisen to his knees. Laughter and cries of surprise and applause arose from the Nulatos, as Big Ivan began

Subienkow was made sick by the sight, but he mastered his qualms and made believe to be angry.

"This will not do," he said. "Finish him, and then we will make the test. Here, you, Yakaga, see that his noise

"And remember, you are to strike hard. This is not babywork. Here, take the axe and strike the log, so that I

Makamuk obeyed, striking twice, precisely and with vigour, cutting out a large chip.

"It is well." Subienkow looked about him at the circle of savage faces that somehow seemed to symbolize the

wall of savagery that had hemmed him about ever since the Czar's police had first arrested him in Warsaw.

"Take your axe, Makamuk, and stand so. I shall lie down. When I raise my hand, strike, and strike with all

your might. And be careful that no one stands behind you. The medicine is good, and the axe may bounce

He looked at the two sleds, with the dogs in harness, loaded with furs and fish. His rifle lay on top of the

"Where is the girl?" the Pole demanded. "Bring her up to the sleds before the test goes on."

When this had been carried out, Subienkow lay down in the snow, resting his head on the log like a tired

child about to sleep. He had lived so many dreary years that he was indeed tired.

"I laugh at you and your strength, O Makamuk," he said. "Strike, and strike hard."

He lifted his hand. Makamuk swung the axe, a broadaxe for the squaring of logs. The bright steel flashed

through the frosty air, poised for a perceptible instant above Makamuk's head, then descended upon

Subienkow's bare neck. Clear through flesh and bone it cut its way, biting deeply into the log beneath. The

There was a great bewilderment and silence, while slowly it began to dawn in their minds that there had been

no medicine. The furthief had outwitted them. Alone, of all their prisoners, he had escaped the torture. That

had been the stake for which he played. A great roar of laughter went up. Makamuk bowed his head in

shame. The fur thief had fooled him. He had lost face before all his people. Still they continued to roar out

their laughter. Makamuk turned, and with bowed head stalked away. He knew that thenceforth he would be

no longer known as Makamuk. He would be Lost Face; the record of his shame would be with him until he

died; and whenever the tribes gathered in the spring for the salmon, or in the summer for the trading, the story

would pass back and forth across the campfires of how the furthief died peaceably, at a single stroke, by

"Who was Lost Face?" he could hear, in anticipation, some insolent young buck demand, "Oh, Lost Face,"

would be the answer, "he who once was Makamuk in the days before he cut off the furthief's head."

All lines had been cast off, and the Seattle No. 4 was pulling slowly out from the shore. Her decks were piled

high with freight and baggage, and swarmed with a heterogeneous company of Indians, dogs, and

dogmushers, prospectors, traders, and homewardbound gold seekers. A goodly portion of Dawson was

lined up on the bank, saying goodbye. As the gangplank came in and the steamer nosed into the stream, the

clamour of farewell became deafening. Also, in that eleventh moment, everybody began to remember final

farewell messages and to shout them back and forth across the widening stretch of water. Louis Bondell,

curling his yellow moustache with one hand and languidly waving the other hand to his friends on shore,

The "Fred" desired thrust a strapping pair of shoulders through the forefront of the crowd on the bank and

tried to catch Louis Bondell's message. The latter grew red in the face with vain vociferation. Still the water

The gongs clanged, and the big stern wheel reversed, then stopped. All hands on steamboat and on bank took

advantage of this respite to exchange final, new, and imperative farewells. More futile than ever was Louis

Bondell's effort to make himself heard. The Seattle No. 4 lost way and drifted downstream, and Captain

Scott had to go ahead and reverse a second time. His head disappeared inside the pilot house, coming into

Now Captain Scott had a remarkable voice, and the "Shut up!" he launched at the crowd on deck and on

shore could have been heard at the top of Moosehide Mountain and as far as Klondike City. This official

"Tell Fred Churchillhe's on the bank theretell him to go to Macdonald. It's in his safea small gripsack

Churchill waved his hand in token that he had got it. In truth, had Macdonald, half a mile away, opened his

window, he'd have got it, too. The tumult of farewell rose again, the gongs clanged, and the Seattle No. 4

went ahead, swung out into the stream, turned on her heel, and headed down the Yukon, Bondell and

That was in midsummer. In the fall of the year, the W. H. Willis started up the Yukon with two hundred

homewardbound pilgrims on board. Among them was Churchill. In his stateroom, in the middle of a

clothesbag, was Louis Bondell's grip. It was a small, stout leather affair, and its weight of forty pounds

always made Churchill nervous when he wandered too far from it. The man in the adjoining stateroom had a

treasure of golddust hidden similarly in a clothes bag, and the pair of them ultimately arranged to stand

watch and watch. While one went down to eat, the other kept an eye on the two stateroom doors. When

Churchill wanted to take a hand at whist, the other man mounted guard, and when the other man wanted to

relax his soul, Churchill read fourmonths' old newspapers on a camp stool between the two doors.

There were signs of an early winter, and the question that was discussed from dawn till dark, and far into the

dark, was whether they would get out before the freezeup or be compelled to abandon the steamboat and

tramp out over the ice. There were irritating delays. Twice the engines broke down and had to be tinkered up,

and each time there were snow flurries to warn them of the imminence of winter. Nine times the W. H. Willis

essayed to ascend the Five Finger Rapids with her impaired machinery, and when she succeeded, she was

four days behind her very liberal schedule. The question that then arose was whether or not the steamboat

Flora would wait for her above the Box Canon. The stretch of water between the head of the Box Canon and

the foot of the White Horse Rapids was unnavigable for steamboats, and passengers were transhipped at that

point, walking around the rapids from one steamboat to the other. There were no telephones in the country,

hence no way of informing the waiting Flora that the Willis was four days late, but coming.

When the W. H. Willis pulled into White Horse, it was learned that the Flora had waited three days over the

limit, and had departed only a few hours before. Also, it was learned that she would tie up at Tagish Post till

nine o'clock, Sunday morning. It was then four o'clock, Saturday afternoon. The pilgrims called a meeting.

On board was a large Peterborough canoe, consigned to the police post at the head of Lake Bennett. They

agreed to be responsible for it and to deliver it. Next, they called for volunteers. Two men were needed to

make a race for the Flora. A score of men volunteered on the instant. Among them was Churchill, such being

his nature that he volunteered before he thought of Bondell's gripsack. When this thought came to him, he

began to hope that he would not be selected; but a man who had made a name as captain of a college football

eleven, as a president of an athletic club, as a dogmusher and a stampeder in the Yukon, and, moreover, who

possessed such shoulders as he, had no right to avoid the honour. It was thrust upon him and upon a gigantic

While a crowd of the pilgrims, the canoe on their shoulders, started on a trot over the portage, Churchill ran

to his stateroom. He turned the contents of the clothesbag on the floor and caught up the grip, with the

intention of entrusting it to the man next door. Then the thought smote him that it was not his grip, and that

he had no right to let it out of his possession. So he dashed ashore with it and ran up the portage changing it

often from one hand to the other, and wondering if it really did not weigh more than forty pounds.

It was halfpast four in the afternoon when the two men started. The current of the Thirty Mile River was so

strong that rarely could they use the paddles. It was out on one bank with a towline over the shoulders,

stumbling over the rocks, forcing a way through the underbrush, slipping at times and falling into the water,

wading often up to the knees and waist; and then, when an insurmountable bluff was encountered, it was into

the canoe, out paddles, and a wild and losing dash across the current to the other bank, in paddles, over the

side, and out towline again. It was exhausting work. Antonsen toiled like the giant he was, uncomplaining,

persistent, but driven to his utmost by the powerful body and indomitable brain of Churchill. They never

paused for rest. It was go, go, and keep on going. A crisp wind blew down the river, freezing their hands and

making it imperative, from time to time, to beat the blood back into the numbed fingers.

As night came on, they were compelled to trust to luck. They fell repeatedly on the untravelled banks and tore

their clothing to sheds in the underbrush they could not see. Both men were badly scratched and bleeding. A

dozen times, in their wild dashes from bank to bank, they struck snags and were capsized. The first time this

happened, Churchill dived and groped in three feet of water for the gripsack. He lost half an hour in

recovering it, and after that it was carried securely lashed to the canoe. As long as the canoe floated it was

safe. Antonsen jeered at the grip, and toward morning began to curse it; but Churchill vouchsafed no

Their delays and mischances were endless. On one swift bend, around which poured a healthy young rapid,

they lost two hours, making a score of attempts and capsizing twice. At this point, on both banks, were

precipitous bluffs, rising out of deep water, and along which they could neither tow nor pole, while they

could not gain with the paddles against the current. At each attempt they strained to the utmost with the

paddles, and each time, with heads nigh to bursting from the effort, they were played out and swept back.

They succeeded finally by an accident. In the swiftest current, near the end of another failure, a freak of the

current sheered the canoe out of Churchill's control and flung it against the bluff. Churchill made a blind leap

at the bluff and landed in a crevice. Holding on with one hand, he held the swamped canoe with the other till

Antonsen dragged himself out of the water. Then they pulled the canoe out and rested. A fresh start at this

crucial point took them by. They landed on the bank above and plunged immediately ashore and into the

Daylight found them far below Tagish Post. At nine o'clock Sunday morning they could hear the Flora

whistling her departure. And when, at ten o'clock, they dragged themselves in to the Post, they could barely

see the Flora's smoke far to the southward. It was a pair of wornout tatterdemalions that Captain Jones of the

Mounted Police welcomed and fed, and he afterward averred that they possessed two of the most tremendous

appetites he had ever observed. They lay down and slept in their wet rags by the stove. At the end of two

hours Churchill got up, carried Bondell's grip, which he had used for a pillow, down to the canoe, kicked

"There's no telling what might happenmachinery break down, or something," was his reply to Captain

Jones's expostulations. "I'm going to catch that steamer and send her back for the boys."

Tagish Lake was white with a fall gale that blew in their teeth. Big, swinging seas rushed upon the canoe,

compelling one man to bale and leaving one man to paddle. Headway could not be made. They ran along the

shallow shore and went overboard, one man ahead on the tow line, the other shoving on the canoe. They

fought the gale up to their waists in the icy water, often up to their necks, often over their heads and buried by

the big, crested waves. There was no rest, never a moment's pause from the cheerless, heartbreaking battle.

That night, at the head of Tagish Lake, in the thick of a driving snowsquall, they overhauled the Flora.

Antonsen fell on board, lay where he had fallen, and snored. Churchill looked like a wild man. His clothes

barely clung to him. His face was iced up and swollen from the protracted effort of twentyfour hours, while

his hands were so swollen that he could not close the fingers. As for his feet, it was an agony to stand upon

The captain of the Flora was loth to go back to White Horse. Churchill was persistent and imperative; the

captain was stubborn. He pointed out finally that nothing was to be gained by going back, because the only

ocean steamer at Dyea, the Athenian, was to sail on Tuesday morning, and that he could not make the back

trip to White Horse and bring up the stranded pilgrims in time to make the connection.

"All right," Churchill said, at the same time kicking a tattoo on the ribs of the snoring Antonsen. "You go

Antonsen, stupid with sleep, not yet clothed in his waking mind, was bundled into the canoe, and did not

realize what had happened till he was drenched with the icy spray of a big sea, and heard Churchill snarling at

Daylight found them at Caribou Crossing, the wind dying down, and Antonsen too far gone to dip a paddle.

Churchill grounded the canoe on a quiet beach, where they slept. He took the precaution of twisting his arm

under the weight of his head. Every few minutes the pain of the pent circulation aroused him, whereupon he

would look at his watch and twist the other arm under his head. At the end of two hours he fought with

Antonsen to rouse him. Then they started. Lake Bennett, thirty miles in length, was like a millpond; but, half

way across, a gale from the south smote them and turned the water white. Hour after hour they repeated the

struggle on Tagish, over the side, pulling and shoving on the canoe, up to their waists and necks, and over

their heads, in the icy water; toward the last the goodnatured giant played completely out. Churchill drove

him mercilessly; but when he pitched forward and bade fair to drown in three feet of water, the other dragged

him into the canoe. After that, Churchill fought on alone, arriving at the police post at the head of Bennett in

the early afternoon. He tried to help Antonsen out of the canoe, but failed. He listened to the exhausted man's

heavy breathing, and envied him when he thought of what he himself had yet to undergo. Antonsen could lie

there and sleep; but he, behind time, must go on over mighty Chilcoot and down to the sea. The real struggle

lay before him, and he almost regretted the strength that resided in his frame because of the torment it could

Churchill pulled the canoe up on the beach, seized Bondell's grip, and started on a limping dogtrot for the

"There's a canoe down there, consigned to you from Dawson," he hurled at the officer who answered his

knock. "And there's a man in it pretty near dead. Nothing serious; only played out. Take care of him. I've got

A mile portage connected Lake Bennett and Lake Linderman, and his last words he flung back after him as

he resumed the trot. It was a very painful trot, but he clenched his teeth and kept on, forgetting his pain most

of the time in the fervent heat with which he regarded the gripsack. It was a severe handicap. He swung it

from one hand to the other, and back again. He tucked it under his arm. He threw one hand over the opposite

shoulder, and the bag bumped and pounded on his back as he ran along. He could scarcely hold it in his

bruised and swollen fingers, and several times he dropped it. Once, in changing from one hand to the other, it

escaped his clutch and fell in front of him, tripped him up, and threw him violently to the ground.

At the far end of the portage he bought an old set of packstraps for a dollar, and in them he swung the grip.

Also, he chartered a launch to run him the six miles to the upper end of Lake Linderman, where he arrived at

four in the afternoon. The Athenian was to sail from Dyea next morning at seven. Dyea was twentyeight

miles away, and between towered Chilcoot. He sat down to adjust his footgear for the long climb, and woke

up. He had dozed the instant he sat down, though he had not slept thirty seconds. He was afraid his next doze

might be longer, so he finished fixing his footgear standing up. Even then he was overpowered for a fleeting

moment. He experienced the flash of unconsciousness; becoming aware of it, in midair, as his relaxed body

was sinking to the ground and as he caught himself together, he stiffened his muscles with a spasmodic

wrench, and escaped the fall. The sudden jerk back to consciousness left him sick and trembling. He beat his

Jack Burns's packtrain was starting back light for Crater Lake, and Churchill was invited to a mule. Burns

wanted to put the gripsack on another animal, but Churchill held on to it, carrying it on his saddlepommel.

But he dozed, and the grip persisted in dropping off the pommel, one side or the other, each time wakening

him with a sickening start. Then, in the early darkness, Churchill's mule brushed him against a projecting

branch that laid his cheek open. To cap it, the mule blundered off the trail and fell, throwing rider and

gripsack out upon the rocks. After that, Churchill walked, or stumbled rather, over the apology for a trail,

leading the mule. Stray and awful odours, drifting from each side of the trail, told of the horses that had died

in the rush for gold. But he did not mind. He was too sleepy. By the time Long Lake was reached, however,

he had recovered from his sleepiness; and at Deep Lake he resigned the gripsack to Burns. But thereafter, by

the light of the dim stars, he kept his eyes on Burns. There were not going to be any accidents with that bag.

At Crater Lake, the packtrain went into camp, and Churchill, slinging the grip on his back, started the steep

climb for the summit. For the first time, on that precipitous wall, he realized how tired he was. He crept and

crawled like a crab, burdened by the weight of his limbs. A distinct and painful effort of will was required

each time he lifted a foot. An hallucination came to him that he was shod with lead, like a deepsea diver,

and it was all he could do to resist the desire to reach down and feel the lead. As for Bondell's gripsack, it was

inconceivable that forty pounds could weigh so much. It pressed him down like a mountain, and he looked

back with unbelief to the year before, when he had climbed that same pass with a hundred and fifty pounds

on his back. If those loads had weighed a hundred and fifty pounds, then Bondell's grip weighed five

The first rise of the divide from Crater Lake was across a small glacier. Here was a welldefined trail. But

above the glacier, which was also above timberline, was naught but a chaos of naked rock and enormous

boulders. There was no way of seeing the trail in the darkness, and he blundered on, paying thrice the

ordinary exertion for all that he accomplished. He won the summit in the thick of howling wind and driving

snow, providentially stumbling upon a small, deserted tent, into which he crawled. There he found and bolted

When the snow ceased and the wind eased down, he began the almost impossible descent. There was no trail,

and he stumbled and blundered, often finding himself, at the last moment, on the edge of rocky walls and

steep slopes the depth of which he had no way of judging. Part way down, the stars clouded over again, and

in the consequent obscurity he slipped and rolled and slid for a hundred feet, landing bruised and bleeding on

the bottom of a large shallow hole. From all about him arose the stench of dead horses. The hole was handy

to the trail, and the packers had made a practice of tumbling into it their broken and dying animals. The

stench overpowered him, making him deadly sick, and as in a nightmare he scrambled out. Halfway up, he

recollected Bondell's gripsack. It had fallen into the hole with him; the packstrap had evidently broken, and

he had forgotten it. Back he went into the pestilential charnelpit, where he crawled around on hands and

knees and groped for half an hour. Altogether he encountered and counted seventeen dead horses (and one

horse still alive that he shot with his revolver) before he found Bondell's grip. Looking back upon a life that

had not been without valour and achievement, he unhesitatingly declared to himself that this return after the

grip was the most heroic act he had ever performed. So heroic was it that he was twice on the verge of

By the time he had descended to the Scales, the steep pitch of Chilcoot was past, and the way became easier.

Not that it was an easy way, however, in the best of places; but it became a really possible trail, along which

he could have made good time if he had not been worn out, if he had had light with which to pick his steps,

and if it had not been for Bondell's gripsack. To him, in his exhausted condition, it was the last straw. Having

barely strength to carry himself along, the additional weight of the grip was sufficient to throw him nearly

every time he tripped or stumbled. And when he escaped tripping, branches reached out in the darkness,

His mind was made up that if he missed the Athenian it would be the fault of the gripsack. In fact, only two

things remained in his consciousnessBondell's grip and the steamer. He knew only those two things, and

they became identified, in a way, with some stern mission upon which he had journeyed and toiled for

centuries. He walked and struggled on as in a dream. As part of the dream was his arrival at Sheep Camp. He

stumbled into a saloon, slid his shoulders out of the straps, and started to deposit the grip at his feet. But it

slipped from his fingers and struck the floor with a heavy thud that was not unnoticed by two men who were

just leaving. Churchill drank a glass of whisky, told the barkeeper to call him in ten minutes, and sat down,

So badly did his misused body stiffen, that when he was called it required another ten minutes and a second

"Hey not that way!" the barkeeper shouted, and then went after him and started him through the darkness

toward Canyon City. Some little husk of inner consciousness told Churchill that the direction was right, and,

still as in a dream, he took the canon trail. He did not know what warned him, but after what seemed several

centuries of travelling, he sensed danger and drew his revolver. Still in the dream, he saw two men step out

and heard them halt him. His revolver went off four times, and he saw the flashes and heard the explosions of

their revolvers. Also, he was aware that he had been hit in the thigh. He saw one man go down, and, as the

other came for him, he smashed him a straight blow with the heavy revolver full in the face. Then he turned

and ran. He came from the dream shortly afterward, to find himself plunging down the trail at a limping lope.

His first thought was for the gripsack. It was still on his back. He was convinced that what had happened was

a dream till he felt for his revolver and found it gone. Next he became aware of a sharp stinging of his thigh,

and after investigating, he found his hand warm with blood. It was a superficial wound, but it was

incontestable. He became wider awake, and kept up the lumbering run to Canyon City.

He found a man, with a team of horses and a wagon, who got out of bed and harnessed up for twenty dollars.

Churchill crawled in on the wagonbed and slept, the gripsack still on his back. It was a rough ride, over

waterwashed boulders down the Dyea Valley; but he roused only when the wagon hit the highest places.

Any altitude of his body above the wagonbed of less than a foot did not faze him. The last mile was smooth

He came to in the grey dawn, the driver shaking him savagely and howling into his ear that the Athenian was

Churchill's eyes were too swollen to see that far, but he said: "It's she. Get me a boat."

The driver was obliging and found a skiff, and a man to row it for ten dollars, payment in advance. Churchill

paid, and was helped into the skiff. It was beyond him to get in by himself. It was six miles to Skaguay, and

he had a blissful thought of sleeping those six miles. But the man did not know how to row, and Churchill

took the oars and toiled for a few more centuries. He never knew six longer and more excruciating miles. A

snappy little breeze blew up the inlet and held him back. He had a gone feeling at the pit of the stomach, and

suffered from faintness and numbness. At his command, the man took the baler and threw salt water into his

The Athenian's anchor was upanddown when they came alongside, and Churchill was at the end of his last

Then he dropped his chin on his chest and slept. When half a dozen men started to carry him up the

On deck he became a centre of horror and curiosity. The clothing in which he had left White Horse was

represented by a few rags, and he was as frayed as his clothing. He had travelled for fiftyfive hours at the

top notch of endurance. He had slept six hours in that time, and he was twenty pounds lighter than when he

started. Face and hands and body were scratched and bruised, and he could scarcely see. He tried to stand up,

but failed, sprawling out on the deck, hanging on to the gripsack, and delivering his message.

They did him honour, carrying him down in his rags and dirt and depositing him and Bondell's grip in the

bridal chamber, which was the biggest and most luxurious stateroom in the ship. Twice he slept the clock

around, and he had bathed and shaved and eaten and was leaning over the rail smoking a cigar when the two

By the time the Athenian arrived in Seattle, Churchill had fully recuperated, and he went ashore with

Bondell's grip in his hand. He felt proud of that grip. To him it stood for achievement and integrity and trust.

"I've delivered the goods," was the way he expressed these various high terms to himself. It was early in the

evening, and he went straight to Bondell's home. Louis Bondell was glad to see him, shaking hands with both

"Oh, thanks, old man; it was good of you to bring it out," Bondell said when he received the gripsack.

He tossed it carelessly upon a couch, and Churchill noted with an appreciative eye the rebound of its weight

"How did you make out? How're the boys? What became of Bill Smithers? Is Del Bishop still with Pierce?

Did he sell my dogs? How did Sulphur Bottom show up? You're looking fine. What steamer did you come

To all of which Churchill gave answer, till half an hour had gone by and the first lull in the conversation had

"Hadn't you better take a look at it?" he suggested, nodding his head at the gripsack

"Oh, it's all right," Bondell answered. "Did Mitchell's dump turn out as much as he expected?"

"I think you'd better look at it," Churchill insisted. "When I deliver a thing, I want to be satisfied that it's all

right. There's always the chance that somebody might have got into it when I was asleep, or something."

"Nothing important," Churchill echoed in a faint, small voice. Then he spoke with decision: "Louis, what's in

Louis looked at him curiously, then left the room and returned with a bunch of keys. He inserted his hand and

drew out a heavy Colt's revolver. Next came out a few boxes of ammunition for the revolver and several

Churchill took the gripsack and looked into it. Then he turned it upside down and shook it gently.

He got up and went outside. Ten minutes later Louis Bondell went out and found him on the steps, sitting

down, elbows on knees and chin on hands, gazing steadfastly out into the darkness.

Day had broken cold and grey, exceedingly cold and grey, when the man turned aside from the main Yukon

trail and climbed the high earth bank, where a dim and littletravelled trail led eastward through the fat

spruce timberland. It was a steep bank, and he paused for breath at the top, excusing the act to himself by

looking at his watch. It was nine o'clock. There was no sun nor hint of sun, though there was not a cloud in

the sky. It was a clear day, and yet there seemed an intangible pall over the face of things, a subtle gloom that

made the day dark, and that was due to the absence of sun. This fact did not worry the man. He was used to

the lack of sun. It had been days since he had seen the sun, and he knew that a few more days must pass

before that cheerful orb, due south, would just peep above the sky line and dip immediately from view.

The man flung a look back along the way he had come. The Yukon lay a mile wide and hidden under three

feet of ice. On top of this ice were as many feet of snow. It was all pure white, rolling in gentle undulations

where the icejams of the freezeup had formed. North and south, as far as his eye could see, it was

unbroken white, save for a dark hairline that curved and twisted from around the spruce covered island to

the south, and that curved and twisted away into the north, where it disappeared behind another

sprucecovered island. This dark hairline was the trailthe main trailthat led south five hundred miles

to the Chilcoot Pass, Dyea, and salt water; and that led north seventy miles to Dawson, and still on to the

north a thousand miles to Nulato, and finally to St. Michael on Bering Sea, a thousand miles and half a

But all thisthe mysterious, farreaching hairline trail, the absence of sun from the sky, the tremendous

cold, and the strangeness and weirdness of it allmade no impression on the man. It was not because he was

long used to it. He was a newcomer in the land, a chechaquo, and this was his first winter. The trouble with

him was that he was without imagination. He was quick and alert in the things of life, but only in the things,

and not in the significances. Fifty degrees below zero meant eighty odd degrees of frost. Such fact impressed

him as being cold and uncomfortable, and that was all. It did not lead him to meditate upon his frailty as a

creature of temperature, and upon man's frailty in general, able only to live within certain narrow limits of

heat and cold; and from there on it did not lead him to the conjectural field of immortality and man's place in

the universe. Fifty degrees below zero stood for a bite of frost that hurt and that must be guarded against by

the use of mittens, earflaps, warm moccasins, and thick socks. Fifty degrees below zero was to him just

precisely fifty degrees below zero. That there should be anything more to it than that was a thought that never

As he turned to go on, he spat speculatively. There was a sharp, explosive crackle that startled him. He spat

again. And again, in the air, before it could fall to the snow, the spittle crackled. He knew that at fifty below

spittle crackled on the snow, but this spittle had crackled in the air. Undoubtedly it was colder than fifty

belowhow much colder he did not know. But the temperature did not matter. He was bound for the old

claim on the left fork of Henderson Creek, where the boys were already. They had come over across the

divide from the Indian Creek country, while he had come the roundabout way to take a look at the

possibilities of getting out logs in the spring from the islands in the Yukon. He would be in to camp by six

o'clock; a bit after dark, it was true, but the boys would be there, a fire would be going, and a hot supper

would be ready. As for lunch, he pressed his hand against the protruding bundle under his jacket. It was also

under his shirt, wrapped up in a handkerchief and lying against the naked skin. It was the only way to keep

the biscuits from freezing. He smiled agreeably to himself as he thought of those biscuits, each cut open and

He plunged in among the big spruce trees. The trail was faint. A foot of snow had fallen since the last sled

had passed over, and he was glad he was without a sled, travelling light. In fact, he carried nothing but the

lunch wrapped in the handkerchief. He was surprised, however, at the cold. It certainly was cold, he

concluded, as he rubbed his numbed nose and cheekbones with his mittened hand. He was a

warmwhiskered man, but the hair on his face did not protect the high cheekbones and the eager nose that

At the man's heels trotted a dog, a big native husky, the proper wolfdog, greycoated and without any

visible or temperamental difference from its brother, the wild wolf. The animal was depressed by the

tremendous cold. It knew that it was no time for travelling. Its instinct told it a truer tale than was told to the

man by the man's judgment. In reality, it was not merely colder than fifty below zero; it was colder than sixty

below, than seventy below. It was seventyfive below zero. Since the freezingpoint is thirtytwo above

zero, it meant that one hundred and seven degrees of frost obtained. The dog did not know anything about

thermometers. Possibly in its brain there was no sharp consciousness of a condition of very cold such as was

in the man's brain. But the brute had its instinct. It experienced a vague but menacing apprehension that

subdued it and made it slink along at the man's heels, and that made it question eagerly every unwonted

movement of the man as if expecting him to go into camp or to seek shelter somewhere and build a fire. The

dog had learned fire, and it wanted fire, or else to burrow under the snow and cuddle its warmth away from

The frozen moisture of its breathing had settled on its fur in a fine powder of frost, and especially were its

jowls, muzzle, and eyelashes whitened by its crystalled breath. The man's red beard and moustache were

likewise frosted, but more solidly, the deposit taking the form of ice and increasing with every warm, moist

breath he exhaled. Also, the man was chewing tobacco, and the muzzle of ice held his lips so rigidly that he

was unable to clear his chin when he expelled the juice. The result was that a crystal beard of the colour and

solidity of amber was increasing its length on his chin. If he fell down it would shatter itself, like glass, into

brittle fragments. But he did not mind the appendage. It was the penalty all tobacco chewers paid in that

country, and he had been out before in two cold snaps. They had not been so cold as this, he knew, but by the

spirit thermometer at Sixty Mile he knew they had been registered at fifty below and at fiftyfive.

He held on through the level stretch of woods for several miles, crossed a wide flat of niggerheads, and

dropped down a bank to the frozen bed of a small stream. This was Henderson Creek, and he knew he was

ten miles from the forks. He looked at his watch. It was ten o'clock. He was making four miles an hour, and

he calculated that he would arrive at the forks at halfpast twelve. He decided to celebrate that event by

The dog dropped in again at his heels, with a tail drooping discouragement, as the man swung along the

creekbed. The furrow of the old sledtrail was plainly visible, but a dozen inches of snow covered the marks

of the last runners. In a month no man had come up or down that silent creek. The man held steadily on. He

was not much given to thinking, and just then particularly he had nothing to think about save that he would

eat lunch at the forks and that at six o'clock he would be in camp with the boys. There was nobody to talk to

and, had there been, speech would have been impossible because of the icemuzzle on his mouth. So he

continued monotonously to chew tobacco and to increase the length of his amber beard.

Once in a while the thought reiterated itself that it was very cold and that he had never experienced such cold.

As he walked along he rubbed his cheekbones and nose with the back of his mittened hand. He did this

automatically, now and again changing hands. But rub as he would, the instant he stopped his cheekbones

went numb, and the following instant the end of his nose went numb. He was sure to frost his cheeks; he

knew that, and experienced a pang of regret that he had not devised a nosestrap of the sort Bud wore in cold

snaps. Such a strap passed across the cheeks, as well, and saved them. But it didn't matter much, after all.

Empty as the man's mind was of thoughts, he was keenly observant, and he noticed the changes in the creek,

the curves and bends and timber jams, and always he sharply noted where he placed his feet. Once, coming

around a bend, he shied abruptly, like a startled horse, curved away from the place where he had been

walking, and retreated several paces back along the trail. The creek he knew was frozen clear to the

bottomno creek could contain water in that arctic winterbut he knew also that there were springs that

bubbled out from the hillsides and ran along under the snow and on top the ice of the creek. He knew that the

coldest snaps never froze these springs, and he knew likewise their danger. They were traps. They hid pools

of water under the snow that might be three inches deep, or three feet. Sometimes a skin of ice half an inch

thick covered them, and in turn was covered by the snow. Sometimes there were alternate layers of water and

iceskin, so that when one broke through he kept on breaking through for a while, sometimes wetting himself

That was why he had shied in such panic. He had felt the give under his feet and heard the crackle of a

snowhidden iceskin. And to get his feet wet in such a temperature meant trouble and danger. At the very

least it meant delay, for he would be forced to stop and build a fire, and under its protection to bare his feet

while he dried his socks and moccasins. He stood and studied the creekbed and its banks, and decided that

the flow of water came from the right. He reflected awhile, rubbing his nose and cheeks, then skirted to the

left, stepping gingerly and testing the footing for each step. Once clear of the danger, he took a fresh chew of

In the course of the next two hours he came upon several similar traps. Usually the snow above the hidden

pools had a sunken, candied appearance that advertised the danger. Once again, however, he had a close call;

and once, suspecting danger, he compelled the dog to go on in front. The dog did not want to go. It hung back

until the man shoved it forward, and then it went quickly across the white, unbroken surface. Suddenly it

broke through, floundered to one side, and got away to firmer footing. It had wet its forefeet and legs, and

almost immediately the water that clung to it turned to ice. It made quick efforts to lick the ice off its legs,

then dropped down in the snow and began to bite out the ice that had formed between the toes. This was a

matter of instinct. To permit the ice to remain would mean sore feet. It did not know this. It merely obeyed

the mysterious prompting that arose from the deep crypts of its being. But the man knew, having achieved a

judgment on the subject, and he removed the mitten from his right hand and helped tear out the ice particles.

He did not expose his fingers more than a minute, and was astonished at the swift numbness that smote them.

It certainly was cold. He pulled on the mitten hastily, and beat the hand savagely across his chest.

At twelve o'clock the day was at its brightest. Yet the sun was too far south on its winter journey to clear the

horizon. The bulge of the earth intervened between it and Henderson Creek, where the man walked under a

clear sky at noon and cast no shadow. At halfpast twelve, to the minute, he arrived at the forks of the creek.

He was pleased at the speed he had made. If he kept it up, he would certainly be with the boys by six. He

unbuttoned his jacket and shirt and drew forth his lunch. The action consumed no more than a quarter of a

minute, yet in that brief moment the numbness laid hold of the exposed fingers. He did not put the mitten on,

but, instead, struck the fingers a dozen sharp smashes against his leg. Then he sat down on a snowcovered

log to eat. The sting that followed upon the striking of his fingers against his leg ceased so quickly that he

was startled, he had had no chance to take a bite of biscuit. He struck the fingers repeatedly and returned

them to the mitten, baring the other hand for the purpose of eating. He tried to take a mouthful, but the

icemuzzle prevented. He had forgotten to build a fire and thaw out. He chuckled at his foolishness, and as

he chuckled he noted the numbness creeping into the exposed fingers. Also, he noted that the stinging which

had first come to his toes when he sat down was already passing away. He wondered whether the toes were

warm or numbed. He moved them inside the moccasins and decided that they were numbed.

He pulled the mitten on hurriedly and stood up. He was a bit frightened. He stamped up and down until the

stinging returned into the feet. It certainly was cold, was his thought. That man from Sulphur Creek had

spoken the truth when telling how cold it sometimes got in the country. And he had laughed at him at the

time! That showed one must not be too sure of things. There was no mistake about it, it was cold. He strode

up and down, stamping his feet and threshing his arms, until reassured by the returning warmth. Then he got

out matches and proceeded to make a fire. From the undergrowth, where high water of the previous spring

had lodged a supply of seasoned twigs, he got his firewood. Working carefully from a small beginning, he

soon had a roaring fire, over which he thawed the ice from his face and in the protection of which he ate his

biscuits. For the moment the cold of space was outwitted. The dog took satisfaction in the fire, stretching out

When the man had finished, he filled his pipe and took his comfortable time over a smoke. Then he pulled on

his mittens, settled the earflaps of his cap firmly about his ears, and took the creek trail up the left fork. The

dog was disappointed and yearned back toward the fire. This man did not know cold. Possibly all the

generations of his ancestry had been ignorant of cold, of real cold, of cold one hundred and seven degrees

below freezingpoint. But the dog knew; all its ancestry knew, and it had inherited the knowledge. And it

knew that it was not good to walk abroad in such fearful cold. It was the time to lie snug in a hole in the snow

and wait for a curtain of cloud to be drawn across the face of outer space whence this cold came. On the other

hand, there was keen intimacy between the dog and the man. The one was the toilslave of the other, and the

only caresses it had ever received were the caresses of the whip lash and of harsh and menacing

throatsounds that threatened the whiplash. So the dog made no effort to communicate its apprehension to

the man. It was not concerned in the welfare of the man; it was for its own sake that it yearned back toward

the fire. But the man whistled, and spoke to it with the sound of whiplashes, and the dog swung in at the

The man took a chew of tobacco and proceeded to start a new amber beard. Also, his moist breath quickly

powdered with white his moustache, eyebrows, and lashes. There did not seem to be so many springs on the

left fork of the Henderson, and for half an hour the man saw no signs of any. And then it happened. At a

place where there were no signs, where the soft, unbroken snow seemed to advertise solidity beneath, the

man broke through. It was not deep. He wetted himself halfway to the knees before he floundered out to the

He was angry, and cursed his luck aloud. He had hoped to get into camp with the boys at six o'clock, and this

would delay him an hour, for he would have to build a fire and dry out his footgear. This was imperative at

that low temperaturehe knew that much; and he turned aside to the bank, which he climbed. On top,

tangled in the underbrush about the trunks of several small spruce trees, was a highwater deposit of dry

firewoodsticks and twigs principally, but also larger portions of seasoned branches and fine, dry,

lastyear's grasses. He threw down several large pieces on top of the snow. This served for a foundation and

prevented the young flame from drowning itself in the snow it otherwise would melt. The flame he got by

touching a match to a small shred of birchbark that he took from his pocket. This burned even more readily

than paper. Placing it on the foundation, he fed the young flame with wisps of dry grass and with the tiniest

He worked slowly and carefully, keenly aware of his danger. Gradually, as the flame grew stronger, he

increased the size of the twigs with which he fed it. He squatted in the snow, pulling the twigs out from their

entanglement in the brush and feeding directly to the flame. He knew there must be no failure. When it is

seventy five below zero, a man must not fail in his first attempt to build a firethat is, if his feet are wet. If

his feet are dry, and he fails, he can run along the trail for half a mile and restore his circulation. But the

circulation of wet and freezing feet cannot be restored by running when it is seventyfive below. No matter

All this the man knew. The oldtimer on Sulphur Creek had told him about it the previous fall, and now he

was appreciating the advice. Already all sensation had gone out of his feet. To build the fire he had been

forced to remove his mittens, and the fingers had quickly gone numb. His pace of four miles an hour had kept

his heart pumping blood to the surface of his body and to all the extremities. But the instant he stopped, the

action of the pump eased down. The cold of space smote the unprotected tip of the planet, and he, being on

that unprotected tip, received the full force of the blow. The blood of his body recoiled before it. The blood

was alive, like the dog, and like the dog it wanted to hide away and cover itself up from the fearful cold. So

long as he walked four miles an hour, he pumped that blood, willynilly, to the surface; but now it ebbed

away and sank down into the recesses of his body. The extremities were the first to feel its absence. His wet

feet froze the faster, and his exposed fingers numbed the faster, though they had not yet begun to freeze. Nose

and cheeks were already freezing, while the skin of all his body chilled as it lost its blood.

But he was safe. Toes and nose and cheeks would be only touched by the frost, for the fire was beginning to

burn with strength. He was feeding it with twigs the size of his finger. In another minute he would be able to

feed it with branches the size of his wrist, and then he could remove his wet footgear, and, while it dried, he

could keep his naked feet warm by the fire, rubbing them at first, of course, with snow. The fire was a

success. He was safe. He remembered the advice of the oldtimer on Sulphur Creek, and smiled. The

oldtimer had been very serious in laying down the law that no man must travel alone in the Klondike after

fifty below. Well, here he was; he had had the accident; he was alone; and he had saved himself. Those

oldtimers were rather womanish, some of them, he thought. All a man had to do was to keep his head, and

he was all right. Any man who was a man could travel alone. But it was surprising, the rapidity with which

his cheeks and nose were freezing. And he had not thought his fingers could go lifeless in so short a time.

Lifeless they were, for he could scarcely make them move together to grip a twig, and they seemed remote

from his body and from him. When he touched a twig, he had to look and see whether or not he had hold of

All of which counted for little. There was the fire, snapping and crackling and promising life with every

dancing flame. He started to untie his moccasins. They were coated with ice; the thick German socks were

like sheaths of iron halfway to the knees; and the mocassin strings were like rods of steel all twisted and

knotted as by some conflagration. For a moment he tugged with his numbed fingers, then, realizing the folly

But before he could cut the strings, it happened. It was his own fault or, rather, his mistake. He should not

have built the fire under the spruce tree. He should have built it in the open. But it had been easier to pull the

twigs from the brush and drop them directly on the fire. Now the tree under which he had done this carried a

weight of snow on its boughs. No wind had blown for weeks, and each bough was fully freighted. Each time

he had pulled a twig he had communicated a slight agitation to the treean imperceptible agitation, so far as

he was concerned, but an agitation sufficient to bring about the disaster. High up in the tree one bough

capsized its load of snow. This fell on the boughs beneath, capsizing them. This process continued, spreading

out and involving the whole tree. It grew like an avalanche, and it descended without warning upon the man

and the fire, and the fire was blotted out! Where it had burned was a mantle of fresh and disordered snow.

The man was shocked. It was as though he had just heard his own sentence of death. For a moment he sat and

stared at the spot where the fire had been. Then he grew very calm. Perhaps the oldtimer on Sulphur Creek

was right. If he had only had a trailmate he would have been in no danger now. The trailmate could have

built the fire. Well, it was up to him to build the fire over again, and this second time there must be no failure.

Even if he succeeded, he would most likely lose some toes. His feet must be badly frozen by now, and there

Such were his thoughts, but he did not sit and think them. He was busy all the time they were passing through

his mind, he made a new foundation for a fire, this time in the open; where no treacherous tree could blot it

out. Next, he gathered dry grasses and tiny twigs from the highwater flotsam. He could not bring his fingers

together to pull them out, but he was able to gather them by the handful. In this way he got many rotten twigs

and bits of green moss that were undesirable, but it was the best he could do. He worked methodically, even

collecting an armful of the larger branches to be used later when the fire gathered strength. And all the while

the dog sat and watched him, a certain yearning wistfulness in its eyes, for it looked upon him as the

When all was ready, the man reached in his pocket for a second piece of birchbark. He knew the bark was

there, and, though he could not feel it with his fingers, he could hear its crisp rustling as he fumbled for it.

Try as he would, he could not clutch hold of it. And all the time, in his consciousness, was the knowledge

that each instant his feet were freezing. This thought tended to put him in a panic, but he fought against it and

kept calm. He pulled on his mittens with his teeth, and threshed his arms back and forth, beating his hands

with all his might against his sides. He did this sitting down, and he stood up to do it; and all the while the

dog sat in the snow, its wolfbrush of a tail curled around warmly over its forefeet, its sharp wolfears

pricked forward intently as it watched the man. And the man as he beat and threshed with his arms and hands,

felt a great surge of envy as he regarded the creature that was warm and secure in its natural covering.

After a time he was aware of the first faraway signals of sensation in his beaten fingers. The faint tingling

grew stronger till it evolved into a stinging ache that was excruciating, but which the man hailed with

satisfaction. He stripped the mitten from his right hand and fetched forth the birchbark. The exposed fingers

were quickly going numb again. Next he brought out his bunch of sulphur matches. But the tremendous cold

had already driven the life out of his fingers. In his effort to separate one match from the others, the whole

bunch fell in the snow. He tried to pick it out of the snow, but failed. The dead fingers could neither touch nor

clutch. He was very careful. He drove the thought of his freezing feet; and nose, and cheeks, out of his mind,

devoting his whole soul to the matches. He watched, using the sense of vision in place of that of touch, and

when he saw his fingers on each side the bunch, he closed themthat is, he willed to close them, for the

wires were drawn, and the fingers did not obey. He pulled the mitten on the right hand, and beat it fiercely

against his knee. Then, with both mittened hands, he scooped the bunch of matches, along with much snow,

After some manipulation he managed to get the bunch between the heels of his mittened hands. In this

fashion he carried it to his mouth. The ice crackled and snapped when by a violent effort he opened his

mouth. He drew the lower jaw in, curled the upper lip out of the way, and scraped the bunch with his upper

teeth in order to separate a match. He succeeded in getting one, which he dropped on his lap. He was no

better off. He could not pick it up. Then he devised a way. He picked it up in his teeth and scratched it on his

leg. Twenty times he scratched before he succeeded in lighting it. As it flamed he held it with his teeth to the

birchbark. But the burning brimstone went up his nostrils and into his lungs, causing him to cough

The oldtimer on Sulphur Creek was right, he thought in the moment of controlled despair that ensued: after

fifty below, a man should travel with a partner. He beat his hands, but failed in exciting any sensation.

Suddenly he bared both hands, removing the mittens with his teeth. He caught the whole bunch between the

heels of his hands. His armmuscles not being frozen enabled him to press the handheels tightly against the

matches. Then he scratched the bunch along his leg. It flared into flame, seventy sulphur matches at once!

There was no wind to blow them out. He kept his head to one side to escape the strangling fumes, and held

the blazing bunch to the birchbark. As he so held it, he became aware of sensation in his hand. His flesh was

burning. He could smell it. Deep down below the surface he could feel it. The sensation developed into pain

that grew acute. And still he endured it, holding the flame of the matches clumsily to the bark that would not

light readily because his own burning hands were in the way, absorbing most of the flame.

At last, when he could endure no more, he jerked his hands apart. The blazing matches fell sizzling into the

snow, but the birchbark was alight. He began laying dry grasses and the tiniest twigs on the flame. He could

not pick and choose, for he had to lift the fuel between the heels of his hands. Small pieces of rotten wood

and green moss clung to the twigs, and he bit them off as well as he could with his teeth. He cherished the

flame carefully and awkwardly. It meant life, and it must not perish. The withdrawal of blood from the

surface of his body now made him begin to shiver, and he grew more awkward. A large piece of green moss

fell squarely on the little fire. He tried to poke it out with his fingers, but his shivering frame made him poke

too far, and he disrupted the nucleus of the little fire, the burning grasses and tiny twigs separating and

scattering. He tried to poke them together again, but in spite of the tenseness of the effort, his shivering got

away with him, and the twigs were hopelessly scattered. Each twig gushed a puff of smoke and went out. The

fireprovider had failed. As he looked apathetically about him, his eyes chanced on the dog, sitting across the

ruins of the fire from him, in the snow, making restless, hunching movements, slightly lifting one forefoot

and then the other, shifting its weight back and forth on them with wistful eagerness.

The sight of the dog put a wild idea into his head. He remembered the tale of the man, caught in a blizzard,

who killed a steer and crawled inside the carcass, and so was saved. He would kill the dog and bury his hands

in the warm body until the numbness went out of them. Then he could build another fire. He spoke to the

dog, calling it to him; but in his voice was a strange note of fear that frightened the animal, who had never

known the man to speak in such way before. Something was the matter, and its suspicious nature sensed

danger,it knew not what danger but somewhere, somehow, in its brain arose an apprehension of the man. It

flattened its ears down at the sound of the man's voice, and its restless, hunching movements and the liftings

and shiftings of its forefeet became more pronounced but it would not come to the man. He got on his hands

and knees and crawled toward the dog. This unusual posture again excited suspicion, and the animal sidled

The man sat up in the snow for a moment and struggled for calmness. Then he pulled on his mittens, by

means of his teeth, and got upon his feet. He glanced down at first in order to assure himself that he was

really standing up, for the absence of sensation in his feet left him unrelated to the earth. His erect position in

itself started to drive the webs of suspicion from the dog's mind; and when he spoke peremptorily, with the

sound of whiplashes in his voice, the dog rendered its customary allegiance and came to him. As it came

within reaching distance, the man lost his control. His arms flashed out to the dog, and he experienced

genuine surprise when he discovered that his hands could not clutch, that there was neither bend nor feeling

in the lingers. He had forgotten for the moment that they were frozen and that they were freezing more and

more. All this happened quickly, and before the animal could get away, he encircled its body with his arms.

He sat down in the snow, and in this fashion held the dog, while it snarled and whined and struggled.

But it was all he could do, hold its body encircled in his arms and sit there. He realized that he could not kill

the dog. There was no way to do it. With his helpless hands he could neither draw nor hold his sheathknife

nor throttle the animal. He released it, and it plunged wildly away, with tail between its legs, and still

snarling. It halted forty feet away and surveyed him curiously, with ears sharply pricked forward. The man

looked down at his hands in order to locate them, and found them hanging on the ends of his arms. It struck

him as curious that one should have to use his eyes in order to find out where his hands were. He began

threshing his arms back and forth, beating the mittened hands against his sides. He did this for five minutes,

violently, and his heart pumped enough blood up to the surface to put a stop to his shivering. But no sensation

was aroused in the hands. He had an impression that they hung like weights on the ends of his arms, but when

A certain fear of death, dull and oppressive, came to him. This fear quickly became poignant as he realized

that it was no longer a mere matter of freezing his fingers and toes, or of losing his hands and feet, but that it

was a matter of life and death with the chances against him. This threw him into a panic, and he turned and

ran up the creekbed along the old, dim trail. The dog joined in behind and kept up with him. He ran blindly,

without intention, in fear such as he had never known in his life. Slowly, as he ploughed and floundered

through the snow, he began to see things againthe banks of the creek, the old timberjams, the leafless

aspens, and the sky. The running made him feel better. He did not shiver. Maybe, if he ran on, his feet would

thaw out; and, anyway, if he ran far enough, he would reach camp and the boys. Without doubt he would lose

some fingers and toes and some of his face; but the boys would take care of him, and save the rest of him

when he got there. And at the same time there was another thought in his mind that said he would never get to

the camp and the boys; that it was too many miles away, that the freezing had too great a start on him, and

that he would soon be stiff and dead. This thought he kept in the background and refused to consider.

Sometimes it pushed itself forward and demanded to be heard, but he thrust it back and strove to think of

It struck him as curious that he could run at all on feet so frozen that he could not feel them when they struck

the earth and took the weight of his body. He seemed to himself to skim along above the surface and to have

no connection with the earth. Somewhere he had once seen a winged Mercury, and he wondered if Mercury

His theory of running until he reached camp and the boys had one flaw in it: he lacked the endurance. Several

times he stumbled, and finally he tottered, crumpled up, and fell. When he tried to rise, he failed. He must sit

and rest, he decided, and next time he would merely walk and keep on going. As he sat and regained his

breath, he noted that he was feeling quite warm and comfortable. He was not shivering, and it even seemed

that a warm glow had come to his chest and trunk. And yet, when he touched his nose or cheeks, there was no

sensation. Running would not thaw them out. Nor would it thaw out his hands and feet. Then the thought

came to him that the frozen portions of his body must be extending. He tried to keep this thought down, to

forget it, to think of something else; he was aware of the panicky feeling that it caused, and he was afraid of

the panic. But the thought asserted itself, and persisted, until it produced a vision of his body totally frozen.

This was too much, and he made another wild run along the trail. Once he slowed down to a walk, but the

And all the time the dog ran with him, at his heels. When he fell down a second time, it curled its tail over its

forefeet and sat in front of him facing him curiously eager and intent. The warmth and security of the animal

angered him, and he cursed it till it flattened down its ears appeasingly. This time the shivering came more

quickly upon the man. He was losing in his battle with the frost. It was creeping into his body from all sides.

The thought of it drove him on, but he ran no more than a hundred feet, when he staggered and pitched

headlong. It was his last panic. When he had recovered his breath and control, he sat up and entertained in his

mind the conception of meeting death with dignity. However, the conception did not come to him in such

terms. His idea of it was that he had been making a fool of himself, running around like a chicken with its

head cut offsuch was the simile that occurred to him. Well, he was bound to freeze anyway, and he might

as well take it decently. With this newfound peace of mind came the first glimmerings of drowsiness. A

good idea, he thought, to sleep off to death. It was like taking an anaesthetic. Freezing was not so bad as

He pictured the boys finding his body next day. Suddenly he found himself with them, coming along the trail

and looking for himself. And, still with them, he came around a turn in the trail and found himself lying in the

snow. He did not belong with himself any more, for even then he was out of himself, standing with the boys

and looking at himself in the snow. It certainly was cold, was his thought. When he got back to the States he

could tell the folks what real cold was. He drifted on from this to a vision of the oldtimer on Sulphur Creek.

"You were right, old hoss; you were right," the man mumbled to the oldtimer of Sulphur Creek.

Then the man drowsed off into what seemed to him the most comfortable and satisfying sleep he had ever

known. The dog sat facing him and waiting. The brief day drew to a close in a long, slow twilight. There

were no signs of a fire to be made, and, besides, never in the dog's experience had it known a man to sit like

that in the snow and make no fire. As the twilight drew on, its eager yearning for the fire mastered it, and

with a great lifting and shifting of forefeet, it whined softly, then flattened its ears down in anticipation of

being chidden by the man. But the man remained silent. Later, the dog whined loudly. And still later it crept

close to the man and caught the scent of death. This made the animal bristle and back away. A little longer it

delayed, howling under the stars that leaped and danced and shone brightly in the cold sky. Then it turned and

trotted up the trail in the direction of the camp it knew, where were the other foodproviders and

I don't think much of Stephen Mackaye any more, though I used to swear by him. I know that in those days I

loved him more than my own brother. If ever I meet Stephen Mackaye again, I shall not be responsible for

my actions. It passes beyond me that a man with whom I shared food and blanket, and with whom I mushed

over the Chilcoot Trail, should turn out the way he did. I always sized Steve up as a square man, a kindly

comrade, without an iota of anything vindictive or malicious in his nature. I shall never trust my judgment in

men again. Why, I nursed that man through typhoid fever; we starved together on the headwaters of the

Stewart; and he saved my life on the Little Salmon. And now, after the years we were together, all I can say

We started for the Klondike in the fall rush of 1897, and we started too late to get over Chilcoot Pass before

the freezeup. We packed our outfit on our backs part way over, when the snow began to fly, and then we

had to buy dogs in order to sled it the rest of the way. That was how we came to get that Spot. Dogs were

high, and we paid one hundred and ten dollars for him. He looked worth it. I say LOOKED, because he was

one of the finestappearing dogs I ever saw. He weighed sixty pounds, and he had all the lines of a good sled

animal. We never could make out his breed. He wasn't husky, nor Malemute, nor Hudson Bay; he looked like

all of them and he didn't look like any of them; and on top of it all he had some of the white man's dog in

him, for on one side, in the thick of the mixed yellow brownredanddirtywhite that was his prevailing

colour, there was a spot of coalblack as big as a waterbucket. That was why we called him Spot.

He was a good looker all right. When he was in condition his muscles stood out in bunches all over him. And

he was the strongestlooking brute I ever saw in Alaska, also the most intelligentlooking. To run your eves

over him, you'd think he could outpull three dogs of his own weight. Maybe he could, but I never saw it. His

intelligence didn't run that way. He could steal and forage to perfection; he had an instinct that was positively

gruesome for divining when work was to be done and for making a sneak accordingly; and for getting lost

and not staying lost he was nothing short of inspired. But when it came to work, the way that intelligence

dribbled out of him and left him a mere clot of wobbling, stupid jelly would make your heart bleed.

There are times when I think it wasn't stupidity. Maybe, like some men I know, he was too wise to work. I

shouldn't wonder if he put it all over us with that intelligence of his. Maybe he figured it all out and decided

that a licking now and again and no work was a whole lot better than work all the time and no licking. He

was intelligent enough for such a computation. I tell you, I've sat and looked into that dog's eyes till the

shivers ran up and down my spine and the marrow crawled like yeast, what of the intelligence I saw shining

out. I can't express myself about that intelligence. It is beyond mere words. I saw it, that's all. At times it was

like gazing into a human soul, to look into his eyes; and what I saw there frightened me and started all sorts

of ideas in my own mind of reincarnation and all the rest. I tell you I sensed something big in that brute's

eyes; there was a message there, but I wasn't big enough myself to catch it. Whatever it was (I know I'm

making a fool of myself) whatever it was, it baffled me. I can't give an inkling of what I saw in that brute's

eyes; it wasn't light, it wasn't colour; it was something that moved, away back, when the eyes themselves

weren't moving. And I guess I didn't see it move either; I only sensed that it moved. It was an

expressionthat's what it wasand I got an impression of it. No; it was different from a mere expression; it

was more than that. I don't know what it was, but it gave me a feeling of kinship just the same. Oh, no, not

sentimental kinship. It was, rather, a kinship of equality. Those eyes never pleaded like a deer's eyes. They

challenged. No, it wasn't defiance. It was just a calm assumption of equality. And I don't think it was

deliberate. My belief is that it was unconscious on his part. It was there because it was there, and it couldn't

help shining out. No, I don't mean shine. It didn't shine; it MOVED. I know I'm talking rot, but if you'd

looked into that animal's eyes the way I have, you'd understand. Steve was affected the same way I was.

Why, I tried to kill that Spot oncehe was no good for anything; and I fell down on it. I led him out into the

brush, and he came along slow and unwilling. He knew what was going on. I stopped in a likely place, put

my foot on the rope, and pulled my big Colt's. And that dog sat down and looked at me. I tell you he didn't

plead. He just looked. And I saw all kinds of incomprehensible things moving, yes, MOVING, in those eyes

of his. I didn't really see them move; I thought I saw them, for, as I said before, I guess I only sensed them.

And I want to tell you right now that it got beyond me. It was like killing a man, a conscious, brave man, who

Then, too, the message seemed so near that, instead of pulling the trigger quick, I stopped to see if I could

catch the message. There it was, right before me, glimmering all around in those eyes of his. And then it was

too late. I got scared. I was trembly all over, and my stomach generated a nervous palpitation that made me

seasick. I just sat down and looked at the dog, and he looked at me, till I thought I was going crazy. Do you

want to know what I did? I threw down the gun and ran back to camp with the fear of God in my heart. Steve

laughed at me. But I notice that Steve led Spot into the woods, a week later, for the same purpose, and that

At any rate, Spot wouldn't work. We paid a hundred and ten dollars for him from the bottom of our sack, and

he wouldn't work. He wouldn't even tighten the traces. Steve spoke to him the first time we put him in

harness, and he sort of shivered, that was all. Not an ounce on the traces. He just stood still and wobbled, like

so much jelly. Steve touched him with the whip. He yelped, but not an ounce. Steve touched him again, a bit

harder, and he howledthe regular long wolf howl. Then Steve got mad and gave him half a dozen, and I

I told Steve he was brutal with the animal, and we had some words the first we'd ever had. He threw the

whip down in the snow and walked away mad. I picked it up and went to it. That Spot trembled and wobbled

and cowered before ever I swung the lash, and with the first bite of it he howled like a lost soul. Next he lay

down in the snow. I started the rest of the dogs, and they dragged him along while I threw the whip into him.

He rolled over on his back and bumped along, his four legs waving in the air, himself howling as though he

was going through a sausage machine. Steve came back and laughed at me, and I apologized for what I'd

There was no getting any work out of that Spot; and to make up for it, he was the biggest pigglutton of a

dog I ever saw. On top of that, he was the cleverest thief. There was no circumventing him. Many a breakfast

we went without our bacon because Spot had been there first. And it was because of him that we nearly

starved to death up the Stewart. He figured out the way to break into our meat cache, and what he didn't eat,

the rest of the team did. But he was impartial. He stole from everybody. He was a restless dog, always very

busy snooping around or going somewhere. And there was never a camp within five miles that he didn't raid.

The worst of it was that they always came back on us to pay his board bill, which was just, being the law of

the land; but it was mighty hard on us, especially that first winter on the Chilcoot, when we were busted,

paying for whole hams and sides of bacon that we never ate. He could fight, too, that Spot. He could do

everything but work. He never pulled a pound, but he was the boss of the whole team. The way he made

those dogs stand around was an education. He bullied them, and there was always one or more of them

freshmarked with his fangs. But he was more than a bully. He wasn't afraid of anything that walked on four

legs; and I've seen him march, singlehanded into a strange team, without any provocation whatever, and put

the kibosh on the whole outfit. Did I say he could eat? I caught him eating the whip once. That's straight. He

started in at the lash, and when I caught him he was down to the handle, and still going.

But he was a good looker. At the end of the first week we sold him for seventyfive dollars to the Mounted

Police. They had experienced dogdrivers, and we knew that by the time he'd covered the six hundred miles

to Dawson he'd be a good sleddog. I say we KNEW, for we were just getting acquainted with that Spot. A

little later we were not brash enough to know anything where he was concerned. A week later we woke up in

the morning to the dangdest dogfight we'd ever heard. It was that Spot come back and knocking the team

into shape. We ate a pretty depressing breakfast, I can tell you; but cheered up two hours afterward when we

sold him to an official courier, bound in to Dawson with government despatches. That Spot was only three

We spent the winter and spring, after our own outfit was across the pass, freighting other people's outfits; and

we made a fat stake. Also, we made money out of Spot. If we sold him once, we sold him twenty times. He

always came back, and no one asked for their money. We didn't want the money. We'd have paid handsomely

for any one to take him off our hands for keeps'. We had to get rid of him, and we couldn't give him away, for

that would have been suspicious. But he was such a fine looker that we never had any difficulty in selling

him. "Unbroke," we'd say, and they'd pay any old price for him. We sold him as low as twentyfive dollars,

and once we got a hundred and fifty for him. That particular party returned him in person, refused to take his

money back, and the way he abused us was something awful. He said it was cheap at the price to tell us what

he thought of us; and we felt he was so justified that we never talked back. But to this day I've never quite

When the ice cleared out of the lakes and river, we put our outfit in a Lake Bennett boat and started for

Dawson. We had a good team of dogs, and of course we piled them on top the outfit. That Spot was

alongthere was no losing him; and a dozen times, the first day, he knocked one or another of the dogs

overboard in the course of fighting with them. It was close quarters, and he didn't like being crowded.

We did, running the boat in at Caribou Crossing for him to jump ashore. Two of the other dogs, good dogs,

followed him; and we lost two whole days trying to find them. We never saw those two dogs again; but the

quietness and relief we enjoyed made us decide, like the man who refused his hundred and fifty, that it was

cheap at the price. For the first time in months Steve and I laughed and whistled and sang. We were as happy

as clams. The dark days were over. The nightmare had been lifted. That Spot was gone.

Three weeks later, one morning, Steve and I were standing on the riverbank at Dawson. A small boat was

just arriving from Lake Bennett. I saw Steve give a start, and heard him say something that was not nice and

that was not under his breath. Then I looked; and there, in the bow of the boat, with ears pricked up, sat Spot.

Steve and I sneaked immediately, like beaten curs, like cowards, like absconders from justice. It was this last

that the lieutenant of police thought when he saw us sneaking. He surmised that there were lawofficers in

the boat who were after us. He didn't wait to find out, but kept us in sight, and in the M. M. saloon got us in a

corner. We had a merry time explaining, for we refused to go back to the boat and meet Spot; and finally he

held us under guard of another policeman while he went to the boat. After we got clear of him, we started for

the cabin, and when we arrived, there was that Spot sitting on the stoop waiting for us. Now how did he know

we lived there? There were forty thousand people in Dawson that summer, and how did he savve our cabin

out of all the cabins? How did he know we were in Dawson, anyway? I leave it to you. But don't forget what

I said about his intelligence and that immortal something I have seen glimmering in his eyes.

There was no getting rid of him any more. There were too many people in Dawson who had bought him up

on Chilcoot, and the story got around. Half a dozen times we put him on board steamboats going down the

Yukon; but he merely went ashore at the first landing and trotted back up the bank. We couldn't sell him, we

couldn't kill him (both Steve and I had tried), and nobody else was able to kill him. He bore a charmed life.

I've seen him go down in a dogfight on the main street with fifty dogs on top of him, and when they were

separated, he'd appear on all his four legs, unharmed, while two of the dogs that had been on top of him

I saw him steal a chunk of moosemeat from Major Dinwiddie's cache so heavy that he could just keep one

jump ahead of Mrs. Dinwiddie's squaw cook, who was after him with an axe. As he went up the hill, after the

squaw gave up, Major Dinwiddie himself came out and pumped his Winchester into the landscape. He

emptied his magazine twice, and never touched that Spot. Then a policeman came along and arrested him for

discharging firearms inside the city limits. Major Dinwiddie paid his fine, and Steve and I paid him for the

moosemeat at the rate of a dollar a pound, bones and all. That was what he paid for it. Meat was high that

I am only telling what I saw with my own eyes. And now I'll tell you something also. I saw that Spot fall

through a waterhole. The ice was three and a half feet thick, and the current sucked him under like a straw.

Three hundred yards below was the big waterhole used by the hospital. Spot crawled out of the hospital

waterhole, licked off the water, bit out the ice that had formed between his toes, trotted up the bank, and

In the fall of 1898, Steve and I poled up the Yukon on the last water, bound for Stewart River. We took the

dogs along, all except Spot. We figured we'd been feeding him long enough. He'd cost us more time and

trouble and money and grub than we'd got by selling him on the Chilcootespecially grub. So Steve and I

tied him down in the cabin and pulled our freight. We camped that night at the mouth of Indian River, and

Steve and I were pretty facetious over having shaken him. Steve was a funny cuss, and I was just sitting up in

the blankets and laughing when a tornado hit camp. The way that Spot walked into those dogs and gave them

whatfor was hairraising. Now how did he get loose? It's up to you. I haven't any theory. And how did he

get across the Klondike River? That's another facer. And anyway, how did he know we had gone up the

Yukon? You see, we went by water, and he couldn't smell our tracks. Steve and I began to get superstitious

about that dog. He got on our nerves, too; and, between you and me, we were just a mite afraid of him.

The freezeup came on when we were at the mouth of Henderson Creek, and we traded him off for two sacks

of flour to an outfit that was bound up White River after copper. Now that whole outfit was lost. Never trace

nor hide nor hair of men, dogs, sleds, or anything was ever found. They dropped clean out of sight. It became

one of the mysteries of the country. Steve and I plugged away up the Stewart, and six weeks afterward that

Spot crawled into camp. He was a perambulating skeleton, and could just drag along; but he got there. And

what I want to know is, who told him we were up the Stewart? We could have gone to a thousand other

No losing him. At the Mayo he started a row with an Indian dog. The buck who owned the dog took a swing

at Spot with an axe, missed him, and killed his own dog. Talk about magic and turning bullets aside I, for

one, consider it a blamed sight harder to turn an axe aside with a big buck at the other end of it. And I saw

him do it with my own eyes. That buck didn't want to kill his own dog. You've got to show me.

I told you about Spot breaking into our meat cache. It was nearly the death of us. There wasn't any more meat

to be killed, and meat was all we had to live on. The moose had gone back several hundred miles and the

Indians with them. There we were. Spring was on, and we had to wait for the river to break. We got pretty

thin before we decided to eat the dogs, and we decided to eat Spot first. Do you know what that dog did? He

sneaked. Now how did he know our minds were made up to eat him? We sat up nights laying for him, but he

And now for the sequel. You know what it is when a big river breaks up and a few billion tons of ice go out,

jamming and milling and grinding. Just in the thick of it, when the Stewart went out, rumbling and roaring,

we sighted Spot out in the middle. He'd got caught as he was trying to cross up above somewhere. Steve and I

yelled and shouted and ran up and down the bank, tossing our hats in the air. Sometimes we'd stop and hug

each other, we were that boisterous, for we saw Spot's finish. He didn't have a chance in a million. He didn't

have any chance at all. After the icerun, we got into a canoe and paddled down to the Yukon, and down the

Yukon to Dawson, stopping to feed up for a week at the cabins at the mouth of Henderson Creek. And as we

came in to the bank at Dawson, there sat that Spot, waiting for us, his ears pricked up, his tail wagging, his

mouth smiling, extending a hearty welcome to us. Now how did he get out of that ice? How did he know we

were coming to Dawson, to the very hour and minute, to be out there on the bank waiting for us?

The more I think of that Spot, the more I am convinced that there are things in this world that go beyond

science. On no scientific grounds can that Spot be explained. It's psychic phenomena, or mysticism, or

something of that sort, I guess, with a lot of Theosophy thrown in. The Klondike is a good country. I might

have been there yet, and become a millionaire, if it hadn't been for Spot. He got on my nerves. I stood him for

two years altogether, and then I guess my stamina broke. It was the summer of 1899 when I pulled out. I

didn't say anything to Steve. I just sneaked. But I fixed it up all right. I wrote Steve a note, and enclosed a

package of "roughonrats," telling him what to do with it. I was worn down to skin and bone by that Spot,

and I was that nervous that I'd jump and look around when there wasn't anybody within hailing distance. But

it was astonishing the way I recuperated when I got quit of him. I got back twenty pounds before I arrived in

San Francisco, and by the time I'd crossed the ferry to Oakland I was my old self again, so that even my wife

Steve wrote to me once, and his letter seemed irritated. He took it kind of hard because I'd left him with Spot.

Also, he said he'd used the "roughonrats," per directions, and that there was nothing doing. A year went

by. I was back in the office and prospering in all wayseven getting a bit fat. And then Steve arrived. He

didn't look me up. I read his name in the steamer list, and wondered why. But I didn't wonder long. I got up

one morning and found that Spot chained to the gatepost and holding up the milkman. Steve went north to

Seattle, I learned, that very morning. I didn't put on any more weight. My wife made me buy him a collar and

tag, and within an hour he showed his gratitude by killing her pet Persian cat. There is no getting rid of that

Spot. He will be with me until I die, for he'll never die. My appetite is not so good since he arrived, and my

wife says I am looking peaked. Last night that Spot got into Mr. Harvey's henhouse (Harvey is my

nextdoor neighbour) and killed nineteen of his fancybred chickens. I shall have to pay for them. My

neighbours on the other side quarrelled with my wife and then moved out. Spot was the cause of it. And that

is why I am disappointed in Stephen Mackaye. I had no idea he was so mean a man.

Lon McFane was a bit grumpy, what of losing his tobacco pouch, or else he might have told me, before we

got to it, something about the cabin at Surprise Lake. All day, turn and turn about, we had spelled each other

at going to the fore and breaking trail for the dogs. It was heavy snowshoe work, and did not tend to make a

man voluble, yet Lon McFane might have found breath enough at noon, when we stopped to boil coffee, with

which to tell me. But he didn't. Surprise Lake? it was Surprise Cabin to me. I had never heard of it before. I

confess I was a bit tired. I had been looking for Lon to stop and make camp any time for an hour; but I had

too much pride to suggest making camp or to ask him his intentions; and yet he was my man, lured at a

handsome wage to mush my dogs for me and to obey my commands. I guess I was a bit grumpy myself. He

said nothing, and I was resolved to ask nothing, even if we tramped on all night.

We came upon the cabin abruptly. For a week of trail we had met no one, and, in my mind, there had been

little likelihood of meeting any one for a week to come. And yet there it was, right before my eyes, a cabin,

"A woman," was the answer, and the next moment Lon had rapped on the door, and a woman's voice bade

"Nope," Lon answered carelessly. "I've been in the other direction, down Circle City way. Dave's up Dawson

The woman nodded, and Lon fell to unharnessing the dogs, while I unlashed the sled and carried the camp

outfit into the cabin. The cabin was a large, oneroom affair, and the woman was evidently alone in it. She

pointed to the stove, where water was already boiling, and Lon set about the preparation of supper, while I

opened the fish bag and fed the dogs. I looked for Lon to introduce us, and was vexed that he did not, for

"You are Lon McFane, aren't you?" I heard her ask him. "Why, I remember you now. The last time I saw you

Her speech seemed suddenly to be frozen by the spectacle of dread which, I knew, from the tenor I saw

mounting in her eyes, must be on her inner vision. To my astonishment, Lon was affected by her words and

manner. His face showed desperate, for all his voice sounded hearty and genial, as he said

"The last time we met was at Dawson, Queen's Jubilee, or Birthday, or somethingdon't you

remember?the canoe races in the river, and the obstacle races down the main street?"

The terror faded out of her eyes and her whole body relaxed. "Oh, yes, I do remember," she said. "And you

"How's Dave been makin' it lately? Strikin' it as rich as ever, I suppose?" Lon asked, with apparent

She smiled and nodded, and then, noticing that I had unlashed the bed roll, she indicated the end of the cabin

where I might spread it. Her own bunk, I noticed, was made up at the opposite end.

After that she said nothing, contenting herself with watching Lon's cooking operations, and listening the

while as for the sound of dogs along the trail. I lay back on the blankets and smoked and watched. Here was

mystery; I could make that much out, but no more could I make out. Why in the deuce hadn't Lon given me

the tip before we arrived? I looked at her face, unnoticed by her, and the longer I looked the harder it was to

take my eyes away. It was a wonderfully beautiful face, unearthly, I may say, with a light in it or an

expression or something "that was never on land or sea." Fear and terror had completely vanished, and it was

a placidly beautiful face if by "placid" one can characterize that intangible and occult something that I

cannot say was a radiance or a light any more than I can say it was an expression.

"Have you seen Dave recently?" she asked me. It was on the tip of my tongue to say "Dave who?" when Lon

coughed in the smoke that arose from the sizzling bacon. The bacon might have caused that cough, but I took

it as a hint and left my question unasked. "No, I haven't," I answered. "I'm new in this part of the country"

"But you don't mean to say," she interrupted, "that you've never heard of Daveof Big Dave Walsh?"

"You see," I apologised, "I'm new in the country. I've put in most of my time in the Lower Country, down

Lon seemed put out, but he began in that hearty, genial manner that I had noticed before. It seemed a shade

"Oh, Dave is a fine man," he said. "He's a man, every inch of him, and he stands six feet four in his socks. His

word is as good as his bond. The man lies who ever says Dave told a lie, and that man will have to fight with

me, too, as wellif there's anything left of him when Dave gets done with him. For Dave is a fighter. Oh,

yes, he's a scrapper from way back. He got a grizzly with a '38 popgun. He got clawed some, but he knew

what he was doin'. He went into the cave on purpose to get that grizzly. 'Fraid of nothing. Free an' easy with

his money, or his last shirt an' match when out of money. Why, he drained Surprise Lake here in three weeks

an' took out ninety thousand, didn't he?" She flushed and nodded her head proudly. Through his recital she

had followed every word with keenest interest. "An' I must say," Lon went on, "that I was disappointed sore

Lon served supper at one end of the table of whipsawed spruce, and we fell to eating. A howling of the dogs

The woman had closed the door and was returning, and I sat and meditated upon the fact that this man who

told me to shut up received from me a salary of two hundred and fifty dollars a month and his board.

Lon washed the dishes, while I smoked and watched the woman. She seemed more beautiful than

everstrangely and weirdly beautiful, it is true. After looking at her steadfastly for five minutes, I was

compelled to come back to the real world and to glance at Lon McFane. This enabled me to know, without

discussion, that the woman, too, was real. At first I had taken her for the wife of Dave Walsh; but if Dave

It was early to bed, for we faced a long day on the morrow; and as Lon crawled in beside me under the

And before I could formulate my next question, Lon McFane, I swear, was off to sleep. He always went to

sleep that wayjust crawled into the blankets, closed his eyes, and was off, a demure little heavy breathing

And in the morning it was quick breakfast, feed the dogs, load the sled, and hit the trail. We said goodbye as

we pulled out, and the woman stood in the doorway and watched us off. I carried the vision of her unearthly

beauty away with me, just under my eyelids, and all I had to do, any time, was to close them and see her

again. The way was unbroken, Surprise Lake being far off the travelled trails, and Lon and I took turn about

at beating down the feathery snow with our big, webbed shoes so that the dogs could travel. "But you said

you expected to meet Dave Walsh at the cabin," trembled on the tip of my tongue a score of times. I did not

utter it. I could wait until we knocked off in the middle of the day. And when the middle of the day came, we

went right on, for, as Lon explained, there was a camp of moose hunters at the forks of the Teelee, and we

could make there by dark. But we didn't make there by dark, for Bright, the leaddog, broke his

shoulderblade, and we lost an hour over him before we shot him. Then, crossing a timber jam on the frozen

bed of the Teelee, the sled suffered a wrenching capsize, and it was a case of make camp and repair the

runner. I cooked supper and fed the dogs while Lon made the repairs, and together we got in the night's

supply of ice and firewood. Then we sat on our blankets, our moccasins steaming on upended sticks before

"You noticed the colour of her hair and eyes and her complexion, well, that's where she got her nameshe

was like the first warm glow of a golden sunrise. She was called Flush of Gold. Ever heard of her?"

Somewhere I had a confused and misty remembrance of having heard the name, yet it meant nothing to me.

"Flush of Gold," I repeated; "sounds like the name of a dancehouse girl." Lon shook his head. "No, she was

"But why do you speak always of her in the past tense, as though she were dead?"

"Because of the darkness on her soul that is the same as the darkness of death. The Flush of Gold that I knew,

that Dawson knew, and that Forty Mile knew before that, is dead. That dumb, lunatic creature we saw last

"He built that cabin," Lon answered, "He built it for her . . . and for himself. He is dead. She is waiting for

him there. She half believes he is not dead. But who can know the whim of a crazed mind? Maybe she wholly

believes he is not dead. At any rate, she waits for him there in the cabin he built. Who would rouse the dead?

Then who would rouse the living that are dead? Not I, and that is why I let on to expect to meet Dave Walsh

there last night. I'll bet a stack that I'd a been more surprised than she if I HAD met him there last night."

"I do not understand," I said. "Begin at the beginning, as a white man should, and tell me the whole tale."

And Lon began. "Victor Chauvet was an old Frenchmanborn in the south of France. He came to California

in the days of gold. He was a pioneer. He found no gold, but, instead, became a maker of bottled

sunshinein short, a grapegrower and winemaker. Also, he followed gold excitements. That is what

brought him to Alaska in the early days, and over the Chilcoot and down the Yukon long before the Carmack

strike. The old town site of Ten Mile was Chauvet's. He carried the first mail into Arctic City. He staked

those coalmines on the Porcupine a dozen years ago. He grubstaked Loftus into the Nippennuck Country.

Now it happened that Victor Chauvet was a good Catholic, loving two things in this world, wine and woman.

Wine of all kinds he loved, but of woman, only one, and she was the mother of Marie Chauvet."

Here I groaned aloud, having meditated beyond selfcontrol over the fact that I paid this man two hundred

"Matter?" I complained. "I thought you were telling the story of Flush of Gold. I don't want a biography of

Lon calmly lighted his pipe, took one good puff, then put the pipe aside. "And you asked me to begin at the

"And the beginning of Flush of Gold is the old French winebibber, for he was the father of Marie Chauvet,

and Marie Chauvet was the Flush of Gold. What more do you want? Victor Chauvet never had much luck to

speak of. He managed to live, and to get along, and to take good care of Marie, who resembled the one

woman he had loved. He took very good care of her. Flush of Gold was the pet name he gave her. Flush of

Gold Creek was named after herFlush of Gold town site, too. The old man was great on town sites, only he

"Now, honestly," Lon said, with one of his lightning changes, "you've seen her, what do you think of herof

"She is remarkably beautiful," I said. "I never saw anything like her in my life. In spite of the fact, last night,

that I guessed she was mad, I could not keep my eyes off of her. It wasn't curiosity. It was wonder, sheer

"She was more strangely beautiful before the darkness fell upon her," Lon said softly. "She was truly the

Flush of Cold. She turned all men's hearts . . . and heads. She recalls, with an effort, that I once won a canoe

race at DawsonI, who once loved her, and was told by her of her love for me. It was her beauty that made

all men love her. She'd 'a' got the apple from Paris, on application, and there wouldn't have been any Trojan

War, and to top it off she'd have thrown Paris down. And now she lives in darkness, and she who was always

fickle, for the first time is constantand constant to a shade, to a dead man she does not realize is dead.

"And this is the way it was. You remember what I said last night of Dave WalshBig Dave Walsh? He was

all that I said, and more, many times more. He came into this country in the late eightiesthat's a pioneer for

you. He was twenty years old then. He was a young bull. When he was twentyfive he could lift clear of the

ground thirteen fiftypound sacks of flour. At first, each fall of the year, famine drove him out. It was a lone

land in those days. No river steamboats, no grub, nothing but salmon bellies and rabbit tracks. But after

famine chased him out three years, he said he'd had enough of being chased; and the next year he stayed. He

lived on straight meat when he was lucky enough to get it; he ate eleven dogs that winter; but he stayed. And

the next winter he stayed, and the next. He never did leave the country again. He was a bull, a great bull. He

could kill the strongest man in the country with hard work. He could outpack a Chilcat Indian, he could

outpaddle a Stick, and he could travel all day with wet feet when the thermometer registered fifty below zero,

and that's going some, I tell you, for vitality. You'd freeze your feet at twentyfive below if you wet them and

"Dave Walsh was a bull for strength. And yet he was soft and easy natured. Anybody could do him, the

latest shorthorn in camp could lie his last dollar out of him. 'But it doesn't worry me,' he had a way of

laughing off his softness; 'it doesn't keep me awake nights.' Now don't get the idea that he had no backbone.

You remember about the bear he went after with the popgun. When it came to fighting Dave was the

blamedest ever. He was the limit, if by that I may describe his unlimitedness when he got into action, he was

easy and kind with the weak, but the strong had to give trail when he went by. And he was a man that men

"Dave never took part in the big stampede to Dawson when Carmack made the Bonanza strike. You see,

Dave was just then over on Mammon Creek strikin' it himself. He discovered Mammon Creek. Cleaned

eighty four thousand up that winter, and opened up the claim so that it promised a couple of hundred

thousand for the next winter. Then, summer bein' on and the ground sloshy, he took a trip up the Yukon to

Dawson to see what Carmack's strike looked like. And there he saw Flush of Gold. I remember the night. I

shall always remember. It was something sudden, and it makes one shiver to think of a strong man with all

the strength withered out of him by one glance from the soft eyes of a weak, blond, female creature like Flush

of Gold. It was at her dad's cabin, old Victor Chauvet's. Some friend had brought Dave along to talk over

town sites on Mammon Creek. But little talking did he do, and what he did was mostly gibberish. I tell you

the sight of Flush of Gold had sent Dave clean daffy. Old Victor Chauvet insisted after Dave left that he had

been drunk. And so he had. He was drunk, but Flush of Gold was the strong drink that made him so.

"That settled it, that first glimpse he caught of her. He did not start back down the Yukon in a week, as he had

intended. He lingered on a month, two months, all summer. And we who had suffered understood, and

wondered what the outcome would be. Undoubtedly, in our minds, it seemed that Flush of Gold had met her

master. And why not? There was romance sprinkled all over Dave Walsh. He was a Mammon King, he had

made the Mammon Creek strike; he was an old sour dough, one of the oldest pioneers in the landmen

turned to look at him when he went by, and said to one another in awed undertones, 'There goes Dave Walsh.'

And why not? He stood six feet four; he had yellow hair himself that curled on his neck; and he was a

"And Flush of Gold loved him, and, having danced him through a whole summer's courtship, at the end their

engagement was made known. The fall of the year was at hand, Dave had to be back for the winter's work on

Mammon Creek, and Flush of Gold refused to be married right away. Dave put Dusky Burns in charge of the

Mammon Creek claim, and himself lingered on in Dawson. Little use. She wanted her freedom a while

longer; she must have it, and she would not marry until next year. And so, on the first ice, Dave Walsh went

alone down the Yukon behind his dogs, with the understanding that the marriage would take place when he

Now Dave was as true as the Pole Star, and she was as false as a magnetic needle in a cargo of loadstone.

Dave was as steady and solid as she was fickle and flyaway, and in some way Dave, who never doubted

anybody, doubted her. It was the jealousy of his love, perhaps, and maybe it was the message ticked off from

her soul to his; but at any rate Dave was worried by fear of her inconstancy. He was afraid to trust her till the

next year, he had so to trust her, and he was pretty well beside himself. Some of it I got from old Victor

Chauvet afterwards, and from all that I have pieced together I conclude that there was something of a scene

before Dave pulled north with his dogs. He stood up before the old Frenchman, with Flush of Gold beside

him, and announced that they were plighted to each other. He was very dramatic, with fire in his eyes, old

Victor said. He talked something about 'until death do us part'; and old Victor especially remembered that at

one place Dave took her by the shoulder with his great paw and almost shook her as he said: 'Even unto death

are you mine, and I would rise from the grave to claim you.' Old Victor distinctly remembered those words

'Even unto death are you mine, and I would rise from the grave to claim you.' And he told me afterwards that

Flush of Gold was pretty badly frightened, and that he afterwards took Dave to one side privately and told

him that that wasn't the way to hold Flush of Goldthat he must humour her and gentle her if he wanted to

"There is no discussion in my mind but that Flush of Gold was frightened. She was a savage herself in her

treatment of men, while men had always treated her as a soft and tender and too utterlyutter something that

must not be hurt. She didn't know what harshness was . . . until Dave Walsh, standing his six feet four, a big

bull, gripped her and pawed her and assured her that she was his until death, and then some. And besides, in

Dawson, that winter, was a musicplayerone of those macaronieating, greasytenorEyetalian dago

propositionsand Flush of Gold lost her heart to him. Maybe it was only fascinationI don't know.

Sometimes it seems to me that she really did love Dave Walsh. Perhaps it was because he had frightened her

with that evenuntodeath, risefromthegrave stunt of his that she in the end inclined to the dago

musicplayer. But it is all guesswork, and the facts are, sufficient. He wasn't a dago; he was a Russian

countthis was straight; and he wasn't a professional pianoplayer or anything of the sort. He played the

violin and the piano, and he sangsang wellbut it was for his own pleasure and for the pleasure of those

he sang for. He had money, tooand right here let me say that Flush of Gold never cared a rap for money.

"But to be getting along. She was plighted to Dave, and Dave was coming up on the first steamboat to get

herthat was the summer of '98, and the first steamboat was to be expected the middle of June. And Flush

of Gold was afraid to throw Dave down and face him afterwards. It was all planned suddenly. The Russian

musicplayer, the Count, was her obedient slave. She planned it, I know. I learned as much from old Victor

afterwards. The Count took his orders from her, and caught that first steamboat down. It was the Golden

Rocket. And so did Flush of Gold catch it. And so did I. I was going to Circle City, and I was flabbergasted

when I found Flush of Gold on board. I didn't see her name down on the passenger list. She was with the

Count fellow all the time, happy and smiling, and I noticed that the Count fellow was down on the list as

having his wife along. There it was, stateroom, number, and all. The first I knew that he was married, only I

didn't see anything of the wife . . . unless Flush of Gold was so counted. I wondered if they'd got married

ashore before starting. There'd been talk about them in Dawson, you see, and bets had been laid that the

"I talked with the purser. He didn't know anything more about it than I did; he didn't know Flush of Gold,

anyway, and besides, he was almost rushed to death. You know what a Yukon steamboat is, but you can't

guess what the Golden Rocket was when it left Dawson that June of 1898. She was a hummer. Being the first

steamer out, she carried all the scurvy patients and hospital wrecks. Then she must have carried a couple of

millions of Klondike dust and nuggets, to say nothing of a packed and jammed passenger list, deck

passengers galore, and bucks and squaws and dogs without end. And she was loaded down to the guards with

freight and baggage. There was a mountain of the same on the forelowerdeck, and each little stop along the

way added to it. I saw the box come aboard at Teelee Portage, and I knew it for what it was, though I little

guessed the joker that was in it. And they piled it on top of everything else on the forelowerdeck, and they

didn't pile it any too securely either. The mate expected to come back to it again, and then forgot about it. I

thought at the time that there was something familiar about the big husky dog that climbed over the baggage

and freight and lay down next to the box. And then we passed the Glendale, bound up for Dawson. As she

saluted us, I thought of Dave on board of her and hurrying to Dawson to Flush of Gold. I turned and looked at

her where she stood by the rail. Her eyes were bright, but she looked a bit frightened by the sight of the other

steamer, and she was leaning closely to the Count fellow as for protection. She needn't have leaned so safely

against him, and I needn't have been so sure of a disappointed Dave Walsh arriving at Dawson. For Dave

Walsh wasn't on the Glendale. There were a lot of things I didn't know, but was soon to knowfor instance,

that the pair were not yet married. Inside half an hour preparations for the marriage took place. What of the

sick men in the main cabin, and of the crowded condition of the Golden Rocket, the likeliest place for the

ceremony was found forward, on the lower deck, in an open space next to the rail and gangplank and shaded

by the mountain of freight with the big box on top and the sleeping dog beside it. There was a missionary on

board, getting off at Eagle City, which was the next step, so they had to use him quick. That's what they'd

"But I've run ahead of the facts. The reason Dave Walsh wasn't on the Glendale was because he was on the

Golden Rocket. It was this way. After loiterin' in Dawson on account of Flush of Gold, he went down to

Mammon Creek on the ice. And there he found Dusky Burns doing so well with the claim, there was no need

for him to be around. So he put some grub on the sled, harnessed the dogs, took an Indian along, and pulled

out for Surprise Lake. He always had a liking for that section. Maybe you don't know how the creek turned

out to be a fourflusher; but the prospects were good at the time, and Dave proceeded to build his cabin and

hers. That's the cabin we slept in. After he finished it, he went off on a moose hunt to the forks of the Teelee,

"And this is what happened. Came on a cold snap. The juice went down forty, fifty, sixty below zero. I

remember that snapI was at Forty Mile; and I remember the very day. At eleven o'clock in the morning the

spirit thermometer at the N. A. T. T. Company's store went down to seventyfive below zero. And that

morning, near the forks of the Teelee, Dave Walsh was out after moose with that blessed Indian of his. I got it

all from the Indian afterwardswe made a trip over the ice together to Dyea. That morning Mr. Indian broke

through the ice and wet himself to the waist. Of course he began to freeze right away. The proper thing was to

build a fire. But Dave Walsh was a bull. It was only half a mile to camp, where a fire was already burning.

What was the good of building another? He threw Mr. Indian over his shoulderand ran with himhalf a

milewith the thermometer at seventyfive below. You know what that means. Suicide. There's no other

name for it. Why, that buck Indian weighed over two hundred himself, and Dave ran half a mile with him. Of

course he froze his lungs. Must have frozen them near solid. It was a tomfool trick for any man to do. And

"The Indian didn't know what to do with the corpse. Ordinarily he'd have buried him and let it go at that. But

he knew that Dave Walsh was a big man, worth lots of money, a hiyu skookum chief. Likewise he'd seen

the bodies of other hiyu skookums carted around the country like they were worth something. So he decided

to take Dave's body to Forty Mile, which was Dave's headquarters. You know how the ice is on the grass

roots in this countrywell, the Indian planted Dave under a foot of soilin short, he put Dave on ice. Dave

could have stayed there a thousand years and still been the same old Dave. You understandjust the same as

a refrigerator. Then the Indian brings over a whipsaw from the cabin at Surprise Lake and makes lumber

enough for the box. Also, waiting for the thaw, he goes out and shoots about ten thousand pounds of moose.

This he keeps on ice, too. Came the thaw. The Teelee broke. He built a raft and loaded it with the meat, the

big box with Dave inside, and Dave's team of dogs, and away they went down the Teelee.

"The raft got caught on a timber jam and hung up two days. It was scorching hot weather, and Mr. Indian

nearly lost his moose meat. So when he got to Teelee Portage he figured a steamboat would get to Forty Mile

quicker than his raft. He transferred his cargo, and there you are, forelower deck of the Golden Rocket,

Flush of Gold being married, and Dave Walsh in his big box casting the shade for her. And there's one thing I

clean forgot. No wonder I thought the husky dog that came aboard at Teelee Portage was familiar. It was

Peelat, Dave Walsh's leaddog and favouritea terrible fighter, too. He was lying down beside the box.

"Flush of Gold caught sight of me, called me over, shook hands with me, and introduced me to the Count.

She was beautiful. I was as mad for her then as ever. She smiled into my eyes and said I must sign as one of

the witnesses. And there was no refusing her. She was ever a child, cruel as children are cruel. Also, she told

me she was in possession of the only two bottles of champagne in Dawsonor that had been in Dawson the

night before; and before I knew it I was scheduled to drink her and the Count's health. Everybody crowded

round, the captain of the steamboat, very prominent, trying to ring in on the wine, I guess. It was a funny

wedding. On the upper deck the hospital wrecks, with various feet in the grave, gathered and looked down to

see. There were Indians all jammed in the circle, too, big bucks, and their squaws and kids, to say nothing of

about twentyfive snarling wolfdogs. The missionary lined the two of them up and started in with the

service. And just then a dogfight started, high up on the pile of freightPeelat lying beside the big box,

and a whitehaired brute belonging to one of the Indians. The fight wasn't explosive at all. The brutes just

snarled at each other from a distancetapping at each other longdistance, you know, saying dast and

dassent, dast and dassent. The noise was rather disturbing, but you could hear the missionary's voice above it.

"There was no particularly easy way of getting at the two dogs, except from the other side of the pile. But

nobody was on that side everybody watching the ceremony, you see. Even then everything might have

been all right if the captain hadn't thrown a club at the dogs. That was what precipitated everything. As I say,

"The missionary had just reached the point where he was saying 'In sickness and in health,' and 'Till death us

do part.' And just then the captain threw the club. I saw the whole thing. It landed on Peelat, and at that

instant the white brute jumped him. The club caused it. Their two bodies struck the box, and it began to slide,

its lower end tilting down. It was a long oblong box, and it slid down slowly until it reached the

perpendicular, when it came down on the run. The onlookers on that side the circle had time to get out from

under. Flush of Gold and the Count, on the opposite side of the circle, were facing the box; the missionary

had his back to it. The box must have fallen ten feet straight up and down, and it hit end on.

"Now mind you, not one of us knew that Dave Walsh was dead. We thought he was on the Glendale, bound

for Dawson. The missionary had edged off to one side, and so Flush of Gold faced the box when it struck. It

was like in a play. It couldn't have been better planned. It struck on end, and on the right end; the whole front

of the box came off; and out swept Dave Walsh on his feet, partly wrapped in a blanket, his yellow hair flying

and showing bright in the sun. Right out of the box, on his feet, he swept upon Flush of Gold. She didn't

know he was dead, but it was unmistakable, after hanging up two days on a timber jam, that he was rising all

right from the dead to claim her. Possibly that is what she thought. At any rate, the sight froze her. She

couldn't move. She just sort of wilted and watched Dave Walsh coming for her! And he got her. It looked

almost as though he threw his arms around her, but whether or not this happened, down to the deck they went

together. We had to drag Dave Walsh's body clear before we could get hold of her. She was in a faint, but it

would have been just as well if she had never come out of that faint; for when she did, she fell to screaming

the way insane people do. She kept it up for hours, till she was exhausted. Oh, yes, she recovered. You saw

her last night, and know how much recovered she is. She is not violent, it is true, but she lives in darkness.

She believes that she is waiting for Dave Walsh, and so she waits in the cabin he built for her. She is no

longer fickle. It is nine years now that she has been faithful to Dave Walsh, and the outlook is that she'll be

"We have her grub hauled to her each year," he added, "and in general keep an eye on her. Last night was the

"Oh," was the answer, "the Count and old Victor Chauvet and me. Do you know, I think the Count is the one

to be really sorry for. Dave Walsh never did know that she was false to him. And she does not suffer. Her

But there was a gentle sound of heavy breathing, and I knew Lon McFane was asleep.

"It is the judgment of this court that you vamose the camp . . . in the customary way, sir, in the customary

Judge Marcus O'Brien was absentminded, and Mucluc Charley nudged him in the ribs. Marcus O'Brien

"Weighing the gravity of the offence, sir, and the extenuating circumstances, it is the opinion of this court,

and its verdict, that you be outfitted with three days' grub. That will do, I think."

Arizona Jack cast a bleak glance out over the Yukon. It was a swollen, chocolate flood, running a mile wide

and nobody knew how deep. The earthbank on which he stood was ordinarily a dozen feet above the water,

but the river was now growling at the top of the bank, devouring, instant by instant, tiny portions of the top

standing soil. These portions went into the gaping mouths of the endless army of brown swirls and vanished

"There was Manchester," Marcus O'Brien replied gravely. "He didn't get any grub."

"And they found his remains grounded on the Lower River an' half eaten by huskies," was Arizona Jack's

retort. "And his killin' was without provocation. Joe Deeves never did nothin', never warbled once, an' jes'

because his stomach was out of order, Manchester ups an' plugs him. You ain't givin' me a square deal,

O'Brien, I tell you that straight. Give me a week's grub, and I play even to win out. Three days' grub, an' I

"What for did you kill Ferguson?" O'Brien demanded. "I haven't any patience for these unprovoked killings.

And they've got to stop. Red Cow's none so populous. It's a good camp, and there never used to be any

killings. Now they're epidemic. I'm sorry for you, Jack, but you've got to be made an example of. Ferguson

"Provoke!" Arizona Jack snorted. "I tell you, O'Brien, you don't savve. You ain't got no artistic sensibilities.

What for did I kill Ferguson? What for did Ferguson sing 'Then I wisht I was a little bird'? That's what I want

to know. Answer me that. What for did he sing 'little bird, little bird'? One little bird was enough. I could

astood one little bird. But no, he must sing two little birds. I gave 'm a chanst. I went to him almighty polite

and requested him kindly to discard one little bird. I pleaded with him. There was witnesses that testified to

"Ain't a man got a right to his artistic feelin's?" Arizona Jack demanded. "I gave Ferguson warnin'. It was

violatin' my own nature to go on listening to his little birds. Why, there's music sharps that finestrung an'

keyedup they'd kill for heaps less'n I did. I'm willin' to pay for havin' artistic feelin's. I can take my medicine

an' lick the spoon, but three days' grub is drawin' it a shade fine, that's all, an' I hereby register my kick. Go

"I should say, Judge, that three days' grub was a mite severe," the latter suggested; "but you're runnin' the

show. When we elected you judge of this here trial court, we agreed to abide by your decisions, an' we've

"Mebbe I've been a trifle harsh, Jack," O'Brien said apologetically "I'm that worked up over those killings;

an' I'm willing to make it a week's grub." He cleared his throat magisterially and looked briskly about him.

"And now we might as well get along and finish up the business. The boat's ready. You go and get the grub,

Arizona Jack looked grateful, and, muttering something about "damned little birds," stepped aboard the open

boat that rubbed restlessly against the bank. It was a large skiff, built of rough pine planks that had been

sawed by hand from the standing timber of Lake Linderman, a few hundred miles above, at the foot of

Chilcoot. In the boat were a pair of oars and Arizona Jack's blankets. Leclaire brought the grub, tied up in a

floursack, and put it on board. As he did so, he whispered"I gave you good measure, Jack. You done it

Somebody untied the painter and threw it in. The current gripped the boat and whirled it away. The murderer

did not bother with the oars, contenting himself with sitting in the sternsheets and rolling a cigarette.

Completing it, he struck a match and lighted up. Those that watched on the bank could see the tiny puffs of

smoke. They remained on the bank till the boat swung out of sight around the bend half a mile below. Justice

The denizens of Red Cow imposed the law and executed sentences without the delays that mark the softness

of civilization. There was no law on the Yukon save what they made for themselves. They were compelled to

make it for themselves. It was in an early day that Red Cow flourished on the Yukon1887and the

Klondike and its populous stampedes lay in the unguessed future. The men of Red Cow did not even know

whether their camp was situated in Alaska or in the North west Territory, whether they drew breath under

the stars and stripes or under the British flag. No surveyor had ever happened along to give them their latitude

and longitude. Red Cow was situated somewhere along the Yukon, and that was sufficient for them. So far as

flags were concerned, they were beyond all jurisdiction. So far as the law was concerned, they were in

They made their own law, and it was very simple. The Yukon executed their decrees. Some two thousand

miles below Red Cow the Yukon flowed into Bering Sea through a delta a hundred miles wide. Every mile of

those two thousand miles was savage wilderness. It was true, where the Porcupine flowed into the Yukon

inside the Arctic Circle there was a Hudson Bay Company trading post. But that was many hundreds of miles

away. Also, it was rumoured that many hundreds of miles farther on there were missions. This last, however,

was merely rumour; the men of Red Cow had never been there. They had entered the lone land by way of

The men of Red Cow ignored all minor offences. To be drunk and disorderly and to use vulgar language were

looked upon as natural and inalienable rights. The men of Red Cow were individualists, and recognized as

sacred but two things, property and life. There were no women present to complicate their simple morality.

There were only three logcabins in Red Cowthe majority of the population of forty men living in tents or

brush shacks; and there was no jail in which to confine malefactors, while the inhabitants were too busy

digging gold or seeking gold to take a day off and build a jail. Besides, the paramount question of grub

negatived such a procedure. Wherefore, when a man violated the rights of property or life, he was thrown into

an open boat and started down the Yukon. The quantity of grub he received was proportioned to the gravity

of the offence. Thus, a common thief might get as much as two weeks' grub; an uncommon thief might get no

more than half of that. A murderer got no grub at all. A man found guilty of manslaughter would receive grub

for from three days to a week. And Marcus O'Brien had been elected judge, and it was he who apportioned

the grub. A man who broke the law took his chances. The Yukon swept him away, and he might or might not

win to Bering Sea. A few days' grub gave him a fighting chance. No grub meant practically capital

punishment, though there was a slim chance, all depending on the season of the year.

Having disposed of Arizona Jack and watched him out of sight, the population turned from the bank and went

to work on its claimsall except Curly Jim, who ran the one faro layout in all the Northland and who

speculated in prospectholes on the sides. Two things happened that day that were momentous. In the late

morning Marcus O'Brien struck it. He washed out a dollar, a dollar and a half, and two dollars, from three

successive pans. He had found the streak. Curly Jim looked into the hole, washed a few pans himself, and

offered O'Brien ten thousand dollars for all rightsfive thousand in dust, and, in lieu of the other five

thousand, a half interest in his faro layout. O'Brien refused the offer. He was there to make money out of the

earth, he declared with heat, and not out of his fellow men. And anyway, he didn't like faro. Besides, he

The second event of moment occurred in the afternoon, when Siskiyou Pearly ran his boat into the bank and

tied up. He was fresh from the Outside, and had in his possession a fourmonthsold newspaper.

Furthermore, he had half a dozen barrels of whisky, all consigned to Curly Jim. The men of Red Cow quit

work. They sampled the whisky at a dollar a drink, weighed out on Curly's scales; and they discussed the

news. And all would have been well, had not Curly Jim conceived a nefarious scheme, which was, namely,

The first half of the scheme worked beautifully. It began in the early evening, and by nine o'clock O'Brien

had reached the singing stage. He clung with one arm around Curly Jim's neck, and even essayed the late

lamented Ferguson's song about the little birds. He considered he was quite safe in this, what of the fact that

the only man in camp with artistic feelings was even then speeding down the Yukon on the breast of a

But the second half of the scheme failed to connect. No matter how much whisky was poured down his neck,

O'Brien could not be brought to realize that it was his bounden and friendly duty to sell his claim. He

hesitated, it is true, and trembled now and again on the verge of giving in. Inside his muddled head, however,

he was chuckling to himself. He was up to Curly Jim's game, and liked the hands that were being dealt him.

The whisky was good. It came out of one special barrel, and was about a dozen times better than that in the

Siskiyou Pearly was dispensing drinks in the barroom to the remainder of the population of Red Cow, while

O'Brien and Curly had out their business orgy in the kitchen. But there was nothing small about O'Brien. He

"Business 'sociates of mine, business 'sociates," he announced, with a broad wink to them and a guileless grin

to Curly. "Always trust their judgment, always trust 'em. They're all right. Give 'em some firewater, Curly,

This was ringing in; but Curly Jim, making a swift revaluation of the claim, and remembering that the last

pan he washed had turned out seven dollars, decided that it was worth the extra whisky, even if it was selling

"I'm not likely to consider," O'Brien was hiccoughing to his two friends in the course of explaining to them

the question at issue. "Who? Me?sell for ten thousand dollars! No indeed. I'll dig the gold myself, an' then

I'm goin' down to God's countrySouthern Californiathat's the place for me to end my declinin'

daysan' then I'll start . . . as I said before, then I'll start . . . what did I say I was goin' to start?"

"Sure, just what I'm goin' to start." O'Brien abruptly steadied himself and looked with awe at Mucluc Charley.

"How did you know? Never said so. Jes' thought I said so. You're a min' reader, Charley. Le's have another."

Curly Jim filled the glasses and had the pleasure of seeing four dollars' worth of whisky disappear, one

dollar's worth of which he punished himselfO'Brien insisted that he should drink as frequently as his

"Better take the money now," Leclaire argued. "Take you two years to dig it out the hole, an' all that time you

might be hatchin' teeny little baby ostriches an' pulling feathers out the big ones."

O'Brien considered the proposition and nodded approval. Curly Jim looked gratefully at Leclaire and refilled

"Hold on there!" spluttered Mucluc Charley, whose tongue was beginning to wag loosely and trip over itself.

"As your father confessorthere I goas your brotherO hell!" He paused and collected himself for

another start. "As your frien'business frien', I should say, I would suggest, ratherI would take the liberty,

as it was, to mentionI mean, suggest, that there may be more ostriches . . . O hell!" He downed another

glass, and went on more carefully. "What I'm drivin' at is . . . what am I drivin' at?" He smote the side of his

head sharply half a dozen times with the heel of his palm to shake up his ideas. "I got it!" he cried jubilantly.

"Great!" he cried. "Splen'd idea. Never thought of it all by myself." He took Mucluc Charley warmly by the

hand. "Good frien'! Good 's'ciate!" He turned belligerently on Curly Jim. "Maybe hundred thousand dollars in

that hole. You wouldn't rob your old frien', would you, Curly? Course you wouldn't. I know youbetter'n

yourself, better'n yourself. Le's have another: We're good frien's, all of us, I say, all of us."

And so it went, and so went the whisky, and so went Curly Jim's hopes up and down. Now Leclaire argued in

favour of immediate sale, and almost won the reluctant O'Brien over, only to lose him to the more brilliant

counterargument of Mucluc Charley. And again, it was Mucluc Charley who presented convincing reasons

for the sale and Percy Leclaire who held stubbornly back. A little later it was O'Brien himself who insisted on

selling, while both friends, with tears and curses, strove to dissuade him. The more whiskey they downed, the

more fertile of imagination they became. For one sober pro or con they found a score of drunken ones; and

they convinced one another so readily that they were perpetually changing sides in the argument.

The time came when both Mucluc Charley and Leclaire were firmly set upon the sale, and they gleefully

obliterated O'Brien's objections as fast as he entered them. O'Brien grew desperate. He exhausted his last

argument and sat speechless. He looked pleadingly at the friends who had deserted him. He kicked Mucluc

Charley's shins under the table, but that graceless hero immediately unfolded a new and most logical reason

for the sale. Curly Jim got pen and ink and paper and wrote out the bill of sale. O'Brien sat with pen poised in

"Le's have one more," he pleaded. "One more before I sign away a hundred thousan' dollars."

Curly Jim filled the glasses triumphantly. O'Brien downed his drink and bent forward with wobbling pen to

affix his signature. Before he had made more than a blot, he suddenly started up, impelled by the impact of an

idea colliding with his consciousness. He stood upon his feet and swayed back and forth before them,

reflecting in his startled eyes the thought process that was taking place behind. Then he reached his

conclusion. A benevolent radiance suffused his countenance. He turned to the faro dealer, took his hand, and

"Curly, you're my frien'. There's my han'. Shake. Ol' man, I won't do it. Won't sell. Won't rob a frien'. No

sonofagun will ever have chance to say Marcus O'Brien robbed frien' cause frien' was drunk. You're

drunk, Curly, an' I won't rob you. Jes' had thought never thought it beforedon't know what the matter 'ith

me, but never thought it before. Suppose, jes' suppose, Curly, my ol' frien', jes' suppose there ain't ten

thousan' in whole damn claim. You'd be robbed. No, sir; won't do it. Marcus O'Brien makes money out of the

Percy Leclaire and Mucluc Charley drowned the faro dealer's objections in applause for so noble a sentiment.

They fell upon O'Brien from either side, their arms lovingly about his neck, their mouths so full of words

they could not hear Curly's offer to insert a clause in the document to the effect that if there weren't ten

thousand in the claim he would be given back the difference between yield and purchase price. The longer

they talked the more maudlin and the more noble the discussion became. All sordid motives were banished.

They were a trio of philanthropists striving to save Curly Jim from himself and his own philanthropy. They

insisted that he was a philanthropist. They refused to accept for a moment that there could be found one

ignoble thought in all the world. They crawled and climbed and scrambled over high ethical plateaux and

Curly Jim sweated and fumed and poured out the whisky. He found himself with a score of arguments on his

hands, not one of which had anything to do with the goldmine he wanted to buy. The longer they talked the

farther away they got from that goldmine, and at two in the morning Curly Jim acknowledged himself

beaten. One by one he led his helpless guests across the kitchen floor and thrust them outside. O'Brien came

last, and the three, with arms locked for mutual aid, titubated gravely on the stoop.

"Good business man, Curly," O'Brien was saying. "Must say like your stylefine an' generous, freehanded

hospital . . . hospital . . . hospitality. Credit to you. Nothin' base 'n graspin' in your make up. As I was

The three laughed happily on the stoop. They laughed for a long time. Then Mucluc Charley essayed speech.

"Funnylaughed so hardain't what I want to say. My idea is . . . what wash it? Oh, got it! Funny how

ideas slip. Elusive idea chasin' elusive ideagreat sport. Ever chase rabbits, Percy, my frien'? I had

doggreat rabbit dog. Whash 'is name? Don't know namenever had no nameforget nameelusive

namechasin' elusive nameno, ideaelusive idea, but got itwhat I want to say wasO hell!"

Thereafter there was silence for a long time. O'Brien slipped from their arms to a sitting posture on the stoop,

where he slept gently. Mucluc Charley chased the elusive idea through all the nooks and crannies of his

drowning consciousness. Leclaire hung fascinated upon the delayed utterance. Suddenly the other's hand

Leclaire's face took on a rapt, admiring expression, and again he hung upon the other's lips.

At this moment the kitchen door opened for an instant, and Curly Jim shouted, "Go home!"

They gathered O'Brien up between them and started. Mucluc Charley began aloud the pursuit of another idea.

Leclaire followed the pursuit with enthusiasm. But O'Brien did not follow it. He neither heard, nor saw, nor

knew anything. He was a mere wobbling automaton, supported affectionately and precariously by his two

They took the path down by the bank of the Yukon. Home did not lie that way, but the elusive idea did.

Mucluc Charley giggled over the idea that he could not catch for the edification of Leclaire. They came to

where Siskiyou Pearly's boat lay moored to the bank. The rope with which it was tied ran across the path to a

pine stump. They tripped over it and went down, O'Brien underneath. A faint flash of consciousness lighted

his brain. He felt the impact of bodies upon his and struck out madly for a moment with his fists. Then he

went to sleep again. His gentle snore arose on the air, and Mucluc Charley began to giggle.

"New idea," he volunteered, "brand new idea. Jes' caught itno trouble at all. Came right up an' I patted it

on the head. It's mine. 'Brien's drunkbeashly drunk. Shamedamn shamelearn'm lesshon. Trash

Pearly's boat. Put 'Brien in Pearly's boat. Casht offlet her go down Yukon. 'Brien wake up in mornin'.

Current too strongcan't row boat 'gainst currentmush walk back. Come back madder 'n hatter. You an'

Siskiyou Pearly's boat was empty, save for a pair of oars. Its gunwale rubbed against the bank alongside of

O'Brien. They rolled him over into it. Mucluc Charley cast off the painter, and Leclaire shoved the boat out

into the current. Then, exhausted by their labours, they lay down on the bank and slept.

Next morning all Red Cow knew of the joke that had been played on Marcus O'Brien. There were some tall

bets as to what would happen to the two perpetrators when the victim arrived back. In the afternoon a lookout

was set, so that they would know when he was sighted. Everybody wanted to see him come in. But he didn't

come, though they sat up till midnight. Nor did he come next day, nor the next. Red Cow never saw Marcus

O'Brien again, and though many conjectures were entertained, no certain clue was ever gained to dispel the

Only Marcus O'Brien knew, and he never came back to tell. He awoke next morning in torment. His stomach

had been calcined by the inordinate quantity of whisky he had drunk, and was a dry and raging furnace. His

head ached all over, inside and out; and, worse than that, was the pain in his face. For six hours countless

thousands of mosquitoes had fed upon him, and their ungrateful poison had swollen his face tremendously. It

was only by a severe exertion of will that he was able to open narrow slits in his face through which he could

peer. He happened to move his hands, and they hurt. He squinted at them, but failed to recognize them, so

puffed were they by the mosquito virus. He was lost, or rather, his identity was lost to him. There was

nothing familiar about him, which, by association of ideas, would cause to rise in his consciousness the

continuity of his existence. He was divorced utterly from his past, for there was nothing about him to

resurrect in his consciousness a memory of that past. Besides, he was so sick and miserable that he lacked

It was not until he discovered a crook in a little finger, caused by an unset breakage of years before, that he

knew himself to be Marcus O'Brien. On the instant his past rushed into his consciousness. When he

discovered a bloodblister under a thumbnail, which he had received the previous week, his

selfidentification became doubly sure, and he knew that those unfamiliar hands belonged to Marcus

O'Brien, or, just as much to the point, that Marcus O'Brien belonged to the hands. His first thought was that

he was illthat he had had river fever. It hurt him so much to open his eyes that he kept them closed. A

small floating branch struck the boat a sharp rap. He thought it was some one knocking on the cabin door,

and said, "Come in." He waited for a while, and then said testily, "Stay out, then, damn you." But just the

But as he lay there, the past night began to reconstruct itself in his brain. He hadn't been sick at all, was his

thought; he had merely been drunk, and it was time for him to get up and go to work. Work suggested his

mine, and he remembered that he had refused ten thousand dollars for it. He sat up abruptly and squeezed

open his eyes. He saw himself in a boat, floating on the swollen brown flood of the Yukon. The

sprucecovered shores and islands were unfamiliar. He was stunned for a time. He couldn't make it out. He

could remember the last night's orgy, but there was no connection between that and his present situation.

He closed his eyes and held his aching head in his hands. What had happened? Slowly the dreadful thought

arose in his mind. He fought against it, strove to drive it away, but it persisted: he had killed somebody. That

alone could explain why he was in an open boat drifting down the Yukon. The law of Red Cow that he had so

long administered had now been administered to him. He had killed some one and been set adrift. But whom?

He racked his aching brain for the answer, but all that came was a vague memory of bodies falling upon him

and of striking out at them. Who were they? Maybe he had killed more than one. He reached to his belt. The

knife was missing from its sheath. He had done it with that undoubtedly. But there must have been some

reason for the killing. He opened his eyes and in a panic began to search about the boat. There was no grub,

not an ounce of grub. He sat down with a groan. He had killed without provocation. The extreme rigour of the

For half an hour he remained motionless, holding his aching head and trying to think. Then he cooled his

stomach with a drink of water from overside and felt better. He stood up, and alone on the wide stretching

Yukon, with naught but the primeval wilderness to hear, he cursed strong drink. After that he tied up to a

huge floating pine that was deeper sunk in the current than the boat and that consequently drifted faster. He

washed his face and hands, sat down in the sternsheets, and did some more thinking. It was late in June. It

was two thousand miles to Bering Sea. The boat was averaging five miles an hour. There was no darkness in

such high latitudes at that time of the year, and he could run the river every hour of the twentyfour. This

would mean, daily, a hundred and twenty miles. Strike out the twenty for accidents, and there remained a

hundred miles a day. In twenty days he would reach Bering Sea. And this would involve no expenditure of

energy; the river did the work. He could lie down in the bottom of the boat and husband his strength.

For two days he ate nothing. Then, drifting into the Yukon Flats, he went ashore on the lowlying islands and

gathered the eggs of wild geese and ducks. He had no matches, and ate the eggs raw. They were strong, but

they kept him going. When he crossed the Arctic Circle, he found the Hudson Bay Company's post. The

brigade had not yet arrived from the Mackenzie, and the post was completely out of grub. He was offered

wildduck eggs, but he informed them that he had a bushel of the same on the boat. He was also offered a

drink of whisky, which he refused with an exhibition of violent repugnance. He got matches, however, and

after that he cooked his eggs. Toward the mouth of the river headwinds delayed him, and he was

twentyfour days on the egg diet. Unfortunately, while asleep he had drifted by both the missions of St. Paul

and Holy Cross. And he could sincerely say, as he afterward did, that talk about missions on the Yukon was

Once on Bering Sea he exchanged the egg diet for seal diet, and he never could make up his mind which he

liked least. In the fall of the year he was rescued by a United States revenue cutter, and the following winter

he made quite a hit in San Francisco as a temperance lecturer. In this field he found his vocation. "Avoid the

bottle" is his slogan and battlecry. He manages subtly to convey the impression that in his own life a great

disaster was wrought by the bottle. He has even mentioned the loss of a fortune that was caused by that

hellbait of the devil, but behind that incident his listeners feel the loom of some terrible and unguessed evil

for which the bottle is responsible. He has made a success in his vocation, and has grown grey and respected

in the crusade against strong drink. But on the Yukon the passing of Marcus O'Brien remains tradition. It is a

ElSoo had been a Mission girl. Her mother had died when she was very small, and Sister Alberta had

plucked ElSoo as a brand from the burning, one summer day, and carried her away to Holy Cross Mission

and dedicated her to God. ElSoo was a fullblooded Indian, yet she exceeded all the halfbreed and

quarterbreed girls. Never had the good sisters dealt with a girl so adaptable and at the same time so spirited.

ElSoo was quick, and deft, and intelligent; but above all she was fire, the living flame of life, a blaze of

personality that was compounded of will, sweetness, and daring. Her father was a chief, and his blood ran in

her veins. Obedience, on the part of ElSoo, was a matter of terms and arrangement. She had a passion for

But she excelled in other things. She learned to read and write English as no girl had ever learned in the

Mission. She led the girls in singing, and into song she carried her sense of equity. She was an artist, and the

fire of her flowed toward creation. Had she from birth enjoyed a more favourable environment, she would

Instead, she was ElSoo, daughter of KlakeeNah, a chief, and she lived in the Holy Cross Mission where

were no artists, but only pure souled Sisters who were interested in cleanliness and righteousness and the

The years passed. She was eight years old when she entered the Mission; she was sixteen, and the Sisters

were corresponding with their superiors in the Order concerning the sending of ElSoo to the United States

to complete her education, when a man of her own tribe arrived at Holy Cross and had talk with her. ElSoo

was somewhat appalled by him. He was dirty. He was a Calibanlike creature, primitively ugly, with a mop

of hair that had never been combed. He looked at her disapprovingly and refused to sit down.

ElSoo was not particularly shocked. She remembered little of her brother. "Thy father is an old man, and

alone," the messenger went on. "His house is large and empty, and he would hear thy voice and look upon

Him she rememberedKlakeeNah, the headman of the village, the friend of the missionaries and the

traders, a large man thewed like a giant, with kindly eyes and masterful ways, and striding with a

Much to the despair of the Sisters, the brand plucked from the burning went back to the burning. All pleading

with ElSoo was vain. There was much argument, expostulation, and weeping. Sister Alberta even revealed

to her the project of sending her to the United States. ElSoo stared wideeyed into the golden vista thus

opened up to her, and shook her head. In her eyes persisted another vista. It was the mighty curve of the

Yukon at Tananaw Station. With the St. George Mission on one side, and the trading post on the other, and

midway between the Indian village and a certain large log house where lived an old man tended upon by

All dwellers on the Yukon bank for twice a thousand miles knew the large log house, the old man and the

tending slaves; and well did the Sisters know the house, its unending revelry, its feasting and its fun. So there

There was a great cleaning up in the large house when ElSoo arrived. KlakeeNah, himself masterful,

protested at this masterful conduct of his young daughter; but in the end, dreaming barbarically of

magnificence, he went forth and borrowed a thousand dollars from old Porportuk, than whom there was no

richer Indian on the Yukon. Also, KlakeeNah ran up a heavy bill at the trading post. ElSoo re created the

large house. She invested it with new splendour, while KlakeeNah maintained its ancient traditions of

All this was unusual for a Yukon Indian, but KlakeeNah was an unusual Indian. Not alone did he like to

render inordinate hospitality, but, what of being a chief and of acquiring much money, he was able to do it. In

the primitive trading days he had been a power over his people, and he had dealt profitably with the white

trading companies. Later on, with Porportuk, he had made a gold strike on the Koyokuk River. KlakeeNah

was by training and nature an aristocrat. Porportuk was bourgeois, and Porportuk bought him out of the

goldmine. Porportuk was content to plod and accumulate. KlakeeNah went back to his large house and

proceeded to spend. Porportuk was known as the richest Indian in Alaska. KlakeeNah was known as the

whitest. Porportuk was a moneylender and a usurer. KlakeeNah was an anachronisma mediaeval ruin, a

ElSoo adapted herself to the large house and its ways as readily as she had adapted herself to Holy Cross

Mission and its ways. She did not try to reform her father and direct his footsteps toward God. It is true, she

reproved him when he drank overmuch and profoundly, but that was for the sake of his health and the

The latchstring to the large house was always out. What with the coming and the going, it was never still. The

rafters of the great livingroom shook with the roar of wassail and of song. At table sat men from all the

world and chiefs from distant tribesEnglishmen and Colonials, lean Yankee traders and rotund officials of

the great companies, cowboys from the Western ranges, sailors from the sea, hunters and dogmushers of a

ElSoo drew breath in a cosmopolitan atmosphere. She could speak English as well as she could her native

tongue, and she sang English songs and ballads. The passing Indian ceremonials she knew, and the perishing

traditions. The tribal dress of the daughter of a chief she knew how to wear upon occasion. But for the most

part she dressed as white women dress. Not for nothing was her needlework at the Mission and her innate

artistry. She carried her clothes like a white woman, and she made clothes that could be so carried.

In her way she was as unusual as her father, and the position she occupied was as unique as his. She was the

one Indian woman who was the social equal with the several white women at Tananaw Station. She was the

one Indian woman to whom white men honourably made proposals of marriage. And she was the one Indian

For ElSoo was beautifulnot as white women are beautiful, not as Indian women are beautiful. It was the

flame of her, that did not depend upon feature, that was her beauty. So far as mere line and feature went, she

was the classic Indian type. The black hair and the fine bronze were hers, and the black eyes, brilliant and

bold, keen as swordlight, proud; and hers the delicate eagle nose with the thin, quivering nostrils, the high

cheekbones that were not broad apart, and the thin lips that were not too thin. But over all and through all

poured the flame of herthe unanalysable something that was fire and that was the soul of her, that lay

mellowwarm or blazed in her eyes, that sprayed the cheeks of her, that distended the nostrils, that curled the

lips, or, when the lip was in repose, that was still there in the lip, the lip palpitant with its presence.

And ElSoo had witrarely sharp to hurt, yet quick to search out forgivable weakness. The laughter of her

mind played like lambent flame over all about her, and from all about her arose answering laughter. Yet she

was never the centre of things. This she would not permit. The large house, and all of which it was

significant, was her father's; and through it, to the last, moved his heroic figurehost, master of the revels,

and giver of the law. It is true, as the strength oozed from him, that she caught up responsibilities from his

failing hands. But in appearance he still ruled, dozing, ofttimes at the board, a bacchanalian ruin, yet in all

And through the large house moved the figure of Porportuk, ominous, with shaking head, coldly

disapproving, paying for it all. Not that he really paid, for he compounded interest in weird ways, and year by

year absorbed the properties of KlakeeNah. Porportuk once took it upon himself to chide ElSoo upon the

wasteful way of life in the large houseit was when he had about absorbed the last of Klakee Nah's

wealthbut he never ventured so to chide again. ElSoo, like her father, was an aristocrat, as disdainful of

Porportuk continued grudgingly to advance money, and ever the money flowed in golden foam away. Upon

one thing ElSoo was resolvedher father should die as he had lived. There should be for him no passing

from high to low, no diminution of the revels, no lessening of the lavish hospitality. When there was famine,

as of old, the Indians came groaning to the large house and went away content. When there was famine and

no money, money was borrowed from Porportuk, and the Indians still went away content. ElSoo might well

have repeated, after the aristocrats of another time and place, that after her came the deluge. In her case the

deluge was old Porportuk. With every advance of money, he looked upon her with a more possessive eye,

But ElSoo had no eyes for him. Nor had she eyes for the white men who wanted to marry her at the Mission

with ring and priest and book. For at Tananaw Station was a young man, Akoon, of her own blood, and

tribe, and village. He was strong and beautiful to her eyes, a great hunter, and, in that he had wandered far

and much, very poor; he had been to all the unknown wastes and places; he had journeyed to Sitka and to the

United States; he had crossed the continent to Hudson Bay and back again, and as sealhunter on a ship he

When he returned from the goldstrike in Klondike he came, as was his wont, to the large house to make

report to old KlakeeNah of all the world that he had seen; and there he first saw ElSoo, three years back

from the Mission. Thereat, Akoon wandered no more. He refused a wage of twenty dollars a day as pilot on

the big steamboats. He hunted some and fished some, but never far from Tananaw Station, and he was at the

large house often and long. And ElSoo measured him against many men and found him good. He sang

songs to her, and was ardent and glowed until all Tananaw Station knew he loved her. And Porportuk but

He sat at feast, with death in his throat, that he could not drown with wine. And laughter and joke and song

went around, and Akoon told a story that made the rafters echo. There were no tears or sighs at that table. It

was no more than fit that KlakeeNah should die as he had lived, and none knew this better than ElSoo,

with her artist sympathy. The old roystering crowd was there, and, as of old, three frostbitten sailors were

there, fresh from the long traverse from the Arctic, survivors of a ship's company of seventyfour. At

KlakeeNah's back were four old men, all that were left him of the slaves of his youth. With rheumy eyes

they saw to his needs, with palsied hands filling his glass or striking him on the back between the shoulders

It was a wild night, and as the hours passed and the fun laughed and roared along, death stirred more

restlessly in KlakeeNah's throat. Then it was that he sent for Porportuk. And Porportuk came in from the

outside frost to look with disapproving eyes upon the meat and wine on the table for which he had paid. But

as he looked down the length of flushed faces to the far end and saw the face of ElSoo, the light in his eyes

Place was made for him at KlakeeNah's side, and a glass placed before him. KlakeeNah, with his own

hands, filled the glass with fervent spirits. "Drink!" he cried. "Is it not good?"

"I will not deny that the drink is good to this old throat of mine," Porportuk made answer, and hesitated for

Porportuk winced at the laughter that went down the table. His eyes burned malevolently. "We were boys

together, of the same age," he said. "In your throat is death. I am still alive and strong."

An ominous murmur arose from the company. KlakeeNah coughed and strangled, and the old slaves smote

him between the shoulders. He emerged gasping, and waved his hand to still the threatening rumble.

"You have grudged the very fire in your house because the wood cost overmuch!" he cried. "You have

grudged life. To live cost overmuch, and you have refused to pay the price. Your life has been like a cabin

where the fire is out and there are no blankets on the floor." He signalled to a slave to fill his glass, which he

held aloft. "But I have lived. And I have been warm with life as you have never been warm. It is true, you

shall live long. But the longest nights are the cold nights when a man shivers and lies awake. My nights have

He drained the glass. The shaking hand of a slave failed to catch it as it crashed to the floor. KlakeeNah

sank back, panting, watching the upturned glasses at the lips of the drinkers, his own lips slightly smiling to

the applause. At a sign, two slaves attempted to help him sit upright again. But they were weak, his frame

"But manner of life is neither here nor there," he went on. "We have other business, Porportuk, you and I,

tonight. Debts are mischances, and I am in mischance with you. What of my debt, and how great is it?"

Porportuk searched in his pouch and brought forth a memorandum. He sipped at his glass and began. "There

is the note of August, 1889, for three hundred dollars. The interest has never been paid. And the note of the

next year for five hundred dollars. This note was included in the note of two months later for a thousand

"Never mind the many notes!" KlakeeNah cried out impatiently. "They make my head go around and all the

Porportuk referred to his memorandum. "Fifteen thousand nine hundred and sixtyseven dollars and

"Make it sixteen thousand, make it sixteen thousand," KlakeeNah said grandly. "Odd numbers were ever a

worry. And nowand it is for this that I have sent for youmake me out a new note for sixteen thousand,

which I shall sign. I have no thought of the interest. Make it as large as you will, and make it payable in the

next world, when I shall meet you by the fire of the Great Father of all Indians. Then the note will be paid.

Porportuk looked perplexed, and loudly the laughter arose and shook the room. KlakeeNah raised his hands.

"Nay," he cried. "It is not a joke. I but speak in fairness. It was for this I sent for you, Porportuk. Make out the

"Have you no thought to meet me before the Great Father!" KlakeeNah demanded. Then he added, "I shall

"I know naught of the next world," Porportuk explained. "I do business in this world."

KlakeeNah's face cleared. "This comes of sleeping cold of nights," he laughed. He pondered for a space,

then said, "It is in this world that you must be paid. There remains to me this house. Take it, and burn the debt

KlakeeNah started. "True, I forgot. It was last spring when the ice went out." He mused for a time while the

"Then it would seem I owe you a sum of money which I cannot pay . . . in this world?" Porportuk nodded and

"Then it would seem that you, Porportuk, are a poor business man," KlakeeNah said slyly. And boldly

"What!" cried KlakeeNah. "Have I still property? Name it, and it is yours, and the debt is no more."

KlakeeNah could not understand. He peered down the table, brushed his eyes, and peered again.

"Your daughter, ElSooher will I take and the debt be no more. I will burn the debt there in the candle."

KlakeeNah's great chest began to heave. "Ho! ho!a joke. Ho! ho! ho!" he laughed Homerically. "And

with your cold bed and daughters old enough to be the mother of ElSoo! Ho! ho! ho!" He began to cough

and strangle, and the old slaves smote him on the back. "Ho! ho!" he began again, and went off into another

Porportuk waited patiently, sipping from his glass and studying the double row of faces down the board. "It is

KlakeeNah sobered and looked at him, then reached for his glass, but could not touch it. A slave passed it to

"Turn him out!" KlakeeNah thundered to the waiting table that strained like a pack of hounds in leash. "And

As the mad riot swept past him and out of doors, he signalled to the slaves, and the four tottering old men

supported him on his feet as he met the returning revellers, upright, glass in hand, pledging them a toast to the

It did not take long to settle the estate of KlakeeNah. Tommy, the little Englishman, clerk at the trading

post, was called in by ElSoo to help. There was nothing but debts, notes overdue, mortgaged properties, and

properties mortgaged but worthless. Notes and mortgages were held by Porportuk. Tommy called him a

The winter wore away, and the early spring, and still the claims of Porportuk remained unpaid. He saw

ElSoo often and explained to her at length, as he had explained to her father, the way the debt could be

cancelled. Also, he brought with him old medicinemen, who elaborated to her the everlasting damnation of

her father if the debt were not paid. One day, after such an elaboration, ElSoo made final announcement to

"I shall tell you two things," she said. "First I shall not be your wife. Will you remember that? Second, you

"Fifteen thousand nine hundred and sixtyseven dollars and seventy five cents," Porportuk corrected.

"I know not how, but I shall find out how. Now go, and bother me no more. If you do"she hesitated to find

fitting penalty"if you do, I shall have you rolled in the snow again as soon as the first snow flies."

This was still in the early spring, and a little later ElSoo surprised the country. Word went up and down the

Yukon from Chilcoot to the Delta, and was carried from camp to camp to the farthermost camps, that in June,

when the first salmon ran, ElSoo, daughter of KlakeeNah, would sell herself at public auction to satisfy the

claims of Porportuk. Vain were the attempts to dissuade her. The missionary at St. George wrestled with her,

but she repliedOnly the debts to God are settled in the next world. The debts of men are of this world, and

Akoon wrestled with her, but she replied, "I do love thee, Akoon; but honour is greater than love, and who

am I that I should blacken my father?" Sister Alberta journeyed all the way up from Holy Cross on the first

"My father wanders in the thick and endless forests," said ElSoo. "And there will he wander, with the lost

souls crying, till the debt be paid. Then, and not until then, may he go on to the house of the Great Father."

"Who knows but that the things we believe come true?" ElSoo went on. "Why not? The next world to you

may be heaven and harps . . . because you have believed heaven and harps; to my father the next world may

ElSoo hesitated but for a moment. "I should like a little of both," she said. "I should like to see your face as

The day of the auction came. Tananaw Station was populous. As was their custom, the tribes had gathered

to await the salmonrun, and in the meantime spent the time in dancing and frolicking, trading and gossiping.

Then there was the ordinary sprinkling of white adventurers, traders, and prospectors, and, in addition, a large

number of white men who had come because of curiosity or interest in the affair.

It had been a backward spring, and the salmon were late in running. This delay but keyed up the interest.

Then, on the day of the auction, the situation was made tense by Akoon. He arose and made public and

solemn announcement that whosoever bought ElSoo would forthwith and immediately die. He flourished

the Winchester in his hand to indicate the manner of the takingoff. ElSoo was angered thereat; but he

refused to speak with her, and went to the trading post to lay in extra ammunition.

The first salmon was caught at ten o'clock in the evening, and at midnight the auction began. It took place on

top of the high bank alongside the Yukon. The sun was due north just below the horizon, and the sky was

lurid red. A great crowd gathered about the table and the two chairs that stood near the edge of the bank. To

the fore were many white men and several chiefs. And most prominently to the fore, rifle in hand, stood

Akoon. Tommy, at ElSoo's request, served as auctioneer, but she made the opening speech and described

the goods about to be sold. She was in native costume, in the dress of a chief's daughter, splendid and

"Who will buy a wife?" she asked. "Look at me. I am twenty years old and a maid. I will be a good wife to

the man who buys me. If he is a white man, I shall dress in the fashion of white women; if he is an Indian, I

shall dress as"she hesitated a moment"a squaw. I can make my own clothes, and sew, and wash, and

mend. I was taught for eight years to do these things at Holy Cross Mission. I can read and write English, and

I know how to play the organ. Also I can do arithmetic and some algebraa little. I shall be sold to the

highest bidder, and to him I will make out a bill of sale of myself. I forgot to say that I can sing very well, and

that I have never been sick in my life. I weigh one hundred and thirtytwo pounds; my father is dead and I

She looked over the crowd with flaming audacity and stepped down. At Tommy's request she stood upon the

Surrounding ElSoo stood the four old slaves of her father. They were agetwisted and palsied, faithful to

their meat, a generation out of the past that watched unmoved the antics of younger life. In the front of the

crowd were several Eldorado and Bonanza kings from the Upper Yukon, and beside them, on crutches,

swollen with scurvy, were two broken prospectors. From the midst of the crowd, thrust out by its own

vividness, appeared the face of a wildeyed squaw from the remote regions of the Upper Tananaw; a

strayed Sitkan from the coast stood side by side with a Stick from Lake Le Barge, and, beyond, a halfdozen

FrenchCanadian voyageurs, grouped by themselves. From afar came the faint cries of myriads of wildfowl

on the nesting grounds. Swallows were skimming up overhead from the placid surface of the Yukon, and

robins were singing. The oblique rays of the hidden sun shot through the smoke, highdissipated from forest

fires a thousand miles away, and turned the heavens to sombre red, while the earth shone red in the reflected

glow. This red glow shone in the faces of all, and made everything seem unearthly and unreal.

The bidding began slowly. The Sitkan, who was a stranger in the land and who had arrived only half an hour

before, offered one hundred dollars in a confident voice, and was surprised when Akoon turned threateningly

upon him with the rifle. The bidding dragged. An Indian from the Tozikakat, a pilot, bid one hundred and

fifty, and after some time a gambler, who had been ordered out of the Upper Country, raised the bid to two

hundred. ElSoo was saddened; her pride was hurt; but the only effect was that she flamed more audaciously

There was a disturbance among the onlookers as Porportuk forced his way to the front. "Five hundred

dollars!" he bid in a loud voice, then looked about him proudly to note the effect.

He was minded to use his great wealth as a bludgeon with which to stun all competition at the start. But one

of the voyageurs, looking on ElSoo with sparkling eyes, raised the bid a hundred.

With a look of poignant disappointment, the voyageur succumbed. There was no further bidding. Tommy

ElSoo spoke to Porportuk. "It were good, Porportuk, for you to weigh well your bid. Have you forgotten the

"It is a public auction," he retorted. "I shall buy you with a bill of sale. I have offered twelve hundred dollars.

"Too damned cheap!" Tommy cried. "What if I am auctioneer? That does not prevent me from bidding. I'll

"I'll buy you in to be mymy sister," Tommy whispered to ElSoo, then called aloud, "Fifteen hundred!"

A third time Porportuk swung the club of his wealth, making a clean raise of five hundred dollars. But the

Eldorado king's pride was touched. No man could club him. And he swung back another five hundred.

ElSoo stood at three thousand. Porportuk made it thirtyfive hundred, and gasped when the Eldorado king

raised it a thousand dollars. Porportuk again raised it five hundred, and again gasped when the king raised a

Porportuk became angry. His pride was touched; his strength was challenged, and with him strength took the

form of wealth. He would not be ashamed for weakness before the world. ElSoo became incidental. The

savings and scrimpings from the cold nights of all his years were ripe to be squandered. ElSoo stood at six

thousand. He made it seven thousand. And then, in thousanddollar bids, as fast as they could be uttered, her

Then the unexpected happened. A still heavier club was swung. In the pause that ensued, the gambler, who

had scented a speculation and formed a syndicate with several of his fellows, bid sixteen thousand dollars.

The syndicate dropped out. The Eldorado king raised a thousand, and Porportuk raised back; and as they bid,

Akoon turned from one to the other, half menacingly, half curiously, as though to see what manner of man it

was that he would have to kill. When the king prepared to make his next bid, Akoon having pressed closer,

"Twentyfour thousand," said Porportuk. He grinned viciously, for the certitude of his bidding had at last

shaken the king. The latter moved over close to ElSoo. He studied her carefully for a long while.

The king looked for a long space, and shook his head. He looked again, and said reluctantly, "And five

The king shook his head and refused to meet Tommy's pleading eye. In the meantime Akoon had edged close

to Porportuk. ElSoo's quick eye noted this, and, while Tommy wrestled with the Eldorado king for another

bid, she bent, and spoke in a low voice in the ear of a slave. And while Tommy's "Goinggoinggoing"

dominated the air, the slave went up to Akoon and spoke in a low voice in his ear. Akoon made no sign that

Porportuk glanced uneasily at Akoon. All eyes were centred upon Akoon, but he did nothing.

"Let the scales be brought," ElSoo repeated. "Payment shall be made here where all can see."

So the gold scales were brought from the trading post, while Porportuk went away and came back with a man

at his heels, on whose shoulders was a weight of golddust in moosehide sacks. Also, at Porportuk's back,

"Here are the notes and mortgages," said Porportuk, "for fifteen thousand nine hundred and sixtyseven

ElSoo received them into her hands and said to Tommy, "Let them be reckoned as sixteen thousand."

Porportuk nodded, and untied the mouths of the sacks. ElSoo, standing at the edge of the bank, tore the

papers to shreds and sent them fluttering out over the Yukon. The weighing began, but halted.

"Of course, at seventeen dollars," Porportuk had said to Tommy, as he adjusted the scales.

"It is the custom of all the land to reckon gold at seventeen dollars for each ounce," Porportuk replied. "And

ElSoo laughed. "It is a new custom," she said. "It began this spring. Last year, and the years before, it was

sixteen dollars an ounce. When my father's debt was made, it was sixteen dollars. When he spent at the store

the money he got from you, for one ounce he was given sixteen dollars' worth of flour, not seventeen.

Wherefore, shall you pay for me at sixteen, and not at seventeen." Porportuk grunted and allowed the

"Weigh it in three piles, Tommy," she said. "A thousand dollars here, three thousand here, and here six

It was slow work, and, while the weighing went on, Akoon was closely watched by all.

"He but waits till the money is paid," one said; and the word went around and was accepted, and they waited

for what Akoon should do when the money was paid. And Porportuk's man with the rifle waited and watched

The weighing was finished, and the golddust lay on the table in three darkyellow heaps. "There is a debt of

my father to the Company for three thousand dollars," said ElSoo. "Take it, Tommy, for the Company. And

here are four old men, Tommy. You know them. And here is one thousand dollars. Take it, and see that the

Tommy scooped the gold into separate sacks. Six thousand dollars remained on the table. ElSoo thrust the

scoop into the heap, and with a sudden turn whirled the contents out and down to the Yukon in a golden

shower. Porportuk seized her wrist as she thrust the scoop a second time into the heap.

"It is mine," she said calmly. Porportuk released his grip, but he gritted his teeth and scowled darkly as she

The crowd had eyes for naught but Akoon, and the rifle of Porportuk's man lay across the hollow of his arm,

the muzzle directed at Akoon a yard away, the man's thumb on the hammer. But Akoon did nothing.

And Tommy made out the till of sale, wherein all right and title in the woman ElSoo was vested in the man

Porportuk. ElSoo signed the document, and Porportuk folded it and put it away in his pouch. Suddenly his

"But it was not your father's debt," he said, "What I paid was the price for you. Your sale is business of

today and not of last year and the years before. The ounces paid for you will buy at the post today

seventeen dollars of flour, and not sixteen. I have lost a dollar on each ounce. I have lost six hundred and

ElSoo thought for a moment, and saw the error she had made. She smiled, and then she laughed.

"You are right," she laughed, "I made a mistake. But it is too late. You have paid, and the gold is gone. You

did not think quick. It is your loss. Your wit is slow these days, Porportuk. You are getting old."

He did not answer. He glanced uneasily at Akoon, and was reassured. His lips tightened, and a hint of cruelty

"Do you remember the two things I told you in the spring?" ElSoo asked, making no movement to

"My head would be full with the things women say, did I heed them," he answered.

"I told you that you would be paid," ElSoo went on carefully. "And I told you that I would never be your

"But that was before the bill of sale." Porportuk crackled the paper between his fingers inside the pouch. "I

have bought you before all the world. You belong to me. You will not deny that you belong to me."

"As a dog you own me," ElSoo continued calmly. "But, Porportuk, you forget the thing I told you. Had any

other man bought me, I should have been that man's wife. I should have been a good wife to that man. Such

was my will. But my will with you was that I should never be your wife. Wherefore, I am your dog."

Porportuk knew that he played with fire, and he resolved to play firmly. "Then I speak to you, not as ElSoo,

but as a dog," he said; "and I tell you to come with me." He half reached to grip her arm, but with a gesture

"Not so fast, Porportuk. You buy a dog. The dog runs away. It is your loss. I am your dog. What if I run

He reached swiftly for her, but she eluded him. She laughed as she circled around the table. "Catch her!"

Porportuk commanded the Indian with the rifle, who stood near to her. But as the Indian stretched forth his

arm to her, the Eldorado king felled him with a fist blow under the ear. The rifle clattered to the ground. Then

Porportuk was an old man, but his cold nights retained for him his activity. He did not circle the table. He

came across suddenly, over the top of the table. ElSoo was taken off her guard. She sprang back with a

sharp cry of alarm, and Porportuk would have caught her had it not been for Tommy. Tommy's leg went out,

She ran lightly and easily, but Porportuk ran swiftly and savagely. He outran her. In his youth he had been

swiftest of all the young men. But ElSoo dodged in a willowy, elusive way. Being in native dress, her feet

were not cluttered with skirts, and her pliant body curved a flight that defied the gripping fingers of

With laughter and tumult, the great crowd scattered out to see the chase. It led through the Indian

encampment; and ever dodging, circling, and reversing, ElSoo and Porportuk appeared and disappeared

among the tents. ElSoo seemed to balance herself against the air with her arms, now one side, now on the

other, and sometimes her body, too, leaned out upon the air far from the perpendicular as she achieved her

sharpest curves. And Porportuk, always a leap behind, or a leap this side or that, like a lean hound strained

They crossed the open ground beyond the encampment and disappeared in the forest. Tananaw Station

In the meantime Akoon ate and slept, and lingered much at the steamboat landing, deaf to the rising

resentment of Tananaw Station in that he did nothing. Twentyfour hours later Porportuk returned. He was

tired and savage. He spoke to no one but Akoon, and with him tried to pick a quarrel. But Akoon shrugged

his shoulders and walked away. Porportuk did not waste time. He outfitted half a dozen of the young men,

selecting the best trackers and travellers, and at their head plunged into the forest.

Next day the steamer Seattle, bound up river, pulled in to the shore and wooded up. When the lines were cast

off and she churned out from the bank, Akoon was on board in the pilothouse. Not many hours afterward,

when it was his turn at the wheel, he saw a small birchbark canoe put off from the shore. There was only one

The captain entered the pilothouse. "What's the matter?" he demanded. "The water's good."

Akoon grunted. He saw a larger canoe leaving the bank, and in it were a number of persons. As the Seattle

Akoon did not grunt. He was all eyes for the squaw and the pursuing canoe. In the latter six paddles were

But Akoon countered his strength on the wheel and looked him in the eyes. The captain slowly released the

Akoon held the Seattle on the edge of the shoal water and waited till he saw the squaw's fingers clutch the

forward rail. Then he signalled for full speed ahead and ground the wheel over. The large canoe was very

Akoon left the steamer at Fort Yukon. He outfitted a small poling boat and went up the Porcupine River.

And with him went ElSoo. It was a weary journey, and the way led across the backbone of the world; but

Akoon had travelled it before. When they came to the headwaters of the Porcupine, they left the boat and

Akoon greatly liked to walk behind ElSoo and watch the movements of her. There was a music in it that he

loved. And especially he loved the wellrounded calves in their sheaths of softtanned leather, the slim

ankles, and the small moccasined feet that were tireless through the longest days.

"You are light as air," he said, looking up at her. "It is no labour for you to walk. You almost float, so lightly

do your feet rise and fall. You are like a deer, ElSoo; you are like a deer, and your eyes are like deer's eyes,

sometimes when you look at me, or when you hear a quick sound and wonder if it be danger that stirs. Your

"When we reach the Mackenzie, we will not delay," Akoon said later. "We will go south before the winter

catches us. We will go to the sunlands where there is no snow. But we will return. I have seen much of the

world, and there is no land like Alaska, no sun like our sun, and the snow is good after the long summer."

And Akoon said, "I will surely learn to read." But there was delay when they reached the Mackenzie. They

fell in with a band of Mackenzie Indians, and, hunting, Akoon was shot by accident. The rifle was in the

hands of a youth. The bullet broke Akoon's right arm and, ranging farther, broke two of his ribs. Akoon knew

rough surgery, while ElSoo had learned some refinements at Holy Cross. The bones were finally set, and

Akoon lay by the fire for them to knit. Also, he lay by the fire so that the smoke would keep the mosquitoes

Then it was that Porportuk, with his six young men, arrived. Akoon groaned in his helplessness and made

appeal to the Mackenzies. But Porportuk made demand, and the Mackenzies were perplexed. Porportuk was

for seizing upon ElSoo, but this they would not permit. Judgment must be given, and, as it was an affair of

man and woman, the council of the old men was calledthis that warm judgment might not be given by the

The old men sat in a circle about the smudgefire. Their faces were lean and wrinkled, and they gasped and

panted for air. The smoke was not good for them. Occasionally they struck with withered hands at the

mosquitoes that braved the smoke. After such exertion they coughed hollowly and painfully. Some spat

blood, and one of them sat a bit apart with head bowed forward, and bled slowly and continuously at the

mouth; the coughing sickness had gripped them. They were as dead men; their time was short. It was a

"And I paid for her a heavy price," Porportuk concluded his complaint. "Such a price you have never seen.

Sell all that is yourssell your spears and arrows and rifles, sell your skins and furs, sell your tents and boats

and dogs, sell everything, and you will not have maybe a thousand dollars. Yet did I pay for the woman,

ElSoo, twentysix times the price of all your spears and arrows and rifles, your skins and furs, your tents

The old men nodded gravely, though their weazened eyeslits widened with wonder that any woman should

be worth such a price. The one that bled at the mouth wiped his lips. "Is it true talk?" he asked each of

"But Porportuk has not told that he is an old man," Akoon said, "and that he has daughters older than

"It is for Porportuk to measure the strength his age," said he who bled at the mouth. "We be old men. Behold!

And the circle of old men champed their gums, and nodded approvingly, and coughed.

"Yet you took from him twentysix times all that we possess?" asked a oneeyed old man.

"But I will run away again," she broke out passionately, a moment later. "Always will I run away."

"That is for Porportuk to consider," said another of the old men. "It is for us to consider the judgment."

"No price did I pay for her," he answered. "She was above price. I did not measure her in golddust, nor in

The old men debated among themselves and mumbled in undertones. "These old men are ice," Akoon said in

English. "I will not listen to their judgment, Porportuk. If you take ElSoo, I will surely kill you."

The old men ceased and regarded him suspiciously. "We do not know the speech you make," one said.

"He but said that he would kill me," Porportuk volunteered. "So it were well to take from him his rifle, and to

have some of your young men sit by him, that he may not do me hurt. He is a young man, and what are

Akoon, lying helpless, had rifle and knife taken from him, and to either side of his shoulders sat young men

of the Mackenzies. The oneeyed old man arose and stood upright. "We marvel at the price paid for one mere

woman," he began; "but the wisdom of the price is no concern of ours. We are here to give judgment, and

judgment we give. We have no doubt. It is known to all that Porportuk paid a heavy price for the woman

ElSoo. Wherefore does the woman ElSoo belong to Porportuk and none other." He sat down heavily, and

Porportuk smiled and stood up. "You have given true judgment," he said to the council, "and my young men

Akoon gritted his teeth. The young men took ElSoo by the arms. She did not resist, and was led, her face a

"Sit there at my feet till I have made my talk," he commanded. He paused a moment. "It is true," he said, "I

am an old man. Yet can I understand the ways of youth. The fire has not all gone out of me. Yet am I no

longer young, nor am I minded to run these old legs of mine through all the years that remain to me. ElSoo

can run fast and well. She is a deer. This I know, for I have seen and run after her. It is not good that a wife

should run so fast. I paid for her a heavy price, yet does she run away from me. Akoon paid no price at all,

"When I came among you people of the Mackenzie, I was of one mind. As I listened in the council and

thought of the swift legs of ElSoo, I was of many minds. Now am I of one mind again but it is a different

mind from the one I brought to the council. Let me tell you my mind. When a dog runs once away from a

master, it will run away again. No matter how many times it is brought back, each time it will run away

again. When we have such dogs, we sell them. El Soo is like a dog that runs away. I will sell her. Is there

"Akoon would buy," Porportuk went on, "but he has no money. Wherefore I will give ElSoo to him, as he

Reaching down, he took ElSoo by the hand and led her across the space to where Akoon lay on his back.

"She has a bad habit, Akoon," he said, seating her at Akoon's feet. "As she has run away from me in the past,

in the days to come she may run away from you. But there is no need to fear that she will ever run away,

Akoon. I shall see to that. Never will she run away from youthis is the word of Porportuk. She has great

wit. I know, for often has it bitten into me. Yet am I minded myself to give my wit play for once. And by my

Stooping, Porportuk crossed ElSoo's feet, so that the instep of one lay over that of the other; and then,

before his purpose could be divined, he discharged his rifle through the two ankles. As Akoon struggled to

rise against the weight of the young men, there was heard the crunch of the broken bone rebroken.

ElSoo made no sound. She sat and looked at her shattered ankles, on which she would never walk again.

"My legs are strong, ElSoo," Akoon said. "But never will they bear me away from you."

ElSoo looked at him, and for the first time in all the time he had known her, Akoon saw tears in her eyes.

"Is it just?" Porportuk asked, and grinned from the edge of the smoke as he prepared to depart.