CHAPTER I
SAM MORGAN'S BOY
Connie Morgan, or as he is affectionately called by the big, bearded menof the Yukon, Sam Morgan's boy, now owns one of the crack dog teams ofAlaska. For Connie has set his heart upon winning the great AlaskaSweepstakes--the grandest and most exciting race in all the world, arace that crowds both driver and dogs to the very last measure ofendurance, sagacity, and skill.
But that is another story. For Connie also owns what is probably themost ludicrous and ill-assorted three-dog team ever assembled; and he isnever so happy as when jogging slowly over the trail behind old Boris,Mutt, and Slasher.
No sourdough in his right senses would give fifty dollars for the three,but Sam Morgan's boy would gladly sacrifice his whole team ofthousand-dollar dogs to save any one of them. For it was the finecourage and loyalty of this misfit team that enabled him to beat out theTen Bow stampede and file on "One Below Discovery," next to WasecheBill, the big sourdough who is his partner--and who loves him as SamMorgan loved him before he crossed the Big Divide.
Sam Morgan was among those who went to Alaska in the first days of thegreat gold rush. Like Peg's father in the play, Sam Morgan could doanything but make money. So when the news came of gold--bright, yellowgold lying loose on the floors of creeks up among the snows of theArctic--Sam Morgan bid his wife and boy good-bye at the door of thelittle cottage in a ten-carat town of a middle State and fared forth towin riches.
The man loved his wife and son with all the love of his rugged nature,and for their sakes cheerfully endured the perils and hardships of thelong trails without a murmur. But in spite of his dogged persistence andunflagging toil he never made a strike. He was in the van of a dozenstampedes--stampedes that made millionaires out of some men and starkcorpses out of others--but somehow his claims never panned out.
Unlucky, men called him. And his name became a byword for ill-luckthroughout the length and breadth of the Northland.
"She's a Sam Morgan," men would say, as they turned in disappointmentfrom an empty hole driven deep into frozen gravel, and would wearily hitthe trail to sink other shafts in other gulches.
So Sam Morgan's luck became a proverb in the North. But Sam Morgan,himself, men loved. He was known among the meat-eaters as a man whoseword was as good as other men's bonds, and his cheery smile made longtrails less long. It was told in the camps that on one occasion, duringa blizzard, he divided his last piece of bacon with a half-starvedIndian, and then, carrying the man on his back, made eighteen milesthrough the storm to the shelter of a prospector's cabin.
His word became law in the settling of disputes. And to this day it istold on the trails how he followed "British Kronk," who struck it richon the Black Horn, and abandoned his wife, leaving her starving in thecabin where she would surely have died had not Sam Morgan happened alongand found her; and of how, after eight hundred miles of winter trail, hecame upon him in Candle, and of the great man-fight that took placethere on the hard-packed snow; of the tight clamp of the square jaw, andthe terrible gleam of the grey eyes as, bare fisted, he made the hugeman beg for mercy; and of how he took the man back, single-handed andwithout authority of law, clear to Fort Yukon, and forced him torecognize the woman and turn over to her a share of his gold.
It is not the bragging swashbucklers, the self-styled "bad men," who winthe respect of the rough men upon the edges of the world. It is thesilent, smiling men who stand for justice and a square deal--and whocarry the courage of their convictions in their two fists.
Of these things men tell in gruff tones, to the accompaniment of heartyfist-bangs of approval. With lowered voices they tell the story of "SamMorgan's Stumble," as the sharp elbow is called where the Ragged Fallstrail bends sharply around a shoulder of naked rock, with a sheer dropof five hundred feet to the boulder-strewn floor of the creek bed. "JustSam Morgan's luck," they whisper. "The only place on the whole hundredand fifty miles of the Ragged Falls trail where a man could come toharm--right there he steps on a piece of loose ice and stumbles headfirst into the canyon. He sure played in tough luck, Sam Morgan did. Buthe was a _man_!"
When the letters from the North ceased coming, Sam Morgan's wifesickened and died.
"Jest nach'lly pined away a-waitin' fer word from Sam," the neighbourssaid. And when fifteen-year-old Connie returned to the empty cottagefrom the bleak little cemetery on the outskirts of the village, he satfar into the night and thought things over.
In the morning he counted the few dollars he had managed to save bydoing odd jobs about the village, and placing them carefully in hispocket, together with a few trinkets that had belonged to his mother,left the cottage and started in search of Sam Morgan. He locked the doorand laid the key under the mat, just where he knew his father would lookfor it should he return before he found him.
Connie told nobody of his plans, said no good-byes, but with a stoutheart and a strange lump in his throat, passed quietly out of thefamiliar village and resolutely turned his face toward the great whiteNorth.
Thus is was that a small boy stepped off the last boat into Anvik thatfall and mingled unnoticed among the boisterous men who crowded theshore. As the boat swung out into the current, the men left the riverand entered the wide, low door of the trading post.
Dick Colton paused in his examination of the pile of freight, andnoticing for the first time the forlorn little figure who stood watchingthe departing boat, sauntered over and spoke:
"Hello, sonny, where you bound?"
The boy turned and gravely faced the smiling man. "I've come to find myfather," he answered.
"Where is your father?"
"He is here--somewhere."
"Here? In Anvik, you mean?"
"In Alaska."
The man uttered a low whistle. The smile was gone from his face, and henoted the threadbare cloth overcoat, and the bare legs showing throughthe ragged holes in the boy's stockings.
"What is your father's name, boy?"
"Sam Morgan."
At the name the man started and an exclamation escaped his lips.
"Do you know him?" The boy's face was eager with expectation, and theman found the steadfast gaze of the blue eyes disconcerting.
"Just you wait here, son, for a minute, while I run up to the store.Maybe some of the boys know him." And he turned and hurried toward thelong, low building into which the men had disappeared.
"Boys!" he cried, bursting in on them, "there is a kid out here. Came inon the boat. He is hunting for his dad." The men ceased their talk andlooked at the speaker with interest. "And, Heaven help us, it's SamMorgan's boy!"
"Sam Morgan's boy! Sam Morgan's boy!" In all parts of the room menrepeated the words and stared uneasily into each other's faces.
"He has got to be told," said Dick, with a shake of the head. "You tellhim, Pete. I couldn't do it."
"Me neither. Here you, Waseche Bill, you tell him."
"I cain't do it, boys. Honest I cain't. You tell him." Thus each manurged his neighbour, and in the midst of their half-spoken sentences thedoor opened and the boy entered. An awkward hush fell upon them--thefifty rough, fur-clad men whose bearded faces stared at him from thegloom of the long, dark room--and the one small boy who stared back withundisguised interest. The silence became painful, and at length someonespoke:
"So you're Sam Morgan's boy?" the man asked, advancing and offering agreat hairy hand. The boy took the hand and bore the pain of the mightygrip without flinching.
"Yes, sir," he answered. "Do you know him--my father?"
"Sure I know him! Do I know Sam Morgan? Well, I just guess I _do_ knowhim! There ain't a man 'tween here an' Dawson don't know Sam Morgan!"Others crowded about and welcomed the boy with rude kindness.
"Is my father here, in Anvik?" the boy asked of the man called Pete.
"No, kid, he ain't here--in Anvik. Say, Waseche, where is Sam Morgan at?Do you know?" Thus Pete shifted the responsibility. But Waseche Bill, along, lank Kentuckian, was equal to the occasion.
"Why,
yes, Sam Mo'gan, he's up above, somewhe's," with a sweep of hisarm in the direction of the headwaters of the great river.
"That's right," others added, "Sam Morgan's up above."
"When can I go to him?" asked the boy, and again the men looked at eachother helplessly.
"The's a bunch of us goin' up Hesitation way in a day or two, an' yo'c'n go 'long of us. Sam's cabin's at Hesitation. But yo' cain't go 'longin that rig," he added, eyeing the threadbare overcoat and raggedstockings.
"Oh! That's all right. I'll buy some warm clothes. I've got money. Eightdollars!" exclaimed the boy, proudly producing a worn leather pocketbookin which were a few tightly wadded bills.
Eight dollars! In Alaska! And yet not a man laughed. Waseche Bill placedhis hand on the boy's shoulder and smiled:
"Well, now, sonny, that's a right sma't lot o' money, back in theStates, but it don't stack up very high in Alaska." He noticed the lookof disappointment with which the boy eyed his hoard, and hastened toproceed: "But don't yo' fret none. It's lucky yo' chanced 'long heah,'cause I happen to be owin' Sam Mo'gan a hund'ed, an' it's right handyfo' to pay it now." Hardly had he ceased speaking when Dick Coltonstepped forward:
"I owe Sam fifty." "An' me!" "An' me, too!" "An' me, I'd most forgotit!" The others had taken their cue, and it seemed to the bewildered boyas though these men owed his father all the money in the world.
"But I don't understand," he gasped. "Is father rich? Has he made astrike, at last?"
"No, son," answered Dick, "your father is not rich--in gold. He nevermade a strike. In fact, he is counted the most unlucky man in theNorth--in some ways." He turned his head. "But just the same, boy,there's not a man in Alaska but owes Sam Morgan more than he can pay."
"Tell me about him," cried the boy, his eyes alight. "Did my father dosome great thing?" The silence was broken by old Scotty McCollough:
"Na', laddie, Sam Morgan never done no great thing. He di' na' ha' to.He _was_ great!" And by the emphasis which the bluff old Scotchmanplaced upon the word "was," of a sudden the boy knew!
"My father is dead!" he moaned, and buried his face in his hands, whilethe men looked on in silent sympathy. Only for a moment did the boyremain so, then the little shoulders stiffened under the thin overcoat,the hands dropped to his side and clenched, and the square jaw setfirm--as Sam Morgan's had set, that day he faced big "British Kronk" onthe snow-packed street of Candle. As the boy faced the men of the North,he spoke, and his voice trembled.
"I will stay in Alaska," he said, "and dig for the gold my father neverfound. I think he would have liked it so." Suddenly the low-ceilingedroom rang with cheers and the boy was lifted bodily onto the shouldersof the big men.
"You bet, he'd liked it!" yelled the man called Pete.
"Yo'r Sam Mo'gan's boy all right--jest solid grit clean through. Itlooks f'om heah like Sam's luck has tu'ned at last!" cried Waseche Bill.
Two days later, when he hit the long trail for Hesitation, in companywith Waseche Bill, Dick Colton, and Scotty McCollough, Sam Morgan's boywas clad from _parka_ hood to _mukluks_ in the most approved gear of theNorthland.
He learned quickly the tricks of the trail, the harnessing and handlingof dogs, the choosing of camps, and the hasty preparation of meals; andin the evenings, as they sat close about the camp fire, he never tiredof listening as the men told him of his father. His heart swelled withpride, and in his breast grew a great longing to follow in the footstepsof this man, and to hold the place in the affections of the big, roughmen of the White Country that his father had held.
All along the trail men grasped him by the hand. He made new friends atevery camp. And so it was that Sam Morgan's boy became the pride of theYukon.
At Hesitation he moved into his father's cabin, and went to work forScotty McCollough, who was the storekeeper. Many a man went out of hisway to trade with Scotty that he might boast in other camps that he knewSam Morgan's boy.
One day Waseche Bill took him out on the Ragged Falls trail where, atthe foot of the precipice, his father lay buried. The two stood long atthe side of the snow-covered mound, at the head of which stood a littlewooden cross with its simple legend burned deep by the men who were hisfriends:
SAM MORGAN ALASKA
The man laid a kindly hand on the boy's shoulder:
"Notice, son, it don't say Hesitation, nor Circle, nor Dawson--but justAlaska. It takes a mighty big man to fill that there description in thiscountry," and the man brushed away a tear of which he was not ashamed.