Kabanata Kabanata 15 · BOOK II CHAPTER V

Never shall I forget the last I saw of her, a forlorn, pathetic figure

in black, waving a farewell to me as I stood on the wharf. She wore, I

remember, a low collar, and well do I mind the way it showed off the

slim whiteness of her throat; well do I mind the high poise of her head,

and the silken gloss of her hair. The grey eyes were clear and steady as

she bade good-bye to me, and from where we stood apart, her face had all

the pathetic sweetness of a Madonna.

Well, she was going, and sad enough her going seemed to me. They were

all for Dyea, and the grim old Chilcoot, with its blizzard-beaten

steeps, while we had chosen the less precipitous, but more drawn-out,

Skagway trail. Among them I saw the inseparable twins; the grim Hewson,

the silent Mervin, each quiet and watchful, as if storing up power for a

tremendous effort. There was the large unwholesomeness of Madam

Winklestein, all jewellery, smiles and coarse badinage, and near her,

her perfumed husband, squinting and smirking abominably. There was the

old man, with his face of a Hebrew Seer, his visionary eye now aglow

with fanatical enthusiasm, his lips ever muttering: "Klondike,

Klondike"; and lastly, by his side, with a little wry smile on her lips,

there was the white-faced girl.

How my heart ached for her! But the time for sentiment was at an end.

The clarion call to action rang out. Inflexibly the trail was mustering

us. The hour was come for every one to give of the best that was in him,

even as he had never given it before. The reign of peace was over; the

fight was on.

On all sides were indescribable bustle, confusion and excitement; men

shouting, swearing, rushing hither, thither; wrangling, anxious-eyed and

distracted over their outfits. A mood of unsparing energy dominated

them. Their only thought was to get away on the gold-trail. A frantic

eagerness impelled them; insistent, imperative; the trail called to

them, and the light of the gold-lust smouldered and flamed in their

uneasy eyes. Already the spirit of the gold-trail was awakening.

Hundreds of scattered tents; a few frame buildings, mostly saloons,

dance-halls and gambling joints; an eager, excited mob crowding on the

loose sidewalks, floundering knee-deep in the mire of the streets,

struggling and squabbling and cursing over their outfits--that is all I

remember of Skagway. The mountains, stark and bare to the bluff, seemed

to overwhelm the flimsy town, and between them, like a giant funnel, a

great wind was roaring.

Lawlessness was rampant, but it did not touch us. The thugs lay in wait

for the men with pokes from the "inside." To the great Cheechako army,

they gave little heed. They were captained by one Smith, known as

"Soapy," whom I had the fortune to meet. He was a pleasant-appearing,

sociable man, and no one would have taken him for a desperado, a killer

of men.

One picture of Skagway is still vivid in my memory. The scene is a

saloon, and along with the Prodigal, I am having a glass of beer. In a

corner sits a befuddled old man, half asleep. He is long and lank, with

a leathery face and a rusty goatee beard--as ragged, disreputable an old

sinner as ever bellied up to a bar. Suddenly there is a sound of

shooting. We rush out and there are two toughs blazing away at each

other from the sheltering corners of an opposite building.

"Hey, Dad! There's some shootin' goin' on," says the barkeeper.

The old man rouses and cocks up a bleary, benevolent eye.

"Shooting', did ye say? Pshaw! Them fellers don't know how to shoot. Old

Dad'll show 'em how to shoot."

He comes to the door, and lugging out a big rusty revolver, blazes away

at one of the combatants. The man, with a howl of surprise and pain,

limps away. The old man turns to the other fellow. Bang! We see

splinters fly, and a man running for dear life.

"Told you I'd show 'em how to shoot," remarks old Dad to us. "Thanks,

I'll have a gin-fizz for mine."

The Prodigal developed a wonderful executive ability about this time; he

was a marvel of activity, seemed to think of everything and to glory in

his responsibility as a leader. Always cheerful, always thoughtful, he

was the brains of our party. He never abated in his efforts a moment,

and was an example and a stimulus to us all. I say "all," for we had

added the "Jam-wagon"[A] to our number. It was the Prodigal who

discovered him. He was a tall, dissolute Englishman, gaunt, ragged and

verminous, but with the earmarks of a gentleman. He seemed indifferent

to everything but whiskey and only anxious to hide himself from his

friends. I discovered he had once been an officer in a Hussar regiment,

but he was obviously reluctant to speak of his past. A lost soul in

every sense of the word, the North was to him a refuge and an

unrestricted stamping-ground. So, partly in pity, partly in hope of

winning back his manhood, we allowed him to join the party.

Pack animals were in vast demand, for it was considered a pound of grub

was the equal of a pound of gold. Old horses, fit but for the knacker's

yard, and burdened till they could barely stand, were being goaded

forward through the mud. Any kind of a dog was a prize, quickly stolen

if left unwatched. Sheep being taken in for the butcher were driven

forward with packs on their backs. Even was there an effort to make pack

animals out of pigs, but they grunted, squealed and rolled their

precious burdens in the mire. What crazy excitement, what urging and

shouting, what desperate device to make a start!

We were lucky in buying a yoke of oxen from a packer for four hundred

dollars. On the first day we hauled half of our outfit to Canyon City,

and on the second we transferred the balance. This was our plan all

through, though in bad places we had to make many relays. It was simple

enough, yet, oh, the travail of it! Here is an extract from my diary of

these days.

"Turn out at 4 A.M. Breakfasted on flapjacks and coffee. Find one

of our oxen dying. Dies at seven o'clock. Harness remaining ox and

start to remove goods up Canyon. Find trail in awful condition, yet

thousands are struggling to get through. Horses often fall in pools

of water ten to fifteen feet deep, trying to haul loads over the

boulders that render trail almost impassable. Drive with sleigh

over places that at other times one would be afraid to walk over

without any load. Two feet of snow fell during the night, but it is

now raining. Rains and snows alternately. At night bitterly cold.

Hauled five loads up Canyon to-day. Finished last trip near

midnight and turned in, cold, wet and played out."

The above is a fairly representative day and of such days we were to

have many ere we reached the water. Slowly, with infinite effort, with

stress and strain to every step of the way, we moved our bulky outfit

forward from camp to camp. All days were hard, all exasperating, all

crammed with discomfort; yet, bit by bit, we forged ahead. The army

before us and the army behind never faltered. Like a stream of black

ants they were, between mountains that reared up swiftly to

storm-smitten palisades of ice. In the darkness of night the army

rested uneasily, yet at the first streak of dawn it was in motion. It

was an endless procession, in which every man was for himself. I can see

them now, bent under their burdens, straining at their hand-sleighs,

flogging their horses and oxen, their faces crimped and puckered with

fatigue, the air acrid with their curses and heavy with their moans. Now

a horse stumbles and slips into one of the sump-holes by the trail side.

No one can pass, the army is arrested. Frenzied fingers unhitch the poor

frozen brute and drag it from the water. Men, frantic with rage, beat

savagely at their beasts of burden to make up the precious time lost.

There is no mercy, no humanity, no fellowship. All is blasphemy, fury

and ruthless determination. It is the spirit of the gold-trail.

At the canyon head was a large camp, and there, very much in evidence,

the gambling fraternity. Dozens of them with their little green tables

were doing a roaring business. On one side of the canyon they had

established a camp. It was evening and we three, the Prodigal, Salvation

Jim and myself, strolled over to where a three-shell man was holding

forth.

"Hullo!" says the Prodigal. "It's our old friend Jake. Jake skinned me

out of a hundred on the boat. Wonder how he's making out?"

It was Mosher, with his bald head, his crafty little eyes, his flat

nose, his black beard. I saw Jim's face harden. He had always shown a

bitter hatred of this man, and often I wondered why.

We stood a little way off. The crowd thinned and filtered away until

but one remained, one of the tall young men from Minnesota. We heard

Mosher's rich voice.

"Say, pard, bet ten dollars you can't place the bean. See! I put the

little joker under here, right before your eyes. Now, where is it?"

"Here," said the man, touching one of the shells.

"Right you are, my hearty! Well, here's your ten."

The man from Minnesota took the money and was going away.

"Hold on," said Mosher; "how do I know you had the money to cover that

bet?"

The man laughed and took from his pocket a wad of bills an inch thick.

"Guess that's enough, ain't it?"

Quick as lightning Mosher had snatched the bills from him, and the man

from Minnesota found himself gazing into the barrel of a six-shooter.

"This here's my money," said Mosher; "now you _git_."

A moment only--a shot rang out. I saw the gun fall from Mosher's hand,

and the roll of bills drop to the ground. Quickly the man from Minnesota

recovered them and rushed off to tell his party. Then the men from

Minnesota got their Winchesters, and the shooting began.

From their camp the gamblers took refuge behind the boulders that

strewed the sides of the canyon, and blazed away at their opponents. A

regular battle followed, which lasted till the fall of night. As far as

I heard, only one casualty resulted. A Swede, about half a mile down the

trail, received a spent bullet in the cheek. He complained to the Deputy

Marshal. That worthy, sitting on his horse, looked at him a moment. Then

he spat comprehensively.

"Can't do anything, Ole. But I'll tell you what. Next time there's

bullets flying round this section of the country, don't go sticking your

darned whiskers in the way. See!"

That night I said to Jim:

"How did you do it?"

He laughed and showed me a hole in his coat pocket which a bullet had

burned.

"You see, having been in the game myself, I knew what was comin' and

acted accordin'."

"Good job you didn't hit him worse."

"Wait a while, sonny, wait a while. There's something mighty familiar

about Jake Mosher. He's mighty like a certain Sam Mosely I'm interested

in. I've just written a letter outside to see, an' if it's him--well,

I'm saved; I'm a good Christian, but--God help him!"

"And who was Sam Mosely, Jim?"

"Sam Mosely? Sam Mosely was the skunk that busted up my home an' stole

my wife, blast him!"

[A: A Jam-wagon was the general name given to an Englishman on the

trail.]