As I opened the door to the barn I said to him:--
"Enter! Your days of thirst, of hunger, of cruel exposure to rain andsnow are over. Here is food that shall not fail," and he seemed tounderstand.
It might seem absurd if I were to give expression to the relief anddeep pleasure it gave me to put that horse into that familiar stall.He had been with me more than four thousand miles. He had carried methrough hundreds of icy streams and over snow fields. He hadresponded to every word and obeyed every command. He had sufferedfrom cold and hunger and poison. He had walked logs and wallowedthrough quicksands. He had helped me up enormous mountains and I hadguided him down dangerous declivities. His faithful heart had neverfailed even in days of direst need, and now he shall live amid plentyand have no care so long as he lives. It does not pay,--that issure,--but after all what does pay?
THE LURE OF THE DESERT
I lie in my blanket, alone, alone! Hearing the voice of the roaring rain, And my heart is moved by the wind's low moan To wander the wastes of the wind-worn plain, Searching for something--I cannot tell-- The face of a woman, the love of a child-- Or only the rain-wet prairie swell Or the savage woodland wide and wild.
I must go away--I know not where! Lured by voices that cry and cry, Drawn by fingers that clutch my hair, Called to the mountains bleak and high, Led to the mesas hot and bare. O God! How my heart's blood wakes and thrills To the cry of the wind, the lure of the hills. I'll follow you, follow you far; Ye voices of winds, and rain and sky, To the peaks that shatter the evening star. Wealth, honor, wife, child--all I have in the city's keep, I loose and forget when ye call and call And the desert winds around me sweep.
CHAPTER XXVI
THE GOLDSEEKERS REACH THE GOLDEN RIVER
The goldseekers are still seeking. I withdrew, but they went on. Inthe warmth and security of my study, surrounded by the peace andcomfort of my native Coolly, I thought of them as they went toilingover the trail, still toward the north. It was easy for me to imaginetheir daily life. The Manchester boys and Burton, my partner, leftGlenora with ten horses and more than two thousand pounds ofsupplies.
Twice each day this immense load had to be handled; sometimes inorder to rest and graze the ponies, every sack and box had to betaken down and lifted up to their lashings again four times each day.This meant toil. It meant also constant worry and care while thetrain was in motion. Three times each day a campfire was built andcoffee and beans prepared.
However, the weather continued fair, my partner wrote me, and theyarrived at Teslin Lake in September, after being a month on the road,and there set about building a boat to carry them down the river.
Here the horses were sold, and I know it must have been a sad momentfor Burton to say good-by to his faithful brutes. But there was nohelp for it. There was no more thought of going to the head-watersof the Pelly and no more use for the horses. Indeed, the gold-huntersabandoned all thought of the Nisutlin and the Hotalinqua. They werefairly in the grasp of the tremendous current which seemed to getever swifter as it approached the mouth of the Klondike River. Theywere mad to reach the pool wherein all the rest of the world wasfishing. Nothing less would satisfy them.
At last they cast loose from the shore and started down the river,straight into the north. Each hour, each mile, became a menace. Dayby day they drifted while the spitting snows fell hissing into thecold water, and ice formed around the keel of the boat at night. Theypassed men camped and panning dirt, but continued resolute, haltingonly "to pass the good word."
It grew cold with appalling rapidity and the sun fell away to thesouth with desolating speed. The skies darkened and lowered as thedays shortened. All signs of life except those of other argonautsdisappeared. The river filled with drifting ice, and each nightlanding became more difficult.
At last the winter came. The river closed up like an iron trap, andbefore they knew it they were caught in the jam of ice and fightingfor their lives. They landed on a wooded island after a desperatestruggle and went into camp with the thermometer thirty below zero.But what of that? They were now in the gold belt. After six months ofincessant toil, of hope deferred, they were at last on the spottoward which they had struggled.
All around them was the overflow from the Klondike. Their desire togo farther was checked. They had reached the counter current--theback-water--and were satisfied.
Leaving to others the task of building a permanent camp, my sturdypartner, a couple of days later, started prospecting in company withtwo others whom he had selected to represent the other outfit. Thethermometer was fifty-six degrees below zero, and yet for seven days,with less than six hours' sleep, without a tent, those devoted idiotshunted the sands of a near-by creek for gold, and really stakedclaims.
On the way back one of the men grew sleepy and would have lain downto die except for the vigorous treatment of Burton, who mauled himand dragged him about and rubbed him with snow until his blood beganto circulate once more. In attempting to walk on the river, which wasagain in motion, Burton fell through, wetting one leg above the knee.It was still more than thirty degrees below zero, but what of that?He merely kept going.
They reached the bank opposite the camp late on the seventh day, butwere unable to cross the moving ice. For the eighth night they"danced around the fire as usual," not daring to sleep for fear offreezing. They literally frosted on one side while scorching at thefire on the other, turning like so many roasting pigs before theblaze. The river solidified during the night and they crossed to thecamp to eat and sleep in safety.
A couple of weeks later they determined to move down the river to anew stampede in Thistle Creek. Once more these indomitable soulsleft their warm cabin, took up their beds and nearly two thousandpounds of outfit and toiled down the river still farther into theterrible north. The chronicle of this trip by Burton is ofmathematical brevity: "On 20th concluded to move. Took four days.Very cold. Ther. down to 45 below. Froze one toe. Got claim--nowbuilding cabin. Expect to begin singeing in a few days."
The toil, the suffering, the monotonous food, the lack of fire, hedid not dwell upon, but singeing, that is to say burning down throughthe eternally frozen ground, was to begin at once. To singe a holeinto the soil ten or fifteen feet deep in the midst of the sunlessseventy of the arctic circle is no light task, but these men will doit; if hardihood and honest toil are of any avail they will all sharein the precious sand whose shine has lured them through all the darkdays of the long trail, calling with such power that nothing couldstay them or turn them aside.
If they fail, well--
This out of all will remain, They have lived and have tossed. So much of the game will be gain, Though the gold of the dice has been lost.
HERE THE TRAIL ENDS
Here the trail ends--Here by a river So swifter, and darker, and colder Than any we crossed on our long, long way. Steady, Dan, steady. Ho, there, my dapple, You first from the saddle shall slip and be free. Now go, you are clear from command of a master; Go wade in the grasses, go munch at the grain. I love you, my faithful, but all is now over; Ended the comradeship held 'twixt us twain. I go to the river and the wide lands beyond it, You go to the pasture, and death claims us all. _For here the trail ends!_
_Here the trail ends!_ Draw near with the broncos. Slip the hitch, loose the cinches, Slide the saw-bucks away from each worn, weary back. We are done with the axe, the camp, and the kettle; Strike hand to each cayuse and send him away. Let them go where the roses and grasses are growing, To the meadows that slope to the warm western sea. No more shall they serve us; no more shall they suffer The sting of the lash, the heat of the day. Soon they will go to a winterless haven, To the haven of beasts where none may enslave. _For here the trail ends_.
_Here the trail ends._ Never again shall the far-shining mountains allure us, No more shall the icy mad torrents appall. Fold up the
sling ropes, coil down the cinches, Cache the saddles, and put the brown bridles away. Not one of the roses of Navajo silver, Not even a spur shall we save from the rust. Put away the worn tent-cloth, let the red people have it; We are done with all shelter, we are done with the gun. Not so much as a pine branch, not even a willow Shall swing in the air 'twixt us and our God. Naked and lone we cross the wide ferry, Bare to the cold, the dark and the rain. _For here the trail ends._
_Here the trail ends._ Here by the landing I wait the last boat, the slow silent one. We each go alone--no man with another, Each into the gloom of the swift black flood-- Boys, it is hard, but here we must scatter; The gray boatman waits, and I--I go first. All is dark over there where the dim boat is rocking-- But that is no matter! No man need to fear; For clearly we're told the powers that lead us Shall govern the game to the end of the day. _Good-by--here the trail ends!_
* * * * *
WORKS BY
GILBERT PARKER
16mo. Cloth. Each, $1.25.
PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLE. WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC. AN ADVENTURER OF THE NORTH. A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS. A LOVER'S DIARY.
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* * * * *
_A NEW EDITION_
ROSE OF DUTCHER'S COOLLY
BY
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