THE PASSING OF MARCUS O'BRIEN
"It is the judgment of this court that you vamose the camp . . . in thecustomary way, sir, in the customary way."
Judge Marcus O'Brien was absent-minded, and Mucluc Charley nudged him inthe ribs. Marcus O'Brien cleared his throat and went on--
"Weighing the gravity of the offence, sir, and the extenuatingcircumstances, it is the opinion of this court, and its verdict, that yoube outfitted with three days' grub. That will do, I think."
Arizona Jack cast a bleak glance out over the Yukon. It was a swollen,chocolate flood, running a mile wide and nobody knew how deep. Theearth-bank on which he stood was ordinarily a dozen feet above the water,but the river was now growling at the top of the bank, devouring, instantby instant, tiny portions of the top-standing soil. These portions wentinto the gaping mouths of the endless army of brown swirls and vanishedaway. Several inches more, and Red Cow would be flooded.
"It won't do," Arizona Jack said bitterly. "Three days' grub ain'tenough."
"There was Manchester," Marcus O'Brien replied gravely. "He didn't getany grub."
"And they found his remains grounded on the Lower River an' half eaten byhuskies," was Arizona Jack's retort. "And his killin' was withoutprovocation. Joe Deeves never did nothin', never warbled once, an' jes'because his stomach was out of order, Manchester ups an' plugs him. Youain't givin' me a square deal, O'Brien, I tell you that straight. Giveme a week's grub, and I play even to win out. Three days' grub, an' Icash in."
"What for did you kill Ferguson?" O'Brien demanded. "I haven't anypatience for these unprovoked killings. And they've got to stop. RedCow's none so populous. It's a good camp, and there never used to be anykillings. Now they're epidemic. I'm sorry for you, Jack, but you've gotto be made an example of. Ferguson didn't provoke enough for a killing."
"Provoke!" Arizona Jack snorted. "I tell you, O'Brien, you don't savve.You ain't got no artistic sensibilities. What for did I kill Ferguson?What for did Ferguson sing 'Then I wisht I was a little bird'? That'swhat I want to know. Answer me that. What for did he sing 'little bird,little bird'? One little bird was enough. I could a-stood one littlebird. But no, he must sing two little birds. I gave 'm a chanst. Iwent to him almighty polite and requested him kindly to discard onelittle bird. I pleaded with him. There was witnesses that testified tothat.
"An' Ferguson was no jay-throated songster," some one spoke up from thecrowd.
O'Brien betrayed indecision.
"Ain't a man got a right to his artistic feelin's?" Arizona Jackdemanded. "I gave Ferguson warnin'. It was violatin' my own nature togo on listening to his little birds. Why, there's music sharps thatfine-strung an' keyed-up they'd kill for heaps less'n I did. I'm willin'to pay for havin' artistic feelin's. I can take my medicine an' lick thespoon, but three days' grub is drawin' it a shade fine, that's all, an' Ihereby register my kick. Go on with the funeral."
O'Brien was still wavering. He glanced inquiringly at Mucluc Charley.
"I should say, Judge, that three days' grub was a mite severe," thelatter suggested; "but you're runnin' the show. When we elected youjudge of this here trial court, we agreed to abide by your decisions, an'we've done it, too, b'gosh, an' we're goin' to keep on doin' it."
"Mebbe I've been a trifle harsh, Jack," O'Brien said apologetically--"I'mthat worked up over those killings; an' I'm willing to make it a week'sgrub." He cleared his throat magisterially and looked briskly about him."And now we might as well get along and finish up the business. Theboat's ready. You go and get the grub, Leclaire. We'll settle for itafterward."
Arizona Jack looked grateful, and, muttering something about "damnedlittle birds," stepped aboard the open boat that rubbed restlesslyagainst the bank. It was a large skiff, built of rough pine planks thathad been sawed by hand from the standing timber of Lake Linderman, a fewhundred miles above, at the foot of Chilcoot. In the boat were a pair ofoars and Arizona Jack's blankets. Leclaire brought the grub, tied up ina flour-sack, and put it on board. As he did so, he whispered--"I gaveyou good measure, Jack. You done it with provocation."
"Cast her off!" Arizona Jack cried.
Somebody untied the painter and threw it in. The current gripped theboat and whirled it away. The murderer did not bother with the oars,contenting himself with sitting in the stern-sheets and rolling acigarette. Completing it, he struck a match and lighted up. Those thatwatched on the bank could see the tiny puffs of smoke. They remained onthe bank till the boat swung out of sight around the bend half a milebelow. Justice had been done.
The denizens of Red Cow imposed the law and executed sentences withoutthe delays that mark the softness of civilization. There was no law onthe Yukon save what they made for themselves. They were compelled tomake it for themselves. It was in an early day that Red Cow flourishedon the Yukon--1887--and the Klondike and its populous stampedes lay inthe unguessed future. The men of Red Cow did not even know whether theircamp was situated in Alaska or in the North-west Territory, whether theydrew breath under the stars and stripes or under the British flag. Nosurveyor had ever happened along to give them their latitude andlongitude. Red Cow was situated somewhere along the Yukon, and that wassufficient for them. So far as flags were concerned, they were beyondall jurisdiction. So far as the law was concerned, they were in No-Man'sland.
They made their own law, and it was very simple. The Yukon executedtheir decrees. Some two thousand miles below Red Cow the Yukon flowedinto Bering Sea through a delta a hundred miles wide. Every mile ofthose two thousand miles was savage wilderness. It was true, where thePorcupine flowed into the Yukon inside the Arctic Circle there was aHudson Bay Company trading post. But that was many hundreds of milesaway. Also, it was rumoured that many hundreds of miles farther on therewere missions. This last, however, was merely rumour; the men of Red Cowhad never been there. They had entered the lone land by way of Chilcootand the head-waters of the Yukon.
The men of Red Cow ignored all minor offences. To be drunk anddisorderly and to use vulgar language were looked upon as natural andinalienable rights. The men of Red Cow were individualists, andrecognized as sacred but two things, property and life. There were nowomen present to complicate their simple morality. There were only threelog-cabins in Red Cow--the majority of the population of forty men livingin tents or brush shacks; and there was no jail in which to confinemalefactors, while the inhabitants were too busy digging gold or seekinggold to take a day off and build a jail. Besides, the paramount questionof grub negatived such a procedure. Wherefore, when a man violated therights of property or life, he was thrown into an open boat and starteddown the Yukon. The quantity of grub he received was proportioned to thegravity of the offence. Thus, a common thief might get as much as twoweeks' grub; an uncommon thief might get no more than half of that. Amurderer got no grub at all. A man found guilty of manslaughter wouldreceive grub for from three days to a week. And Marcus O'Brien had beenelected judge, and it was he who apportioned the grub. A man who brokethe law took his chances. The Yukon swept him away, and he might ormight not win to Bering Sea. A few days' grub gave him a fightingchance. No grub meant practically capital punishment, though there was aslim chance, all depending on the season of the year.
Having disposed of Arizona Jack and watched him out of sight, thepopulation turned from the bank and went to work on its claims--allexcept Curly Jim, who ran the one faro layout in all the Northland andwho speculated in prospect-holes on the sides. Two things happened thatday that were momentous. In the late morning Marcus O'Brien struck it.He washed out a dollar, a dollar and a half, and two dollars, from threesuccessive pans. He had found the streak. Curly Jim looked into thehole, washed a few pans himself, and offered O'Brien ten thousand dollarsfor all rights--five thousand in dust, and, in lieu of the other fivethousand, a half interest in his faro layout. O'Brien refused the offer.He was there to make money out of the earth, he declared with heat, andnot out of his fello
w-men. And anyway, he didn't like faro. Besides, heappraised his strike at a whole lot more than ten thousand.
The second event of moment occurred in the afternoon, when SiskiyouPearly ran his boat into the bank and tied up. He was fresh from theOutside, and had in his possession a four-months-old newspaper.Furthermore, he had half a dozen barrels of whisky, all consigned toCurly Jim. The men of Red Cow quit work. They sampled the whisky--at adollar a drink, weighed out on Curly's scales; and they discussed thenews. And all would have been well, had not Curly Jim conceived anefarious scheme, which was, namely, first to get Marcus O'Brien drunk,and next, to buy his mine from him.
The first half of the scheme worked beautifully. It began in the earlyevening, and by nine o'clock O'Brien had reached the singing stage. Heclung with one arm around Curly Jim's neck, and even essayed the latelamented Ferguson's song about the little birds. He considered he wasquite safe in this, what of the fact that the only man in camp withartistic feelings was even then speeding down the Yukon on the breast ofa five-mile current.
But the second half of the scheme failed to connect. No matter how muchwhisky was poured down his neck, O'Brien could not be brought to realizethat it was his bounden and friendly duty to sell his claim. Hehesitated, it is true, and trembled now and again on the verge of givingin. Inside his muddled head, however, he was chuckling to himself. Hewas up to Curly Jim's game, and liked the hands that were being dealthim. The whisky was good. It came out of one special barrel, and wasabout a dozen times better than that in the other five barrels.
Siskiyou Pearly was dispensing drinks in the bar-room to the remainder ofthe population of Red Cow, while O'Brien and Curly had out their businessorgy in the kitchen. But there was nothing small about O'Brien. He wentinto the bar-room and returned with Mucluc Charley and Percy Leclaire.
"Business 'sociates of mine, business 'sociates," he announced, with abroad wink to them and a guileless grin to Curly. "Always trust theirjudgment, always trust 'em. They're all right. Give 'em somefire-water, Curly, an' le's talk it over."
This was ringing in; but Curly Jim, making a swift revaluation of theclaim, and remembering that the last pan he washed had turned out sevendollars, decided that it was worth the extra whisky, even if it wasselling in the other room at a dollar a drink.
"I'm not likely to consider," O'Brien was hiccoughing to his two friendsin the course of explaining to them the question at issue. "Who?Me?--sell for ten thousand dollars! No indeed. I'll dig the goldmyself, an' then I'm goin' down to God's country--SouthernCalifornia--that's the place for me to end my declinin' days--an' thenI'll start . . . as I said before, then I'll start . . . what did I say Iwas goin' to start?"
"Ostrich farm," Mucluc Charley volunteered.
"Sure, just what I'm goin' to start." O'Brien abruptly steadied himselfand looked with awe at Mucluc Charley. "How did you know? Never saidso. Jes' thought I said so. You're a min' reader, Charley. Le's haveanother."
Curly Jim filled the glasses and had the pleasure of seeing four dollars'worth of whisky disappear, one dollar's worth of which he punishedhimself--O'Brien insisted that he should drink as frequently as hisguests.
"Better take the money now," Leclaire argued. "Take you two years to digit out the hole, an' all that time you might be hatchin' teeny littlebaby ostriches an' pulling feathers out the big ones."
O'Brien considered the proposition and nodded approval. Curly Jim lookedgratefully at Leclaire and refilled the glasses.
"Hold on there!" spluttered Mucluc Charley, whose tongue was beginning towag loosely and trip over itself. "As your father confessor--there Igo--as your brother--O hell!" He paused and collected himself foranother start. "As your frien'--business frien', I should say, I wouldsuggest, rather--I would take the liberty, as it was, to mention--I mean,suggest, that there may be more ostriches . . . O hell!" He downedanother glass, and went on more carefully. "What I'm drivin' at is . . .what am I drivin' at?" He smote the side of his head sharply half adozen times with the heel of his palm to shake up his ideas. "I got it!"he cried jubilantly. "Supposen there's slathers more'n ten thousanddollars in that hole!"
O'Brien, who apparently was all ready to close the bargain, switchedabout.
"Great!" he cried. "Splen'd idea. Never thought of it all by myself."He took Mucluc Charley warmly by the hand. "Good frien'! Good's'ciate!" He turned belligerently on Curly Jim. "Maybe hundredthousand dollars in that hole. You wouldn't rob your old frien', wouldyou, Curly? Course you wouldn't. I know you--better'n yourself,better'n yourself. Le's have another: We're good frien's, all of us, Isay, all of us."
And so it went, and so went the whisky, and so went Curly Jim's hopes upand down. Now Leclaire argued in favour of immediate sale, and almostwon the reluctant O'Brien over, only to lose him to the more brilliantcounter-argument of Mucluc Charley. And again, it was Mucluc Charley whopresented convincing reasons for the sale and Percy Leclaire who heldstubbornly back. A little later it was O'Brien himself who insisted onselling, while both friends, with tears and curses, strove to dissuadehim. The more whiskey they downed, the more fertile of imagination theybecame. For one sober pro or con they found a score of drunken ones; andthey convinced one another so readily that they were perpetually changingsides in the argument.
The time came when both Mucluc Charley and Leclaire were firmly set uponthe sale, and they gleefully obliterated O'Brien's objections as fast ashe entered them. O'Brien grew desperate. He exhausted his last argumentand sat speechless. He looked pleadingly at the friends who had desertedhim. He kicked Mucluc Charley's shins under the table, but thatgraceless hero immediately unfolded a new and most logical reason for thesale. Curly Jim got pen and ink and paper and wrote out the bill ofsale. O'Brien sat with pen poised in hand.
"Le's have one more," he pleaded. "One more before I sign away a hundredthousan' dollars."
Curly Jim filled the glasses triumphantly. O'Brien downed his drink andbent forward with wobbling pen to affix his signature. Before he hadmade more than a blot, he suddenly started up, impelled by the impact ofan idea colliding with his consciousness. He stood upon his feet andswayed back and forth before them, reflecting in his startled eyes thethought process that was taking place behind. Then he reached hisconclusion. A benevolent radiance suffused his countenance. He turnedto the faro dealer, took his hand, and spoke solemnly.
"Curly, you're my frien'. There's my han'. Shake. Ol' man, I won't doit. Won't sell. Won't rob a frien'. No son-of-a-gun will ever havechance to say Marcus O'Brien robbed frien' cause frien' was drunk.You're drunk, Curly, an' I won't rob you. Jes' had thought--neverthought it before--don't know what the matter 'ith me, but never thoughtit before. Suppose, jes' suppose, Curly, my ol' frien', jes' supposethere ain't ten thousan' in whole damn claim. You'd be robbed. No, sir;won't do it. Marcus O'Brien makes money out of the groun', not out ofhis frien's."
Percy Leclaire and Mucluc Charley drowned the faro dealer's objections inapplause for so noble a sentiment. They fell upon O'Brien from eitherside, their arms lovingly about his neck, their mouths so full of wordsthey could not hear Curly's offer to insert a clause in the document tothe effect that if there weren't ten thousand in the claim he would begiven back the difference between yield and purchase price. The longerthey talked the more maudlin and the more noble the discussion became.All sordid motives were banished. They were a trio of philanthropistsstriving to save Curly Jim from himself and his own philanthropy. Theyinsisted that he was a philanthropist. They refused to accept for amoment that there could be found one ignoble thought in all the world.They crawled and climbed and scrambled over high ethical plateaux andranges, or drowned themselves in metaphysical seas of sentimentality.
Curly Jim sweated and fumed and poured out the whisky. He found himselfwith a score of arguments on his hands, not one of which had anything todo with the gold-mine he wanted to buy. The longer they talked thefarther away they got from that gold-mine, and at
two in the morningCurly Jim acknowledged himself beaten. One by one he led his helplessguests across the kitchen floor and thrust them outside. O'Brien camelast, and the three, with arms locked for mutual aid, titubated gravelyon the stoop.
"Good business man, Curly," O'Brien was saying. "Must say like yourstyle--fine an' generous, free-handed hospital . . . hospital . . .hospitality. Credit to you. Nothin' base 'n graspin' in your make-up.As I was sayin'--"
But just then the faro dealer slammed the door.
The three laughed happily on the stoop. They laughed for a long time.Then Mucluc Charley essayed speech.
"Funny--laughed so hard--ain't what I want to say. My idea is . . . whatwash it? Oh, got it! Funny how ideas slip. Elusive idea--chasin'elusive idea--great sport. Ever chase rabbits, Percy, my frien'? I haddog--great rabbit dog. Whash 'is name? Don't know name--never had noname--forget name--elusive name--chasin' elusive name--no, idea--elusiveidea, but got it--what I want to say was--O hell!"
Thereafter there was silence for a long time. O'Brien slipped from theirarms to a sitting posture on the stoop, where he slept gently. MuclucCharley chased the elusive idea through all the nooks and crannies of hisdrowning consciousness. Leclaire hung fascinated upon the delayedutterance. Suddenly the other's hand smote him on the back.
"Got it!" Mucluc Charley cried in stentorian tones.
The shock of the jolt broke the continuity of Leclaire's mental process.
"How much to the pan?" he demanded.
"Pan nothin'!" Mucluc Charley was angry. "Idea--got it--gotleg-hold--ran it down."
Leclaire's face took on a rapt, admiring expression, and again he hungupon the other's lips.
" . . . O hell!" said Mucluc Charley.
At this moment the kitchen door opened for an instant, and Curly Jimshouted, "Go home!"
"Funny," said Mucluc Charley. "Shame idea--very shame as mine. Le's gohome."
They gathered O'Brien up between them and started. Mucluc Charley beganaloud the pursuit of another idea. Leclaire followed the pursuit withenthusiasm. But O'Brien did not follow it. He neither heard, nor saw,nor knew anything. He was a mere wobbling automaton, supportedaffectionately and precariously by his two business associates.
They took the path down by the bank of the Yukon. Home did not lie thatway, but the elusive idea did. Mucluc Charley giggled over the idea thathe could not catch for the edification of Leclaire. They came to whereSiskiyou Pearly's boat lay moored to the bank. The rope with which itwas tied ran across the path to a pine stump. They tripped over it andwent down, O'Brien underneath. A faint flash of consciousness lightedhis brain. He felt the impact of bodies upon his and struck out madlyfor a moment with his fists. Then he went to sleep again. His gentlesnore arose on the air, and Mucluc Charley began to giggle.
"New idea," he volunteered, "brand new idea. Jes' caught it--no troubleat all. Came right up an' I patted it on the head. It's mine. 'Brien'sdrunk--beashly drunk. Shame--damn shame--learn'm lesshon. TrashPearly's boat. Put 'Brien in Pearly's boat. Casht off--let her go downYukon. 'Brien wake up in mornin'. Current too strong--can't row boat'gainst current--mush walk back. Come back madder 'n hatter. You an' meheadin' for tall timber. Learn 'm lesshon jes' shame, learn 'm lesshon."
Siskiyou Pearly's boat was empty, save for a pair of oars. Its gunwalerubbed against the bank alongside of O'Brien. They rolled him over intoit. Mucluc Charley cast off the painter, and Leclaire shoved the boatout into the current. Then, exhausted by their labours, they lay down onthe bank and slept.
Next morning all Red Cow knew of the joke that had been played on MarcusO'Brien. There were some tall bets as to what would happen to the twoperpetrators when the victim arrived back. In the afternoon a lookoutwas set, so that they would know when he was sighted. Everybody wantedto see him come in. But he didn't come, though they sat up tillmidnight. Nor did he come next day, nor the next. Red Cow never sawMarcus O'Brien again, and though many conjectures were entertained, nocertain clue was ever gained to dispel the mystery of his passing.
* * * * *
Only Marcus O'Brien knew, and he never came back to tell. He awoke nextmorning in torment. His stomach had been calcined by the inordinatequantity of whisky he had drunk, and was a dry and raging furnace. Hishead ached all over, inside and out; and, worse than that, was the painin his face. For six hours countless thousands of mosquitoes had fedupon him, and their ungrateful poison had swollen his face tremendously.It was only by a severe exertion of will that he was able to open narrowslits in his face through which he could peer. He happened to move hishands, and they hurt. He squinted at them, but failed to recognize them,so puffed were they by the mosquito virus. He was lost, or rather, hisidentity was lost to him. There was nothing familiar about him, which,by association of ideas, would cause to rise in his consciousness thecontinuity of his existence. He was divorced utterly from his past, forthere was nothing about him to resurrect in his consciousness a memory ofthat past. Besides, he was so sick and miserable that he lacked energyand inclination to seek after who and what he was.
It was not until he discovered a crook in a little finger, caused by anunset breakage of years before, that he knew himself to be MarcusO'Brien. On the instant his past rushed into his consciousness. When hediscovered a blood-blister under a thumb-nail, which he had received theprevious week, his self-identification became doubly sure, and he knewthat those unfamiliar hands belonged to Marcus O'Brien, or, just as muchto the point, that Marcus O'Brien belonged to the hands. His firstthought was that he was ill--that he had had river fever. It hurt him somuch to open his eyes that he kept them closed. A small floating branchstruck the boat a sharp rap. He thought it was some one knocking on thecabin door, and said, "Come in." He waited for a while, and then saidtestily, "Stay out, then, damn you." But just the same he wished theywould come in and tell him about his illness.
But as he lay there, the past night began to reconstruct itself in hisbrain. He hadn't been sick at all, was his thought; he had merely beendrunk, and it was time for him to get up and go to work. Work suggestedhis mine, and he remembered that he had refused ten thousand dollars forit. He sat up abruptly and squeezed open his eyes. He saw himself in aboat, floating on the swollen brown flood of the Yukon. Thespruce-covered shores and islands were unfamiliar. He was stunned for atime. He couldn't make it out. He could remember the last night's orgy,but there was no connection between that and his present situation.
He closed his eyes and held his aching head in his hands. What hadhappened? Slowly the dreadful thought arose in his mind. He foughtagainst it, strove to drive it away, but it persisted: he had killedsomebody. That alone could explain why he was in an open boat driftingdown the Yukon. The law of Red Cow that he had so long administered hadnow been administered to him. He had killed some one and been setadrift. But whom? He racked his aching brain for the answer, but allthat came was a vague memory of bodies falling upon him and of strikingout at them. Who were they? Maybe he had killed more than one. Hereached to his belt. The knife was missing from its sheath. He had doneit with that undoubtedly. But there must have been some reason for thekilling. He opened his eyes and in a panic began to search about theboat. There was no grub, not an ounce of grub. He sat down with agroan. He had killed without provocation. The extreme rigour of the lawhad been visited upon him.
For half an hour he remained motionless, holding his aching head andtrying to think. Then he cooled his stomach with a drink of water fromoverside and felt better. He stood up, and alone on the wide-stretchingYukon, with naught but the primeval wilderness to hear, he cursed strongdrink. After that he tied up to a huge floating pine that was deepersunk in the current than the boat and that consequently drifted faster.He washed his face and hands, sat down in the stern-sheets, and did somemore thinking. It was late in June. It was two thousand miles to BeringSea. The boat was averaging five miles an hour. There
was no darknessin such high latitudes at that time of the year, and he could run theriver every hour of the twenty-four. This would mean, daily, a hundredand twenty miles. Strike out the twenty for accidents, and thereremained a hundred miles a day. In twenty days he would reach BeringSea. And this would involve no expenditure of energy; the river did thework. He could lie down in the bottom of the boat and husband hisstrength.
For two days he ate nothing. Then, drifting into the Yukon Flats, hewent ashore on the low-lying islands and gathered the eggs of wild geeseand ducks. He had no matches, and ate the eggs raw. They were strong,but they kept him going. When he crossed the Arctic Circle, he found theHudson Bay Company's post. The brigade had not yet arrived from theMackenzie, and the post was completely out of grub. He was offeredwild-duck eggs, but he informed them that he had a bushel of the same onthe boat. He was also offered a drink of whisky, which he refused withan exhibition of violent repugnance. He got matches, however, and afterthat he cooked his eggs. Toward the mouth of the river head-windsdelayed him, and he was twenty-four days on the egg diet. Unfortunately,while asleep he had drifted by both the missions of St. Paul and HolyCross. And he could sincerely say, as he afterward did, that talk aboutmissions on the Yukon was all humbug. There weren't any missions, and hewas the man to know.
Once on Bering Sea he exchanged the egg diet for seal diet, and he nevercould make up his mind which he liked least. In the fall of the year hewas rescued by a United States revenue cutter, and the following winterhe made quite a hit in San Francisco as a temperance lecturer. In thisfield he found his vocation. "Avoid the bottle" is his slogan andbattle-cry. He manages subtly to convey the impression that in his ownlife a great disaster was wrought by the bottle. He has even mentionedthe loss of a fortune that was caused by that hell-bait of the devil, butbehind that incident his listeners feel the loom of some terrible andunguessed evil for which the bottle is responsible. He has made asuccess in his vocation, and has grown grey and respected in the crusadeagainst strong drink. But on the Yukon the passing of Marcus O'Brienremains tradition. It is a mystery that ranks at par with thedisappearance of Sir John Franklin.