CHAPTER II
THE TEN BOW STAMPEDE
With the passing of the winter Connie found himself the proud possessorof a three-dog team. Shortly after the trip to "Sam Morgan's Stumble,"Waseche Bill disappeared into the north on a solitary prospecting trip.Before he left he presented Connie with old Boris, a Hudson Bay dogfamed in his day as the wisest trail dog on the Yukon, and in spite ofhis years, a lead dog whose sagacity was almost uncanny.
"He's been a great dog, son, but he's gettin' too old fo' the longtrails. I aimed to keep him 'til he died, but I know yo'll use himright. Just keep old Boris in the lead and he'll learn yo' mo' trailknowledge than I could--or any otheh man." Thus Waseche Bill took leaveof the boy and swung out into the trail with a younger dog in the lead.Old Boris stood with drooping tail beside his new master, and as thesled disappeared over the bank and swept out onto the ice of the river,as if in realization that for him the trail days were over, he threwback his shaggy head and with his muzzle pointing toward the aurora-shotsky, sent a long, bell-like howl of protest quavering into the chillair.
Later, a passing prospector presented Connie with Mutt, a slow, heavilybuilt dog, good-natured and clumsy, who knew only how to throw his greatweight against the collar and pull until his footing gave way.
The third dog of the team was Slasher, a gaunt, untamed _malamute_,red-eyed and vicious--a throwback to the wolf. His former owner, tiredof fighting him over the trails, was on the point of shooting him whenConnie interceded, and offered to buy him.
"Why, son, he'd eat ye alive!" said the man; "an' if harm was to come toSam Morgan's boy through fault of a man-eatin' wolf-dog which same he'dgot off o' me, why, this here Alaska land 'ud be too small to hold me.No, son, I guess we'll jest put him out o' the way o' harmin' folks."But the boy persisted, and to the unspeakable amazement of the man,walked up and loosened the heavy leather muzzle.
White fangs an inch long gleamed wickedly as the boy patted his head,but the vicious, ripping slash which the onlookers expected did notfollow. The crouching dog glared furtively, with back curledlips--suspicious. Here was something he did not understand--thisman-brute of small size who approached him bare-handed and without aclub. So he glared red-eyed, alert for some new trick of torture. Butnothing happened, and presently from the pocket of his _parka_ thisstrange man-brute drew a piece of smoked fish which the dog acceptedfrom his bare fingers with a lightning-like click of polished fangs, butthe fingers did not jerk away in fear even though the fangs closedtogether a scant inch from their ends.
A piece of ham rind followed the fish and the small man-brute reacheddown and flung the hated muzzle far out into the snow, and with it thecollar and the thong lash.
The wolf-dog rose for the first time in his life unfettered. He shookhimself and surveyed the astonished group of men. The stiff, coarse hairalong his spine stood erect and he uttered a low throaty growl ofdefiance; then he turned and stalked toward the boy, planting his feetdeliberately and stiffly after the manner of dogs whose temper quiverson a hair-trigger. Guns were loosened in the holsters of the men, butthe boy smiled and extended his hand toward the dog, which advanced, thevery personification of savage hate.
The men gasped as the pointed muzzle touched the small bared hand and along, red tongue shot out and licked the fingers. At the sound, the dogplaced himself before the boy and glared at them, and then quietlyfollowed Connie to the corral at the rear of the log store.
"He's yours, son," exclaimed the prospector, as the boy joined them."No, I won't take no pay for him. You saved his life, an' he b'longs toyou--only be careful. Don't never take your eyes off him. I don't trustno _malamute_, let alone that there Slasher dog."
With the lengthening of the days the Northland began to feel theapproach of spring. Snow melted on the more exposed mountain slopes, andnow and then the trails softened, so that men camped at midday.
Connie found time to take short excursions with his team up theneighbouring gulches, occasionally spending the night in the cabin ofsome prospector.
He was beginning to regard himself as a "sure enough sourdough" now, andcould talk quite wisely of cradles and rockers, of sluices and riffles,and pay dirt and bed rock.
Then, one day when the store was full of miners and prospectors awaitingthe mail, Waseche Bill burst into the room with the story of his bigstrike on Ten Bow. Instantly pandemonium broke loose. Men in a frenzyof excitement threw their outfits onto sleds and swung the dogs onto theice trail of the river, struggling and fighting for place.
McDougall, with his mail team of ten fast _malamutes_, bet a thousanddollars he would beat out Dutch Henry's crack Hudson Bays. Men came downfrom the hills and joined the stampede, and by evening a hundred dogteams were on the trail.
During the excitement, Waseche Bill sought out Connie and drew him toone side:
"Listen, son," whispered Waseche, speaking hurriedly, and to the point,"git in on this, d'yo heah? Quick now, git out yo' dogs an' hit thetrail. Old Boris'll take yo' theh. The's always one mo' pull in a gooddog, an' he'll unde'stand. I've been wo'kin' Ten Bow fo' six months, an'he knows the sho't-cut. Keep up yo' nerve, an' follow that dog. He'llswing off up Little Rampa't, an' the othe's will keep to the bigriveh--but it's the long way 'round. It's only 'bout eighty mile by thesho't-cut, an' a good two hund'ed by the riveh. I come down the long wayso's to have a smooth trail fo' my new lead dog. The other's a roughtrail, over ridges an' acrost gulches, up hill an' down, but yo' c'nmake it! Boris, he'll see yo' through. An' when yo' strike TenBow--yo'll know it, 'cause it's the only valley that shows redrock--swing no'th 'til yo' come to a big split rock, an' theh yo'll findmy stakes.
"Now, listen! My claim'll be Discovery." The man lowered his voice yetmore: "An' yo' stake out One Below Discovery--_below_, mind. 'Causeshe's a sho' winneh, an' togetheh we'll have the cream o' the gulch--mean' yo' will."
Many outfits passed Connie on the trail; the men laughing and joking,good-naturedly urged the boy onward. He only laughed in return, as heencouraged his ill-matched team--Big Mutt plunging against the collar,Slasher pulling wide with the long jumps of the wolf-dog, and old Boriswith lowered head, in the easy lope of the born leader. Mile after milethey covered on the smooth trail of the river, and it seemed to the boyas if every outfit in Alaska had passed him in the race. But he urgedthe dogs onward, for the fever was in his blood--and like his fatherbefore him, he was answering the call of gold.
Suddenly, without a moment's hesitation, old Boris swerved from thetrail and headed for the narrow cleft between two towering walls ofrock, which was the mouth of Little Rampart. On and on they mushed,following the creek bed which wound crookedly between its precipitoussides.
Again old Boris swerved. This time it was to head up a steep, narrowpass leading into the hills. Connie had his hands full at the gee-pole,for it was dark now--not the black darkness of the States, but thesparkling, star-lit dark of the aurora land.
He camped at midnight on a flat plateau near the top of a high divide.Morning found him again on the trail. He begrudged every minute ofinaction, for well he knew the fame of McDougall's mail dogs, and DutchHenry's Hudson Bays. It turned warmer. The snow slumped under foot, andhe lost two hours at midday, waiting for the stiffening chill of thelengthening shadows.
On the third day it snowed. Not the fierce, cutting snow of the fall andwinter, but large, feathery flakes, that lay soft and deep on the crustand piled up in front of the sled. That night he camped early, for bothboy and dogs were weary with the trail-strain.
During the night the snow stopped falling and the wind rose, driving itinto huge drifts. Progress was slow now and every foot of the trail washard-earned. Old Boris picked his way among boulders and drifts with thewisdom of long practice. Slasher settled down to a steady pull, and BigMutt threw himself into the collar and fairly lifted the sled throughthe loose snow. Toward noon they slanted into a wide valley, and thetired eyes of the boy brightened as they saw the bold outcropping ofred rock. Then immediately they grew serious, an
d he urged the dogs togreater effort, for, far down the valley, dotting the white expanse ofsnow, were many moving black specks.
Old Boris turned toward the north, and the boy saw the huge split rock amile away. He was travelling ahead of the dogs now, throwing his weightonto the _babiche_ rope, his wide snowshoes breaking the trail. In spiteof his efforts the pace was dishearteningly slow. Every few minutes heglanced back, and each time the black specks appeared larger and moredistinct. He could make out men and sleds, and he knew by the longstring of dogs that the first outfit was McDougall's.
"Hi! Hi! Mush you! Mush you!" faintly the sound was borne to his ears,and he knew that McDougall was gaining fast--he had already broken intoConnie's own freshly made trail. The dogs heard it, too, and with cockedears plunged blindly ahead.
The split rock loomed tantalizingly near, and the boy thanked his starsthat he had prepared his stakes beforehand. He loosened them from theback of the sled and, ax in hand, ploughed ahead through the loose snow.His racket struck something hard and he pitched forward--it was one ofWaseche Bill's stakes.
Feverishly he scrambled to his feet and drove in his own stakes,following Waseche's directions. With a final blow of his ax, he turnedto face McDougall, who stared at him wide-eyed.
"You dang little scamp!" he roared. "You dang little sourdough!" And ashe staked out number Two Below Discovery, the hillsides echoed back hislaughter.
Other men came. Soon the valley of the Ten Bow was staked with claimsrunning into the forties, both above and below Discovery. But the greatprize of all was One Below, and it stood marked by the stakes of SamMorgan's boy.
That night the valley of the Ten Bow was dotted with a hundred campfires, and the air rang with snatches of rude song and loud laughter.
Men passed from fire to fire and Connie Morgan's name was on everytongue.
"The little scamp!" men laughed; "cut straight through the hills withthem old discarded dogs, an' beat us to it!" "Now, what d'ye know 'bout_that_?" "If Sam Morgan c'd lived to seen it he'd be'n the tickledestman in the world!" "Poor old Sam--looks like his luck's turned at last!"
From the surrounding gloom a man stepped into the light of a largecamp-fire near which Connie Morgan was seated talking with a group ofprospectors. He was a little, rat-like man, with a pinched, weasel faceand little black eyes that shone beadlike from between lashless lids.
"This Number One claim, boys, it ain't legal. It's staked by a boy. I'ma lawyer, an' I know. He's a minor, an' he can't hold no claim!" Hespoke hurriedly, and eyed the men for signs of approval; then headvanced toward Connie, shaking a long, bony finger.
"You ain't twenty-one," he squeaked, "an' I command you to vacate thisclaim in the name of the law!" From the boy's side came a low growl.There was a flash of grey in the firelight, and the wolf-dog was at theman's throat, bearing him backward into the snow.
The boy was on his feet in an instant, pulling at the dog and beatinghim off. Luckily for the man his throat was protected by the heavy_parka_ hood, and he sustained no real damage. He arose whimpering withfright.
The other men were on their feet now, and one of them knocked therevolver from the hand of the cowering man as he aimed it at thegrowling Slasher.
Big McDougall stepped forward, and, grasping the man by the shoulder,spun him around with a jerk.
"Look a here, you reptile! Kin ye guess what that dog 'ud of done to ye,an' it hadn't be'n fer the kid? Well, fer my part he c'd gone ahead an'done it as it was. But, seein' he didn't, just ye listen to me! What hewould done won't be a patchin' to what I _will_ do to ye, if ever yeopen yer head about that there claim ag'in. An' that ain't all. There'sa hundred men in this gulch--good men--sourdoughs, ev'ry one--an' thekid beat us all fair an' square. An', law or no law, we're right here tosee that Sam Morgan's boy _does_ hold down that claim! _An' don't yefergit it!_"