Mankind in Dawson having muddled its affairs, the gods took a hand in the game.
John Berwick, as he turned his face homewards early on the following day, happened to take the route that would carry him by the Barracks, notwithstanding that it would add a mile to the journey. As he climbed the hog's-back to Lookout Point he saw the tall military figure of Smoothbore in front of him. The Commandant, seeing him coming, awaited him.
"Good-morning. The air is very good."
"It is, indeed."
After this there was a pause. Evidently Smoothbore desired to make no reference to the interview of the preceding day. Possibly he judged the cause of the reformers to be already lost. If so Berwick would give him every opportunity of keeping the conversation from politics: so he continued,
"How pure the Klondike is and clear, and how beautiful are the shades across the Yukon!"
"'And only man is vile,'" quoted the Commandant.
Berwick realized that the Head of the Police was poking fun at him; and not knowing Smoothbore very well, concluded that he must know of the new stampede; in fact, he seemed to be watching the dark specks of moving men streaming over the summit of the Dome.
"Do you often walk abroad so early?" John asked.
"Yes, it is becoming a habit. One requires but little sleep in this climate; I shall soon return, and go to work."
"Are your labours heavy?"
"Oh, heavy enough; there are many details."
"You have a splendid force, sir."
"I have, and they are loyal to me and their country."
"Loyalty is among the chief of human virtues. But is loyalty in all cases a virtue?"
"I consider it so."
"Your men must find many duties distasteful to them."
"Duty is often distasteful, but it is never to be mistaken. With me it is very well defined. Are you also taking a morning constitutional?"
"I am going up to the Dome." It would notdo for John to let the other know the whereabouts of his abode or to divulge the fact that it was his custom to sleep at night. It was a custom with many in that city of perpetual light to sleep in the normal daytime and work at night.
"I'm going the same way. We'll walk together. I wish to spy out the land a bit. We may decide to build a trail to Moosehide."
The two continued on the winding trail, which was now lined with human habitations, set down without any idea of system. Some were cabins, others tents, others still a combination of the two—such, indeed, as was John's "home-ranch." Before many of them camp-fires were crackling and burning, and meals were being prepared. The two who were or had been the leaders of the opposing parties passed without attention being paid to them.
"Ah! there's the danger signal, the result of the first frost, and a sign that summer will soon pass away." John pointed to a willow whose leaves had turned crimson and scarlet.
"Yes, we shall have winter soon; this weather won't last. But you are in error in supposing that the bright tints in our foliage are due to frost; the mistake is very common. The redness is mere ripeness."
They found many topics in common, and mutualinterest made the stiff effort less trying as they climbed and climbed.
As they approached a point on the trail, half way to the summit, a man was seen coming down, dragging a log by a rope. They stepped aside from the path, which here was on the side hill. Berwick, who was outside, happened to place his foot on a loose lump of moss lying on a stone. It moved; his foot slipped; he lost his balance. He struggled on the shelving ground, grabbed at some grass, was tangled in some brush, tore his hands, went down with a crash, being stopped by a sharpened stump of a severed tree-trunk. The point grazed his arm and pierced the body under the shoulder-blade. At once the Commandant and the woodman went to his help, but the jar of attempting to raise him brought a cry of pain. It was necessary to cut the tree-stump before he could be assisted to his feet.
They had to carry him down the hill, his mind in a half-swoon punctuated with throbs and stabs of pain, until he awoke to consciousness in the St. George's Hospital.
It seemed more as the remembrance of a dream than of actual occurrence. He was in England. Even the voice of Alice ...
A pungent odour was about him. He heard a buzzing rising rapidly in key, higher—higher—yet higher; higher—higher still; then there wasa "click." As John Berwick's senses were stolen away by the blessed influence of an anæsthetic his lips framed the word "Alice." She heard the name, and was glad.
The first words John uttered as the drug left him were incoherent; but gradually they took form.
"Who's afraid to die? I'm not afraid to die. What's the good of a man's religion if he's afraid to die?"
"I know you're not afraid to die," said Alice.
The only reply she got was, "Oh, my head! my head!"
"What's the matter with your head?"
"Oh, my head! it's bursting."
"Water! water!" continued to be his cry; but Alice would feed him with only a drop or two at a time. Gradually his ravings grew less pronounced, less frequent.
"Who are you?" he asked, after gazing for some time with dazed eyes at Alice. "You look very like Alice Peel. Alice is in England, and I am—where am I?"
"I'm glad I look like Alice Peel," she said in reply.
"She's the only girl—in all the world," he murmured, before his mind again wandered, and he muttered straggling fragments of verses.
"Alice, Alice!" he cried suddenly.
"Yes," said Alice, soothing his head with her cool hand.
He recognized her. "Alice!" he cried again.
She bent over and kissed him. "Go to sleep," she said.
John did as he was commanded. When he woke two hours later he called for water, and Alice gave him some from a cup.
"Alice, I've been wounded; yes, I remember that—but how did you get here?"
"I will tell you to-morrow when you are stronger. You must not excite yourself now."
But at six o'clock that evening Surgeon-Major Peel, taking his temperature and finding it normal, gave the necessary permission. So Alice told their story.
John Berwick's accident was the last touch which caused the uprising to crumble. One more great effort after the ideal of justice had fallen and parted.
Frank Corte was sitting in front of the Dominion Creek cabin, by the side of a pool of water that had formed since the claims—which rightfully belonged to himself and his three associates—had been taken over by the agents of Poo-Bah. The policy of the land was to reap to-day and spend to-morrow, so a dam had been put in on the "pup" or tributary of Dominion Creek that entered above the claims; and already a harvest was in sight. Frank had some possessions in the cabin, which he had come to fetch before joining the new stampede.
Above the cabin was a line of sluice-boxes, into which half-a-dozen lusty Scandinavians were shovelling the precious dirt. It was Frank's own claim they were working—and he gritted histeeth. For an instant his face lost its habitual grin. "If this was only God's country," he muttered, as he glanced through the open door of the cabin at the rifle hanging on the wall therein. He continued to whirl the gold-pan which he held in his hands. In the pan was a handful of dirt he was idly concentrating. "The boss won't stand for it—and he's a white man." Frank smiled again.
From the mining operations at the sluice-boxes, voices came to where Corte sat. Neither the foreman nor his men had realized that their voices were carrying beyond the sound of rushing water. They were shouting that they might hear each other above the roar in the sluices, and were laughing cheerily—for Poo-Bah was a good paymaster to his men. "One dollar, two dollar, one and six bits"—would float to Frank's ears, as the foreman estimated the contents of a pan; and he would inwardly groan as he calculated the wealth that was passing from him into the great grafter's pocket.
"I guess we'd better clean up; we can get her down to the black sand by half-past ten and finished an hour later."
Something rose in Frank's throat and almost choked him. The attitude of these intruders galled him. He half jumped up to seize his rifle, when "No," he muttered: "Them yellow-legs!"
His attention was attracted to the gold-pan. Specks of gold were floating upon the water; at the bottom of the pan he noticed an unmistakable grease spot, and, true to its nature, it had secured to its surface several of the tiny yellow grains. Grease was alike fatal to the gold-pan and the stamp battery.
Suddenly his eyes took on a new light: they were full of energy. He glanced towards the working miners, and followed the line of sluices to the artificial pond in the "pup" whence they got their water. "Yes, yes!" he muttered, and sprang to his feet. He hurried to the quarters of one of his friends, Jerry, the engineer on a neighbouring claim where a steam-plant had been installed.
"Jerry," said Frank, "I want two bottles of lubricating oil."
"Pretty near all I got."
"Don't care—must have it."
"All right, what do you want it for?"
"Frying slap-jacks." Frank went with his evil-smelling petroleum.
"What the devil is he up to!" asked Jerry, as the drooping figure hulked out of sight. The weasel that peeped at him through the poles of his cabin floor could not tell him, nor did he know.
Frank put the oil on the table of his cabin, andthen went outside and began chopping wood. It was now the orthodox bed-time, so he must show a good reason for being about. The sun had just set in the north, the quarter it sets in the Northland.
"Shut her off," he heard the foreman cry, and he knew the cleaning was to be commenced. Down came the axe on a four-inch stick of spruce with a force that burst it asunder and threw the pieces far apart. No experienced woodman in the ordinary course of events would have used so much force, and Frank Corte had chopped much wood.
The roar of the water diminished, the voices of the clean-up men fell away. He could hear no more, but he knew every move. First, the riffles would be lifted from the sluice-boxes and the dump-box, and the dirt in the sluice-boxes would be shovelled into the dump-box. Then a strip of wood, about two inches square, would be placed across the dump-box where it joined the head of the sluices. This would prevent the gold from being washed down the boxes.
When these processes were accomplished the foreman shouted "Turn on half a head," and Ole Oleson, at the gate, allowed half the usual flow of water to rush down the flume to the dump-box. Had Frank watched the impact of the water on the dirt in the dump-box he would,even in the now failing light, have seen a burst of yellow shine out from what had previously appeared dross.
As the water reached the dirt the dirt was forced against it by three or four stout paddles, whereby the husky workmen churned and washed the dirt thoroughly. Across the dump-box where the water met the pay-dirt stretched a band of gold. First it was half an inch, and then two inches. Meanwhile the pebbles and the dross worked their way over the retaining block and bumped ignominiously to the tailings.
"It looks good," said the foreman in loud tones. Frank heard him then shout to Ole, "A quarter of a head." Corte, thereupon, threw down his axe. It was time for action. He went into the cabin, and placed the two bottles of oil in a bucket, with which he set out for the dam. It was the most natural thing in the world for a man to draw a bucket of water before retiring: he might want a drink during the night.
Ole was almost asleep when Frank came up to him. He was lounging over the gate. Frank greeted him with, "Good-evening, partner; you're working late to-night."
"Dat's so," was all Ole had life enough to answer. Frank slipped his bucket into the water; the bottle sank against the mud. The hues ofiridescence spread across the weird and silent surface.
The bottles were safely at the bottom of the pool, and the bucket full of water, as Frank turned towards the cabin, saying, "Good-night, Ole." As he neared his cabin he heard the foreman shout, "Shut her half off"; and knew that the work of taking out the black sand from the dust was at hand. He knew that already the small specks of gold were being carried to the lower end of the pool. So he made haste, and, taking a blanket, nailed it at the waste gate of the lower pond, so that the total flood from above went through it: then he turned in.
He was awake at four on the next morning, and, proceeding to the lower pond, loosed the blanket, which was heavy with water and gold. Then he built a fire in the open, and after it was burning well placed the blanket upon it.
When the blanket was totally consumed and the fire burnt down, Frank collected the ashes and panned them out. The gold was fine in form and quality, and proved worth some thousands of dollars.
"Hi-u chickaman stuff," laughed Frank.
Frank Corte, "mushing" through to Dawson from Dominion Creek, took his time comfortably and arrived on the second evening. He danced till five in the morning, after which, as was natural, he lay down and slept. Accordingly it was not until the evening after his arrival that he gave a thought to his three companions, and began to search for them by visiting the Borealis, and going the round of the dance-halls and gambling-saloons. He found George and Hugh, who were together, but not John.
Something must surely have happened to him! George Bruce had visited his den several times lately; he was not there. At last by inquiry at the police station they learnt that he had hurt himself by falling when climbing to the Dome, and had been taken to St. George's Private Hospital.
It was about nine in the evening when the three friends visited him in the ward.
"Hello, what's wrong now?" Frank cried; "better than typhoid anyway."
Alice rose in indignation at the noise and clatter; but seeing John smile, reseated herself. Frank was broadly grinning.
"Alice, this is Frank Corte, my good friend, George Bruce and Hugh Spencer, my pards; now you know personally the good fellows I've told you about."
Alice shook hands with them, and there was a moment of some awkwardness, which Frank broke by saying, "Here," as he laid a large poke of gold on John's chest.
"Where did you get it?" asked he.
Frank took a sly glance at Alice—in fact, he had already taken several. She was certainly attractive, and had impressed him. His usual vocabulary was insufficient in the circumstances. He gave a sniff.
"I applicationed the principles of childish lore to the exigencies of existence in a land of graft and corruption; I lubricated the wheels of the flow of justice and distracted this here gold-dust from Poo-Bah."
"Who?" inquired Alice, frankly laughing.
"Poo-Bah—he's the high mucky-muck round here, sort of 'man Friday' to the Octopus who's got his tentacles round these here environs."
"How did you get the dust?" asked Johnagain, as with critical eyes he estimated the value of the contents of the poke.
"Well, I was sitting in front of our cabin on the claims with my brain working and my eyes on the 'quivi-vivi,' as them Frenchers would say, and I was ebolluting hot, and then I thought of grease! So I gets some lubricating oil, and then Nature does the rest; of course I was the instrument whereby the oil was placed in the sluices."
John grasped Frank's meaning and method. It flashed upon him at the mention of the lubricating oil.
"What do you mean to do with this gold?" Berwick asked.
"You are going to keep it."
"Oh, no, I can't do that; why give it to me? Why to me more than to Hugh?"
"Oh, he can get more. He's coming with me to God's country."
"Where?" asked Alice, more than ever bewildered.
"To God's country—the new strike down in Alaska; there'll be no Poo-Bah there, and plenty of shot-gun justice."
"But there's George's interest."
"George! Oh, he will put his up with ours O.K., I guess." Here Frank again looked at Alice. "I guess you'll be needing that stuff if parsons charge like other folks do!"
John smiled at this, and Alice blushed. Leaving the friends together, for she knew they would wish to talk, she went from the room.
"No, no, Frank, it won't do." Then, seeing that Corte looked troubled, he added, "I'll take a quarter if you like; you've proved yourself a comrade. But what's this about the new strike?"
"Big gold excitement—richer than Bonanza and Eldorado, and, best of all, in God's country; you'll be coming?"
"I—no, you must remember my work. Are you for giving up our enterprise to get justice done here and in other goldfields?"
"Sure thing, me and Hugh, in fact, everything that don't wear hobbles is going."
"And leave all this wrong unrighted?"
"Sure thing; this ain't my country. I'm going where things can be made right overnight, and there ain't no yellow-legs."
"And you, Hugh, are you going to Alaska?"
"Yes, I think so; you see the chances of getting in on a new strike seem good—and—well, our great show has melted right away. It was a fine effort, but it failed. I don't mind running chances—in fact, I'm used to it; and, after all, that's all Poo-Bah and his chums know, is grafting. Let them keep their dirty money."
"It's a pity, a pity." John was thoughtful for a time. They were looking at him. "I don'tknow what I shall do if you and Frank desert me," sighed John.
"Get married and settle down," Frank said bluntly.
"You'll do all right," interposed Hugh, "you and George got record for two claims on the left limit of Bonanza working out your quartz proposition right against discovery. Well, this is Chechacho Hill, now reckoned amongst the richest ground in all the Klondike. You and George don't need to worry about Poo-Bah and Dominion Creek hillsides, nor your daily bread, no more. I thought I would not tell George the news till I caught you two together. Frank and I will try our chances again, and George can stay here and watch you 'live happy ever afterwards.'"
John frowned; his mind reverted to his "Mission." He believed that his duty was to the great portion of the Klondike's population whom Poo-Bah and the system of grafters had wronged. He refused even yet to recognize the game was up.
"Our people——" he began.
"Our people are mostly down the river striking for God's country, where there ain't no yellow-legs, and a shot-gun holds down your claim!"
"Frank is right," interposed Hugh, "our whole big following has gone."
John knew this to be only too true. Alas! alas! the fickleness of man.
"Just like the Siwash, Si-Ya Creeks, Hi-u Chickaman, we're all much alike, yes—yes, except some"—and Frank glanced at Alice, who then entered the room with refreshment for the visitors.
"Frank says that far-away creeks appear to hold much gold," John translated for the benefit of Alice.
"Well, you're all right with your gold on Chechacho Hill," said Hugh. "I might have known it was there if I had only thought."
"Why?" asked Bruce.
"Because of Carmack finding gold on top of twenty feet of muck. I might have known that the gold slid down the hill. It wasn't creek gold Bonanza was discovered on—no, sir, it was hillside. And that accounts for its being above the muck there and nowhere else. If a fellow could only think right before he knows!"
"We'll try and know right down in God's country, Boss. Hugh and I must be going now. George won't be going with us; he has his claim in this yellow-leg country."
In the way of the goldfields, they proceeded at once to say good-bye. Corte and Spencer took their shares of the gold Frank had brought from Dominion Creek, and went, carrying all manner of wishes for good from those they were leaving behind.
Constable Hope had been attracted by John Berwick, and meant to see more of him. So that when he met him one day with his arm in a sling he showed himself friendly.
Smoothbore's trooper was a youth of ideas—a good type of the fine force. Though he was still but twenty-four years of age his life had so often been in danger that he had courage and character far beyond his years. As the incident which broke down the conspiracy had proved, he was an adventurer at heart, with more than usual brilliance and spirit.
He would ride into a band of yelling drunken savages and get his man without showing a gun, and time and again had solved difficulties through sheer daring, cleverness, and shrewd knowledge of men. He played the game for love of the game. Money, by way of graft, he did not deem any reward.
John Berwick had interested him. He felt thatthey held interests in common, so when they met he addressed him. He was not in uniform, and Berwick had no idea he belonged to the police.
He followed John into one of the gambling-halls, whither John had gone in search of any of his old-time colleagues who might not have joined the stampede.
As, standing beside each other, they watched the play at a Black Jack table, a burly Swede lounged up, and from his hip pocket drew out a bag of dust, which he laid on the table in line with the wagers of the other players. The sack held about three thousand dollars-worth of gold.
The dealer dealt each man a card, slipping it under his wager, and then dealt another round. The different players, starting with the one on the dealer's left, after looking at what they had drawn, either tapped their cards if they wished another card or placed their hand beneath their wager if they were content to "stand."
When it came to the Scandinavian's turn he stood stupidly looking at his gold.
"Well—what do you intend to do?" asked the dealer.
"Have I got to leave that gold there?"
"No, you can take it up if you want to," replied the other.
The Swede hesitated, then picked up his gold and walked away, while the dealer idly turnedover the cards, at sight of which even the stoic Dawson audience grew noisy with comments. The cards turned up were an ace and a king—Black Jack, a winning hand against all others.
"That's what a fellow gets whose nerve fails him," remarked Constable Hope.
"Yes, but perhaps it is not always better to win."
Constable Hope glanced shrewdly at John. He followed up the thought with a searching remark.
"I wonder if it would have been better if the miners had won against the officials."
"I wonder!" The remark was not encouraging.
"I heard you make your speech at the finish of the Dominion Creek stampede," Hope persisted in saying; "there does not seem to be much agitation in these days."
"No, the discontented, or rather the wronged, have gone down the river, preferring the chances of a new field to securing justice here. Those who have property are afraid to speak. A goldfield is not a place where principle flourishes."
"You're not like the Swede; you didn't lose your nerve," said Hope.
Berwick made no reply.
"Did you ever see a good man lose his nerve?" the policeman asked.
"No."
"Well, I have. Once I was in the mountains down below with a buck policeman, a Scotch-Canadian from back east, and as good a trooper as ever sat a horse. Got lost in a blizzard on the prairies later on, and they never found him till spring—the coyotes had not left much of him. Well, Chisholm and I went hunting one day, and, travelling along, came to a box canyon. We decided to try and cross it; it was a couple of hundred feet deep, and we started, Chisholm going first. I let him down, he holding my hands with one of his, while with the other he grabbed a bush. No sooner had he put his foot on the ledge we figured on getting down to than he found it soft and yielding. For some reason he dropped my hand and grabbed at a tuft of moss and hung there. Then his footing went further down, which drew his chest tight against the wall of the canyon. I threw myself on my stomach and grabbed him by the collar and said, 'Jump.' His eyes glistened, and he appeared not to hear me. Then I looked over the edge and saw that the ledge he had been standing on had given way entirely, and that he was suspended by his arms alone. He would not speak; he would not move. The wild light in his eyes faded a bit, but there he hung, to all appearance dead. Had I not had a lariat with me I should have been powerless. As it was, I got a slip-knotaround his feet, and so up under his arms, and this I made fast to a tree. Then I laughed at him. It is a wonderful light, that which comes into men's eyes at the fear of death. I have only seen it once again—in the eyes of a mother travelling on a river steamer who thought her child had fallen overboard. Losing your nerve is dangerous."
When their drink and Hope's story were finished they walked out in the street, where they met Smoothbore. As they passed him John nodded, and his companion brought his hand half way to the salute and then lowered it. Hope had given himself away; the other saw he was a policeman.
"You know Smoothbore?" Hope asked.
"I have spoken to him."
Hope did not reply for a moment, after which he continued, "There's a man who never loses his nerve."
It was the highest tribute Hope could pay.
"Did you ever hear of Paper-collar Johnnie?"
"No," said John.
"Paper-collar was an officer down below, and he and Smoothbore were pals. They were out to a banquet one night and returning home late—in fact dawn was breaking over the prairie, cold and misty, when they reached the ford of the river outside their post. It had been raininghard, the stream had risen, and the driver drew up before the ford and said, 'The river seems pretty bad, sir.' 'Hold on,' said Paper-collar, 'this won't do; mustn't try and cross that ford if the river is in flood.' 'Driver, halt,' ordered Smoothbore, 'my companion wishes to alight; get down, sir.' Paper-collar stepped down on the prairie. 'Now, driver, the ford.'"
"And he took it all right?"
"Yes, sir; and hours afterwards a patrol from the fort picked up poor Paper-collar."
"What would Smoothbore have done had the miners risen after the Dominion Creek stampede?" Berwick ventured to ask.
"He'd have fought, and the police would have stood by him. He'd have used his nerve."
"I learn there is a 'Nordenfelt' and a maxim in the Passes. If the miners had got them down here and hauled them to the top of the Dome they would have made things hot in the Barracks."
"Well, maxim or no maxim, Smoothbore would have fought. Neither he nor any of the police do any grafting; but we should have fought."
"Perhaps it is as well the Alaska stampede began," said Berwick musingly.
"It was very much better," said Hope decisively. So they parted, and Berwick felt the last word had been said about his bid for miners' justice.
When, the next day, Alice accompanied John and George Bruce in a first visit to their claims on Chechacho Hill, they saw that the signal thrown out by the first red tints of the maples and the willows—which told of summer ending and the dreary months of winter beginning—was shown. The sun was shining brightly, but already it seemed robbed of some of its heat.
Alice had often pictured life at the diggings. She had read numbers of mining-camp stories, with scenes laid in America and Australia, yet had gained little insight to the realities. She gloried in the experience, and was eager to urge them on. "Hurry! hurry!" but John exhorted her to stay her speed, for the distance they had to go was twenty-four miles, and the trail—though many of the mud-holes had dried—was rough.
She looked at the men she met, hunting for the type of her fancy, the type engendered by novel and tale. No one seemed armed, saveoccasionally with a rifle or a shot-gun; but the wild man with the brace of pistols, bandolier, huge moustache and homicidal aspect did not present himself!
They crossed the Klondike by Poo-Bah's ferry. Once in Bonanza Valley Alice felt she had left the civilized world behind her, and was entering the enchanted regions of Nature. To her, in her happy illusions, it was fairy-land.
Few women had preceded her over the Bonanza trail, so that men, "mushing," who passed their fellows with lowered head, openly stared at her; and many of these lonely wayfarers would have been glad of a word from her, to hear again the sweet soft accents of the better world outside. For to the men of the frontier the idea of home is very refined and dear, and women ever virtuous and tender, so that the appearance of Alice Peel, on the Bonanza trail upon that glorious day, was to them as a beautiful picture and an uplifting influence.
One grizzled miner hurried out, holding a gold-pan full of nuggets, dust, and black sand.
"Put your hand into it, lady, and see what it feels like."
Alice did so, and thought it felt like any other sand, only heavier. He then selected a nugget—worth quite a sovereign—from the pan and gave it to her.
"Why did you give me this?"
"Because you are a lady."
Alice looked perplexed.
"Keep it as a souvenir," said John, so she thanked the man and slipped the nugget inside her glove. But that was not to be the limit of their host's hospitality, for, as they turned to go, he said,
"It's just about noon, and if you've walked from Dawson the lady must be near petered. Better stay and have dinner."
"We thought of dining at the road-house at Discovery," said George. "We have some ground on Chechacho Hill."
"I can give you a better feed here: moose-meat, either steak or nose, whichever you fancy. You see, lady, in the old days this was a sort of a pet locality for moose, so they stray in once in a while yet, and sometimes they don't get a chance to get away again."
The sound of a horn came from a tent close by.
The signal was answered by a general throwing down of tools, and the half-dozen men at work made their way towards the tent. They all washed in a couple of tin basins, and dried themselves on a filthy towel.
Alice and her companions were ushered into the dining-tent, where, John's quick eyes noticed, extra places had been set. Alice was asked to sitat the head of the table, in the owner's place: John and George were seated at her right, and the owner—Wild Horse Bill—on the left. The men were already hard at work, consuming their food—moose-steak, pork and beans, and great pieces of bread.
As they sat down the cook placed on the table a large tin platter, in which was a piece of meat of indescribable colour and shape.
"This is moose nose, lady, the best part of the animal, and along with the beaver tail and wild-cat makes the finest eating in the Northland."
"Wild-cat!" Alice exclaimed. She had indeed read of the tail of Canada's mascot being a frontier dainty, but moose nose, and especially wild-cat, were new, and did not sound altogether attractive articles of diet.
"Yes, lady, the lynx, or wild-cat, is the best eating the trapper knows in the Northland. You would think you were eating chicken. As for moose nose and beaver tail, one is much like the other."
The owner pushed the platter containing the strange dainty towards Alice, with the words, "Help yourself, lady."
Alice was game; and, without showing her disinclination, she took up the knife and fork and cut off a piece of the blubberous meat, and put it on her plate.
After they had walked about a mile and a half beyond the claim where they had lunched they stood beneath Chechacho Hill at the north-east, a quarter of a mile down-stream from where Carmack had made his discovery; and John pointed to where their claims were situate. Men were at work, "rocking" gold on the next claim to John's.
When they reached their claims Alice looked across the valley, noting the great stretches of poplar and birch, golden-yellow in their autumn tints, and smiled at the beauty of it—till out of the chilled atmosphere somewhere came the whisper, "Make haste and provide."
"I should like to live here always," whispered Alice to John, while Bruce went to talk with the men working on the claim alongside.
"Always is a long time, and every day will not be as beautiful as this; but for a year or two——"
"Yes, for a year or two."
And so it was decided.
They were married in the little church by the side of the slough in Dawson.
Transcriber's NotePunctuation errors have been corrected.The following suspected printer's errors have been addressed.Page 233. Jaques changed to Jacques. (of the melancholy Jacques).Page 320. or changed to of. (the wheels of the flow of justice).Page 331. of changed to and. (The maples and the willows).
Punctuation errors have been corrected.
The following suspected printer's errors have been addressed.
Page 233. Jaques changed to Jacques. (of the melancholy Jacques).
Page 320. or changed to of. (the wheels of the flow of justice).
Page 331. of changed to and. (The maples and the willows).