Several minutes later, as he weighed in on the gold-scales for the drinks, he gave a start of recollection.
I plum forgot that man I was to meet in the Tivoli. Hes got some spoiled bacon hell sell for a dollar an a half a pound. We can feed it to the dogs an save a dollar a day on eachs board-bill. So long.
So long, said Smoke. Im goin to the cabin an turn in.
Hardly had Shorty left the place, when a fur-clad man entered through the double storm-doors. His face lighted at sight of Smoke, who recognized him as Breck, the man whose boat they had run through the Box Canyon and White Horse Rapids.
I heard you were in town, Breck said hurriedly, as they shook hands. Been looking for you for half an hour. Come outside, I want to talk with you.
Smoke looked regretfully at the roaring, red-hot stove.
Wont this do?
No; its important. Come outside.
As they emerged, Smoke drew off one mitten, lighted a match, and glanced at the thermometer that hung beside the door. He remittened his naked hand hastily as if the frost had burned him. Overhead arched the flaming aurora borealis, while from all Dawson arose the mournful howling of thousands of wolf-dogs.
What did it say? Breck asked.
Sixty below. Kit spat experimentally, and the spittle crackled in the air. And the thermometer is certainly working. Its falling all the time. An hour ago it was only fifty-two. Dont tell me its a stampede.
It is, Breck whispered back cautiously, casting anxious eyes about in fear of some other listener. You know Squaw Creek? empties in on the other side of the Yukon thirty miles up?
Nothing doing there, was Smokes judgment. It was prospected years ago.
So were all the other rich creeks. Listen! Its big. Only eight to twenty feet to bedrock. There wont be a claim that dont run to half a million. Its a dead secret. Two or three of my close friends let me in on it. I told my wife right away that I was going to find you before I started. Now, so long. My packs hidden down the bank. In fact, when they told me, they made me promise not to pull out until Dawson was asleep. You know what it means if youre seen with a stampeding outfit. Get your partner and follow. You ought to stake fourth or fifth claim from Discovery. Dont forget Squaw Creek. Its the third after you pass Swede Creek.
When Smoke entered the little cabin on the hillside back of Dawson, he heard a heavy familiar breathing.
Aw, go to bed, Shorty mumbled, as Smoke shook his shoulder. Im not on the night shift, was his next remark, as the rousing hand became more vigorous. Tell your troubles to the barkeeper.
Kick into your clothes, Smoke said. Weve got to stake a couple of claims.
Shorty sat up and started to explode, but Smokes hand covered his mouth.
Ssh! Smoke warned. Its a big strike. Dont wake the neighborhood. Dawsons asleep.
Huh! You got to show me. Nobody tells anybody about a strike, of course not. But aint it plum amazin the way everybody hits the trail just the same?
Squaw Creek, Smoke whispered. Its right. Breck gave me the tip. Shallow bedrock. Gold from the grass-roots down. Come on. Well sling a couple of light packs together and pull out.
Shortys eyes closed as he lapsed back into sleep. The next moment his blankets were swept off him.
If you dont want them, I do, Smoke explained.
Shorty followed the blankets and began to dress.
Goin to take the dogs? he asked.
No. The trail up the creek is sure to be unbroken, and we can make better time without them.
Then Ill throw em a meal, whichll have to last em till we get back. Be sure you take some birch-bark and a candle.
Shorty opened the door, felt the bite of the cold, and shrank back to pull down his ear-flaps and mitten his hands.
Five minutes later he returned, sharply rubbing his nose.
Smoke, Im sure opposed to makin this stampede. Its colder than the hinges of hell a thousand years before the first fire was lighted. Besides, its Friday the thirteenth, an were goin to trouble as the sparks fly upward.
With small stampeding-packs on their backs, they closed the door behind them and started down the hill. The display of the aurora borealis had ceased, and only the stars leaped in the great cold and by their uncertain light made traps for the feet. Shorty floundered off a turn of the trail into deep snow, and raised his voice in blessing of the date of the week and month and year.
Cant you keep still? Smoke chided. Leave the almanac alone. Youll have all Dawson awake and after us.
Huh! See the light in that cabin? An in that one over there? An hear that door slam? Oh, sure Dawsons asleep. Them lights? Just buryin their dead. They aint stampedin, betcher life they aint.
By the time they reached the foot of the hill and were fairly in Dawson, lights were springing up in the cabins, doors were slamming, and from behind came the sound of many moccasins on the hard-packed snow. Again Shorty delivered himself.
But it beats hell the amount of mourners there is.
They passed a man who stood by the path and was calling anxiously in a low voice: Oh, Charley; get a move on.
See that pack on his back, Smoke? The graveyards sure a long ways off when the mourners got to pack their blankets.
By the time they reached the main street a hundred men were in line behind them, and while they sought in the deceptive starlight for the trail that dipped down the bank to the river, more men could be heard arriving. Shorty slipped and shot down the thirty-foot chute into the soft snow. Smoke followed, knocking him over as he was rising to his feet.
I found it first, he gurgled, taking off his mittens to shake the snow out of the gauntlets.
The next moment they were scrambling wildly out of the way of the hurtling bodies of those that followed. At the time of the freeze-up, a jam had occurred at this point, and cakes of ice were up-ended in snow-covered confusion. After several hard falls, Smoke drew out his candle and lighted it. Those in the rear hailed it with acclaim. In the windless air it burned easily, and he led the way more quickly.
Its a sure stampede, Shorty decided. Or might all them be sleep-walkers?
Were at the head of the procession at any rate, was Smokes answer.
Oh, I dont know. Mebbe thats a firefly ahead there. Mebbe theyre all fireflies that one, an that one. Look at em! Believe me, they is a whole string of processions ahead.
It was a mile across the jams to the west bank of the Yukon, and candles flickered the full length of the twisting trail. Behind them, clear to the top of the bank they had descended, were more candles.
Say, Smoke, this aint no stampede. Its a exode-us. They must be a thousand men ahead of us an ten thousand behind. Now, you listen to your uncle. My medicines good. When I get a hunch its sure right. An were in wrong on this stampede. Lets turn back an hit the sleep.
Youd better save your breath if you intend to keep up, Smoke retorted gruffly.
Huh! My legs is short, but I slog along slack at the knees an dont worry my muscles none, an I can sure walk every piker here off the ice.
And Smoke knew he was right, for he had long since learned his comrades phenomenal walking powers.
Ive been holding back to give you a chance, Smoke jeered.
Huh! My legs is short, but I slog along slack at the knees an dont worry my muscles none, an I can sure walk every piker here off the ice.
And Smoke knew he was right, for he had long since learned his comrades phenomenal walking powers.
Ive been holding back to give you a chance, Smoke jeered.
An Im plum troddin on your heels. If you cant do better, let me go ahead and set pace.
Smoke quickened, and was soon at the rear of the nearest bunch of stampeders.
Hike along, you, Smoke, the other urged. Walk over them unburied dead. This aint no funeral. Hit the frost like you was goin somewheres.
Smoke counted eight men and two women in this party, and before the way across the jam-ice was won, he and Shorty had passed another party twenty strong. Within a few feet of the west bank, the trail swerved to the south, emerging from the jam upon smooth ice. The ice, however, was buried under several feet of fine snow. Through this the sled-trail ran, a narrow ribbon of packed footing barely two feet in width. On either side one sank to his knees and deeper in the snow. The stampeders they overtook were reluctant to give way, and often Smoke and Shorty had to plunge into the deep snow and by supreme efforts flounder past.
Shorty was irrepressible and pessimistic. When the stampeders resented being passed, he retorted in kind.
Whats your hurry? one of them asked.
Whats yours? he answered. A stampede come down from Indian River yesterday afternoon an beat you to it. They aint no claims left.
That being so, I repeat, whats your hurry?
WHO? Me? I aint no stampeder. Im workin for the government. Im on official business. Im just traipsin along to take the census of Squaw Creek.
To another, who hailed him with: Where away, little one? Do you really expect to stake a claim? Shorty answered:
Me? Im the discoverer of Squaw Creek. Im just comin back from recordin so as to see no blamed chechako jumps my claim.
The average pace of the stampeders on the smooth going was three miles and a half an hour. Smoke and Shorty were doing four and a half, though sometimes they broke into short runs and went faster.
Im going to travel your feet clean off, Shorty, Smoke challenged.
Huh! I can hike along on the stumps an wear the heels off your moccasins. Though it aint no use. Ive been figgerin. Creek claims is five hundred feet. Call em ten to the mile. Theys a thousand stampeders ahead of us, an that creek aint no hundred miles long. Somebodys goin to get left, an it makes a noise like you an me.
Before replying, Smoke let out an unexpected link that threw Shorty half a dozen feet in the rear. If you saved your breath and kept up, wed cut down a few of that thousand, he chided.
Who? Me? If youd get outa the way Id show you a pace what is.
Smoke laughed, and let out another link. The whole aspect of the adventure had changed. Through his brain was running a phrase of the mad philosopher the transvaluation of values. In truth, he was less interested in staking a fortune than in beating Shorty. After all, he concluded, it wasnt the reward of the game but the playing of it that counted. Mind, and muscle, and stamina, and soul, were challenged in a contest with this Shorty, a man who had never opened the books, and who did not know grand opera from rag-time, nor an epic from a chilblain.
Shorty, Ive got you skinned to death. Ive reconstructed every cell in my body since I hit the beach at Dyea. My flesh is as stringy as whipcords, and as bitter and mean as the bite of a rattlesnake. A few months ago Id have patted myself on the back to write such words, but I couldnt have written them. I had to live them first, and now that Im living them theres no need to write them. Im the real, bitter, stinging goods, and no scrub of a mountaineer can put anything over on me without getting it back compound. Now, you go ahead and set pace for half an hour. Do your worst, and when youre all in Ill go ahead and give you half an hour of the real worst.
Huh! Shorty sneered genially. An him not dry behind the ears yet. Get outa the way an let your father show you some goin.
Half-hour by half-hour they alternated in setting pace. Nor did they talk much. Their exertions kept them warm, though their breath froze on their faces from lips to chin. So intense was the cold that they almost continually rubbed their noses and cheeks with their mittens. A few minutes cessation from this allowed the flesh to grow numb, and then most vigorous rubbing was required to produce the burning prickle of returning circulation.
Often they thought they had reached the lead, but always they overtook more stampeders who had started before them. Occasionally, groups of men attempted to swing in behind to their pace, but invariably they were discouraged after a mile or two and disappeared in the darkness to the rear.
Weve been out on trail all winter, was Shortys comment. An them geezers, soft from layin around their cabins, has the nerve to think they can keep our stride. Now, if they was real sour-doughs itd be different. If theres one thing a sour-dough can do its sure walk.
Once, Smoke lighted a match and glanced at his watch. He never repeated it, for so quick was the bite of the frost on his bared hands that half an hour passed before they were again comfortable.
Four oclock, he said, as he pulled on his mittens, and weve already passed three hundred.
Three hundred and thirty-eight, Shorty corrected. I been keepin count. Get outa the way, stranger. Let somebody stampede that knows how to stampede.
The latter was addressed to a man, evidently exhausted, who could no more than stumble along and who blocked the trail. This, and one other, were the only played-out men they encountered, for they were very near to the head of the stampede. Nor did they learn till afterwards the horrors of that night. Exhausted men sat down to rest by the way and failed to get up again. Seven were frozen to death, while scores of amputations of toes, feet, and fingers were performed in the Dawson hospitals on the survivors. For the stampede to Squaw Creek occurred on the coldest night of the year. Before morning, the spirit thermometers at Dawson registered seventy degrees below zero. The men composing the stampede, with few exceptions, were new-comers in the country who did not know the way of the cold.
The other played-out man they found a few minutes later, revealed by a streamer of aurora borealis that shot like a searchlight from horizon to zenith. He was sitting on a piece of ice beside the trail.
Hop along, sister Mary, Shorty gaily greeted him. Keep movin. If you sit there youll freeze stiff.
The man made no response, and they stopped to investigate.
Stiff as a poker, was Shortys verdict. If you tumbled him over hed break.
See if hes breathing, Smoke said, as, with bared hand, he sought through furs and woollens for the mans heart.
Shorty lifted one ear-flap and bent to the iced lips. Nary breathe, he reported.
Nor heart-beat, said Smoke.
He mittened his hand and beat it violently for a minute before exposing it to the frost to strike a match. It was an old man, incontestably dead. In the moment of illumination, they saw a long grey beard, massed with ice to the nose, cheeks that were white with frost, and closed eyes with frost-rimmed lashes frozen together. Then the match went out.