Crimson Gardenia And Other Tales Of Adventure — The Stampede
"_Still_ partners?"
Johnny took up the pail of water.
"Well, rather!
We'll always be partners."
His voice was young and full and hearty as he continued: "Why, Mort's the best damned fellow in the world.
I'd lay down my life for him."
THE STAMPEDE
From their vantage on the dump, the red gravel of which ran like a raw scar down the mountainside, the men looked out across the gulch, above the western range of hills to the yellow setting sun.
Far below them the creek was dotted with other tiny pay dumps of the same red gravel over which men crawled, antlike, or upon which they labored at windlass.
Thin wisps of smoke rose from the cabin roofs, bespeaking the supper hour.
They had done a hard day's work, these two, and wearily descended to their shack, which hugged the hillside beneath.
Ten hours with pick and shovel in a drift where the charcoal-gas flickers a candle-flame will reduce one's artistic keenness, and together they slouched along the path, heedless alike of view or color.
As Crowley built the fire Buck scoured himself in the wet snow beside the door, emerging from his ablutions as cook.
The former stretched upon the bunk with growing luxury.
"Gee whiz!
I'm tuckered out.
Twelve hours in that air is too much for anybody."
"Sure," growled the other.
"Bet I sleep good to-night, all right, all right.
What's the use, anyhow?"
he continued, disgustedly.
"I'm sore on the whole works.
If the Yukon was open I'd chuck it all."
"What!
Go back to the States?
Give up?"
"Well, yes, if you want to call it that, though I think I've shown I ain't a quitter.
Lord!
I've rustled steady for two years, and what have I got?
Nothing--except my interest in this pauperized hill claim."
"If two years of hard luck gives you cold feet, you ain't worthy of the dignity of 'prospector.'
This here is the only honorable calling there is.
There's no competition and cuttin' throats in our business, nor we don't rob the widders and orphans.
A prospector is defined as a semi-human being with a low forehead but a high sense of honor, a stummick that shies at salads, but a heart that's full of grit.
They don't never lay down, and the very beauty of the business is that you never know when you're due.
Some day a guy comes along: 'I hit her over yonder, bo,' says he, whereupon you insert yourself into a pack-strap, pound the trail, and the next you know you're a millionaire or two."
"Bah!
No more stampedes for me.
I've killed myself too often--there's nothing in 'em.
I'm sick of it, I tell you, and I'm going out to God's country.
No more wild scrambles and hardships for Buck."
A step sounded on the chips without, and a slender, sallow man entered.
"Hello, Maynard!"
they chorused, and welcomed him to a seat.
"What are you doing out here?"
"D'you bring any chewing with you?"
Evidently he labored under excitement, for his face was flushed and his eyes danced nervously.
He panted from his climb, ignoring their questions.
"There's been a big strike--over on the Tanana--four bits to the pan."
Forgetting fatigue, Crowley scrambled out of his bunk while the cook left his steaming skillet.
"When?"
"How d'you know?"
"It's this way.
I met a fellow as I came out from town--he'd just come over--one of the discoverers.
He showed me the gold.
It's coarse; one nugget weighed three hundred dollars and there's only six men in the party.
They went up the Tanana last fall, prospecting, and only just struck it.
Three of 'em are down with scurvy, so this one came over the mountains for fresh grub.
It'll be the biggest stampede this camp ever saw."
Maynard became incoherent.
"How long ago did you meet him?"
Crowley inquired, excitedly.
"About an hour.
I came on the run, because he'll get into camp by eleven, and midnight will see five hundred men on the trail.
Look at this--he gave me a map."
The speaker gloatingly produced a scrap of writing-paper and continued, "Boys, you've got five hours' start of them."
"We can't go; we haven't got any dogs," said Buck.
"Those people from town would catch us in twenty miles."
"You don't want dogs," Maynard answered.
"It's too soft.
You'll have to make a quick run with packs or the spring break-up will catch you.
I
wish I could go.
It's big, I tell you.
Lord!
How I wish I could go!"
They were huddled together, their eyes feverish, their fingers tracing the pencil-markings.
A smell of burning food filled the room, but there is no obsession more absolute than the gold-lust.
"Get the packs together while me and Buck eats a bite.
We'll take the fox-robe and the Navajo.
Glad I've got a new pair of mukluks, 'cause we need light footgear; but what will you wear, boy?
Them hip-boots is too heavy--you'd never make it."
"Here," said Maynard, "try these."
He slipped off his light gossamer sporting-boots, and Buck succeeded in stamping his feet into them.
"Little tight, but they'll go."
They snatched bites of food, meanwhile collecting their paraphernalia, Maynard helping as he could.
Each selected a change of socks and mittens.
Then the grub was divided evenly--tea, flour, bacon, baking-powder, salt, sugar.
There was nothing else, for spring on the Yukon finds only the heel of the grub-stake.
Each rolled his portion in his blanket and lashed it with light rope.
Then an end of the bundle was thrust into the waist of a pair of overalls and the garment closely cinched to it.
The legs were brought forward and fastened, forming two loops, through which they slipped their arms, balancing the packs, or shifting a knot here and there.
A
light ax, a coffee-pot, frying-pan, and pail were tied on the outside, and they stood ready for the run.
They stored carefully wrapped bundles of matches in pockets, packs, and in the lining of their caps.
The preparations had not taken twenty minutes.
"Too bad we ain't got some cooked grub, like chocolate or dog-biscuits," said Crowley, "but seeing as we've got five hours' start over everybody we won't have to kill ourselves."
Maynard spoke hesitatingly.
"Say, I told Sully about it as I came along."
"What!"
Crowley interrupted him sharply.
"Yes!
I told him to get ready, and I promised to give him the location an hour after you left.
You see, he did me a good turn once and I had to get back at him somehow.
He and Knute are getting fixed now.
Why, what's up?"
He caught a queer, quick glance between his partners and noted a hardness settle into the lined face of the elder.
"Nothing much," Buck took up.
"I guess you didn't know about the trouble, eh?
Crowley knocked him down day before yesterday and Sully swears he'll kill him on sight.
It came up over that fraction on Buster Creek."
"Well, well," said Maynard, "that's bad, isn't it?
I promised, though, so I'll have to tell him."
"Sure!
That's all right," Crowley agreed, quietly, though his lip curled, showing the strong, close-shut, ivory teeth.
His nostrils dilated, also, giving his face a passing wolfish hint.
"There's neither white man nor Swede that can gain an hour on us, and if he should happen to--he wouldn't pass."
Be it known that many great placer fortunes have been won by those who stepped in the warm tracks of the discoverers, while rarely does the goddess smile on the tardy; in consequence, no frenzy approaches that of the gold stampede.
Passing Sully's place, they found him and his partner ready and waiting, their packs on the saw-buck.
Crowley glared at his enemy in silence while the other sneered wickedly back, and Big Knute laughed in his yellow beard.
Buck's heart sank.
Could he outlast these two?
He was a boy; they were reckless giants with thews and legs of iron.
Knute was a gaunt-framed Viking; Sully a violent, florid man with the quarters of an ox.
Through the quixotism of Maynard this trip bade fair to combine the killing grind of a long, fierce stampede with the bitter struggle of man and man, and too well he knew the temper of his red-headed partner to doubt that before the last stake was driven either he or Sully would be down.
From the glare in their eyes at passing it came over him that either he or Knute would recross the mountains partnerless.
The trail was too narrow for these other men.
He shrank from the toil and agony he felt was coming to him through this; then, with it, there came the burning gold-hunger; the lust that drives starving, broken wrecks onward unremittingly, over misty hills, across the beds of lava and the forbidden tundra; on, into the new diggings.
It neared eight o'clock, and, although darkness was far distant, the chill that follows the sun fell sharply.
As they swung out on to the river their fatigue had dropped away and they moved with the steady, loose gait of the hardened "musher."
Buck looked at his watch.
They had been gone an hour.
"The race is on!"
said he.
Though unhurried, their progress was likewise unhindered, and the miles slipped backward as the darkness thickened, hour by hour.
Straight up the fifty-mile stream to its source, over the great backbone and into the unmapped country their course led.
If they hurried they would have first choice of the good claims close about the discovery; if they lagged Sully and his ox-eyed partner would overtake them, and beyond that it was unpleasant to conjecture.
"We'll hit water pretty soon!"
Crowley's voice broke hours of silence, for they were sparing of language.
They neither whistled nor sang nor spoke, for Man is a potential body from which his store of energy wastes through tiny unheeded ways.
True to prophecy, in the darkness of midnight they walked out upon a thin skin of newly frozen ice.
"Look out for the overflow!
She froze since dark," Crowley cautioned.
"We're liable to go through."
On all sides it cracked alarmingly, while they felt it sag beneath their feet.
It is bad in the dark to ride the ice of an overflow, for one may crash through ankle-deep to the solid body beneath or plunge to his armpits.
They skated over the yielding surface toward safety till, without warning, Crowley smashed in half-way to his hips.
He fell forward bodily, and the ice let him through till he rolled in the water.
Buck skimmed over more lightly, and, when they had reached the solid footing, helped him wring out his garments.
Straightway the cloth whitened under the frost and crackled when they resumed their march, but there was no time for fires, and by vigorous action he could keep the cold from striking in.
They had threaded up into the region where spring was further advanced, and within half an hour encountered another overflow.
Climbing the steep bank, they wallowed through thickets waist-deep in snow.
Beneath the crust, which cut knifelike, it was wet and soggy, so they emerged saturated.
Then debouching on to the glare ice the boy had a nasty fall, for he slipped, and his loose-hung pack flung him suddenly.
Nothing is more wicked than a pack on smooth ice.
The surface had frozen glass-smooth, and constant difficulty beset their progress.
Their slick-soled footgear refused to grip it, so that often they fell, always awkwardly, occasionally crushing through into the icy water beneath.
Without warning Buck found that he was very tired.
He also found that his pack had grown soggy and quadrupled in weight, tugging sullenly at his aching shoulders.
As daylight showed they slipped harness and, hurriedly gathering twigs, boiled a pot of tea.
They took time to prepare nothing else, yet even though the kettle sang speedily, as they drank from around the bend below came voices.
Crowley straightened with a curse and, snatching his pack, fled up the stream, followed by his companion.
They ran till Buck's knees failed him.
Thereupon the former removed a portion of the youngster's burden, adding it to his own, and they hurried on for hours, till they fell exhausted upon a dry moss hummock.
Here they exchanged footgear, as Buck now found his feet were paining him acutely, owing to the tightness of his rubber boots.
They proved too small for Crowley as well, and in a few hours his feet were likewise ruined.
Noon found them limping among the bald hills of the river's source.
Here timber was sparse and the snows, too, had thinned; so to avoid the convolutions of the stream they cut across points, floundering among "niggerheads"--quaint, wobbly hummocks of grass--being thrown repeatedly by their packs which had developed a malicious deviltry.
This footing was infinitely worse than the reeking ice, but it saved time, so they took it.
Now, under their stiff mackinaws they perspired freely as the sun mounted, until their heavy garments chafed them beneath arms and legs.
Moreover, mosquitoes, which in this latitude breed within arm's-length of snow-drifts, continually whined in a vicious cloud before their features.
Human nerves will weather great strains, but wearing, maddening, unending trivialities will break them down, and so, although their journey in miles had been inconsiderable, the dragging packs, the driving panic, the lack of food and firm footing, had trebled it.
Scaling the moss-capped saddle, they labored painfully, a hundred yards at a time.
Back of them the valley unrolled, its stream winding away like a gleaming ribbon, stretching, through dark banks of fir, down to the Yukon.
After incredible effort they reached the crest and gazed dully out to the southward over a limitless jangle of peaks, on, on, to a blue-veiled valley leagues and leagues across.
Many square miles lay under them in the black of unbroken forests.
It was their first glimpse of the Tanana.
Far beyond, from a groveling group of foot-hills, a solitary, giant peak soared grandly, standing aloof, serene, terrible in its proportions.
Even in their fatigue they exclaimed aloud: "It's Mount McKinley!"
"Yep!
Tallest wart on the face of the continent.
There's the creek we go down--see!"
Crowley indicated a watercourse which meandered away through cañons and broad reaches.
"We foller it to yonder cross valley; then east to there."
To Buck's mind, his gesture included a tinted realm as far-reaching as a state.
Stretched upon the bare schist, commanding the back stretch, they munched slices of raw bacon.
Directly, out toward the mountain's foot two figures crawled.
"There they come!"
and Crowley led, stumbling, sliding, into the strange valley.
As this was the south and early side of the range, they found the hills more barren of snow.
Water seeped into the gulches till the creek ice was worn and rotted.
"This 'll be fierce," the Irishman remarked.
"If she breaks on us we'll be hung up in the hills and starve before the creeks lower enough to get home."
Small streams freeze solidly to the bottom and the spring waters wear downward from the surface.
Thus they found the creek awash, and, following farther, it became necessary to wade in many places.
They came to a box cañon where the winter snow had packed, forming a dam, and, as there was no way of avoiding it without retreating a mile and climbing the ragged bluff, they floundered through, their packs aloft, the slushy water armpit-deep.
"We'd ought 'a' took the ridges," Buck chattered.
Language slips forth phonetically with fatigue.
"No!
Feller's apt to get lost.
Drop into the wrong creek--come out fifty mile away."
"I bet the others do, anyhow," Buck held, stubbornly.
"It's lots easier going."
"Wish Sully would, but he's too wise.
No such luck for me."
A long pause.
"I reckon I'll have to kill him before he gets back!"
Again they relapsed into miles of silence.
Crowley's fancy fed on vengeance, hatred livening his work-worn faculties.
He nursed carefully the memory of their quarrel, for it helped him travel and took his mind from the agony of movement and this aching sleep-hunger.
The feet of both men felt like fearful, shapeless masses; their packs leaned backward sullenly, chafing raw shoulder sores; and always the ravenous mosquitoes stung and stung, and whined and whined.
At an exclamation the leader turned.
Miles back, silhouetted far above on the comb of the ridge, they descried two tiny figures.
"That's what we'd ought 'a' done.
They'll beat us in."
"No, they won't. They'll have to camp to-night or get lost, while we can keep goin'.
We can't go wrong down here; can't do no more than drownd."
Buck groaned at the thought of the night hours.
He couldn't stand it, that was all!
Enough is enough of anything and he had gone the limit.
Just one more mile and he would quit; yet he did not.
All through that endless phantom night they floundered, incased in freezing garments, numb and heavy with sleep, but morning found them at the banks of the main stream.
"You look like hell," said Buck, laughing weakly.
His mirth relaxed his nerves suddenly, till he giggled and hiccoughed hysterically.
Nor could he stop for many minutes, the while Crowley stared at him apathetically from a lined and shrunken countenance, his features standing out skeleton-like.
The younger man evidenced the strain even more severely, for his flesh was tender, and he had traveled the last hours on pure nerve.
His jaws were locked and corded, however, while his drooping eyes shone unquenchably.
Eventually they rounded a bluff on to a cabin nestling at the mouth of a dark valley.
Near it men were working with a windlass, so, stumbling to them, they spoke huskily.
"Sorry we 'ain't got room inside," the stranger replied, "but three of the boys is down with scurvy, and we're all cramped up.
Plenty more folks coming, I s'pose, eh?"
The two had sunk on to the wet ground and did not answer.
Buck fell with his pack still on, utterly lost, and the miner was forced to drag the bundle from his shoulders.
As he rolled him up he was sleeping heavily.
Crowley awakened while the sun was still golden; his joints aching excruciatingly.
They had slept four hours.
He boiled tea on the miners' stove and fried a pan of salt pork, but was too tired to prepare anything else, so they drank the warm bacon-grease clear with their tea.
As Buck strove to arise, his limbs gave way weakly, so that he fell, and it took him many moments to recover their use.
"Where's the best chance, pardner?"
they inquired of the men on the dump.
"Well, there ain't none very close by.
We've got things pretty well covered."
"How's that?
There's only six of you; you can't hold but six claims, besides discovery."
"Oh yes, we can!
We've got powers of attorney; got 'em last fall in St. Michael; got 'em recorded, too."
Crowley's sunken eyes blazed.
"Them's no good.
We don't recko'nize 'em in this district.
One claim is enough for any man if it's good, and too much if it's bad."
"What district you alludin' at?"
questioned the other, ironically.
"You're in the Skookum District now.
It takes six men to organize.
Well!
We organized.
We made laws.
We elected a recorder.
I'm it.
If you don't like our rules, yonder is the divide.
We've got the U. S.
government back of us.
See!"
Crowley's language became purely local, but the other continued unruffled.
"We knew you-all was coming, so we sort of loaded up.
If there's any ground hereabouts that we ain't got blanketed, it's purely an oversight.
There's plenty left farther out, though," and he swept them a mocking gesture.
"Help yourselves and pass up for more.
I'll record 'em."
"What's the fee?"
"Ten dollars apiece."
Crowley swore more savagely.
"You done a fine job of hoggin', didn't you?
It's two and a half everywhere else."
But the recorder of the Skookum District laughed carelessly and resumed his windlass.
"Sorry you ain't pleased.
Maybe you'll learn to like it."
As they turned away he continued: "I don't mind giving you a hunch, though.
Tackle that big creek about five miles down yonder.
She prospected good last fall, but you'll have to go clean to her head, 'cause we've got everything below."
Eight hours later, by the guiding glare of the Northern Lights, the two stumbled back into camp, utterly broken.
They had followed the stream for miles and miles to find it staked by the powers of attorney of the six.
Coming to the gulch's head, to be sure, they found vacant ground, but refused to claim such unpromising territory.
Then the endless homeward march through the darkness!
Out of thickets and through drifts they burst, while fatigue settled on them like some horrid vampire from the darkness.
Every step being no longer involuntary became a separate labor, requiring mental concentration.
They were half dead in slumber as they walked, but their stubborn courage and smoldering rage at the men who had caused this drove them on.
They suffered silently, because it takes effort to groan, and they hoarded every atom of endurance.
Many, many times Buck repeated a poem, timing his steps to its rhythm, rendering it over and over till it wore a rut through his brain, his eyes fixed dully upon the glaring fires above the hilltops.
For years a faintness came over him with the memory of these lines: Then dark they lie, and stark they lie, rookery, dune, and floe, And the Northern Lights came down o' nights to dance with the houseless snow.
Reaching the cabin, they found an army of men sleeping heavily upon the wet moss.
Among them was the great form of Knute, but nowhere did they spy Sully.
With much effort they tore off the constricting boots and, using them for pillows, sank into a painful lethargy.
Awakened early by the others, they took their stiffly frozen footgear beneath the blankets to thaw against their warm bodies, but their feet were swelled to double size and every joint had ossified rheumatically.
Eventually they hobbled about, preparing the first square meal since the start--two days and three nights.
Still they saw no Sully, though Crowley's eyes darted careful inquiry among the horde of stampeders which moved about the cabin.
Later, he seemed bent on some hidden design, so they crawled out of sight of the camp, then, commencing at the upper stake of Discovery, he stepped off the claims from post to post.
It is customary to blaze the boundaries of locations on tree trunks, but from topographical irregularities it is difficult to properly gauge these distances, hence, many rich fractions have been run over by the heedless, to fall to him who chained the ground.
Upon pacing the third one, he showed excitement.
"You walk this one again--mebbe I made a mistake."
