Kabanata Kabanata 43 · BOOK III CHAPTER XVII

There was no time to lose. Every hour for us meant so much more of that

precious pay-dirt that lay under the frozen surface. The Winter leapt on

us with a swoop, a harsh, unconciliating Winter, that made out-door work

an unmitigated hardship. But there was the hope of fortune nerving and

bracing us, till we lost in it all thought of self. Nothing short of

desperate sickness, death even, would drive us from our posts. It was

with this dauntless spirit we entered on the task before us.

And, indeed, it was one that called for all in a man of energy and

self-sacrifice. There was wood to get for the thawing of the ground;

there was a cabin to be built on the claim; and, lastly, there was a

vast dump to be taken out of the ground for the spring sluicing. We

planned things so that no man would be idle for a moment, and so that

every ounce of strength expended would show its result.

The Halfbreed took charge, and we, recognising it as his show, obeyed

him implicitly. He decided to put down two holes to bed-rock, and, after

much deliberation, selected the places. This was a matter for the

greatest judgment and experience, and we were satisfied that he had

both.

We ran up a little cabin and banked it nearly to the low eaves with

snow. By-and-bye more fell on the roof to the depth of three feet, so

that the place seemed like a huge white hummock. Only in front could you

recognise it as a cabin by the low doorway, where we had always to stoop

on entering. Within were our bunks, a tiny stove, a few boxes to sit on,

a few dishes, our grub; that was all. Often we regretted our big cabin

on the hill, with its calico-lined "den" and its separate kitchen. But

in this little box of a home we were to put in many weary months.

Not that the time seemed long to us; we were too busy for that. Indeed,

often we wished it were twice as long. Snow had fallen in September, and

by December we were in an Arctic world of uncompromising harshness. Day

after day the glass stood between forty and fifty below zero. It was

hatefully, dangerously cold. It seemed as if the frost-fiend had a cruel

grudge against us. It made us grim--and careful. We didn't talk much in

those days. We just worked, worked, worked, and when we did talk it was

of our work, our ceaseless work.

Would we strike it rich? It was all a gamble, the most exciting gamble

in the world. It thrilled our day hours with excitement; it haunted our

sleep; it lent strength to the pick-stroke and vigour to the

windlass-crank. It made us forget the bitter cold, till some one would

exclaim, and gently knead the fresh snow on our faces. The cold burned

our cheeks a fierce brick-red, and a frostbite showed on them like a

patch of white putty. The old scars, never healing, were like blotches

of lamp-black.

But neither cold nor fatigue could keep us away from the shaft and the

drift. We had gone down to bed-rock, and were tunnelling in to meet the

hole the Halfbreed had covered up. So far we had found nothing. Every

day we panned samples of the dirt, always getting colours, sometimes a

fifty-cent pan, but never what we dreamed of, hoped for.

"Wait, boys, till we get a two-hundred-dollar pan, then we'll begin to

whoop it up some."

Once the Company Manager came down on a dog-team. He looked over our

shaft. He wore a coon coat, with a cap of beaver, and huge fur mits hung

by a cord around his neck. He was massive and impassive. Spiky icicles

bristled around his mouth.

"What luck, boys?" His breath came like steam.

"None, so far," we told him, wearily, and off he went into the frozen

gloom, saying he hoped we would strike it before long.

"Wait a while."

We were working two men to a shaft, burning our ground over night. The

Prodigal and I manned the windlasses, while the old miners went down the

drifts. It was a cold, cold job standing there on that rugged platform

turning the windlass-crank. Long before it was fairly light we got to

our posts, and lowered our men into the hole. The air was warmer down

there; but the work was harder, more difficult, more dangerous.

At noon there was no sunshine, only a wan, ashen light that suffused the

sky. A deathlike stillness lay on the valley, not a quiver or movement

in leaf or blade. The snow was a shroud, smooth save where the funereal

pines pricked through. In that intensity of cold, that shivering agony

of desolation, it seemed as if nature was laughing at us--the Cosmic

Laugh.

Our meals were hurriedly cooked and bolted. We grudged every moment of

our respite from toil. At night we often were far too weary to undress.

We lost our regard for cleanliness; we neglected ourselves. Always we

talked of the result of the day's panning and the chances of to-morrow.

Surely we would strike it soon.

"Wait awhile."

Colder it grew and colder. Our kerosene flowed like mush. The water

froze solid in our kettle. Our bread was full of icy particles.

Everything had to be thawed out continually. It was tiresome,

exasperating, when we were in such a devil of a hurry. It kept us back;

it angered us, this pest of a cold. Our tempers began to suffer. We were

short, taciturn. The strain was beginning to tell on us.

"Wait awhile."

Then, one afternoon, the Something happened. It was Jim who was the

chosen one. About three o'clock he signalled to be hoisted up, and when

he appeared he was carrying a pan of dirt. "Call the others," he said.

All together in the little cabin we stood round, while Jim washed out

the pan in snow-water melt over our stove. I will never forget how

eagerly we watched the gravel, and the whirling, dexterous movements of

the old man. We could see gleams of yellow in the muddy water. Thrills

of joy and hope went through us. We had got the thing, the big thing, at

last.

"Hurry, Jim," I said, "or I'll die of suspense."

Patiently he went on. There it was at last in the bottom of the

pan--sweeter to our eyes than to a woman the sight of her first-born.

There it lay, glittering, gleaming gold, fine gold, coarse gold, nuggety

gold.

"Now, boys, you can whoop it up," said Jim quietly; "for there's many

and many a pan like it down there in the drift."

But never a whoop. What was the matter with us? When the fortune we had

longed for so eagerly came at last, we did not greet it even with a

cheer. Oh, we were painfully silent.

Solemnly we shook hands all round.