CHAPTER VI
THE MEN OF EAGLE
Waseche Bill jogged along the main street of Eagle, past log cabins,board shacks, and the deceiving two-story fronts of one-story stores.Now and then an acquaintance hailed him from the wooden sidewalk, and herecognized others he knew, among the small knots of men who stood aboutidly discussing the meagre news of the camp. At the Royal Palm Hotel, along, low, log building with a false front of boards, he swung in and,passing around to the rear, turned his dogs into the stockade.
In the office, seated about the stove, were a dozen or more men, most ofwhom Waseche knew. They greeted him loudly as he entered, and plied himwith a volley of questions.
"Where ye headed?"
"Thought ye'd struck it rich on Ten Bow?"
"D'ye hear about Camaron Creek?"
The newcomer removed his heavy _parka_ and joined the group, answering aquestion here, and asking one there.
"How's Sam Morgan's boy comin' on? We heard how you an' him was pardnersan' had a big thing over on Ten Bow," inquired a tall man whose dolefullength of sallow countenance had earned him the nickname of Fiddle Face.As he talked, this man gnawed the end of his prodigiously long mustache.Waseche's eyes lighted at the mention of the boy.
"He's the finest kid eveh was, I reckon. Sma't as a steel trap, an' theyain't nawthin' he won't tackle. C'n cook a meal o' vittles that'd makeyo' mouth wateh, an' jest nach'lly handles dogs like an ol' _tillicum_."
"How come ye ain't workin' yer claim?" asked someone.
"It's this-a-way," answered Waseche, addressing the group. "Mine'sDiscovery, an' his'n's One Below, an' we th'ow'd in togetheh. 'Bout tenfoot down, mine sloped off into his'n--run plumb out. An' I come awayso's the kid'll have the claim cleah." A silence followed Waseche'ssimple statement--a silence punctuated by nods of approval andlow-voiced mutterings of "Hard luck," and "Too bad." Fiddle Face wasfirst to speak.
"That's what I call a _man_!" he exclaimed, bringing his hand down onWaseche's shoulder with a resounding whack.
"Won't ye step acrost to Hank's place an' have a drink?" invited a largeman, removing his feet from the fender of the big stove, and settlingthe fur cap more firmly upon his head.
"No thanks, Joe. Fact is, I ain't took a drink fo' quite a spell. Kindo' got out o' the notion, somehow."
"Well, sure seems funny to hear you refusin' a drink! RememberIditarod?" The man smiled.
"Oh, sure, I recollect. An' I recollect that it ain't neveh got menawthin' but misery an' an empty poke. But, it ain't so much that.It's--well, it's like this: Sam Mo'gan, he ain't heah no mo' to lookafteh the kid, an'--yo' see, the li'l scamp, he's kind o' got it in hishead that they ain't no one jest like me--kind o' thinks I really 'mountto somethin', an' what I say an' do is 'bout right. It don't stand toreason I c'n make him b'lieve 'taint no good to drink licker, an' thengo ahead an' drink it myself--does it, now?"
"Sure don't!" agreed the other heartily. "An' that's what _I_ call aman!" And the whack that descended upon Waseche's shoulder out-soundedby half the whack of Fiddle Face.
After supper the men drifted out by twos and threes for their nightlyrounds of the camp's tawdry places of amusement. Waseche Bill, decliningtheir invitations, sat alone by the stove, thinking. The man was lonely.Until this night he had had no time to realize how much he missed hislittle partner, and his thoughts lingered over the long evenings whenthey talked together in the cabin, and the boy would read aloud from theillustrated magazines.
A chair was drawn up beside his, and the man called Joe laid a largehand upon his knee.
"This here Sam Morgan's boy--does he favour Sam?" he asked.
"Like as two bullets--barrin' size," replied Waseche, without raisinghis eyes.
"I s'pose you talked it over with the kid 'fore you come away?" Wasechelooked up.
"Why, no! I done left a lettah, an' come away while he was sleepin'."
"D'ye think he'll stand fer that?"
"I reckon he's got to. Course, it'll be kind o' hard on him, fust off,me'be. Same as me. But it's bettah fo' him in the end. Why, his claim'sgood fo' a million! An' the boys up to Ten Bow, they'll see himthrough--McDougall, an' Dutch Henry, an' the rest. They-all think asmuch of the boy as what I do." The big man at Waseche's side shook hishead doubtfully.
"I know'd Sam Morgan well," he said, fixing the other with his eyes. "Hedone me a good turn onct an' he never asked no odds off'en no one. Now,if the kid's jes' like him--s'pose he follers ye?"
"Cain't. He ain't got the dogs to."
The other smiled and dropped the subject.
"Where ye headin' fer, Waseche?" he asked, after a few moments ofsilence.
"I aim to make a try fo' the Lillimuit."
"The Lillimuit!" exclaimed Joe. "Man, be ye crazy?"
"No. They's gold theh. I seen the nuggets Sven Carlson fetched back twoye'rs ago."
"Yes! An' where's Sven Carlson now?"
"I don'no."
"An' no one else don't know, neither. He's dead--that's where he is!Leastwise, he ain't never be'n heerd from after he started back fer theLillimuit."
"Want to go 'long?" asked Waseche, ignoring the other's statement.
"Who? Me! Not on yer life I don't--not to the Lillimuit! Not fer allthe gold in the world."
"Oh, I reckon 'tain't so bad as folks claim."
"Claim! Folks ain't in no shape to claim! They ain't no one ever comeback, 'cept Carlson--an' he was loco, an' went in agin--an' that's thelast of Carlson."
"What ails the country?" asked Waseche.
"They's talk of white Injuns, an' creeks that don't freeze, an'--well,they don't no one really know, but Carlson." The man shrugged andglanced over his shoulder. "If I was you, I'd hit the back trail. They'sa plenty fer two in the Ten Bow claim an' pardners is pardners."
Waseche ignored the suggestion:
"I'll be pullin' fer the Lillimuit in the mo'nin'. Sorry ye won't jineme. I'll be rollin' in, now. Good-night."
"So long! An' good luck to ye. I sure hate to see ye go."
* * * * *
Early in the evening of the fourth day after Waseche Bill's departurefor the unknown Lillimuit Connie Morgan swung McDougall's ten-dog teaminto Eagle.
The boy, heeding the advice of Black Jack Demaree, had curbed hisimpatience and religiously held himself to a ten-hour schedule, and theresult was easily apparent in the way the dogs dashed up the steep trailand swung into the well-packed street of the big camp.
In front of a wooden building marked "Post Office," he halted. A largeman, just emerging from the door, stared in amusement at the tiny_parka_-clad figure that confronted him.
"Hello, son!" he called. "Where might you be headin' fer?"
"I'm hunting for Waseche Bill," the youngster replied. "Have you seenhim?"
"That'll be Scotty McDougall's team," observed the man.
"Yes, but have you seen Waseche?"
"You'll be Sam Morgan's boy," the man continued.
"Yes, sir."
"Well, come on along up to the _ho_tel."
"Is Waseche there?" eagerly inquired the boy.
"Well, no, he ain't jes' right there, this very minute," replied theman, evasively.
"Where has he gone?" asked the boy, with a sudden fear in his heart.
"Oh, jes' siyou'd out on a little prospectin' trip. Come on, I'll giveye a hand with the dogs--supper'll be about ready."
That evening Connie Morgan found himself the centre of an interestedgroup of miners--rough, kindly men, who welcomed him warmly, asked thenews of Ten Bow, and recounted in awkward, hesitating sentences storiesof his father. Before turning into the bunk assigned to him, the boysought out the proprietor of the hotel, who sat in the centre of aninterested group, discussing local politics with a man from Circle.
"I'll pay my bill now, because I want to hit the trail beforebreakfast," he said, producing the well-filled pouch that Black JackDemaree had thrust into his hand. Big Jim Sontag chuckled way back inhis beard as he re
garded his littlest guest.
"Go 'long, yo', sonny! Shove yo' poke in yo' pocket. Yo' welcome to stopundeh my roof long as yo' want to. Why, if I was to cha'ge yo' fo' boa'dan' lodgin' afteh what yo' pap done fo' me, up on Tillimik--hope thewolves'll eat me, hide an' taller!"
The man called Joe came around the stove and stood looking down at theboy.
"Look here, son, where you aimin' to hit fer so early in the mornin'?"
"Why, to find Waseche, of course!" The boy seemed surprised at thequestion.
"To the Lillimuit!" someone gasped, but Joe silenced him.
"Son," he said, speaking slowly, "Waseche Bill's struck out fer theLillimuit--the country where men don't come back from. Waseche's aman--an' a good one. He knows what he's up agin', an' if he wants totake a chanct that's his business. But, jes' between us, Waseche won'tcome back." The boy's small shoulders stiffened and his eyes flashed, asthe little face uptilted to look into the man's eyes.
"If Waseche don't come back, then I don't come back either!" heexclaimed. "He's my _pardner_! I've _got_ to find him!"
"That's what I call a _man_!" yelled Fiddle Face, bringing his fist downupon the table with a bang.
"Jes' the same, sonny," continued Joe, firmly, "we can't let ye go. Weowes it to you, an' we owes it to Sam Morgan. They's too many a goodman's bones layin' somewhere amongst them fiendish peaks an' passes,now. No, son, you c'n stay in Eagle as long as you like, an' welcome.Or, you c'n hit the trail fer Ten Bow. But you can't strike out fer theLillimuit--_an' that goes_!" There was finality in the man's tone, andone swift glance into the faces of the others told the boy that theywere of the same mind, to a man. For the first time in his life, ConnieMorgan faced the opposition of men. Instinctively he knew that everyman in the room was his friend, but never in his life had he felt sohelplessly alone. What could one small boy do in the face of theultimatum of these men of the North? Tears rushed to his eyes and, for amoment, threatened to overflow upon his cheeks, but, in that moment,there arose before him the face of Waseche Bill--his "pardner." Thelittle fists clenched, the grey eyes narrowed, forcing back the hottears, and the tiny jaw squared to the gritting of his teeth.
"What could one small boy do in the face of the ultimatumof these men of the North?"]
"Good-night," he said, and selecting a candle from among the many ontop of the rude desk, disappeared down the dark corridor between therows of stall-like rooms.
"Jes' fo' all the wo'ld like Sam Mo'gan," drawled big Jim Sontag. "I'vesaw _his_ eyes squinch up, an' his jaw clamp shut, that-a-way, a many atime--an' nary time but somethin' happened. We've shore got to keep aneye on that young un, 'cause he aims to give us the slip in themo'nin'."
"Ye said somethin', then, Jim," agreed Fiddle Face, gnawing at hismustache. "The kid's got sand, an' he's game plumb through, an' when hestarts somethin' he aims to finish it--which like his dad used to."
Connie Morgan, for all his tender years, knew men. He knew, when he leftthe group about the stove, that they would expect him to try to slip outof Eagle, and that if he waited until morning he would have no chance inthe world of eluding their vigilance. Minutes counted, for he also knewthat once on the trail, he need have no fear of pursuit; for no team inthe Yukon country, save only Dutch Henry's Hudson Bays, could comeanywhere near the trail record of McDougall's ten gaunt _malamutes_.
Pausing only long enough in the little room with its scrawling "No. 27"painted on the door to wriggle into his _parka_ and snatch his cap fromthe bunk, he stole cautiously down the narrow passage leading to therear of the ell, where a small door opened directly into the stockade.With feverish haste he harnessed the dogs and opened the gate. In theshadow of the building he paused and peered anxiously up and down thestreet. No one was in sight and, through the heavily frosted windows ofthe buildings, dull squares of light threw but faint illumination uponthe deserted thoroughfare.
"Mush! Mush!" he whispered, swinging the long team out onto thehard-packed snow.
As he passed a store the door opened and a man stood outlined in thepatch of yellow light. Connie's heart leaped to his throat, but the manonly stared in evident surprise that any one would be hitting the trailat that time of night, and then the door closed and the boy breathedagain. He wished that he could stop and lay in a supply of grub, butdared not risk it. Better pay twice the price to some prospector, ortrapper, than risk being stopped.
Silently the sled glided over the smooth trail and slanted out onto theriver with Boris, Mutt, and Slasher capering in its wake.
Connie had only a vague notion as to the location of the unknownLillimuit. He knew that it lay somewhere among the unmapped headwatersof Peel River, and that he must head up the Tatonduk and cross a divide.Toward morning he halted at the mouth of a river that flowed in from thenorth-east. A little-used trail was faintly discernible and the boycalled the old lead dog.
"Go find Waseche, Boris!" he cried, "go find him!" Notwithstanding thefact that Waseche's trail was nearly five days old, the old dog sniffedat the snow and, with a joyous yelp, headed up the smaller river.
The next morning there was consternation in Eagle, and a half-dozen dogsleds hit the trail. About ten miles up the Tatonduk, the men of Eaglemet a half-breed trapper with an empty sled.
"Any one pass ye, goin' up?" asked Joe.
The trapper grinned.
"Yeste'day," he answered, "white man papoose"; he held his hand aboutfour feet from the snow. "Ten-dog team--Mush! Mush! Mush! Go like dewolf! Stop on my camp. Buy all de grub. Nev' min' de cost--hur' up! Hetry for catch white man, go by four sleeps ago." Joe cracked his whipand the dogs leaped forward.
"You no catch!" the half-breed shouted. "Papoose, him go! go! go! Tryfor mak' Lillimuit. Him no come back."
Disregarding the prediction of the half-breed, Joe, Fiddle Face, and bigJim Sontag continued their pursuit of the flying dog team, despite thefact that as they progressed the trail grew colder. After many days theycame to the foot of the great white divide and camped beneath overcastskies, and in the morning a storm broke with unbelievable fury.
Every man, woman, and child in eastern Alaska remembers the greatblizzard that whirled out of the north on the morning of the third ofDecember and raged unabated for four days, ceased as suddenly as itstarted, and then, for four days more, roared terrifically into thenorth again.
On the ninth day, the three men burrowed from their shelter at the footof a perpendicular cliff. The trail was obliterated, and on every handthey were confronted by huge drifts from ten to thirty feet in height,while above them, clinging precariously to the steep side of themountain that divided them from the dreaded unknown, were vast ridges ofsnow that momentarily threatened to tear loose and bury them beneath amighty avalanche.
Silently the men stared into each other's faces, and then--silently, fornone dared trust himself to speak--these big men of the North harnessedtheir dogs and began the laborious homeward journey with heavy hearts.
* * * * *
And, at that very moment, a small boy, eighty miles beyond theimpassable barrier of the snow-capped divide, tunnelled through a hugedrift that sealed the mouth of an ice cavern in the side of an inlandglacier, and looked out upon the bewildering tangle of gleaming peaks.Thanks to the unerring nose of old Boris, and the speed of McDougall'ssled dogs, the trail of Waseche had each day become warmer, and thenight before the storm, when Connie camped in the convenient ice-cavern,he judged his partner to be only a day ahead. When the storm continuedday after day, he chafed at the delay, but comforted himself with thethought that Waseche must also camp.
As he stood at the mouth of his cave gazing at the unfamiliarmountains, towering range upon range, with their peaks glittering in thecold rays of the morning sun, old Boris crowded past him and plungedinto the unbroken whiteness of the little valley. Round and round hecircled with lowered head. Up and down the jagged ice wall of theglacier he ran, sniffing the snow and whining with eagerness to pick upthe trail that he had followed for so
many days. And as the boy watchedhim, a sudden fear clutched at his heart. For instead of starting offwith short, joyous yelps of confidence, the old dog continued hisaimless circling, and at length, as if giving up in despair, sat uponhis haunches, pointed his sharp muzzle skyward, and lifted his voice inhowl after quavering howl of disappointment.
"The trail is buried," groaned the boy, "and I had almost caught up withhim!" He glanced hopelessly up and down the valley, realizing for thefirst time that the landmarks of the back trail were obliterated. Hiseyes narrowed and he gritted his teeth:
"I'll find him yet," he muttered. "My Dad always played in hardluck--but he never _quit_! I'll find Waseche--but, if I don't find him,the big men back there that knew Sam Morgan--they'll know Sam Morgan'sboy was no quitter, either!" He turned away from the entrance and beganto harness the dogs.
* * * * *
Way down the valley, high on the surface of the glacier, Waseche Billstopped suddenly to listen. Faint and far, a sound was borne to his earsthrough the thin, cold air. He jerked back his _parka_ hood and strainedto catch the faint echo. Again he heard it--the long, bell-like howl ofa dog--and as he listened, the man's face paled, and a strange pricklingsensation started at the roots of his hair and worked slowly along hisspine. For this man of the North knew dogs. Even in the white fastnessof the terrible Lillimuit he could not be mistaken.
"Boris! Boris!" he cried, and whirling his wolf-dogs in their tracks,dashed over the windswept surface of the glacier in the direction ofthe sound.
"I can't be wrong! I can't be wrong!" he repeated over and over again,"I raised him from a pup!"