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The Complete Novels of Jack London

2745 pages
Here you will find the complete novels of Jack London in the chronological order of their original publication.
- The Cruise of the Dazzler
- A Daughter of the Snows
- The Call of the Wild
- The Kempton-Wace Letters
- The Sea-Wolf
- The Game
- White Fang
- Before Adam
- The Iron Heel
- Martin Eden
- Burning Daylight
- Adventure
- The Scarlet Plague
- A Son of the Sun
- The Abysmal Brute
- The Valley of the Moon
- The Mutiny of the Elsinore
- The Star Rover
- The Little Lady of the Big House
- Jerry of the Islands
- Michael, Brother of Jerry
- Hearts of Three
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Jack London

The Cruise of the Dazzler
First published: 1902

Chapter 1 — Brother and Sister
Chapter 2 — “The Draconian Reforms”
Chapter 3 — “Brick,” “Sorrel-Top,” and “Reddy”
Chapter 4 — The Biter Bitten
Chapter 5 — Home Again
Chapter 6 — Examination Day
Chapter 7 — Father and Son
Chapter 8 — ‘Frisco Kid and the New Boy
Chapter 9 — Aboard the Dazzler
Chapter 10 — With the Bay Pirates
Chapter 11 — Captain and Crew
Chapter 12 — Joe Tries to Take French Leave
Chapter 13 — Befriending Each Other
Chapter 14 — Among the Oyster-Beds
Chapter 15 — Good Sailors in a Wild Anchorage
Chapter 16 — ‘Frisco Kid’s Ditty-Box
Chapter 17 — ‘Frisco Kid Tells His Story
Chapter 18 — A New Responsibility for Joe
Chapter 19 — The Boys Plan an Escape
Chapter 20 — Perilous Hours
Chapter 21 — Joe and His Father
Part 1
Chapter 1 — Brother and Sister

They ran across the shining sand, the Pacific thundering its long surge at their backs,
and when they gained the roadway leaped upon bicycles and dived at faster pace into the
green avenues of the park. There were three of them, three boys, in as many bright-colored
sweaters, and they “scorched” along the cycle-path as dangerously near the speed-limit as is
the custom of boys in bright-colored sweaters to go. They may have exceeded the
speedlimit. A mounted park policeman thought so, but was not sure, and contented himself with
cautioning them as they flashed by. They acknowledged the warning promptly, and on the
next turn of the path as promptly forgot it, which is also a custom of boys in bright-colored
Shooting out through the entrance to Golden Gate Park, they turned into San Francisco,
and took the long sweep of the descending hills at a rate that caused pedestrians to turn and
watch them anxiously. Through the city streets the bright sweaters flew, turning and twisting
to escape climbing the steeper hills, and, when the steep hills were unavoidable, doing stunts
to see which would first gain the top.
The boy who more often hit up the pace, led the scorching, and instituted the stunts was
called Joe by his companions. It was “follow the leader,” and he led, the merriest and boldest
in the bunch. But as they pedaled into the Western Addition, among the large and comfortable
residences, his laughter became less loud and frequent, and he unconsciously lagged in the
rear. At Laguna and Vallejo streets his companions turned off to the right.
“So long, Fred,” he called as he turned his wheel to the left. “So long, Charley.”
“See you to-night!” they called back.
“No—I can’t come,” he answered.
“Aw, come on,” they begged.
“No, I’ve got to dig.—So long!”
As he went on alone, his face grew grave and a vague worry came into his eyes. He
began resolutely to whistle, but this dwindled away till it was a thin and very subdued little
sound, which ceased altogether as he rode up the driveway to a large two-storied house.
“Oh, Joe!”
He hesitated before the door to the library. Bessie was there, he knew, studiously
working up her lessons. She must be nearly through with them, too, for she was always done
before dinner, and dinner could not be many minutes away. As for his lessons, they were as
yet untouched. The thought made him angry. It was bad enough to have one’s sister—and
two years younger at that—in the same grade, but to have her continually head and shoulders
above him in scholarship was a most intolerable thing. Not that he was dull. No one knew
better than himself that he was not dull. But somehow—he did not quite know how—his mind
was on other things and he was usually unprepared.
“Joe—please come here.” There was the slightest possible plaintive note in her voice this
“Well?” he said, thrusting aside the portière with an impetuous movement.
He said it gruffly, but he was half sorry for it the next instant when he saw a slender little
girl regarding him with wistful eyes across the big reading-table heaped with books. She was
curled up, with pencil and pad, in an easy-chair of such generous dimensions that it made her
seem more delicate and fragile than she really was.
“What is it, Sis?” he asked more gently, crossing over to her side.
She took his hand in hers and pressed it against her cheek, and as he stood beside her
came closer to him with a nestling movement.
“What is the matter, Joe dear?” she asked softly. “Won’t you tell me?”He remained silent. It struck him as ridiculous to confess his troubles to a little sister,
even if her reports were higher than his. And the little sister struck him as ridiculous to
demand his troubles of him. “What a soft cheek she has!” he thought as she pressed her face
gently against his hand. If he could but tear himself away—it was all so foolish! Only he might
hurt her feelings, and, in his experience, girls’ feelings were very easily hurt.
She opened his fingers and kissed the palm of his hand. It was like a rose-leaf falling; it
was also her way of asking her question over again.
“Nothing ‘s the matter,” he said decisively. And then, quite inconsistently, he blurted out,
His worry was now in her eyes. “But father is so good and kind, Joe,” she began. “Why
don’t you try to please him? He does n’t ask much of you, and it ‘s all for your own good. It ‘s
not as though you were a fool, like some boys. If you would only study a little bit—”
“That ‘s it! Lecturing!” he exploded, tearing his hand roughly away. “Even you are
beginning to lecture me now. I suppose the cook and the stable-boy will be at it next.”
He shoved his hands into his pockets and looked forward into a melancholy and desolate
future filled with interminable lectures and lecturers innumerable.
“Was that what you wanted me for?” he demanded, turning to go.
She caught at his hand again. “No, it wasn’t; only you looked so worried that I thought—I
—” Her voice broke, and she began again freshly. “What I wanted to tell you was that we’re
planning a trip across the bay to Oakland, next Saturday, for a tramp in the hills.”
“Who ‘s going?”
“Myrtle Hayes—”
“What! That little softy?” he interrupted.
“I don’t think she is a softy,” Bessie answered with spirit. “She ‘s one of the sweetest girls
I know.”
“Which is n’t saying much, considering the girls you know. But go on. Who are the
“Pearl Sayther, and her sister Alice, and Jessie Hilborn, and Sadie French, and Edna
Crothers. That ‘s all the girls.”
Joe sniffed disdainfully. “Who are the fellows, then?”
“Maurice and Felix Clement, Dick Schofield, Burt Layton, and—”
“That ‘s enough. Milk-and-water chaps, all of them.”
“I—I wanted to ask you and Fred and Charley,” she said in a quavering voice. “That ‘s
what I called you in for—to ask you to come.”
“And what are you going to do?” he asked.
“Walk, gather wild flowers,—the poppies are all out now,—eat luncheon at some nice
place, and—and—”
“Come home,” he finished for her.
Bessie nodded her head. Joe put his hands in his pockets again, and walked up and
“A sissy outfit, that ‘s what it is,” he said abruptly; “and a sissy program. None of it in
mine, please.”
She tightened her trembling lips and struggled on bravely. “What would you rather do?”
she asked.
“I ‘d sooner take Fred and Charley and go off somewhere and do something—well,
He paused and looked at her. She was waiting patiently for him to proceed. He was
aware of his inability to express in words what he felt and wanted, and all his trouble and
general dissatisfaction rose up and gripped hold of him.
“Oh, you can’t understand!” he burst out. “You can’t understand. You ‘re a girl. You like
to be prim and neat, and to be good in deportment and ahead in your studies. You don’t carefor danger and adventure and such things, and you don’t care for boys who are rough, and
have life and go in them, and all that. You like good little boys in white collars, with clothes
always clean and hair always combed, who like to stay in at recess and be petted by the
teacher and told how they’re always up in their studies; nice little boys who never get into
scrapes—who are too busy walking around and picking flowers and eating lunches with girls,
to get into scrapes. Oh, I know the kind—afraid of their own shadows, and no more spunk in
them than in so many sheep. That ‘s what they are—sheep. Well, I ‘m not a sheep, and there
‘s no more to be said. And I don’t want to go on your picnic, and, what ‘s more, I ‘m not
The tears welled up in Bessie’s brown eyes, and her lips were trembling. This angered
him unreasonably. What were girls good for, anyway?—always blubbering, and interfering,
and carrying on. There was no sense in them.
“A fellow can’t say anything without making you cry,” he began, trying to appease her.
“Why, I did n’t mean anything, Sis. I did n’t, sure. I—”
He paused helplessly and looked down at her. She was sobbing, and at the same time
shaking with the effort to control her sobs, while big tears were rolling down her cheeks.
“Oh, you—you girls!” he cried, and strode wrathfully out of the room.
Chapter 2 — “The Draconian Reforms”

A few minutes later, and still wrathful, Joe went in to dinner. He ate silently, though his
father and mother and Bessie kept up a genial flow of conversation. There she was, he
communed savagely with his plate, crying one minute, and the next all smiles and laughter.
Now that was n’t his way. If he had anything sufficiently important to cry about, rest assured
he would n’t get over it for days. Girls were hypocrites, that was all there was to it. They did n’t
feel one hundredth part of all that they said when they cried. It stood to reason that they did
n’t. It must be that they just carried on because they enjoyed it. It made them feel good to
make other people miserable, especially boys. That was why they were always interfering.
Thus reflecting sagely, he kept his eyes on his plate and did justice to the fare; for one
cannot scorch from the Cliff House to the Western Addition via the park without being guilty of
a healthy appetite.
Now and then his father directed a glance at him in a certain mildly anxious way. Joe did
not see these glances, but Bessie saw them, every one. Mr. Bronson was a middle-aged
man, well developed and of heavy build, though not fat. His was a rugged face, square-jawed
and stern-featured, though his eyes were kindly and there were lines about the mouth that
betokened laughter rather than severity. A close examination was not required to discover the
resemblance between him and Joe. The same broad forehead and strong jaw characterized
them both, and the eyes, taking into consideration the difference of age, were as like as peas
from one pod.
“How are you getting on, Joe?” Mr. Bronson asked finally. Dinner was over and they
were about to leave the table.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Joe answered carelessly, and then added: “We have examinations
tomorrow. I’ll know then.”
“Whither bound?” his mother questioned, as he turned to leave the room. She was a
slender, willowy woman, whose brown eyes Bessie’s were, and likewise her tender ways.
“To my room,” Joe answered. “To work,” he supplemented.
She rumpled his hair affectionately, and bent and kissed him. Mr. Bronson smiled
approval at him as he went out, and he hurried up the stairs, resolved to dig hard and pass
the examinations of the coming day.
Entering his room, he locked the door and sat down at a desk most comfortably
arranged for a boy’s study. He ran his eye over his text-books. The history examination came
the first thing in the morning, so he would begin on that. He opened the book where a page
was turned down, and began to read:

Shortly after the Draconian reforms, a war broke out between Athens and Megara
respecting the island of Salamis, to which both cities laid claim.

That was easy; but what were the Draconian reforms? He must look them up. He felt
quite studious as he ran over the back pages, till he chanced to raise his eyes above the top
of the book and saw on a chair a baseball mask and a catcher’s glove. They should n’t have
lost that game last Saturday, he thought, and they would n’t have, either, if it had n’t been for
Fred. He wished Fred would n’t fumble so. He could hold a hundred difficult balls in
succession, but when a critical point came, he ‘d let go of even a dewdrop. He ‘d have to send
him out in the field and bring in Jones to first base. Only Jones was so excitable. He could
hold any kind of a ball, no matter how critical the play was, but there was no telling what he
would do with the ball after he got it.
Joe came to himself with a start. A pretty way of studying history! He buried his head inhis book and began:

Shortly after the Draconian reforms—

He read the sentence through three times, and then recollected that he had not looked
up the Draconian reforms.
A knock came at the door. He turned the pages over with a noisy flutter, but made no
The knock was repeated, and Bessie’s “Joe, dear” came to his ears.
“What do you want?” he demanded. But before she could answer he hurried on: “No
admittance. I ‘m busy.”
“I came to see if I could help you,” she pleaded. “I ‘m all done, and I thought—”
“Of course you ‘re all done!” he shouted. “You always are!”
He held his head in both his hands to keep his eyes on the book. But the baseball mask
bothered him. The more he attempted to keep his mind on the history the more in his mind’s
eye he saw the mask resting on the chair and all the games in which it had played its part.
This would never do. He deliberately placed the book face downward on the desk and
walked over to the chair. With a swift sweep he sent both mask and glove hurtling under the
bed, and so violently that he heard the mask rebound from the wall.

Shortly after the Draconian reforms, a war broke out between Athens and Megara—

The mask had rolled back from the wall. He wondered if it had rolled back far enough for
him to see it. No, he would n’t look. What did it matter if it had rolled out? That was n’t history.
He wondered—
He peered over the top of the book, and there was the mask peeping out at him from
under the edge of the bed. This was not to be borne. There was no use attempting to study
while that mask was around. He went over and fished it out, crossed the room to the closet,
and tossed it inside, then locked the door. That was settled, thank goodness! Now he could do
some work.
He sat down again.

Shortly after the Draconian reforms, a war broke out between Athens and Megara
respecting the island of Salamis, to which, both cities laid claim.

Which was all very well, if he had only found out what the Draconian reforms were. A soft
glow pervaded the room, and he suddenly became aware of it. What could cause it? He
looked out of the window. The setting sun was slanting its long rays against low-hanging
masses of summer clouds, turning them to warm scarlet and rosy red; and it was from them
that the red light, mellow and glowing, was flung earthward.
His gaze dropped from the clouds to the bay beneath. The sea-breeze was dying down
with the day, and off Fort Point a fishing-boat was creeping into port before the last light
breeze. A little beyond, a tug was sending up a twisted pillar of smoke as it towed a
threemasted schooner to sea. His eyes wandered over toward the Marin County shore. The line
where land and water met was already in darkness, and long shadows were creeping up the
hills toward Mount Tamalpais, which was sharply silhouetted against the western sky.
Oh, if he, Joe Bronson, were only on that fishing-boat and sailing in with a deep-sea
catch! Or if he were on that schooner, heading out into the sunset, into the world! That was
life, that was living, doing something and being something in the world. And, instead, here he
was, pent up in a close room, racking his brains about people dead and gone thousands of
years before he was born.He jerked himself away from the window as though held there by some physical force,
and resolutely carried his chair and history into the farthest corner of the room, where he sat
down with his back to the window.
An instant later, so it seemed to him, he found himself again staring out of the window
and dreaming. How he had got there he did not know. His last recollection was the finding of a
subheading on a page on the right-hand side of the book which read: “The Laws and
Constitution of Draco.” And then, evidently like walking in one’s sleep, he had come to the
window. How long had he been there? he wondered. The fishing-boat which he had seen off
Fort Point was now crawling into Meiggs’s Wharf. This denoted nearly an hour’s lapse of time.
The sun had long since set; a solemn grayness was brooding over the water, and the first
faint stars were beginning to twinkle over the crest of Mount Tamalpais.
He turned, with a sigh, to go back into his corner, when a long whistle, shrill and piercing,
came to his ears. That was Fred. He sighed again. The whistle repeated itself. Then another
whistle joined it. That was Charley. They were waiting on the corner—lucky fellows!
Well, they would n’t see him this night. Both whistles arose in duet. He writhed in his
chair and groaned. No, they would n’t see him this night, he reiterated, at the same time rising
to his feet. It was certainly impossible for him to join them when he had not yet learned about
the Draconian reforms. The same force which had held him to the window now seemed
drawing him across the room to the desk. It made him put the history on top of his
schoolbooks, and he had the door unlocked and was half-way into the hall before he realized it. He
started to return, but the thought came to him that he could go out for a little while and then
come back and do his work.
A very little while, he promised himself, as he went down-stairs. He went down faster and
faster, till at the bottom he was going three steps at a time. He popped his cap on his head
and went out of the side entrance in a rush; and ere he reached the corner the reforms of
Draco were as far away in the past as Draco himself, while the examinations on the morrow
were equally far away in the future.
Chapter 3 — “Brick,” “Sorrel-Top,” and “Reddy”

“What ‘s up?” Joe asked, as he joined Fred and Charley.
“Kites,” Charley answered. “Come on. We ‘re tired out waiting for you.”
The three set off down the street to the brow of the hill, where they looked down upon
Union Street, far below and almost under their feet. This they called the Pit, and it was well
named. Themselves they called the Hill-dwellers, and a descent into the Pit by the Hill-dwellers
was looked upon by them as a great adventure.
Scientific kite-flying was one of the keenest pleasures of these three particular
Hilldwellers, and six or eight kites strung out on a mile of twine and soaring into the clouds was
an ordinary achievement for them. They were compelled to replenish their kite-supply often;
for whenever an accident occurred, and the string broke, or a ducking kite dragged down the
rest, or the wind suddenly died out, their kites fell into the Pit, from which place they were
unrecoverable. The reason for this was the young people of the Pit were a piratical and robber
race with peculiar ideas of ownership and property rights.
On a day following an accident to a kite of one of the Hill-dwellers, the self-same kite
could be seen riding the air attached to a string which led down into the Pit to the lairs of the
Pit People. So it came about that the Pit People, who were a poor folk and unable to afford
scientific kite-flying, developed great proficiency in the art when their neighbors the
Hilldwellers took it up.
There was also an old sailorman who profited by this recreation of the Hill-dwellers; for
he was learned in sails and air-currents, and being deft of hand and cunning, he fashioned the
best-flying kites that could be obtained. He lived in a rattletrap shanty close to the water,
where he could still watch with dim eyes the ebb and flow of the tide, and the ships pass out
and in, and where he could revive old memories of the days when he, too, went down to the
sea in ships.
To reach his shanty from the Hill one had to pass through the Pit, and thither the three
boys were bound. They had often gone for kites in the daytime, but this was their first trip
after dark, and they felt it to be, as it indeed was, a hazardous adventure.
In simple words, the Pit was merely the cramped and narrow quarters of the poor, where
many nationalities crowded together in cosmopolitan confusion, and lived as best they could,
amid much dirt and squalor. It was still early evening when the boys passed through on their
way to the sailorman’s shanty, and no mishap befell them, though some of the Pit boys stared
at them savagely and hurled a taunting remark after them, now and then.
The sailorman made kites which were not only splendid fliers but which folded up and
were very convenient to carry. Each of the boys bought a few, and, with them wrapped in
compact bundles and under their arms, started back on the return journey.
“Keep a sharp lookout for the b’ys,” the kite-maker cautioned them. “They ‘re like to be
cruisin’ round after dark.”
“We ‘re not afraid,” Charley assured him; “and we know how to take care of ourselves.”
Used to the broad and quiet streets of the Hill, the boys were shocked and stunned by
the life that teemed in the close-packed quarter. It seemed some thick and monstrous growth
of vegetation, and that they were wading through it. They shrank closely together in the tangle
of narrow streets as though for protection, conscious of the strangeness of it all, and how
unrelated they were to it.
Children and babies sprawled on the sidewalk and under their feet. Bareheaded and
unkempt women gossiped in the doorways or passed back and forth with scant marketings in
their arms. There was a general odor of decaying fruit and fish, a smell of staleness and
putridity. Big hulking men slouched by, and ragged little girls walked gingerly through theconfusion with foaming buckets of beer in their hands. There was a clatter and garble of
foreign tongues and brogues, shrill cries, quarrels and wrangles, and the Pit pulsed with a
great and steady murmur, like the hum of the human hive that it was.
“Phew! I ‘ll be glad when we ‘re out of it,” Fred said.
He spoke in a whisper, and Joe and Charley nodded grimly that they agreed with him.
They were not inclined to speech, and they walked as rapidly as the crowd permitted, with
much the same feelings as those of travelers in a dangerous and hostile jungle.
And danger and hostility stalked in the Pit. The inhabitants seemed to resent the
presence of these strangers from the Hill. Dirty little urchins abused them as they passed,
snarling with assumed bravery, and prepared to run away at the first sign of attack. And still
other little urchins formed a noisy parade at the heels of the boys, and grew bolder with
increasing numbers.
“Don’t mind them,” Joe cautioned. “Take no notice, but keep right on. We ‘ll soon be out
of it.”
“No; we ‘re in for it,” said Fred, in an undertone. “Look there!”
On the corner they were approaching, four or five boys of about their own age were
standing. The light from a street-lamp fell upon them and disclosed one with vivid red hair. It
could be no other than “Brick” Simpson, the redoubtable leader of a redoubtable gang. Twice
within their memory he had led his gang up the Hill and spread panic and terror among the
Hill-dwelling young folk, who fled wildly to their homes, while their fathers and mothers
hurriedly telephoned for the police.
At sight of the group on the corner, the rabble at the heels of the three boys melted away
on the instant with like manifestations of fear. This but increased the anxiety of the boys,
though they held boldly on their way.
The red-haired boy detached himself from the group, and stepped before them, blocking
their path. They essayed to go around him, but he stretched out his arm.
“Wot yer doin’ here?” he snarled. “Why don’t yer stay where yer b’long?”
“We ‘re just going home,” Fred said mildly.
Brick looked at Joe. “Wot yer got under yer arm?” he demanded.
Joe contained himself and took no heed of him. “Come on,” he said to Fred and Charley,
at the same time starting to brush past the gang-leader.
But with a quick blow Brick Simpson struck him in the face, and with equal quickness
snatched the bundle of kites from under his arm.
Joe uttered an inarticulate cry of rage, and, all caution flung to the winds, sprang at his
This was evidently a surprise to the gang-leader, who expected least of all to be attacked
in his own territory. He retreated backward, still clutching the kites, and divided between desire
to fight and desire to retain his capture.
The latter desire dominated him, and he turned and fled swiftly down the narrow
sidestreet into a labyrinth of streets and alleys. Joe knew that he was plunging into the wilderness
of the enemy’s country, but his sense of both property and pride had been offended, and he
took up the pursuit hot-footed.
Fred and Charley followed after, though he outdistanced them, and behind came the
three other members of the gang, emitting a whistling call while they ran which was evidently
intended for the assembling of the rest of the band. As the chase proceeded, these whistles
were answered from many different directions, and soon a score of dark figures were tagging
at the heels of Fred and Charley, who, in turn, were straining every muscle to keep the
swifter-footed Joe in sight.
Brick Simpson darted into a vacant lot, aiming for a “slip,” as such things are called which
are prearranged passages through fences and over sheds and houses and around dark holes
and corners, where the unfamiliar pursuer must go more carefully and where the chances aremany that he will soon lose the track.
But Joe caught Brick before he could attain his end, and together they rolled over and
over in the dirt, locked in each other’s arms. By the time Fred and Charley and the gang had
come up, they were on their feet, facing each other.
“Wot d’ ye want, eh?” the red-headed gang-leader was saying in a bullying tone. “Wot d’
ye want? That ‘s wot I wanter know.”
“I want my kites,” Joe answered.
Brick Simpson’s eyes sparkled at the intelligence. Kites were something he stood in need
of himself.
“Then you ‘ve got to fight fer ‘em,” he announced.
“Why should I fight for them?” Joe demanded indignantly. “They ‘re mine.” Which went to
show how ignorant he was of the ideas of ownership and property rights which obtained
among the People of the Pit.
A chorus of jeers and catcalls went up from the gang, which clustered behind its leader
like a pack of wolves.
“Why should I fight for them?” Joe reiterated.
“‘Cos I say so,” Simpson replied. “An’ wot I say goes. Understand?”
But Joe did not understand. He refused to understand that Brick Simpson’s word was law
in San Francisco, or any part of San Francisco. His love of honesty and right dealing was
offended, and all his fighting blood was up.
“You give those kites to me, right here and now,” he threatened, reaching out his hand
for them.
But Simpson jerked them away. “D’ ye know who I am?” he demanded. “I ‘m Brick
Simpson, an’ I don’t ‘low no one to talk to me in that tone of voice.”
“Better leave him alone,” Charley whispered in Joe’s ear. “What are a few kites? Leave
him alone and let ‘s get out of this.”
“They ‘re my kites,” Joe said slowly in a dogged manner. “They ‘re my kites, and I ‘m
going to have them.”
“You can’t fight the crowd,” Fred interfered; “and if you do get the best of him they ‘ll all
pile on you.”
The gang, observing this whispered colloquy, and mistaking it for hesitancy on the part of
Joe, set up its wolf-like howling again.
“Afraid! afraid!” the young roughs jeered and taunted. “He ‘s too high-toned, he is!
Mebbe he ‘ll spoil his nice clean shirt, and then what ‘ll mama say?”
“Shut up!” their leader snapped authoritatively, and the noise obediently died away.
“Will you give me those kites?” Joe demanded, advancing determinedly.
“Will you fight for ‘em?” was Simpson’s counter-demand.
“Yes,” Joe answered.
“Fight! fight!” the gang began to howl again.
“And it ‘s me that ‘ll see fair play,” said a man’s heavy voice.
All eyes were instantly turned upon the man who had approached unseen and made this
announcement. By the electric light, shining brightly on them from the corner, they made him
out to be a big, muscular fellow, clad in a working-man’s garments. His feet were incased in
heavy brogans, a narrow strap of black leather held his overalls about his waist, and a black
and greasy cap was on his head. His face was grimed with coal-dust, and a coarse blue shirt,
open at the neck, revealed a wide throat and massive chest.
“An’ who ‘re you?” Simpson snarled, angry at the interruption.
“None of yer business,” the newcomer retorted tartly. “But, if it ‘ll do you any good, I ‘m a
fireman on the China steamers, and, as I said, I ‘m goin’ to see fair play. That ‘s my business.
Your business is to give fair play. So pitch in, and don’t be all night about it.”
The three boys were as pleased by the appearance of the fireman as Simpson and hisfollowers were displeased. They conferred together for several minutes, when Simpson
deposited the bundle of kites in the arms of one of his gang and stepped forward.
“Come on, then,” he said, at the same time pulling off his coat.
Joe handed his to Fred, and sprang toward Brick. They put up their fists and faced each
other. Almost instantly Simpson drove in a fierce blow and ducked cleverly away and out of
reach of the blow which Joe returned. Joe felt a sudden respect for the abilities of his
antagonist, but the only effect upon him was to arouse all the doggedness of his nature and
make him utterly determined to win.
Awed by the presence of the fireman, Simpson’s followers confined themselves to
cheering Brick and jeering Joe. The two boys circled round and round, attacking, feinting, and
guarding, and now one and then the other getting in a telling blow. Their positions were in
marked contrast. Joe stood erect, planted solidly on his feet, with legs wide apart and head
up. On the other hand, Simpson crouched till his head was nearly lost between his shoulders,
and all the while he was in constant motion, leaping and springing and manoeuvering in the
execution of a score or more of tricks quite new and strange to Joe.
At the end of a quarter of an hour, both were very tired, though Joe was much fresher.
Tobacco, ill food, and unhealthy living were telling on the gang-leader, who was panting and
sobbing for breath. Though at first (and because of superior skill) he had severely punished
Joe, he was now weak and his blows were without force. Growing desperate, he adopted what
might be called not an unfair but a mean method of attack: he would manoeuver, leap in and
strike swiftly, and then, ducking forward, fall to the ground at Joe’s feet. Joe could not strike
him while he was down, and so would step back until he could get on his feet again, when the
thing would be repeated.
But Joe grew tired of this, and prepared for him. Timing his blow with Simpson’s attack,
he delivered it just as Simpson was ducking forward to fall. Simpson fell, but he fell over on
one side, whither he had been driven by the impact of Joe’s fist upon his head. He rolled over
and got half-way to his feet, where he remained, crying and gasping. His followers called upon
him to get up, and he tried once or twice, but was too exhausted and stunned.
“I give in,” he said. “I ‘m licked.”
The gang had become silent and depressed at its leader’s defeat.
Joe stepped forward.
“I ‘ll trouble you for those kites,” he said to the boy who was holding them.
“Oh, I dunno,” said another member of the gang, shoving in between Joe and his
property. His hair was also a vivid red. “You ‘ve got to lick me before you kin have ‘em.”
“I don’t see that,” Joe said bluntly. “I ‘ve fought and I ‘ve won, and there ‘s nothing more
to it.”
“Oh, yes, there is,” said the other. “I ‘m ‘Sorrel-top’ Simpson. Brick ‘s my brother. See?”
And so, in this fashion, Joe learned another custom of the Pit People of which he had
been ignorant.
“All right,” he said, his fighting blood more fully aroused than ever by the unjustness of
the proceeding. “Come on.”
Sorrel-top Simpson, a year younger than his brother, proved to be a most unfair fighter,
and the good-natured fireman was compelled to interfere several times before the second of
the Simpson clan lay on the ground and acknowledged defeat.
This time Joe reached for his kites without the slightest doubt that he was to get them.
But still another lad stepped in between him and his property. The telltale hair, vividly red,
sprouted likewise on this lad’s head, and Joe knew him at once for what he was, another
member of the Simpson clan. He was a younger edition of his brothers, somewhat less
heavily built, with a face covered with a vast quantity of freckles, which showed plainly under
the electric light.
“You don’t git them there kites till you git me,” he challenged in a piping little voice. “I ‘m‘Reddy’ Simpson, an’ you ain’t licked the fambly till you ‘ve licked me.”
The gang cheered admiringly, and Reddy stripped a tattered jacket preparatory for the
“Git ready,” he said to Joe.
Joe’s knuckles were torn, his nose was bleeding, his lip was cut and swollen, while his
shirt had been ripped down from throat to waist. Further, he was tired, and breathing hard.
“How many more are there of you Simpsons?” he asked. “I ‘ve got to get home, and if
your family ‘s much larger this thing is liable to keep on all night.”
“I ‘m the last an’ the best,” Reddy replied. “You gits me an’ you gits the kites. Sure.”
“All right,” Joe sighed. “Come on.”
While the youngest of the clan lacked the strength and skill of his elders, he made up for
it by a wildcat manner of fighting that taxed Joe severely. Time and again it seemed to him
that he must give in to the little whirlwind; but each time he pulled himself together and went
doggedly on. For he felt that he was fighting for principle, as his forefathers had fought for
principle; also, it seemed to him that the honor of the Hill was at stake, and that he, as its
representative, could do nothing less than his very best.
So he held on and managed to endure his opponent’s swift and continuous rushes till
that young and less experienced person at last wore himself out with his own exertions, and
from the ground confessed that, for the first time in its history, the “Simpson fambly was
Chapter 4 — The Biter Bitten

But life in the Pit at best was a precarious affair, as the three Hill-dwellers were quickly to
learn. Before Joe could even possess himself of his kites, his astonished eyes were greeted
with the spectacle of all his enemies, the fireman included, taking to their heels in wild flight.
As the little girls and urchins had melted away before the Simpson gang, so was melting away
the Simpson gang before some new and correspondingly awe-inspiring group of predatory
Joe heard terrified cries of “Fish gang!” “Fish gang!” from those who fled, and he would
have fled himself from this new danger, only he was breathless from his last encounter, and
knew the impossibility of escaping whatever threatened. Fred and Charley felt mighty longings
to run away from a danger great enough to frighten the redoubtable Simpson gang and the
valorous fireman, but they could not desert their comrade.
Dark forms broke into the vacant lot, some surrounding the boys and others dashing
after the fugitives. That the laggards were overtaken was evidenced by the cries of distress
that went up, and when later the pursuers returned, they brought with them the luckless and
snarling Brick, still clinging fast to the bundle of kites.
Joe looked curiously at this latest band of marauders. They were young men of from
seventeen and eighteen to twenty-three and -four years of age, and bore the unmistakable
stamp of the hoodlum class. There were vicious faces among them—faces so vicious as to
make Joe’s flesh creep as he looked at them. A couple grasped him tightly by the arms, and
Fred and Charley were similarly held captive.
“Look here, you,” said one who spoke with the authority of leader, “we ‘ve got to inquire
into this. Wot ‘s be’n goin’ on here? Wot ‘re you up to, Red-head? Wot you be’n doin’?”
“Ain’t be’n doin’ nothin’,” Simpson whined.
“Looks like it.” The leader turned up Brick’s face to the electric light. “Who ‘s been paintin’
you up like that?” he demanded.
Brick pointed at Joe, who was forthwith dragged to the front.
“Wot was you scrappin’ about?”
“Kites—my kites,” Joe spoke up boldly. “That fellow tried to take them away from me. He
‘s got them under his arm now.”
“Oh, he has, has he? Look here, you Brick, we don’t put up with stealin’ in this territory.
See? You never rightly owned nothin’. Come, fork over the kites. Last call.”
The leader tightened his grasp threateningly, and Simpson, weeping tears of rage,
surrendered the plunder.
“Wot yer got under yer arm?” the leader demanded abruptly of Fred, at the same time
jerking out the bundle. “More kites, eh? Reg’lar kite-factory gone and got itself lost,” he
remarked finally, when he had appropriated Charley’s bundle. “Now, wot I wants to know is
wot we ‘re goin’ to do to you t’ree chaps?” he continued in a judicial tone.
“What for?” Joe demanded hotly. “For being robbed of our kites?”
“Not at all, not at all,” the leader responded politely; “but for luggin’ kites round these
quarters an’ causin’ all this unseemly disturbance. It ‘s disgraceful; that ‘s wot it is—
At this juncture, when the Hill-dwellers were the center of attraction, Brick suddenly
wormed out of his jacket, squirmed away from his captors, and dashed across the lot to the
slip for which he had been originally headed when overtaken by Joe. Two or three of the gang
shot over the fence after him in noisy pursuit. There was much barking and howling of
backyard dogs and clattering of shoes over sheds and boxes. Then there came a splashing of
water, as though a barrel of it had been precipitated to the ground. Several minutes later thepursuers returned, very sheepish and very wet from the deluge presented them by the wily
Brick, whose voice, high up in the air from some friendly housetop, could be heard defiantly
jeering them.
This event apparently disconcerted the leader of the gang, and just as he turned to Joe
and Fred and Charley, a long and peculiar whistle came to their ears from the street—the
warning signal, evidently, of a scout posted to keep a lookout. The next moment the scout
himself came flying back to the main body, which was already beginning to retreat.
“Cops!” he panted.
Joe looked, and he saw two helmeted policemen approaching, with bright stars shining
on their breasts.
“Let ‘s get out of this,” he whispered to Fred and Charley.
The gang had already taken to flight, and they blocked the boys’ retreat in one quarter,
and in another they saw the policemen advancing. So they took to their heels in the direction
of Brick Simpson’s slip, the policemen hot after them and yelling bravely for them to halt.
But young feet are nimble, and young feet when frightened become something more
than nimble, and the boys were first over the fence and plunging wildly through a maze of
back yards. They soon found that the policemen were discreet. Evidently they had had
experiences in slips, and they were satisfied to give over the chase at the first fence.
No street-lamps shed their light here, and the boys blundered along through the
blackness with their hearts in their mouths. In one yard, filled with mountains of crates and
fruit-boxes, they were lost for a quarter of an hour. Feel and quest about as they would, they
encountered nothing but endless heaps of boxes. From this wilderness they finally emerged
by way of a shed roof, only to fall into another yard, cumbered with countless empty
Farther on they came upon the contrivance which had soaked Brick Simpson’s pursuers
with water. It was a cunning arrangement. Where the slip led through a fence with a board
missing, a long slat was so arranged that the ignorant wayfarer could not fail to strike against
it. This slat was the spring of the trap. A light touch upon it was sufficient to disconnect a
heavy stone from a barrel perched overhead and nicely balanced. The disconnecting of the
stone permitted the barrel to turn over and spill its contents on the one beneath who touched
the slat.
The boys examined the arrangement with keen appreciation. Luckily for them, the barrel
was overturned, or they too would have received a ducking, for Joe, who was in advance, had
blundered against the slat.
“I wonder if this is Simpson’s back yard?” he queried softly.
“It must be,” Fred concluded, “or else the back yard of some member of his gang.”
Charley put his hands warningly on both their arms.
“Hist! What ‘s that?” he whispered.
They crouched down on the ground. Not far away was the sound of some one moving
about. Then they heard a noise of falling water, as from a faucet into a bucket. This was
followed by steps boldly approaching. They crouched lower, breathless with apprehension.
A dark form passed by within arm’s reach and mounted on a box to the fence. It was
Brick himself, resetting the trap. They heard him arrange the slat and stone, then right the
barrel and empty into it a couple of buckets of water. As he came down from the box to go
after more water, Joe sprang upon him, tripped him up, and held him to the ground.
“Don’t make any noise,” he said. “I want you to listen to me.”
“Oh, it ‘s you, is it?” Simpson replied, with such obvious relief in his voice as to make
them feel relieved also. “Wot d’ ye want here?”
“We want to get out of here,” Joe said, “and the shortest way ‘s the best. There ‘s three
of us, and you ‘re only one—”
“That ‘s all right, that ‘s all right,” the gang-leader interrupted. “I ‘d just as soon show youthe way out as not. I ain’t got nothin’ ‘gainst you. Come on an’ follow me, an’ don’t step to the
side, an’ I ‘ll have you out in no time.”
Several minutes later they dropped from the top of a high fence into a dark alley.
“Follow this to the street,” Simpson directed; “turn to the right two blocks, turn to the right
again for three, an’ yer on Union. Tra-la-loo.”
They said good-by, and as they started down the alley received the following advice:
“Nex’ time you bring kites along, you ‘d best leave ‘em to home.”
Chapter 5 — Home Again

Following Brick Simpson’s directions, they came into Union Street, and without further
mishap gained the Hill. From the brow they looked down into the Pit, whence arose that
steady, indefinable hum which comes from crowded human places.
“I ‘ll never go down there again, not as long as I live,” Fred said with a great deal of
savagery in his voice. “I wonder what became of the fireman.”
“We ‘re lucky to get back with whole skins,” Joe cheered them philosophically.
“I guess we left our share, and you more than yours,” laughed Charley.
“Yes,” Joe answered. “And I ‘ve got more trouble to face when I get home. Good night,
As he expected, the door on the side porch was locked, and he went around to the
dining-room and entered like a burglar through a window. As he crossed the wide hall, walking
softly toward the stairs, his father came out of the library. The surprise was mutual, and each
halted aghast.
Joe felt a hysterical desire to laugh, for he thought that he knew precisely how he looked.
In reality he looked far worse than he imagined. What Mr. Bronson saw was a boy with hat
and coat covered with dirt, his whole face smeared with the stains of conflict, and, in
particular, a badly swollen nose, a bruised eyebrow, a cut and swollen lip, a scratched cheek,
knuckles still bleeding, and a shirt torn open from throat to waist.
“What does this mean, sir?” Mr. Bronson finally managed to articulate.
Joe stood speechless. How could he tell, in one brief sentence, all the whole night’s
happenings?—for all that must be included in the explanation of what his luckless disarray
“Have you lost your tongue?” Mr. Bronson demanded with an appearance of impatience.
“I ‘ve—I ‘ve—”
“Yes, yes,” his father encouraged.
“I ‘ve—well, I ‘ve been down in the Pit,” Joe succeeded in blurting out.
“I must confess that you look like it—very much like it indeed.” Mr. Bronson spoke
severely, but if ever by great effort he conquered a smile, that was the time. “I presume,” he
went on, “that you do not refer to the abiding-place of sinners, but rather to some definite
locality in San Francisco. Am I right?”
Joe swept his arm in a descending gesture toward Union Street, and said: “Down there,
“And who gave it that name?”
“I did,” Joe answered, as though confessing to a specified crime.
“It ‘s most appropriate, I ‘m sure, and denotes imagination. It could n’t really be bettered.
You must do well at school, sir, with your English.”
This did not increase Joe’s happiness, for English was the only study of which he did not
have to feel ashamed.
And, while he stood thus a silent picture of misery and disgrace, Mr. Bronson looked
upon him through the eyes of his own boyhood with an understanding which Joe could not
have believed possible.
“However, what you need just now is not a discourse, but a bath and court-plaster and
witch-hazel and cold-water bandages,” Mr. Bronson said; “so to bed with you. You ‘ll need all
the sleep you can get, and you ‘ll feel stiff and sore to-morrow morning, I promise you.”
The clock struck one as Joe pulled the bedclothes around him; and the next he knew he
was being worried by a soft, insistent rapping, which seemed to continue through several
centuries, until at last, unable to endure it longer, he opened his eyes and sat up.The day was streaming in through the window—bright and sunshiny day. He stretched
his arms to yawn; but a shooting pain darted through all the muscles, and his arms came
down more rapidly than they had gone up. He looked at them with a bewildered stare, till
suddenly the events of the night rushed in upon him, and he groaned.
The rapping still persisted, and he cried: “Yes, I hear. What time is it?”
“Eight o’clock,” Bessie’s voice came to him through the door. “Eight o’clock, and you ‘ll
have to hurry if you don’t want to be late for school.”
“Goodness!” He sprang out of bed precipitately, groaned with the pain from all his stiff
muscles, and collapsed slowly and carefully on a chair. “Why did n’t you call me sooner?” he
“Father said to let you sleep.”
Joe groaned again, in another fashion Then his history-book caught his eye, and he
groaned yet again and in still another fashion.
“All right,” he called. “Go on. I ‘ll be down in a jiffy.”
He did come down in fairly brief order; but if Bessie had watched him descend the stairs
she would have been astounded at the remarkable caution he observed and at the twinges of
pain that every now and then contorted his face. As it was, when she came upon him in the
dining-room she uttered a frightened cry and ran over to him.
“What ‘s the matter, Joe?” she asked tremulously. “What has happened?”
“Nothing,” he grunted, putting sugar on his porridge.
“But surely—” she began.
“Please don’t bother me,” he interrupted. “I ‘m late, and I want to eat my breakfast.”
And just then Mrs. Bronson caught Bessie’s eye, and that young lady, still mystified,
made haste to withdraw herself.
Joe was thankful to his mother for that, and thankful that she refrained from remarking
upon his appearance. Father had told her; that was one thing sure. He could trust her not to
worry him; it was never her way.
And, meditating in this way, he hurried through with his solitary breakfast, vaguely
conscious in an uncomfortable way that his mother was fluttering anxiously about him. Tender
as she always was, he noticed that she kissed him with unusual tenderness as he started out
with his books swinging at the end of a strap; and he also noticed, as he turned the corner,
that she was still looking after him through the window.
But of more vital importance than that, to him, was his stiffness and soreness. As he
walked along, each step was an effort and a torment. Severely as the reflected sunlight from
the cement sidewalk hurt his bruised eye, and severely as his various wounds pained him, still
more severely did he suffer from his muscles and joints. He had never imagined such
stiffness. Each individual muscle in his whole body protested when called upon to move. His
fingers were badly swollen, and it was agony to clasp and unclasp them; while his arms were
sore from wrist to elbow. This, he said to himself, was caused by the many blows which he
had warded off from his face and body. He wondered if Brick Simpson was in similar plight,
and the thought of their mutual misery made him feel a certain kinship for that redoubtable
young ruffian.
When he entered the school-yard he quickly became aware that he was the center of
attraction for all eyes. The boys crowded around in an awe-stricken way, and even his
classmates and those with whom he was well acquainted looked at him with a certain respect
he had never seen before.
Chapter 6 — Examination Day

It was plain that Fred and Charley had spread the news of their descent into the Pit, and
of their battle with the Simpson clan and the Fishes. He heard the nine-o’clock bell with
feelings of relief, and passed into the school, a mark for admiring glances from all the boys.
The girls, too, looked at him in a timid and fearful way—as they might have looked at Daniel
when he came out of the lions’ den, Joe thought, or at David after his battle with Goliath. It
made him uncomfortable and painfully self-conscious, this hero-worshiping, and he wished
heartily that they would look in some other direction for a change.
Soon they did look in another direction. While big sheets of foolscap were being
distributed to every desk, Miss Wilson, the teacher (an austere-looking young woman who
went through the world as though it were a refrigerator, and who, even on the warmest days
in the classroom, was to be found with a shawl or cape about her shoulders), arose, and on
the blackboard where all could see wrote the Roman numeral “I.” Every eye, and there were
fifty pairs of them, hung with expectancy upon her hand, and in the pause that followed the
room was quiet as the grave.
Underneath the Roman numeral “I” she wrote: “(a) What were the laws of Draco? (b)
Why did an Athenian orator say that they were written ‘not in ink, but in blood’?”
Forty-nine heads bent down and forty-nine pens scratched lustily across as many sheets
of foolscap. Joe’s head alone remained up, and he regarded the blackboard with so blank a
stare that Miss Wilson, glancing over her shoulder after having written “II,” stopped to look at
him. Then she wrote:
“(a) How did the war between Athens and Megara, respecting the island of Salamis,
bring about the reforms of Solon? (b) In what way did they differ from the laws of Draco?”
She turned to look at Joe again. He was staring as blankly as ever.
“What is the matter, Joe?” she asked. “Have you no paper?”
“Yes, I have, thank you,” he answered, and began moodily to sharpen a lead-pencil.
He made a fine point to it. Then he made a very fine point. Then, and with infinite
patience, he proceeded to make it very much finer. Several of his classmates raised their
heads inquiringly at the noise. But he did not notice. He was too absorbed in his
pencilsharpening and in thinking thoughts far away from both pencil-sharpening and Greek history.
“Of course you all understand that the examination papers are to be written with ink.”
Miss Wilson addressed the class in general, but her eyes rested on Joe.
Just as it was about as fine as it could possibly be the point broke, and Joe began over
“I am afraid, Joe, that you annoy the class,” Miss Wilson said in final desperation.
He put the pencil down, closed the knife with a snap, and returned to his blank staring at
the blackboard. What did he know about Draco? or Solon? or the rest of the Greeks? It was a
flunk, and that was all there was to it. No need for him to look at the rest of the questions, and
even if he did know the answers to two or three, there was no use in writing them down. It
would not prevent the flunk. Besides, his arm hurt him too much to write. It hurt his eyes to
look at the blackboard, and his eyes hurt even when they were closed; and it seemed
positively to hurt him to think.
So the forty-nine pens scratched on in a race after Miss Wilson, who was covering the
blackboard with question after question; and he listened to the scratching, and watched the
questions growing under her chalk, and was very miserable indeed. His head seemed whirling
around. It ached inside and was sore outside, and he did not seem to have any control of it at
He was beset with memories of the Pit, like scenes from some monstrous nightmare,and, try as he would, he could not dispel them. He would fix his mind and eyes on Miss
Wilson’s face, who was now sitting at her desk, and even as he looked at her the face of Brick
Simpson, impudent and pugnacious, would arise before him. It was of no use. He felt sick and
sore and tired and worthless. There was nothing to be done but flunk. And when, after an age
of waiting, the papers were collected, his went in a blank, save for his name, the name of the
examination, and the date, which were written across the top.
After a brief interval, more papers were given out, and the examination in arithmetic
began. He did not trouble himself to look at the questions. Ordinarily he might have pulled
through such an examination, but in his present state of mind and body he knew it was
impossible. He contented himself with burying his face in his hands and hoping for the noon
hour. Once, lifting his eyes to the clock, he caught Bessie looking anxiously at him across the
room from the girls’ side. This but added to his discomfort. Why was she bothering him? No
need for her to trouble. She was bound to pass. Then why could n’t she leave him alone? So
he gave her a particularly glowering look and buried his face in his hands again. Nor did he lift
it till the twelve-o’clock gong rang, when he handed in a second blank paper and passed out
with the boys.
Fred and Charley and he usually ate lunch in a corner of the yard which they had
arrogated to themselves; but this day, by some remarkable coincidence, a score of other boys
had elected to eat their lunches on the same spot. Joe surveyed them with disgust. In his
present condition he did not feel inclined to receive hero-worship. His head ached too much,
and he was troubled over his failure in the examinations; and there were more to come in the
He was angry with Fred and Charley. They were chattering like magpies over the
adventures of the night (in which, however, they did not fail to give him chief credit), and they
conducted themselves in quite a patronizing fashion toward their awed and admiring
schoolmates. But every attempt to make Joe talk was a failure. He grunted and gave short
answers, and said “yes” and “no” to questions asked with the intention of drawing him out.
He was longing to get away somewhere by himself, to throw himself down some place on
the green grass and forget his aches and pains and troubles. He got up to go and find such a
place, and found half a dozen of his following tagging after him. He wanted to turn around and
scream at them to leave him alone, but his pride restrained him. A great wave of disgust and
despair swept over him, and then an idea flashed through his mind. Since he was sure to flunk
in his examinations, why endure the afternoon’s torture, which could not but be worse than the
morning’s? And on the impulse of the moment he made up his mind.
He walked straight on to the schoolyard gate and passed out. Here his worshipers halted
in wonderment, but he kept on to the corner and out of sight. For some time he wandered
along aimlessly, till he came to the tracks of a cable road. A down-town car happening to stop
to let off passengers, he stepped aboard and ensconced himself in an outside corner seat.
The next thing he was aware of, the car was swinging around on its turn-table and he was
hastily scrambling off. The big ferry building stood before him. Seeing and hearing nothing, he
had been carried through the heart of the business section of San Francisco.
He glanced up at the tower clock on top of the ferry building. It was ten minutes after one
—time enough to catch the quarter-past-one boat. That decided him, and without the least
idea in the world as to where he was going, he paid ten cents for a ticket, passed through the
gate, and was soon speeding across the bay to the pretty city of Oakland.
In the same aimless and unwitting fashion, he found himself, an hour later, sitting on the
string-piece of the Oakland city wharf and leaning his aching head against a friendly timber.
From where he sat he could look down upon the decks of a number of small sailing-craft.
Quite a crowd of curious idlers had collected to look at them, and Joe found himself growing
There were four boats, and from where he sat he could make out their names. The onedirectly beneath him had the name Ghost painted in large green letters on its stern. The other
three, which lay beyond, were called respectively La Caprice, the Oyster Queen, and the
Flying Dutchman.
Each of these boats had cabins built amidships, with short stovepipes projecting through
the roofs, and from the pipe of the Ghost smoke was ascending. The cabin doors were open
and the roof-slide pulled back, so that Joe could look inside and observe the inmate, a young
fellow of nineteen or twenty who was engaged just then in cooking. He was clad in long
seaboots which reached the hips, blue overalls, and dark woolen shirt. The sleeves, rolled back to
the elbows, disclosed sturdy, sun-bronzed arms, and when the young fellow looked up his
face proved to be equally bronzed and tanned.
The aroma of coffee arose to Joe’s nose, and from a light iron pot came the
unmistakable smell of beans nearly done. The cook placed a frying-pan on the stove, wiped it
around with a piece of suet when it had heated, and tossed in a thick chunk of beefsteak.
While he worked he talked with a companion on deck, who was busily engaged in filling a
bucket overside and flinging the salt water over heaps of oysters that lay on the deck. This
completed, he covered the oysters with wet sacks, and went into the cabin, where a place
was set for him on a tiny table, and where the cook served the dinner and joined him in eating
All the romance of Joe’s nature stirred at the sight. That was life. They were living, and
gaining their living, out in the free open, under the sun and sky, with the sea rocking beneath
them, and the wind blowing on them, or the rain falling on them, as the chance might be. Each
day and every day he sat in a room, pent up with fifty more of his kind, racking his brains and
cramming dry husks of knowledge, while they were doing all this, living glad and careless and
happy, rowing boats and sailing, and cooking their own food, and certainly meeting with
adventures such as one only dreams of in the crowded school-room.
Joe sighed. He felt that he was made for this sort of life and not for the life of a scholar.
As a scholar he was undeniably a failure. He had flunked in his examinations, while at that
very moment, he knew, Bessie was going triumphantly home, her last examination over and
done, and with credit. Oh, it was not to be borne! His father was wrong in sending him to
school. That might be well enough for boys who were inclined to study, but it was manifest
that he was not so inclined. There were more careers in life than that of the schools. Men had
gone down to the sea in the lowest capacity, and risen in greatness, and owned great fleets,
and done great deeds, and left their names on the pages of time. And why not he, Joe
He closed his eyes and felt immensely sorry for himself; and when he opened his eyes
again he found that he had been asleep, and that the sun was sinking fast.
It was after dark when he arrived home, and he went straight to his room and to bed
without meeting any one. He sank down between the cool sheets with a sigh of satisfaction at
the thought that, come what would, he need no longer worry about his history. Then another
and unwelcome thought obtruded itself, and he knew that the next school term would come,
and that six months thereafter, another examination in the same history awaited him.
Chapter 7 — Father and Son

On the following morning, after breakfast, Joe was summoned to the library by his father,
and he went in almost with a feeling of gladness that the suspense of waiting was over. Mr.
Bronson was standing by the window. A great chattering of sparrows outside seemed to have
attracted his attention. Joe joined him in looking out, and saw a fledgeling sparrow on the
grass, tumbling ridiculously about in its efforts to stand on its feeble baby legs. It had fallen
from the nest in the rose-bush that climbed over the window, and the two parent sparrows
were wild with anxiety over its plight.
“It ‘s a way young birds have,” Mr. Bronson remarked, turning to Joe with a serious
smile; “and I dare say you are on the verge of a somewhat similar predicament, my boy,” he
went on. “I am afraid things have reached a crisis, Joe. I have watched it coming on for a year
now—your poor scholarship, your carelessness and inattention, your constant desire to be out
of the house and away in search of adventures of one sort or another.”
He paused, as though expecting a reply; but Joe remained silent.
“I have given you plenty of liberty. I believe in liberty. The finest souls grow in such soil.
So I have not hedged you in with endless rules and irksome restrictions. I have asked little of
you, and you have come and gone pretty much as you pleased. In a way, I have put you on
your honor, made you largely your own master, trusting to your sense of right to restrain you
from going wrong and at least to keep you up in your studies. And you have failed me. What
do you want me to do? Set you certain bounds and time-limits? Keep a watch over you?
Compel you by main strength to go through your books?
“I have here a note,” Mr. Bronson said after another pause, in which he picked up an
envelop from the table and drew forth a written sheet.
Joe recognized the stiff and uncompromising scrawl of Miss Wilson, and his heart sank.
His father began to read:

“Listlessness and carelessness have characterized his term’s work, so that when the
examinations came he was wholly unprepared. In neither history nor arithmetic did he attempt
to answer a question, passing in his papers perfectly blank. These examinations took place in
the morning. In the afternoon he did not take the trouble even to appear for the remainder.”

Mr. Bronson ceased reading and looked up.
“Where were you in the afternoon?” he asked.
“I went across on the ferry to Oakland,” Joe answered, not caring to offer his aching
head and body in extenuation.
“That is what is called ‘playing hooky,’ is it not?”
“Yes, sir,” Joe answered.
“The night before the examinations, instead of studying, you saw fit to wander away and
involve yourself in a disgraceful fight with hoodlums. I did not say anything at the time. In my
heart I think I might almost have forgiven you that, if you had done well in your school-work.”
Joe had nothing to say. He knew that there was his side to the story, but he felt that his
father did not understand, and that there was little use of telling him.
“The trouble with you, Joe, is carelessness and lack of concentration. What you need is
what I have not given you, and that is rigid discipline. I have been debating for some time
upon the advisability of sending you to some military school, where your tasks will be set for
you, and what you do every moment in the twenty-four hours will be determined for you—”
“Oh, father, you don’t understand, you can’t understand!” Joe broke forth at last. “I try to
study—I honestly try to study; but somehow—I don’t know how—I can’t study. Perhaps I am afailure. Perhaps I am not made for study. I want to go out into the world. I want to see life—to
live. I don’t want any military academy; I ‘d sooner go to sea—anywhere where I can do
something and be something.”
Mr. Bronson looked at him kindly. “It is only through study that you can hope to do
something and be something in the world,” he said.
Joe threw up his hand with a gesture of despair.
“I know how you feel about it,” Mr. Bronson went on; “but you are only a boy, very much
like that young sparrow we were watching. If at home you have not sufficient control over
yourself to study, then away from home, out in the world which you think is calling to you, you
will likewise not have sufficient control over yourself to do the work of that world.
“But I am willing, Joe, I am willing, after you have finished high school and before you go
into the university, to let you out into the world for a time.”
“Let me go now?” Joe asked impulsively.
“No; it is too early. You have n’t your wings yet. You are too unformed, and your ideals
and standards are not yet thoroughly fixed.”
“But I shall not be able to study,” Joe threatened. “I know I shall not be able to study.”
Mr. Bronson consulted his watch and arose to go. “I have not made up my mind yet,” he
said. “I do not know what I shall do—whether I shall give you another trial at the public school
or send you to a military academy.”
He stopped a moment at the door and looked back. “But remember this, Joe,” he said. “I
am not angry with you; I am more grieved and hurt. Think it over, and tell me this evening
what you intend to do.”
His father passed out, and Joe heard the front door close after him. He leaned back in
the big easy-chair and closed his eyes. A military school! He feared such an institution as the
animal fears a trap. No, he would certainly never go to such a place. And as for public school
—He sighed deeply at the thought of it. He was given till evening to make up his mind as to
what he intended to do. Well, he knew what he would do, and he did not have to wait till
evening to find it out.
He got up with a determined look on his face, put on his hat, and went out the front door.
He would show his father that he could do his share of the world’s work, he thought as he
walked along—he would show him.
By the time he reached the school he had his whole plan worked out definitely. Nothing
remained but to put it through. It was the noon hour, and he passed in to his room and
packed up his books unnoticed. Coming out through the yard, he encountered Fred and
“What ‘s up?” Charley asked.
“Nothing,” Joe grunted.
“What are you doing there?”
“Taking my books home, of course. What did you suppose I was doing?”
“Come, come,” Fred interposed. “Don’t be so mysterious. I don’t see why you can’t tell
us what has happened.”
“You ‘ll find out soon enough,” Joe said significantly—more significantly than he had
And, for fear that he might say more, he turned his back on his astonished chums and
hurried away. He went straight home and to his room, where he busied himself at once with
putting everything in order. His clothes he hung carefully away, changing the suit he had on
for an older one. From his bureau he selected a couple of changes of underclothing, a couple
of cotton shirts, and half a dozen pairs of socks. To these he added as many handkerchiefs, a
comb, and a tooth-brush.
When he had bound the bundle in stout wrapping-paper he contemplated it with
satisfaction. Then he went over to his desk and took from a small inner compartment hissavings for some months, which amounted to several dollars. This sum he had been keeping
for the Fourth of July, but he thrust it into his pocket with hardly a regret. Then he pulled a
writing-pad over to him, sat down and wrote:

Don’t look for me. I am a failure and I am going away to sea. Don’t worry about me. I am
all right and able to take care of myself. I shall come back some day, and then you will all be
proud of me. Good-by, papa, and mama, and Bessie.

This he left lying on his desk where it could easily be seen. He tucked the bundle under
his arm, and, with a last farewell look at the room, stole out.
Part 2
Chapter 8 — ‘Frisco Kid and the New Boy

‘Frisco Kid was discontented—discontented and disgusted. This would have seemed
impossible to the boys who fished from the dock above and envied him greatly. True, they
wore cleaner and better clothes, and were blessed with fathers and mothers; but his was the
free floating life of the bay, the domain of moving adventure, and the companionship of men—
theirs the rigid discipline and dreary sameness of home life. They did not dream that ‘Frisco
Kid ever looked up at them from the cockpit of the Dazzler and in turn envied them just those
things which sometimes were the most distasteful to them and from which they suffered to
repletion. Just as the romance of adventure sang its siren song in their ears and whispered
vague messages of strange lands and lusty deeds, so the delicious mysteries of home enticed
‘Frisco Kid’s roving fancies, and his brightest day-dreams were of the thing’s he knew not—
brothers, sisters, a father’s counsel, a mother’s kiss.
He frowned, got up from where he had been sunning himself on top of the Dazzler’s
cabin, and kicked off his heavy rubber boots. Then he stretched himself on the narrow
sidedeck and dangled his feet in the cool salt water.
“Now that ‘s freedom,” thought the boys who watched him. Besides, those long
seaboots, reaching to the hips and buckled to the leather strap about the waist, held a strange
and wonderful fascination for them. They did not know that ‘Frisco Kid did not possess such
things as shoes—that the boots were an old pair of Pete Le Maire’s and were three sizes too
large for him. Nor could they guess how uncomfortable they were to wear on a hot summer
The cause of ‘Frisco Kid’s discontent was those very boys who sat on the string-piece
and admired him; but his disgust was the result of quite another event. The Dazzler was short
one in its crew, and he had to do more work than was justly his share. He did not mind the
cooking, nor the washing down of the decks and the pumping; but when it came to the
paintscrubbing and dishwashing he rebelled. He felt that he had earned the right to be exempt from
such scullion work. That was all the green boys were fit for, while he could make or take in
sail, lift anchor, steer, and make landings.
“Stan’ from un’er!” Pete Le Maire or “French Pete,” captain of the Dazzler and lord and
master of ‘Frisco Kid, threw a bundle into the cockpit and came aboard by the starboard
“Come! Queeck!” he shouted to the boy who owned the bundle and who now hesitated
on the dock. It was a good fifteen feet to the deck of the sloop, and he could not reach the
steel stay by which he must descend.
“Now! One, two, three!” the Frenchman counted good-naturedly, after the manner of
captains when their crews are short-handed.
The boy swung his body into space and gripped the rigging. A moment later he struck
the deck, his hands tingling warmly from the friction.
“Kid, dis is ze new sailor. I make your acquaintance.” French Pete smirked and bowed,
and stood aside. “Mistaire Sho Bronson,” he added as an afterthought.
The two boys regarded each other silently for a moment. They were evidently about the
same age, though the stranger looked the heartier and stronger of the two. ‘Frisco Kid put out
his hand, and they shook.
“So you ‘re thinking of tackling the water, eh?” he said.
Joe Bronson nodded and glanced curiously about him before answering: “Yes; I think the
bay life will suit me for a while, and then, when I ‘ve got used to it, I ‘m going to sea in the
“In the what?”“In the forecastle—the place where the sailors live,” he explained, flushing and feeling
doubtful of his pronunciation.
“Oh, the fo’c’sle. Know anything about going to sea?”
“Yes—no; that is, except what I ‘ve read.”
‘Frisco Kid whistled, turned on his heel in a lordly manner, and went into the cabin.
“Going to sea,” he chuckled to himself as he built the fire and set about cooking supper;
“in the ‘forecastle,’ too; and thinks he ‘ll like it.”
In the meanwhile French Pete was showing the newcomer about the sloop as though he
were a guest. Such affability and charm did he display that ‘Frisco Kid, popping his head up
through the scuttle to call them to supper, nearly choked in his effort to suppress a grin.
Joe Bronson enjoyed that supper. The food was rough but good, and the smack of the
salt air and the sea-fittings around him gave zest to his appetite. The cabin was clean and
snug, and, though not large, the accommodations surprised him. Every bit of space was
utilized. The table swung to the centerboard-case on hinges, so that when not in use it
actually occupied no room at all. On either side and partly under the deck were two bunks.
The blankets were rolled back, and the boys sat on the well-scrubbed bunk boards while they
ate. A swinging sea-lamp of brightly polished brass gave them light, which in the daytime
could be obtained through the four deadeyes, or small round panes of heavy glass which were
fitted into the walls of the cabin. On one side of the door was the stove and wood-box, on the
other the cupboard. The front end of the cabin was ornamented with a couple of rifles and a
shot-gun, while exposed by the rolled-back blankets of French Pete’s bunk was a
cartridgelined belt carrying a brace of revolvers.
It all seemed like a dream to Joe. Countless times he had imagined scenes somewhat
similar to this; but here he was right in the midst of it, and already it seemed as though he had
known his two companions for years. French Pete was smiling genially at him across the
board. It really was a villainous countenance, but to Joe it seemed only weather-beaten.
‘Frisco Kid was describing to him, between mouthfuls, the last sou’easter the Dazzler had
weathered, and Joe experienced an increasing awe for this boy who had lived so long upon
the water and knew so much about it.
The captain, however, drank a glass of wine, and topped it off with a second and a third,
and then, a vicious flush lighting his swarthy face, stretched out on top of his blankets, where
he soon was snoring loudly.
“Better turn in and get a couple of hours’ sleep,” ‘Frisco Kid said kindly, pointing Joe’s
bunk out to him. “We ‘ll most likely be up the rest of the night.”
Joe obeyed, but he could not fall asleep so readily as the others. He lay with his eyes
wide open, watching the hands of the alarm-clock that hung in the cabin, and thinking how
quickly event had followed event in the last twelve hours. Only that very morning he had been
a school-boy, and now he was a sailor, shipped on the Dazzler and bound he knew not
whither. His fifteen years increased to twenty at the thought of it, and he felt every inch a man
—a sailorman at that. He wished Charley and Fred could see him now. Well, they would hear
of it soon enough. He could see them talking it over, and the other boys crowding around.
“Who?” “Oh, Joe Bronson; he ‘s gone to sea. Used to chum with us.”
Joe pictured the scene proudly. Then he softened at the thought of his mother worrying,
but hardened again at the recollection of his father. Not that his father was not good and kind;
but he did not understand boys, Joe thought. That was where the trouble lay. Only that
morning he had said that the world was n’t a play-ground, and that the boys who thought it
was were liable to make sore mistakes and be glad to get home again. Well, he knew that
there was plenty of hard work and rough experience in the world; but he also thought boys
had some rights. He ‘d show him he could take care of himself; and, anyway, he could write
home after he got settled down to his new life.
Chapter 9 — Aboard the Dazzler

A skiff grazed the side of the Dazzler softly and interrupted Joe’s reveries. He wondered
why he had not heard the sound of the oars in the rowlocks. Then two men jumped over the
cockpit-rail and came into the cabin.
“Bli’ me, if ‘ere they ain’t snoozin’,” said the first of the newcomers, deftly rolling ‘Frisco
Kid out of his blankets with one hand and reaching for the wine-bottle with the other.
French Pete put his head up on the other side of the centerboard, his eyes heavy with
sleep, and made them welcome.
“‘Oo ‘s this?” asked the Cockney, as he was called, smacking his lips over the wine and
rolling Joe out upon the floor. “Passenger?”
“No, no,” French Pete made haste to answer. “Ze new sailorman. Vaire good boy.”
“Good boy or not, he ‘s got to keep his tongue atween his teeth,” growled the second
newcomer, who had not yet spoken, glaring fiercely at Joe.
“I say,” queried the other man, “‘ow does ‘e whack up on the loot? I ‘ope as me and Bill
‘ave a square deal.”
“Ze Dazzler she take one share—what you call—one third; den we split ze rest in five
shares. Five men, five shares. Vaire good.”
French Pete insisted in excited gibberish that the Dazzler had the right to have three men
in its crew, and appealed to ‘Frisco Kid to bear him out. But the latter left them to fight it over
by themselves, and proceeded to make hot coffee.
It was all Greek to Joe, except he knew that he was in some way the cause of the
quarrel. In the end French Pete had his way, and the newcomers gave in after much
grumbling. After they had drunk their coffee, all hands went on deck.
“Just stay in the cockpit and keep out of their way,” ‘Frisco Kid whispered to Joe. “I ‘ll
teach you about the ropes and everything when we ain’t in a hurry.”
Joe’s heart went out to him in sudden gratitude, for the strange feeling came to him that
of those on board, to ‘Frisco Kid, and to ‘Frisco Kid only, could he look for help in time of
need. Already a dislike for French Pete was growing up within him. Why, he could not say; he
just simply felt it.
A creaking of blocks for’ard, and the huge mainsail loomed above him in the night. Bill
cast off the bowline, the Cockney followed suit with the stern, ‘Frisco Kid gave her the jib as
French Pete jammed up the tiller, and the Dazzler caught the breeze, heeling over for
midchannel. Joe heard talk of not putting up the side-lights, and of keeping a sharp lookout,
though all he could comprehend was that some law of navigation was being violated.
The water-front lights of Oakland began to slip past. Soon the stretches of docks and the
shadowy ships began to be broken by dim sweeps of marshland, and Joe knew that they were
heading out for San Francisco Bay. The wind was blowing from the north in mild squalls, and
the Dazzler cut noiselessly through the landlocked water.
“Where are we going?” Joe asked the Cockney, in an endeavor to be friendly and at the
same time satisfy his curiosity.
“Oh, my pardner ‘ere, Bill, we ‘re goin’ to take a cargo from ‘is factory,” that worthy airily
Joe thought he was rather a funny-looking individual to own a factory; but, conscious that
even stranger things might be found in this new world he was entering, he said nothing. He
had already exposed himself to ‘Frisco Kid in the matter of his pronunciation of “fo’c’sle,” and
he had no desire further to advertise his ignorance.
A little after that he was sent in to blow out the cabin lamp. The Dazzler tacked about
and began to work in toward the north shore. Everybody kept silent, save for occasionalwhispered questions and answers which passed between Bill and the captain. Finally the sloop
was run into the wind, and the jib and mainsail lowered cautiously.
“Short hawse,” French Pete whispered to ‘Frisco Kid, who went for’ard and dropped the
anchor, paying out the slightest quantity of slack.
The Dazzler’s skiff was brought alongside, as was also the small boat in which the two
strangers had come aboard.
“See that that cub don’t make a fuss,” Bill commanded in an undertone, as he joined his
partner in his own boat.
“Can you row?” ‘Frisco Kid asked as they got into the other boat.
Joe nodded his head.
“Then take these oars, and don’t make a racket.”
‘Frisco Kid took the second pair, while French Pete steered. Joe noticed that the oars
were muffled with sennit, and that even the rowlock sockets were protected with leather. It
was impossible to make a noise except by a mis-stroke, and Joe had learned to row on Lake
Merrit well enough to avoid that. They followed in the wake of the first boat, and, glancing
aside, he saw they were running along the length of a pier which jutted out from the land. A
couple of ships, with riding-lanterns burning brightly, were moored to it, but they kept just
beyond the edge of the light. He stopped rowing at the whispered command of ‘Frisco Kid.
Then the boats grounded like ghosts on a tiny beach, and they clambered out.
Joe followed the men, who picked their way carefully up a twenty-foot bank. At the top he
found himself on a narrow railway track which ran between huge piles of rusty scrap-iron.
These piles, separated by tracks, extended in every direction he could not tell how far, though
in the distance he could see the vague outlines of some great factory-like building. The men
began to carry loads of the iron down to the beach, and French Pete, gripping him by the arm
and again warning him not to make any noise, told him to do likewise. At the beach they
turned their burdens over to ‘Frisco Kid, who loaded them, first in the one skiff and then in the
other. As the boats settled under the weight, he kept pushing them farther and farther out, in
order that they should keep clear of the bottom.
Joe worked away steadily, though he could not help marveling at the queerness of the
whole business. Why should there be such a mystery about it? and why such care taken to
maintain silence? He had just begun to ask himself these questions, and a horrible suspicion
was forming itself in his mind, when he heard the hoot of an owl from the direction of the
beach. Wondering at an owl being in so unlikely a place, he stooped to gather a fresh load of
iron. But suddenly a man sprang out of the gloom, flashing a dark lantern full upon him.
Blinded by the light, he staggered back. Then a revolver in the man’s hand went off like the
roar of a cannon. All Joe realized was that he was being shot at, while his legs manifested an
overwhelming desire to get away. Even if he had so wished, he could not very well have
stayed to explain to the excited man with the smoking revolver. So he took to his heels for the
beach, colliding with another man with a dark lantern who came running around the end of
one of the piles of iron. This second man quickly regained his feet, and peppered away at Joe
as he flew down the bank.
He dashed out into the water for the boat. French Pete at the bow-oars and ‘Frisco Kid at
the stroke had the skiff’s nose pointed seaward and were calmly awaiting his arrival. They had
their oars ready for the start, but they held them quietly at rest, for all that both men on the
bank had begun to fire at them. The other skiff lay closer inshore, partially aground. Bill was
trying to shove it off, and was calling on the Cockney to lend a hand; but that gentleman had
lost his head completely, and came floundering through the water hard after Joe. No sooner
had Joe climbed in over the stern than he followed him. This extra weight on the stern of the
heavily loaded craft nearly swamped them. As it was, a dangerous quantity of water was
shipped. In the meantime the men on the bank had reloaded their pistols and opened fire
again, this time with better aim. The alarm had spread. Voices and cries could be heard fromthe ships on the pier, along which men were running. In the distance a police whistle was
being frantically blown.
“Get out!” ‘Frisco Kid shouted. “You ain’t a-going to sink us if I know it. Go and help your
But the Cockney’s teeth were chattering with fright, and he was too unnerved to move or
“T’row ze crazy man out!” French Pete ordered from the bow. At this moment a bullet
shattered an oar in his hand, and he coolly proceeded to ship a spare one.
“Give us a hand, Joe,” ‘Frisco Kid commanded.
Joe understood, and together they seized the terror-stricken creature and flung him
overboard. Two or three bullets splashed about him as he came to the surface, just in time to
be picked up by Bill, who had at last succeeded in getting clear.
“Now!” French Pete called, and a few strokes into the darkness quickly took them out of
the zone of fire.
So much water had been shipped that the light skiff was in danger of sinking at any
moment. While the other two rowed, and by the Frenchman’s orders, Joe began to throw out
the iron. This saved them for the time being. But just as they swept alongside the Dazzler the
skiff lurched, shoved a side under, and turned turtle, sending the remainder of the iron to
bottom. Joe and ‘Frisco Kid came up side by side, and together they clambered aboard with
the skiff’s painter in tow. French Pete had already arrived, and now helped them out.
By the time they had canted the water out of the swamped boat, Bill and his partner
appeared on the scene. All hands worked rapidly, and, almost before Joe could realize, the
mainsail and jib had been hoisted, the anchor broken out, and the Dazzler was leaping down
the channel. Off a bleak piece of marshland Bill and the Cockney said good-by and cast loose
in their skiff. French Pete, in the cabin, bewailed their bad luck in various languages, and
sought consolation in the wine-bottle.
Chapter 10 — With the Bay Pirates

The wind freshened as they got clear of the land, and soon the Dazzler was heeling it
with her lee deck buried and the water churning by, half-way up the cockpit-rail. Side-lights
had been hung out. ‘Frisco Kid was steering, and by his side sat Joe, pondering over the
events of the night.
He could no longer blind himself to the facts. His mind was in a whirl of apprehension. If
he had done wrong, he reasoned, he had done it through ignorance; and he did not feel
shame for the past so much as he did fear for the future. His companions were thieves and
robbers—the bay pirates, of whose wild deeds he had heard vague tales. And here he was,
right in the midst of them, already possessing information which could send them to State’s
prison. This very fact, he knew, would force them to keep a sharp watch upon him and so
lessen his chances of escape. But escape he would, at the very first opportunity.
At this point his thoughts were interrupted by a sharp squall, which hurled the Dazzler
over till the sea rushed inboard. ‘Frisco Kid luffed quickly, at the same time slacking off the
main-sheet. Then, single-handed,—for French Pete remained below,—and with Joe looking
idly on, he proceeded to reef down.
The squall which had so nearly capsized the Dazzler was of short duration, but it marked
the rising of the wind, and soon puff after puff was shrieking down upon them out of the north.
The mainsail was spilling the wind, and slapping and thrashing about till it seemed it would tear
itself to pieces. The sloop was rolling wildly in the quick sea which had come up. Everything
was in confusion; but even Joe’s untrained eye showed him that it was an orderly confusion.
He could see that ‘Frisco Kid knew just what to do and just how to do it. As he watched him he
learned a lesson, the lack of which has made failures of the lives of many men—the value of
knowledge of one’s own capacities. ‘Frisco Kid knew what he was able to do, and because of
this he had confidence in himself. He was cool and self-possessed, working hurriedly but not
carelessly. There was no bungling. Every reef-point was drawn down to stay. Other accidents
might occur, but the next squall, or the next forty squalls, would not carry one of those
reefknots away.
He called Joe for’ard to help stretch the mainsail by means of swinging on the peak and
throat-halyards. To lay out on the long bowsprit and put a single reef in the jib was a slight
task compared with what had been already accomplished; so a few moments later they were
again in the cockpit. Under the other lad’s directions, Joe flattened down the jib-sheet, and,
going into the cabin, let down a foot or so of centerboard. The excitement of the struggle had
chased all unpleasant thoughts from his mind. Patterning after the other boy, he had retained
his coolness. He had executed his orders without fumbling, and at the same time without
undue slowness. Together they had exerted their puny strength in the face of violent nature,
and together they had outwitted her.
He came back to where his companion stood at the tiller steering, and he felt proud of
him and of himself; and when he read the unspoken praise in ‘Frisco Kid’s eyes he blushed
like a girl at her first compliment. But the next instant the thought flashed across him that this
boy was a thief, a common thief; and he instinctively recoiled. His whole life had been
sheltered from the harsher things of the world. His reading, which had been of the best, had
laid a premium upon honesty and uprightness, and he had learned to look with abhorrence
upon the criminal classes. So he drew a little away from ‘Frisco Kid and remained silent. But
‘Frisco Kid, devoting all his energies to the handling of the sloop, had no time in which to
remark this sudden change of feeling on the part of his companion.
But there was one thing Joe found in himself that surprised him. While the thought of
‘Frisco Kid being a thief was repulsive to him, ‘Frisco Kid himself was not. Instead of feeling anhonest desire to shun him, he felt drawn toward him. He could not help liking him, though he
knew not why. Had he been a little older he would have understood that it was the lad’s good
qualities which appealed to him—his coolness and self-reliance, his manliness and bravery,
and a certain kindliness and sympathy in his nature. As it was, he thought it his own natural
badness which prevented him from disliking ‘Frisco Kid; but, while he felt shame at his own
weakness, he could not smother the warm regard which he felt growing up for this particular
bay pirate.
“Take in two or three feet on the skiff’s painter,” commanded ‘Frisco Kid, who had an eye
for everything.
The skiff was towing with too long a painter, and was behaving very badly. Every once in
a while it would hold back till the tow-rope tautened, then come leaping ahead and sheering
and dropping slack till it threatened to shove its nose under the huge whitecaps which roared
so hungrily on every hand. Joe climbed over the cockpit-rail to the slippery after-deck, and
made his way to the bitt to which the skiff was fastened.
“Be careful,” ‘Frisco Kid warned, as a heavy puff struck the Dazzler and careened her
dangerously over on her side. “Keep one turn round the bitt, and heave in on it when the
painter slacks.”
It was ticklish work for a greenhorn. Joe threw off all the turns save the last, which he
held with one hand, while with the other he attempted to bring in on the painter. But at that
instant it tightened with a tremendous jerk, the boat sheering sharply into the crest of a heavy
sea. The rope slipped from his hands and began to fly out over the stern. He clutched it
frantically, and was dragged after it over the sloping deck.
“Let her go! Let her go!” ‘Frisco Kid shouted.
Joe let go just as he was on the verge of going overboard, and the skiff dropped rapidly
astern. He glanced in a shamefaced way at his companion, expecting to be sharply
reprimanded for his awkwardness. But ‘Frisco Kid smiled good-naturedly.
“That ‘s all right,” he said. “No bones broke and nobody overboard. Better to lose a boat
than a man any day; that ‘s what I say. Besides, I should n’t have sent you out there. And
there ‘s no harm done. We can pick it up all right. Go in and drop some more centerboard,—a
couple of feet,—and then come out and do what I tell you. But don’t be in a hurry. Take it
easy and sure.”
Joe dropped the centerboard and returned, to be stationed at the jib-sheet.
“Hard a-lee!” ‘Frisco Kid cried, throwing the tiller down, and following it with his body.
“Cast off! That ‘s right. Now lend a hand on the main-sheet!”
Together, hand over hand, they came in on the reefed mainsail. Joe began to warm up
with the work. The Dazzler turned on her heel like a race-horse, and swept into the wind, her
canvas snarling and her sheets slatting like hail.
“Draw down the jib-sheet!”
Joe obeyed, and, the head-sail filling, forced her off on the other tack. This manoeuver
had turned French Pete’s bunk from the lee to the weather side, and rolled him out on the
cabin floor, where he lay in a drunken stupor.
‘Frisco Kid, with his back against the tiller and holding the sloop off that it might cover
their previous course, looked at him with an expression of disgust, and muttered: “The dog!
We could well go to the bottom, for all he ‘d care or do!”
Twice they tacked, trying to go over the same ground; and then Joe discovered the skiff
bobbing to windward in the star-lit darkness.
“Plenty of time,” ‘Frisco Kid cautioned, shooting the Dazzler into the wind toward it and
gradually losing headway. “Now!”
Joe leaned over the side, grasped the trailing painter, and made it fast to the bitt. Then
they tacked ship again and started on their way. Joe still felt ashamed for the trouble he had
caused; but ‘Frisco Kid quickly put him at ease.“Oh, that ‘s nothing,” he said. “Everybody does that when they ‘re beginning. Now some
men forget all about the trouble they had in learning, and get mad when a greeny makes a
mistake. I never do. Why, I remember—”
And then he told Joe of many of the mishaps which fell to him when, as a little lad, he
first went on the water, and of some of the severe punishments for the same which were
measured out to him. He had passed the running end of a lanyard over the tiller-neck, and as
they talked they sat side by side and close against each other in the shelter of the cockpit.
“What place is that?” Joe asked, as they flew by a lighthouse blinking from a rocky
“Goat Island. They ‘ve got a naval training station for boys over on the other side, and a
torpedo-magazine. There ‘s jolly good fishing, too—rock-cod. We ‘ll pass to the lee of it, and
make across, and anchor in the shelter of Angel Island. There ‘s a quarantine station there.
Then when French Pete gets sober we ‘ll know where he wants to go. You can turn in now
and get some sleep. I can manage all right.”
Joe shook his head. There had been too much excitement for him to feel in the least like
sleeping. He could not bear to think of it with the Dazzler leaping and surging along and
shattering the seas into clouds of spray on her weather bow. His clothes had half dried
already, and he preferred to stay on deck and enjoy it.
The lights of Oakland had dwindled till they made only a hazy flare against the sky; but to
the south the San Francisco lights, topping hills and sinking into valleys, stretched miles upon
miles. Starting from the great ferry building, and passing on to Telegraph Hill, Joe was soon
able to locate the principal places of the city. Somewhere over in that maze of light and
shadow was the home of his father, and perhaps even now they were thinking and worrying
about him; and over there Bessie was sleeping cozily, to wake up in the morning and wonder
why her brother Joe did not come down to breakfast. Joe shivered. It was almost morning.
Then slowly his head dropped over on ‘Frisco Kid’s shoulder and he was fast asleep.
Chapter 11 — Captain and Crew

“Come! Wake up! We ‘re going into anchor.”
Joe roused with a start, bewildered at the unusual scene; for sleep had banished his
troubles for the time being, and he knew not where he was. Then he remembered. The wind
had dropped with the night. Beyond, the heavy after-sea was still rolling; but the Dazzler was
creeping up in the shelter of a rocky island. The sky was clear, and the air had the snap and
vigor of early morning about it. The rippling water was laughing in the rays of the sun just
shouldering above the eastern sky-line. To the south lay Alcatraz Island, and from its
guncrowned heights a flourish of trumpets saluted the day. In the west the Golden Gate yawned
between the Pacific Ocean and San Francisco Bay. A full-rigged ship, with her lightest canvas,
even to the sky-sails, set, was coming slowly in on the flood-tide.
It was a pretty sight. Joe rubbed the sleep from his eyes and drank in the glory of it till
‘Frisco Kid told him to go for’ard and make ready for dropping the anchor.
“Overhaul about fifty fathoms of chain,” he ordered, “and then stand by.” He eased the
sloop gently into the wind, at the same time casting off the jib-sheet. “Let go the jib-halyards
and come in on the downhaul!”
Joe had seen the manoeuver performed the previous night, and so was able to carry it
out with fair success.
“Now! Over with the mud-hook! Watch out for turns! Lively, now!”
The chain flew out with startling rapidity and brought the Dazzler to rest. ‘Frisco Kid went
for’ard to help, and together they lowered the mainsail, furled it in shipshape manner and
made all fast with the gaskets, and put the crutches under the main-boom.
“Here ‘s a bucket,” said ‘Frisco Kid, as he passed him the article in question. “Wash down
the decks, and don’t be afraid of the water, nor of the dirt either. Here ‘s a broom. Give it what
for, and have everything shining. When you get that done bail out the skiff. She opened her
seams a little last night. I ‘m going below to cook breakfast.”
The water was soon slushing merrily over the deck, while the smoke pouring from the
cabin stove carried a promise of good things to come. Time and again Joe lifted his head from
his task to take in the scene. It was one to appeal to any healthy boy, and he was no
exception. The romance of it stirred him strangely, and his happiness would have been
complete could he have escaped remembering who and what his companions were. The
thought of this, and of French Pete in his bleary sleep below, marred the beauty of the day.
He had been unused to such things and was shocked at the harsh reality of life. But instead of
hurting him, as it might a lad of weaker nature, it had the opposite effect. It strengthened his
desire to be clean and strong, and to not be ashamed of himself in his own eyes. He glanced
about him and sighed. Why could not men be honest and true? It seemed too bad that he
must go away and leave all this; but the events of the night were strong upon him, and he
knew that in order to be true to himself he must escape.
At this juncture he was called to breakfast. He discovered that ‘Frisco Kid was as good a
cook as he was a sailor, and made haste to do justice to the fare. There were mush and
condensed milk, beefsteak and fried potatoes, and all topped off with good French bread,
butter, and coffee. French Pete did not join them, though ‘Frisco Kid attempted a couple of
times to rouse him. He mumbled and grunted, half opened his bleared eyes, then fell to
snoring again.
“Can’t tell when he ‘s going to get those spells,” ‘Frisco Kid explained, when Joe, having
finished washing dishes, came on deck. “Sometimes he won’t get that way for a month, and
others he won’t be decent for a week at a stretch. Sometimes he ‘s good-natured, and
sometimes he ‘s dangerous; so the best thing to do is to let him alone and keep out of hisway; and don’t cross him, for if you do there ‘s liable to be trouble.
“Come on; let ‘s take a swim,” he added, abruptly changing the subject to one more
agreeable. “Can you swim?”
Joe nodded.
“What ‘s that place?” he asked, as he poised before diving, pointing toward a sheltered
beach on the island where there were several buildings and a large number of tents.
“Quarantine station. Lots of smallpox coming in now on the China steamers, and they
make them go there till the doctors say they ‘re safe to land. I tell you, they ‘re strict about it,
too. Why—”
Splash! Had ‘Frisco Kid finished his sentence just then, instead of diving overboard,
much trouble might have been saved to Joe. But he did not finish it, and Joe dived after him.
“I ‘ll tell you what,” ‘Frisco Kid suggested half an hour later, while they clung to the
bobstay preparatory to climbing out. “Let ‘s catch a mess of fish for dinner, and then turn in
and make up for the sleep we lost last night. What d’ you say?”
They made a race to clamber aboard, but Joe was shoved over the side again. When he
finally did arrive, the other lad had brought to light a pair of heavily leaded, large-hooked lines
and a mackerel-keg of salt sardines.
“Bait,” he said. “Just shove a whole one on. They ‘re not a bit partic’lar. Swallow the bait,
hook and all, and go—that ‘s their caper. The fellow that does n’t catch the first fish has to
clean ‘em.”
Both sinkers started on their long descent together, and seventy feet of line whizzed out
before they came to rest. But at the instant his sinker touched the bottom Joe felt the
struggling jerks of a hooked fish. As he began to haul in he glanced at ‘Frisco Kid and saw that
he too had evidently captured a finny prize. The race between them was exciting. Hand over
hand the wet lines flashed inboard. But ‘Frisco Kid was more expert, and his fish tumbled into
the cockpit first. Joe’s followed an instant later—a three-pound rock-cod. He was wild with joy.
It was magnificent—the largest fish he had ever landed or ever seen landed. Over went the
lines again, and up they came with two mates of the ones already captured. It was sport royal.
Joe would certainly have continued till he had fished the bay empty, had not ‘Frisco Kid
persuaded him to stop.
“We ‘ve got enough for three meals now,” he said, “so there ‘s no use in having them
spoil. Besides, the more you catch the more you clean, and you ‘d better start in right away. I
‘m going to bed.”
Chapter 12 — Joe Tries to Take French Leave

Joe did not mind. In fact, he was glad he had not caught the first fish, for it helped out a
little plan which had come to him while swimming. He threw the last cleaned fish into a bucket
of water and glanced about him. The quarantine station was a bare half-mile away, and he
could make out a soldier pacing up and down at sentry duty on the beach. Going into the
cabin, he listened to the heavy breathing of the sleepers. He had to pass so close to ‘Frisco
Kid to get his bundle of clothes that he decided not to take it. Returning outside, he carefully
pulled the skiff alongside, got aboard with a pair of oars, and cast off.
At first he rowed very gently in the direction of the station, fearing the chance of noise if
he made undue haste. But gradually he increased the strength of his strokes till he had settled
down to the regular stride. When he had covered half the distance he glanced about. Escape
was sure now, for he knew, even if he were discovered, that it would be impossible for the
Dazzler to get under way and head him off before he made the land and the protection of that
man who wore the uniform of Uncle Sam’s soldiers.
The report of a gun came to him from the shore, but his back was in that direction and
he did not bother to turn around. A second report followed, and a bullet cut the water within a
couple of feet of his oar-blade. This time he did turn around. The soldier on the beach was
leveling his rifle at him for a third shot.
Joe was in a predicament, and a very tantalizing one at that. A few minutes of hard
rowing would bring him to the beach and to safety; but on that beach, for some unaccountable
reason, stood a United States soldier who persisted in firing at him. When Joe saw the gun
aimed at him for the third time, he backed water hastily. As a result, the skiff came to a
standstill, and the soldier, lowering his rifle, regarded him intently.
“I want to come ashore! Important!” Joe shouted out to him.
The man in uniform shook his head.
“But it ‘s important, I tell you! Won’t you let me come ashore?”
He took a hurried look in the direction of the Dazzler. The shots had evidently awakened
French Pete, for the mainsail had been hoisted, and as he looked he saw the anchor broken
out and the jib flung to the breeze.
“Can’t land here!” the soldier shouted back. “Smallpox!”
“But I must!” he cried, choking down a half-sob and preparing to row.
“Then I ‘ll shoot you,” was the cheering response, and the rifle came to shoulder again.
Joe thought rapidly. The island was large. Perhaps there were no soldiers farther on, and
if he only once got ashore he did not care how quickly they captured him. He might catch the
smallpox, but even that was better than going back to the bay pirates. He whirled the skiff half
about to the right, and threw all his strength against the oars. The cove was quite wide, and
the nearest point which he must go around a good distance away. Had he been more of a
sailor, he would have gone in the other direction for the opposite point, and thus had the wind
on his pursuers. As it was, the Dazzler had a beam wind in which to overtake him.
It was nip and tuck for a while. The breeze was light and not very steady, so sometimes
he gained and sometimes they. Once it freshened till the sloop was within a hundred yards of
him, and then it dropped suddenly flat, the Dazzler’s big mainsail flapping idly from side to
“Ah! you steal ze skiff, eh?” French Pete howled at him, running into the cabin for his
rifle. “I fix you! You come back queeck, or I kill you!” But he knew the soldier was watching
them from the shore, and did not dare to fire, even over the lad’s head.
Joe did not think of this, for he, who had never been shot at in all his previous life, had
been under fire twice in the last twenty-four hours. Once more or less could n’t amount tomuch. So he pulled steadily away, while French Pete raved like a wild man, threatening him
with all manner of punishments once he laid hands upon him again. To complicate matters,
‘Frisco Kid waxed mutinous.
“Just you shoot him, and I ‘ll see you hung for it—see if I don’t,” he threatened. “You ‘d
better let him go. He ‘s a good boy and all right, and not raised for the dirty life you and I are
“You too, eh!” the Frenchman shrieked, beside himself with rage. “Den I fix you, you rat!”
He made a rush for the boy, but ‘Frisco Kid led him a lively chase from cockpit to
bowsprit and back again. A sharp capful of wind arriving just then, French Pete abandoned the
one chase for the other. Springing to the tiller and slacking away on the main-sheet,—for the
wind favored,—he headed the sloop down upon Joe. The latter made one tremendous spurt,
then gave up in despair and hauled in his oars. French Pete let go the main-sheet, lost
steerageway as he rounded up alongside the motionless skiff, and dragged Joe out.
“Keep mum,” ‘Frisco Kid whispered to him while the irate Frenchman was busy fastening
the painter. “Don’t talk back. Let him say all he wants to, and keep quiet. It ‘ll be better for
But Joe’s Anglo-Saxon blood was up, and he did not heed.
“Look here, Mr. French Pete, or whatever your name is,” he commenced; “I give you to
understand that I want to quit, and that I ‘m going to quit. So you ‘d better put me ashore at
once. If you don’t I ‘ll put you in prison, or my name ‘s not Joe Bronson.”
‘Frisco Kid waited the outcome fearfully. French Pete was aghast. He was being defied
aboard his own vessel—and by a boy! Never had such a thing been heard of. He knew he
was committing an unlawful act in detaining him, but at the same time he was afraid to let him
go with the information he had gathered concerning the sloop and its occupation. The boy had
spoken the unpleasant truth when he said he could send him to prison. The only thing for him
to do was to bully him.
“You will, eh?” His shrill voice rose wrathfully. “Den you come too. You row ze boat last-a
night—answer me dat! You steal ze iron—answer me dat! You run away—answer me dat!
And den you say you put me in jail? Bah!”
“But I did n’t know,” Joe protested.
“Ha, ha! Dat is funny. You tell dat to ze judge; mebbe him laugh, eh?”
“I say I did n’t,” he reiterated manfully. “I did n’t know I ‘d shipped along with a lot of
‘Frisco Kid winced at this epithet, and had Joe been looking at him he would have seen a
red flush mount to his face.
“And now that I do know,” he continued, “I wish to be put ashore. I don’t know anything
about the law, but I do know something of right and wrong; and I ‘m willing to take my chance
with any judge for whatever wrong I have done—with all the judges in the United States, for
that matter. And that ‘s more than you can say, Mr. Pete.”
“You say dat, eh? Vaire good. But you are one big t’ief—”
“I ‘m not—don’t you dare call me that again!” Joe’s face was pale, and he was trembling
—but not with fear.
“T’ief!” the Frenchman taunted back.
“You lie!”
Joe had not been a boy among boys for nothing. He knew the penalty which attached
itself to the words he had just spoken, and he expected to receive it. So he was not overmuch
surprised when he picked himself up from the floor of the cockpit an instant later, his head still
ringing from a stiff blow between the eyes.
“Say dat one time more,” French Pete bullied, his fist raised and prepared to strike.
Tears of anger stood in Joe’s eyes, but he was calm and in deadly earnest. “When you
say I am a thief, Pete, you lie. You can kill me, but still I will say you lie.”“No, you don’t!” ‘Frisco Kid had darted in like a cat, preventing a second blow, and
shoving the Frenchman back across the cockpit.
“You leave the boy alone!” he continued, suddenly unshipping and arming himself with
the heavy iron tiller, and standing between them. “This thing ‘s gone just about as far as it ‘s
going to go. You big fool, can’t you see the stuff the boy ‘s made of? He speaks true. He ‘s
right, and he knows it, and you could kill him and he would n’t give in. There ‘s my hand on it,
Joe.” He turned and extended his hand to Joe, who returned the grip. “You ‘ve got spunk and
you ‘re not afraid to show it.”
French Pete’s mouth twisted itself in a sickly smile, but the evil gleam in his eyes gave it
the lie. He shrugged his shoulders and said, “Ah! So? He does not dee-sire dat I call him pet
names. Ha, ha! It is only ze sailorman play. Let us—what you call—forgive and forget, eh?
Vaire good; forgive and forget.”
He reached out his hand, but Joe refused to take it. ‘Frisco Kid nodded approval, while
French Pete, still shrugging his shoulders and smiling, passed into the cabin.
“Slack off ze main-sheet,” he called out, “and run down for Hunter’s Point. For one time I
will cook ze dinner, and den you will say dat it is ze vaire good dinner. Ah! French Pete is ze
great cook!”
“That ‘s the way he always does—gets real good and cooks when he wants to make up,”
‘Frisco Kid hazarded, slipping the tiller into the rudder-head and obeying the order. “But even
then you can’t trust him.”
Joe nodded his head, but did not speak. He was in no mood for conversation. He was
still trembling from the excitement of the last few moments, while deep down he questioned
himself on how he had behaved, and found nothing to be ashamed of.
Chapter 13 — Befriending Each Other

The afternoon sea-breeze had sprung up and was now rioting in from the Pacific. Angel
Island was fast dropping astern, and the water-front of San Francisco showing up, as the
Dazzler plowed along before it. Soon they were in the midst of the shipping, passing in and
out among the vessels which had come from the ends of the earth. Later they crossed the
fairway, where the ferry steamers, crowded with passengers, passed to and fro between San
Francisco and Oakland. One came so close that the passengers crowded to the side to see
the gallant little sloop and the two boys in the cockpit. Joe gazed enviously at the row of
downturned faces. They were all going to their homes, while he—he was going he knew not
whither, at the will of French Pete. He was half tempted to cry out for help; but the foolishness
of such an act struck him, and he held his tongue. Turning his head, his eyes wandered along
the smoky heights of the city, and he fell to musing on the strange way of men and ships on
the sea.
‘Frisco Kid watched him from the corner of his eye, following his thoughts as accurately
as though he spoke them aloud.
“Got a home over there somewheres?” he queried suddenly, waving his hand in the
direction of the city.
Joe started, so correctly had his thought been guessed. “Yes,” he said simply.
“Tell us about it.”
Joe rapidly described his home, though forced to go into greater detail because of the
curious questions of his companion. ‘Frisco Kid was interested in everything, especially in Mrs.
Bronson and Bessie. Of the latter he could not seem to tire, and poured forth question after
question concerning her. So peculiar and artless were some of them that Joe could hardly
forbear to smile.
“Now tell me about yours,” he said when he at last had finished.
‘Frisco Kid seemed suddenly to harden, and his face took on a stern look which the other
had never seen there before. He swung his foot idly to and fro, and lifted a dull eye aloft to the
main-peak blocks, with which, by the way, there was nothing the matter.
“Go ahead,” the other encouraged.
“I have n’t no home.”
The four words left his mouth as though they had been forcibly ejected, and his lips came
together after them almost with a snap.
Joe saw he had touched a tender spot, and strove to ease the way out of it again. “Then
the home you did have.” He did not dream that there were lads in the world who never had
known homes, or that he had only succeeded in probing deeper.
“Never had none.”
“Oh!” His interest was aroused, and he now threw solicitude to the winds. “Any sisters?”
“I was so young when she died that I don’t remember her.”
“I never saw much of him. He went to sea—anyhow, he disappeared.”
“Oh!” Joe did not know what to say, and an oppressive silence, broken only by the churn
of the Dazzler’s forefoot, fell upon them.
Just then Pete came out to relieve at the tiller while they went in to eat. Both lads hailed
his advent with feelings of relief, and the awkwardness vanished over the dinner, which was all
their skipper had claimed it to be. Afterward ‘Frisco Kid relieved Pete, and while he was eating
Joe washed up the dishes and put the cabin shipshape. Then they all gathered in the stern,where the captain strove to increase the general cordiality by entertaining them with
descriptions of life among the pearl-divers of the South Seas.
In this fashion the afternoon wore away. They had long since left San Francisco behind,
rounded Hunter’s Point, and were now skirting the San Mateo shore. Joe caught a glimpse,
once, of a party of cyclists rounding a cliff on the San Bruno Road, and remembered the time
when he had gone over the same ground on his own wheel. It was only a month or two
before, but it seemed an age to him now, so much had there been to come between.
By the time supper had been eaten and the things cleared away, they were well down
the bay, off the marshes behind which Redwood City clustered. The wind had gone down with
the sun, and the Dazzler was making but little headway, when they sighted a sloop bearing
down upon them on the dying wind. ‘Frisco Kid instantly named it as the Reindeer, to which
French Pete, after a deep scrutiny, agreed. He seemed very much pleased at the meeting.
“Red Nelson runs her,” ‘Frisco Kid informed Joe. “And he ‘s a terror and no mistake. I ‘m
always afraid of him when he comes near. They ‘ve got something big down here, and they ‘re
always after French Pete to tackle it with them. He knows more about it, whatever it is.”
Joe nodded, and looked at the approaching craft curiously. Though somewhat larger, it
was built on about the same lines as the Dazzler which meant, above everything else, that it
was built for speed. The mainsail was so large that it was more like that of a racing-yacht, and
it carried the points for no less than three reefs in case of rough weather. Aloft and on deck
everything was in place—nothing was untidy or useless. From running-gear to standing
rigging, everything bore evidence of thorough order and smart seamanship.
The Reindeer came up slowly in the gathering twilight and went to anchor a biscuit-toss
away. French Pete followed suit with the Dazzler, and then went in the skiff to pay them a
visit. The two lads stretched themselves out on top the cabin and awaited his return.
“Do you like the life?” Joe broke silence.
The other turned on his elbow. “Well—I do, and then again I don’t. The fresh air, and the
salt water, and all that, and the freedom—that ‘s all right; but I don’t like the—the—” He
paused a moment, as though his tongue had failed in its duty, and then blurted out: “the
“Then why don’t you quit it?” Joe liked the lad more than he dared confess to himself,
and he felt a sudden missionary zeal come upon him.
“I will just as soon as I can turn my hand to something else.”
“But why not now?”
Now is the accepted time was ringing in Joe’s ears, and if the other wished to leave, it
seemed a pity that he did not, and at once.
“Where can I go? What can I do? There ‘s nobody in all the world to lend me a hand, just
as there never has been. I tried it once, and learned my lesson too well to do it again in a
“Well, when I get out of this I ‘m going home. Guess my father was right, after all. And I
don’t see, maybe—what ‘s the matter with you going with me?” He said this last without
thinking, impulsively, and ‘Frisco Kid knew it.
“You don’t know what you ‘re talking about,” he answered. “Fancy me going off with you!
What ‘d your father say? and—and the rest? How would he think of me? And what ‘d he do?”
Joe felt sick at heart. He realized that in the spirit of the moment he had given an
invitation which, on sober thought, he knew would be impossible to carry out. He tried to
imagine his father receiving in his own house a stranger like ‘Frisco Kid—no, that was not to
be thought of. Then, forgetting his own plight, he fell to racking his brains for some other
method by which ‘Frisco Kid could get away from his present surroundings.
“He might turn me over to the police,” the other went on, “and send me to a refuge. I ‘d
die first, before I ‘d let that happen to me. And besides, Joe, I ‘m not of your kind, and you
know it. Why, I ‘d be like a fish out of water, what with all the things I did n’t know. Nope; Iguess I ‘ll have to wait a little before I strike out. But there ‘s only one thing for you to do, and
that ‘s to go straight home. First chance I get I ‘ll land you, and then I ‘ll deal with French Pete
“No, you don’t,” Joe interrupted hotly. “When I leave I ‘m not going to leave you in trouble
on my account. So don’t you try anything like that. I ‘ll get away, never fear, and if I can figure
it out I want you to come along too; come along anyway, and figure it out afterward. What d’
you say?”
‘Frisco Kid shook his head, and, gazing up at the starlit heavens, wandered off into
dreams of the life he would like to lead but from which he seemed inexorably shut out. The
seriousness of life was striking deeper than ever into Joe’s heart, and he lay silent, thinking
hard. A mumble of heavy voices came to them from the Reindeer; and from the land the
solemn notes of a church bell floated across the water, while the summer night wrapped them
slowly in its warm darkness.
Chapter 14 — Among the Oyster-Beds

Time and the world slipped away, and both boys were aroused by the harsh voice of
French Pete from the sleep into which they had fallen.
“Get under way!” he was bawling. “Here, you Sho! Cast off ze gaskets! Queeck! Lively!
You Kid, ze jib!”
Joe was clumsy in the darkness, not knowing the names of things and the places where
they were to be found; but he made fair progress, and when he had tossed the gaskets into
the cockpit was ordered forward to help hoist the mainsail. After that the anchor was hove in
and the jib set. Then they coiled down the halyards and put everything in order before they
returned aft.
“Vaire good, vaire good,” the Frenchman praised, as Joe dropped in over the rail.
“Splendeed! You make ze good sailorman, I know for sure.”
‘Frisco Kid lifted the cover of one of the cockpit lockers and glanced questioningly at
French Pete.
“For sure,” that mariner replied. “Put up ze side-lights.”
‘Frisco Kid took the red and green lanterns into the cabin to light them, and then went
forward with Joe to hang them in the rigging.
“They ‘re not goin’ to tackle it,” ‘Frisco Kid said in an undertone.
“What?” Joe asked.
“That big thing I was tellin’ you was down here somewhere. It ‘s so big, I guess, that
French Pete ‘s ‘most afraid to go in for it. Red Nelson ‘d go in quicker ‘n a wink, but he don’t
know enough about it. Can’t go in, you see, till Pete gives the word.”
“Where are we going now?” Joe questioned.
“Don’t know; oyster-beds most likely, from the way we ‘re heading.”
It was an uneventful trip. A breeze sprang up out of the night behind them, and held
steady for an hour or more. Then it dropped and became aimless and erratic, puffing gently
first from one quarter and then another. French Pete remained at the tiller, while occasionally
Joe or ‘Frisco Kid took in or slacked off a sheet.
Joe sat and marveled that the Frenchman should know where he was going. To Joe it
seemed that they were lost in the impenetrable darkness which shrouded them. A high fog
had rolled in from the Pacific, and though they were beneath, it came between them and the
stars, depriving them of the little light from that source.
But French Pete seemed to know instinctively the direction he should go, and once, in
reply to a query from Joe, bragged of his ability to go by the “feel” of things.
“I feel ze tide, ze wind, ze speed,” he explained. “Even do I feel ze land. Dat I tell you for
sure. How? I do not know. Only do I know dat I feel ze land, just like my arm grow long, miles
and miles long, and I put my hand upon ze land and feel it, and know dat it is there.”
Joe looked incredulously at ‘Frisco Kid.
“That ‘s right,” he affirmed. “After you ‘ve been on the water a good while you come to
feel the land. And if your nose is any account, you can usually smell it.”
An hour or so later, Joe surmised from the Frenchman’s actions that they were
approaching their destination. He seemed on the alert, and was constantly peering into the
darkness ahead as though he expected to see something at any moment. Joe looked very
hard, but saw only the darkness.
“Try ze stick, Kid,” French Pete ordered. “I t’ink it is about ze time.”
‘Frisco Kid unlashed a long and slender pole from the top of the cabin, and, standing on
the narrow deck amidships, plunged one end of it into the water and drove it straight down.
“About fifteen feet,” he said.“What ze bottom?”
“Mud,” was the answer.
“Wait one while, den we try some more.”
Five minutes afterward the pole was plunged overside again.
“Two fathoms,” Joe answered—”shells.”
French Pete rubbed his hands with satisfaction. “Vaire good, vaire well,” he said. “I hit ze
ground every time. You can’t fool-a ze old man; I tell you dat for sure.”
‘Frisco Kid continued operating the pole and announcing the results, to the mystification
of Joe, who could not comprehend their intimate knowledge of the bottom of the bay.
“Ten feet—shells,” ‘Frisco Kid went on in a monotonous voice. “‘Leven feet—shells.
Fourteen feet—soft. Sixteen feet—mud. No bottom.”
“Ah, ze channel,” said French Pete at this.
For a few minutes it was “No bottom”; and then, suddenly, came ‘Frisco Kid’s cry: “Eight
“Dat ‘ll do,” French Pete commanded. “Run for’ard, you Sho, an’ let go ze jib. You, Kid,
get all ready ze hook.”
Joe found the jib-halyard and cast it off the pin, and, as the canvas fluttered down, came
in hand over hand on the downhaul.
“Let ‘er go!” came the command, and the anchor dropped into the water, carrying but
little chain after it.
‘Frisco Kid threw over plenty of slack and made fast. Then they furled the sails, made
things tidy, and went below and to bed.
It was six o’clock when Joe awoke and went out into the cockpit to look about. Wind and
sea had sprung up, and the Dazzler was rolling and tossing and now and again fetching up on
her anchor-chain with a savage jerk. He was forced to hold on to the boom overhead to
steady himself. It was a gray and leaden day, with no signs of the rising sun, while the sky
was obscured by great masses of flying clouds.
Joe sought for the land. A mile and a half away it lay—a long, low stretch of sandy beach
with a heavy surf thundering upon it. Behind appeared desolate marshlands, while far beyond
towered the Contra Costa Hills.
Changing the direction of his gaze, Joe was startled by the sight of a small sloop rolling
and plunging at her anchor not a hundred yards away. She was nearly to windward, and as
she swung off slightly he read her name on the stern, the Flying Dutchman, one of the boats
he had seen lying at the city wharf in Oakland. A little to the left of her he discovered the
Ghost, and beyond were half a dozen other sloops at anchor.
“What I tell you?”
Joe looked quickly over his shoulder. French Pete had come out of the cabin and was
triumphantly regarding the spectacle.
“What I tell you? Can’t fool-a ze old man, dat ‘s what. I hit it in ze dark just so well as in
ze sunshine. I know—I know.”
“Is she goin’ to howl?” ‘Frisco Kid asked from the cabin, where he was starting the fire.
The Frenchman gravely studied sea and sky for a couple of minutes.
“Mebbe blow over—mebbe blow up,” was his doubtful verdict. “Get breakfast queeck,
and we try ze dredging.”
Smoke was rising from the cabins of the different sloops, denoting that they were all bent
on getting the first meal of the day. So far as the Dazzler was concerned, it was a simple
matter, and soon they were putting a single reef in the mainsail and getting ready to weigh
Joe was curious. These were undoubtedly the oyster-beds; but how under the sun, in
that wild sea, were they to get oysters? He was quickly to learn the way. Lifting a section of
the cockpit flooring, French Pete brought out two triangular frames of steel. At the apex of oneof these triangles; in a ring for the purpose, he made fast a piece of stout rope. From this the
sides (inch rods) diverged at almost right angles, and extended down for a distance of four
feet or more, where they were connected by the third side of the triangle, which was the
bottom of the dredge. This was a flat plate of steel over a yard in length, to which was bolted
a row of long, sharp teeth, likewise of steel. Attached to the toothed plate, and to the sides of
the frame was a net of very coarse fishing-twine, which Joe correctly surmised was there to
catch the oysters raked loose by the teeth from the bottom of the bay.
A rope being made fast to each of the dredges, they were dropped overboard from either
side of the Dazzler. When they had reached the bottom, and were dragging with the proper
length of line out, they checked her speed quite noticeably. Joe touched one of the lines with
his hands, and could feel plainly the shock and jar and grind as it tore over the bottom.
“All in!” French Pete shouted.
The boys laid hold of the line and hove in the dredge. The net was full of mud and slime
and small oysters, with here and there a large one. This mess they dumped on the deck and
picked over while the dredge was dragging again. The large oysters they threw into the
cockpit, and shoveled the rubbish overboard. There was no rest, for by this time the other
dredge required emptying. And when this was done and the oysters sorted, both dredges had
to be hauled aboard, so that French Pete could put the Dazzler about on the other tack.
The rest of the fleet was under way and dredging back in similar fashion. Sometimes the
different sloops came quite close to them, and they hailed them and exchanged snatches of
conversation and rough jokes. But in the main it was hard work, and at the end of an hour
Joe’s back was aching from the unaccustomed strain, and his fingers were cut and bleeding
from his clumsy handling of the sharp-edged oysters.
“Dat ‘s right,” French Pete said approvingly. “You learn queeck. Vaire soon you know
Joe grinned ruefully and wished it was dinner-time. Now and then, when a light dredge
was hauled, the boys managed to catch breath and say a couple of words.
“That ‘s Asparagus Island,” ‘Frisco Kid said, indicating the shore. “At least, that ‘s what
the fishermen and scow-sailors call it. The people who live there call it Bay Farm Island.” He
pointed more to the right. “And over there is San Leandro. You can’t see it, but it ‘s there.”
“Ever been there?” Joe asked.
‘Frisco Kid nodded his head and signed to him to help heave in the starboard dredge.
“These are what they call the deserted beds,” he said again. “Nobody owns them, so the
oyster pirates come down and make a bluff at working them.”
“Why a bluff?”
“‘Cause they ‘re pirates, that ‘s why, and because there ‘s more money in raiding the
private beds.”
He made a sweeping gesture toward the east and southeast. “The private beds are over
yonder, and if it don’t storm the whole fleet ‘ll be raidin’ ‘em to-night.”
“And if it does storm?” Joe asked.
“Why, we won’t raid them, and French Pete ‘ll be mad, that ‘s all. He always hates being
put out by the weather. But it don’t look like lettin’ up, and this is the worst possible shore in a
sou’wester. Pete may try to hang on, but it ‘s best to get out before she howls.”
At first it did seem as though the weather were growing better. The stiff southwest wind
dropped perceptibly, and by noon, when they went to anchor for dinner, the sun was breaking
fitfully through the clouds.
“That ‘s all right,” ‘Frisco Kid said prophetically. “But I ain’t been on the bay for nothing.
She ‘s just gettin’ ready to let us have it good an’ hard.”
“I t’ink you ‘re right, Kid,” French Pete agreed; “but ze Dazzler hang on all ze same.
Lasta time she run away, an’ fine night come. Dis time she run not away. Eh? Vaire good.”
Chapter 15 — Good Sailors in a Wild Anchorage

All afternoon the Dazzler pitched and rolled at her anchorage, and as evening drew on
the wind deceitfully eased down. This, and the example set by French Pete, encouraged the
rest of the oyster-boats to attempt to ride out the night; but they looked carefully to their
moorings and put out spare anchors.
French Pete ordered the two boys into the skiff, and, at the imminent risk of swamping,
they carried out a second anchor, at nearly right angles to the first one, and dropped it over.
French Pete then ran out a great quantity of chain and rope, so that the Dazzler dropped back
a hundred feet or more, where she rode more easily.
It was a wild stretch of water which Joe looked upon from the shelter of the cockpit. The
oyster-beds were out in the open bay, utterly unprotected, and the wind, sweeping the water
for a clean twelve miles, kicked up so tremendous a sea that at every moment it seemed as
though the wallowing sloops would roll their masts overside. Just before twilight a patch of sail
sprang up to windward, and grew and grew until it resolved itself into the huge mainsail of the
“Ze beeg fool!” French Pete cried, running out of the cabin to see. “Sometime—ah,
sometime, I tell you—he crack on like dat, an’ he go, pouf! just like dat, pouf!—an’ no more
Nelson, no more Reindeer, no more nothing.”
Joe looked inquiringly at ‘Frisco Kid.
“That ‘s right,” he answered. “Nelson ought to have at least one reef in. Two ‘d be better.
But there he goes, every inch spread, as though some fiend was after ‘im. He drives too hard;
he ‘s too reckless, when there ain’t the smallest need for it. I ‘ve sailed with him, and I know
his ways.”
Like some huge bird of the air, the Reindeer lifted and soared down on them on the
foaming crest of a wave.
“Don’t mind,” ‘Frisco Kid warned. “He ‘s only tryin’ to see how close he can come to us
without hittin’ us.”
Joe nodded, and stared with wide eyes at the thrilling sight. The Reindeer leaped up in
the air, pointing her nose to the sky till they could see her whole churning forefoot; then she
plunged downward till her for’ard deck was flush with the foam, and with a dizzying rush she
drove past them, her main-boom missing the Dazzler’s rigging by scarcely a foot.
Nelson, at the wheel, waved his hand to them as he hurtled past, and laughed joyously in
French Pete’s face, who was angered by the dangerous trick.
When to leeward, the splendid craft rounded to the wind, rolling once till her brown
bottom showed to the centerboard and they thought she was over, then righting and dashing
ahead again like a thing possessed. She passed abreast of them on the starboard side. They
saw the jib run down with a rush and an anchor go overboard as she shot into the wind; and
as she fell off and back and off and back with a spilling mainsail, they saw a second anchor go
overboard, wide apart from the first. Then the mainsail came down on the run, and was furled
and fastened by the time she had tightened to her double hawsers.
“Ah, ah! Never was there such a man!”
The Frenchman’s eyes were glistening with admiration for such perfect seamanship, and
‘Frisco Kid’s were likewise moist.
“Just like a yacht,” he said as he went back into the cabin. “Just like a yacht, only better.”
As night came on the wind began to rise again, and by eleven o’clock had reached the
stage which ‘Frisco Kid described as “howlin’.” There was little sleep on the Dazzler. He alone
closed his eyes. French Pete was up and down every few minutes. Twice, when he went on
deck, he paid out more chain and rope. Joe lay in his blankets and listened, the while vainlycourting sleep. He was not frightened, but he was untrained in the art of sleeping in the midst
of such turmoil and uproar and violent commotion. Nor had he imagined a boat could play as
wild antics as did the Dazzler and still survive. Often she wallowed over on her beam till he
thought she would surely capsize. At other times she leaped and plunged in the air and fell
upon the seas with thunderous crashes as though her bottom were shattered to fragments.
Again, she would fetch up taut on her hawsers so suddenly and so fiercely as to reel from the
shock and to groan and protest through every timber.
‘Frisco Kid awoke once, and smiled at him, saying:
“This is what they call hangin’ on. But just you wait till daylight comes, and watch us
clawin’ off. If some of the sloops don’t go ashore, I ‘m not me, that ‘s all.”
And thereat he rolled over on his side and was off to sleep. Joe envied him. About three
in the morning he heard French Pete crawl up for’ard and rummage around in the eyes of the
boat. Joe looked on curiously, and by the dim light of the wildly swinging sea-lamp saw him
drag out two spare coils of line. These he took up on deck, and Joe knew he was bending
them on to the hawsers to make them still longer.
At half-past four French Pete had the fire going, and at five he called the boys for coffee.
This over, they crept into the cockpit to gaze on the terrible scene. The dawn was breaking
bleak and gray over a wild waste of tumbling water. They could faintly see the beach-line of
Asparagus Island, but they could distinctly hear the thunder of the surf upon it; and as the day
grew stronger they made out that they had dragged fully half a mile during the night.
The rest of the fleet had likewise dragged. The Reindeer was almost abreast of them; La
Caprice lay a few hundred yards away; and to leeward, straggling between them and shore,
were five more of the struggling oyster-boats.
“Two missing,” ‘Frisco Kid announced, putting the glasses to his eyes and searching the
“And there ‘s one!” he cried. And after studying it carefully he added: “The Go Ask Her.
She ‘ll be in pieces in no time. I hope they got ashore.”
French Pete looked through the glasses, and then Joe. He could clearly see the
unfortunate sloop lifting and pounding in the surf, and on the beach he spied the men who
made up her crew.
“Where ‘s ze Ghost?” French Pete queried.
‘Frisco Kid looked for her in vain along the beach; but when he turned the glass seaward
he quickly discovered her riding safely in the growing light, half a mile or more to windward.
“I ‘ll bet she did n’t drag a hundred feet all night,” he said. “Must ‘ve struck good
“Mud,” was French Pete’s verdict. “Just one vaire small patch of mud right there. If she
get t’rough it she ‘s a sure-enough goner, I tell you dat. Her anchors vaire light, only good for
mud. I tell ze boys get more heavy anchors, but dey laugh. Some day be sorry, for sure.”
One of the sloops to leeward raised a patch of sail and began the terrible struggle out of
the jaws of destruction and death. They watched her for a space, rolling and plunging fearfully,
and making very little headway.
French Pete put a stop to their gazing. “Come on!” he shouted. “Put two reef in ze
mainsail! We get out queeck!”
While occupied with this a shout aroused them. Looking up, they saw the Ghost dead
ahead and right on top of them, and dragging down upon them at a furious rate.
French Pete scrambled forward like a cat, at the same time drawing his knife, with one
stroke of which he severed the rope that held them to the spare anchor. This threw the whole
weight of the Dazzler on the chain-anchor. In consequence she swung off to the left, and just
in time; for the next instant, drifting stern foremost, the Ghost passed over the spot she had
“Why, she ‘s got four anchors out!” Joe exclaimed, at sight of four taut ropes entering thewater almost horizontally from her bow.
“Two of ‘em ‘s dredges,” ‘Frisco Kid grinned; “and there goes the stove.”
As he spoke, two young fellows appeared on deck and dropped the cooking-stove
overside with a line attached.
“Phew!” ‘Frisco Kid cried. “Look at Nelson. He ‘s got one reef in, and you can just bet that
‘s a sign she ‘s howlin’!”
The Reindeer came foaming toward them, breasting the storm like some magnificent
sea-animal. Red Nelson waved to them as he passed astern, and fifteen minutes later, when
they were breaking out the one anchor that remained to them, he passed well to windward on
the other tack.
French Pete followed her admiringly, though he said ominously: “Some day, pouf! he go
just like dat, I tell you, sure.”
A moment later the Dazzler’s reefed jib was flung out, and she was straining and
struggling in the thick of the fight. It was slow work, and hard and dangerous, clawing off that
lee shore, and Joe found himself marveling often that so small a craft could possibly endure a
minute in such elemental fury. But little by little she worked off the shore and out of the
ground-swell into the deeper waters of the bay, where the main-sheet was slacked away a bit,
and she ran for shelter behind the rock wall of the Alameda Mole a few miles away. Here they
found the Reindeer calmly at anchor; and here, during the next several hours, straggled in the
remainder of the fleet, with the exception of the Ghost, which had evidently gone ashore to
keep the Go Ask Her company.
By afternoon the wind had dropped away with surprising suddenness, and the weather
had turned almost summer-like.
“It does n’t look right,” ‘Frisco Kid said in the evening, after French Pete had rowed over
in the skiff to visit Nelson.
“What does n’t look right?” Joe asked.
“Why, the weather. It went down too sudden. It did n’t have a chance to blow itself out,
and it ain’t going to quit till does blow itself out. It ‘s likely to puff up and howl at any moment, if
I know anything about it.”
“Where will we go from here?” Joe asked. “Back to the oyster-beds?”
‘Frisco Kid shook his head. “I can’t say what French Pete ‘ll do. He ‘s been fooled on the
iron, and fooled on the oysters, and he ‘s that disgusted he ‘s liable to do ‘most anything
desperate. I would n’t be surprised to see him go off with Nelson towards Redwood City,
where that big thing is that I was tellin’ you about. It ‘s somewhere over there.”
“Well, I won’t have anything to do with it,” Joe announced decisively.
“Of course not,” ‘Frisco Kid answered. “And with Nelson and his two men an’ French
Pete, I don’t think there ‘ll be any need for you anyway.”
Chapter 16 — ‘Frisco Kid’s Ditty-Box

After the conversation died away, the two lads lay upon the cabin for perhaps an hour.
Then, without saying a word, ‘Frisco Kid went below and struck a light. Joe could hear him
fumbling about, and a little later heard his own name called softly. On going into the cabin, he
saw ‘Frisco Kid sitting on the edge of the bunk, a sailor’s ditty-box on his knees, and in his
hand a carefully folded page from a magazine.
“Does she look like this?” he asked, smoothing it out and turning it that the other might
It was a half-page illustration of two girls and a boy, grouped, evidently, in an
oldfashioned roomy attic, and holding a council of some sort. The girl who was talking faced the
onlooker, while the backs of the other two were turned.
“Who?” Joe queried, glancing in perplexity from the picture to ‘Frisco Kid’s face.
“Your—your sister—Bessie.”
The word seemed reluctant in coming to his lips, and he expressed himself with a certain
shy reverence, as though it were something unspeakably sacred.
Joe was nonplussed for the moment. He could see no bearing between the two in point,
and, anyway, girls were rather silly creatures to waste one’s time over. “He ‘s actually
blushing,” he thought, regarding the soft glow on the other’s cheeks. He felt an irresistible
desire to laugh, and tried to smother it down.
“No, no; don’t!” ‘Frisco Kid cried, snatching the paper away and putting it back in the
ditty-box with shaking fingers. Then he added more slowly: “I thought—I—I kind o’ thought
you would understand, and—and—”
His lips trembled and his eyes glistened with unwonted moistness as he turned hastily
The next instant Joe was by his side on the bunk, his arm around him. Prompted by
some instinctive monitor, he had done it before he thought. A week before he could not have
imagined himself in such an absurd situation—his arm around a boy; but now it seemed the
most natural thing in the world. He did not comprehend, but he knew, whatever it was, that it
was of deep importance to his companion.
“Go ahead and tell us,” he urged. “I ‘ll understand.”
“No, you won’t. You can’t.”
“Yes, sure. Go ahead.”
‘Frisco Kid choked and shook his head. “I don’t think I could, anyway. It ‘s more the
things I feel, and I don’t know how to put them in words.” Joe’s hand patted his shoulder
reassuringly, and he went on: “Well, it ‘s this way. You see, I don’t know much about the land,
and people, and things, and I never had any brothers or sisters or playmates. All the time I did
n’t know it, but I was lonely—sort of missed them down in here somewheres.” He placed a
hand over his breast. “Did you ever feel downright hungry? Well, that ‘s just the way I used to
feel, only a different kind of hunger, and me not knowing what it was. But one day, oh, a long
time back, I got a-hold of a magazine and saw a picture—that picture, with the two girls and
the boy talking together. I thought it must be fine to be like them, and I got to thinking about
the things they said and did, till it came to me all of a sudden like, and I knew it was just
loneliness was the matter with me.
“But, more than anything else, I got to wondering about the girl who looks out of the
picture right at you. I was thinking about her all the time, and by and by she became real to
me. You see, it was making believe, and I knew it all the time, and then again I did n’t.
Whenever I ‘d think of the men, and the work, and the hard life, I ‘d know it was make-believe;
but when I ‘d think of her, it was n’t. I don’t know; I can’t explain it.”Joe remembered all his own adventures which he had imagined on land and sea, and
nodded. He at least understood that much.
“Of course it was all foolishness, but to have a girl like that for a comrade or friend
seemed more like heaven to me than anything else I knew of. As I said, it was a long while
back, and I was only a little kid—that was when Red Nelson gave me my name, and I ‘ve
never been anything but ‘Frisco Kid ever since. But the girl in the picture: I was always getting
that picture out to look at her, and before long, if I was n’t square—why, I felt ashamed to look
at her. Afterwards, when I was older, I came to look at it in another way. I thought, ‘Suppose,
Kid, some day you were to meet a girl like that, what would she think of you? Could she like
you? Could she be even the least bit of a friend to you?’ And then I ‘d make up my mind to be
better, to try and do something with myself so that she or any of her kind of people would not
be ashamed to know me.
“That ‘s why I learned to read. That ‘s why I ran away. Nicky Perrata, a Greek boy,
taught me my letters, and it was n’t till after I learned to read that I found out there was
anything really wrong in bay-pirating. I ‘d been used to it ever since I could remember, and
almost all the people I knew made their living that way. But when I did find out, I ran away,
thinking to quit it for good. I ‘ll tell you about it sometime, and how I ‘m back at it again.
“Of course she seemed a real girl when I was a youngster, and even now she sometimes
seems that way, I ‘ve thought so much about her. But while I ‘m talking to you it all clears up
and she comes to me in this light: she stands just for a plain idea, a better, cleaner life than
this, and one I ‘d like to live; and if I could live it, why, I ‘d come to know that kind of girls, and
their kind of people—your kind, that ‘s what I mean. So I was wondering about your sister and
you, and that ‘s why—I don’t know; I guess I was just wondering. But I suppose you know lots
of girls like that, don’t you?”
Joe nodded his head.
“Then tell me about them—something, anything,” he added as he noted the fleeting
expression of doubt in the other’s eyes.
“Oh, that ‘s easy,” Joe began valiantly. To a certain extent he did understand the lad’s
hunger, and it seemed a simple enough task to at least partially satisfy him. “To begin with,
they ‘re like—hem!—why, they ‘re like—girls, just girls.” He broke off with a miserable sense of
‘Frisco Kid waited patiently, his face a study in expectancy.
Joe struggled valiantly to marshal his forces. To his mind, in quick succession, came the
girls with whom he had gone to school—the sisters of the boys he knew, and those who were
his sister’s friends: slim girls and plump girls, tall girls and short girls, blue-eyed and
browneyed, curly-haired, black-haired, golden-haired; in short, a procession of girls of all sorts and
descriptions. But, to save himself, he could say nothing about them. Anyway, he ‘d never
been a “sissy,” and why should he be expected to know anything about them? “All girls are
alike,” he concluded desperately. “They ‘re just the same as the ones you know, Kid—sure
they are.”
“But I don’t know any.”
Joe whistled. “And never did?”
“Yes, one. Carlotta Gispardi. But she could n’t speak English, and I could n’t speak Dago;
and she died. I don’t care; though I never knew any, I seem to know as much about them as
you do.”
“And I guess I know more about adventures all over the world than you do,” Joe retorted.
Both boys laughed. But a moment later, Joe fell into deep thought. It had come upon him
quite swiftly that he had not been duly grateful for the good things of life he did possess.
Already home, father, and mother had assumed a greater significance to him; but he now
found himself placing a higher personal value upon his sister and his chums and friends. He
had never appreciated them properly, he thought, but henceforth—well, there would be adifferent tale to tell.
The voice of French Pete hailing them put a finish to the conversation, for they both ran
on deck.
Chapter 17 — ‘Frisco Kid Tells His Story

“Get up ze mainsail and break out ze hook!” the Frenchman shouted. “And den tail on to
ze Reindeer! No side-lights!”
“Come! Cast off those gaskets—lively!” ‘Frisco Kid ordered. “Now lay on to the
peakhalyards—there, that rope—cast it off the pin. And don’t hoist ahead of me. There! Make fast!
We ‘ll stretch it afterwards. Run aft and come in on the main-sheet! Shove the helm up!”
Under the sudden driving power of the mainsail, the Dazzler strained and tugged at her
anchor like an impatient horse till the muddy iron left the bottom with a rush and she was free.
“Let go the sheet! Come for’ard again and lend a hand on the chain! Stand by to give her
the jib!” ‘Frisco Kid the boy who mooned over girls in pictorial magazines had vanished, and
‘Frisco Kid the sailor, strong and dominant, was on deck. He ran aft and tacked about as the
jib rattled aloft in the hands of Joe, who quickly joined him. Just then the Reindeer, like a
monstrous bat, passed to leeward of them in the gloom.
“Ah, dose boys! Dey take all-a night!” they heard French Pete exclaim, and then the gruff
voice of Red Nelson, who said: “Never you mind, Frenchy. I taught the Kid his sailorizing, and
I ain’t never been ashamed of him yet.”
The Reindeer was the faster boat, but by spilling the wind from her sails they managed
so that the boys could keep them in sight. The breeze came steadily in from the west, with a
promise of early increase. The stars were being blotted out by masses of driving clouds, which
indicated a greater velocity in the upper strata. ‘Frisco Kid surveyed the sky.
“Going to have it good and stiff before morning,” he said, “just as I told you.”
Several hours later, both boats stood in for the San Mateo shore, and dropped anchor
not more than a cable’s-length away. A little wharf ran out, the bare end of which was
perceptible to them, though they could discern a small yacht lying moored to a buoy a short
distance away.
According to their custom, everything was put in readiness for hasty departure. The
anchors could be tripped and the sails flung out on a moment’s notice. Both skiffs came over
noiselessly from the Reindeer. Red Nelson had given one of his two men to French Pete, so
that each skiff was doubly manned. They were not a very prepossessing group of men,—at
least, Joe did not think so,—for their faces bore a savage seriousness which almost made him
shiver. The captain of the Dazzler buckled on his pistol-belt, and placed a rifle and a stout
double-block tackle in the boat. Then he poured out wine all around, and, standing in the
darkness of the little cabin, they pledged success to the expedition. Red Nelson was also
armed, while his men wore at their hips the customary sailor’s sheath-knife. They were very
slow and careful to avoid noise in getting into the boats, French Pete pausing long enough to
warn the boys to remain quietly aboard and not try any tricks.
“Now ‘d be your chance, Joe, if they had n’t taken the skiff,” ‘Frisco Kid whispered, when
the boats had vanished into the loom of the land.
“What ‘s the matter with the Dazzler?” was the unexpected answer. “We could up sail
and away before you could say Jack Robinson.”
‘Frisco Kid hesitated. The spirit of comradeship was strong in the lad, and deserting a
companion in a pinch could not but be repulsive to him.
“I don’t think it ‘d be exactly square to leave them in the lurch ashore,” he said. “Of
course,” he went on hurriedly, “I know the whole thing ‘s wrong; but you remember that first
night, when you came running through the water for the skiff, and those fellows on the bank
busy popping away? We did n’t leave you in the lurch, did we?”
Joe assented reluctantly, and then a new thought flashed across his mind. “But they ‘re
pirates—and thieves—and criminals. They ‘re breaking the law, and you and I are not willingto be lawbreakers. Besides, they ‘ll not be left. There ‘s the Reindeer. There ‘s nothing to
prevent them from getting away on her, and they ‘ll never catch us in the dark.”
“Come on, then.” Though he had agreed, ‘Frisco Kid did not quite like it, for it still
seemed to savor of desertion.
They crawled forward and began to hoist the mainsail. The anchor they could slip, if
necessary, and save the time of pulling it up. But at the first rattle of the halyards on the
sheaves a warning “Hist!” came to them through the darkness, followed by a loudly whispered
“Drop that!”
Glancing in the direction from which these sounds proceeded, they made out a white
face peering at them from over the rail of the other sloop.
“Aw, it ‘s only the Reindeer’s boy,” ‘Frisco Kid said. “Come on.”
Again they were interrupted at the first rattling of the blocks.
“I say, you fellers, you ‘d better let go them halyards pretty quick, I ‘m a-tellin’ you, or I ‘ll
give you what for!”
This threat being dramatically capped by the click of a cocking pistol, ‘Frisco Kid obeyed
and went grumblingly back to the cockpit. “Oh, there ‘s plenty more chances to come,” he
whispered consolingly to Joe. “French Pete was cute, was n’t he? He thought you might be
trying to make a break, and put a guard on us.”
Nothing came from the shore to indicate how the pirates were faring. Not a dog barked,
not a light flared. Yet the air seemed quivering with an alarm about to burst forth. The night
had taken on a strained feeling of intensity, as though it held in store all kinds of terrible
things. The boys felt this keenly as they huddled against each other in the cockpit and waited.
“You were going to tell me about your running away,” Joe ventured finally, “and why you
came back again.”
‘Frisco Kid took up the tale at once, speaking in a muffled undertone close to the other’s
“You see, when I made up my mind to quit the life, there was n’t a soul to lend me a
hand; but I knew that the only thing for me to do was to get ashore and find some kind of
work, so I could study. Then I figured there ‘d be more chance in the country than in the city;
so I gave Red Nelson the slip—I was on the Reindeer then. One night on the Alameda
oysterbeds, I got ashore and headed back from the bay as fast as I could sprint. Nelson did n’t
catch me. But they were all Portuguese farmers thereabouts, and none of them had work for
me. Besides, it was in the wrong time of the year—winter. That shows how much I knew
about the land.
“I ‘d saved up a couple of dollars, and I kept traveling back, deeper and deeper into the
country, looking for work, and buying bread and cheese and such things from the
storekeepers. I tell you, it was cold, nights, sleeping out without blankets, and I was always
glad when morning came. But worse than that was the way everybody looked on me. They
were all suspicious, and not a bit afraid to show it, and sometimes they ‘d set their dogs on
me and tell me to get along. Seemed as though there was n’t any place for me on the land.
Then my money gave out, and just about the time I was good and hungry I got captured.”
“Captured! What for?”
“Nothing. Living, I suppose. I crawled into a haystack to sleep one night, because it was
warmer, and along comes a village constable and arrests me for being a tramp. At first they
thought I was a runaway, and telegraphed my description all over. I told them I did n’t have
any people, but they would n’t believe me for a long while. And then, when nobody claimed
me, the judge sent me to a boys’ ‘refuge’ in San Francisco.”
He stopped and peered intently in the direction of the shore. The darkness and the
silence in which the men had been swallowed up was profound. Nothing was stirring save the
rising wind.
“I thought I ‘d die in that ‘refuge.’ It was just like being in jail. We were locked up andguarded like prisoners. Even then, if I could have liked the other boys it might have been all
right. But they were mostly street-boys of the worst kind—lying, and sneaking, and cowardly,
without one spark of manhood or one idea of square dealing and fair play. There was only one
thing I did like, and that was the books. Oh, I did lots of reading, I tell you! But that could n’t
make up for the rest. I wanted the freedom and the sunlight and the salt water. And what had
I done to be kept in prison and herded with such a gang? Instead of doing wrong, I had tried
to do right, to make myself better, and that ‘s what I got for it. I was n’t old enough, you see,
to reason anything out.
“Sometimes I ‘d see the sunshine dancing on the water and showing white on the sails,
and the Reindeer cutting through it just as you please, and I ‘d get that sick I would know
hardly what I did. And then the boys would come against me with some of their meannesses,
and I ‘d start in to lick the whole kit of them. Then the men in charge would lock me up and
punish me. Well, I could n’t stand it any longer; I watched my chance and ran for it. Seemed
as though there was n’t any place on the land for me, so I picked up with French Pete and
went back on the bay. That ‘s about all there is to it, though I ‘m going to try it again when I
get a little older—old enough to get a square deal for myself.”
“You ‘re going to go back on the land with me,” Joe said authoritatively, laying a hand on
his shoulder. “That ‘s what you ‘re going to do. As for—”
Bang! a revolver-shot rang out from the shore. Bang! bang! More guns were speaking
sharply and hurriedly. A man’s voice rose wildly on the air and died away. Somebody began to
cry for help. Both boys were on their feet on the instant, hoisting the mainsail and getting
everything ready to run. The Reindeer boy was doing likewise. A man, roused from his sleep
on the yacht, thrust an excited head through the skylight, but withdrew it hastily at sight of the
two stranger sloops. The intensity of waiting was broken, the time for action come.
Chapter 18 — A New Responsibility for Joe

Heaving in on the anchor-chain till it was up and down, ‘Frisco Kid and Joe ceased from
their exertions. Everything was in readiness to give the Dazzler the jib, and go. They strained
their eyes in the direction of the shore. The clamor had died away, but here and there lights
were beginning to flash. The creaking of a block and tackle came to their ears, and they heard
Red Nelson’s voice singing out: “Lower away!” and “Cast off!”
“French Pete forgot to oil it,” ‘Frisco Kid commented, referring to the tackle.
“Takin’ their time about it, ain’t they?” the boy on the Reindeer called over to them, sitting
down on the cabin and mopping his face after the exertion of hoisting the mainsail
“Guess they ‘re all right,” ‘Frisco Kid rejoined. “All ready?”
“Yes—all right here.”
“Say, you,” the man on the yacht cried through the skylight, not venturing to show his
head. “You ‘d better go away.”
“And you ‘d better stay below and keep quiet,” was the response. “We ‘ll take care of
ourselves. You do the same.”
“If I was only out of this, I ‘d show you!” he threatened.
“Lucky for you you ‘re not,” responded the boy on the Reindeer; and thereat the man
kept quiet.
“Here they come!” said ‘Frisco Kid suddenly to Joe.
The two skiffs shot out of the darkness and came alongside. Some kind of an altercation
was going on, as French Pete’s voice attested.
“No, no!” he cried. “Put it on ze Dazzler. Ze Reindeer she sail too fast-a, and run away,
oh, so queeck, and never more I see it. Put it on ze Dazzler. Eh? Wot you say?”
“All right then,” Red Nelson agreed. “We ‘ll whack up afterwards. But, say, hurry up. Out
with you, lads, and heave her up! My arm ‘s broke.”
The men tumbled out, ropes were cast inboard, and all hands, with the exception of Joe,
tailed on. The shouting of men, the sound of oars, and the rattling and slapping of blocks and
sails, told that the men on shore were getting under way for the pursuit.
“Now!” Red Nelson commanded. “All together! Don’t let her come back or you ‘ll smash
the skiff. There she takes it! A long pull and a strong pull! Once again! And yet again! Get a
turn there, somebody, and take a spell.”
Though the task was but half accomplished, they were exhausted by the strenuous
effort, and hailed the rest eagerly. Joe glanced over the side to discover what the heavy
object might be, and saw the vague outlines of a small office-safe.
“Now all together!” Red Nelson began again. “Take her on the run and don’t let her stop!
Yo, ho! heave, ho! Once again! And another! Over with her!”
Straining and gasping, with tense muscles and heaving chests, they brought the
cumbersome weight over the side, rolled it on top of the rail, and lowered it into the cockpit on
the run. The cabin doors were thrown apart, and it was moved along, end for end, till it lay on
the cabin floor, snug against the end of the centerboard-case. Red Nelson had followed it
aboard to superintend. His left arm hung helpless at his side, and from the finger-tips blood
dripped with monotonous regularity. He did not seem to mind it, however, nor even the
mutterings of the human storm he had raised ashore, and which, to judge by the sounds, was
even then threatening to break upon them.
“Lay your course for the Golden Gate,” he said to French Pete, as he turned to go. “I ‘ll
try to stand by you, but if you get lost in the dark I ‘ll meet you outside, off the Farralones, in
the morning.” He sprang into the skiff after the men, and, with a wave of his uninjured arm,cried heartily: “And then it ‘s for Mexico, my lads—Mexico and summer weather!”
Just as the Dazzler, freed from her anchor, paid off under the jib and filled away, a dark
sail loomed under their stern, barely missing the skiff in tow. The cockpit of the stranger was
crowded with men, who raised their voices angrily at sight of the pirates. Joe had half a mind
to run forward and cut the halyards so that the Dazzler might be captured. As he had told
French Pete the day before, he had done nothing to be ashamed of, and was not afraid to go
before a court of justice. But the thought of ‘Frisco Kid restrained him. He wanted to take him
ashore with him, but in so doing he did not wish to take him to jail. So he, too, began to
experience a keen interest in the escape of the Dazzler.
The pursuing sloop rounded up hurriedly to come about after them, and in the darkness
fouled the yacht which lay at anchor. The man aboard of her, thinking that at last his time had
come, gave one wild yell, ran on deck, and leaped overboard. In the confusion of the collision,
and while they were endeavoring to save him, French Pete and the boys slipped away into the
The Reindeer had already disappeared, and by the time Joe and ‘Frisco Kid had the
running-gear coiled down and everything in shape, they were standing out in open water. The
wind was freshening constantly, and the Dazzler heeled a lively clip through the comparatively
smooth stretch. Before an hour had passed, the lights of Hunter’s Point were well on her
starboard beam. ‘Frisco Kid went below to make coffee, but Joe remained on deck, watching
the lights of South San Francisco grow, and speculating on their destination. Mexico! They
were going to sea in such a frail craft! Impossible! At least, it seemed so to him, for his
conceptions of ocean travel were limited to steamers and full-rigged ships. He was beginning
to feel half sorry that he had not cut the halyards, and longed to ask French Pete a thousand
questions; but just as the first was on his lips that worthy ordered him to go below and get
some coffee and then to turn in. He was followed shortly afterward by ‘Frisco Kid, French Pete
remaining at his lonely task of beating down the bay and out to sea. Twice he heard the
waves buffeted back from some flying forefoot, and once he saw a sail to leeward on the
opposite tack, which luffed sharply and came about at sight of him. But the darkness favored,
and he heard no more of it—perhaps because he worked into the wind closer by a point, and
held on his way with a shaking after-leech.
Shortly after dawn, the two boys were called and came sleepily on deck. The day had
broken cold and gray, while the wind had attained half a gale. Joe noted with astonishment the
white tents of the quarantine station on Angel Island. San Francisco lay a smoky blur on the
southern horizon, while the night, still lingering on the western edge of the world, slowly
withdrew before their eyes. French Pete was just finishing a long reach into the Raccoon
Straits, and at the same time studiously regarding a plunging sloop-yacht half a mile astern.
“Dey t’ink to catch ze Dazzler, eh? Bah!” And he brought the craft in question about,
laying a course straight for the Golden Gate.
The pursuing yacht followed suit. Joe watched her a few moments. She held an
apparently parallel course to them, and forged ahead much faster.
“Why, at this rate they ‘ll have us in no time!” he cried.
French Pete laughed. “You t’ink so? Bah! Dey outfoot; we outpoint. Dey are scared of ze
wind; we wipe ze eye of ze wind. Ah! you wait, you see.”
“They ‘re traveling ahead faster,” ‘Frisco Kid explained, “but we ‘re sailing closer to the
wind. In the end we ‘ll beat them, even if they have the nerve to cross the bar—which I don’t
think they have. Look! See!”
Ahead could be seen the great ocean surges, flinging themselves skyward and bursting
into roaring caps of smother. In the midst of it, now rolling her dripping bottom clear, now
sousing her deck-load of lumber far above the guards, a coasting steam-schooner was
lumbering drunkenly into port. It was magnificent—this battle between man and the elements.
Whatever timidity he had entertained fled away, and Joe’s nostrils began to dilate and hiseyes to flash at the nearness of the impending struggle.
French Pete called for his oilskins and sou’wester, and Joe also was equipped with a
spare suit. Then he and ‘Frisco Kid were sent below to lash and cleat the safe in place. In the
midst of this task Joe glanced at the firm-name, gilt-lettered on the face of it, and read:
“Bronson & Tate.” Why, that was his father and his father’s partner. That was their safe, their
money! ‘Frisco Kid, nailing the last cleat on the floor of the cabin, looked up and followed his
fascinated gaze.
“That ‘s rough, is n’t it,” he whispered. “Your father?”
Joe nodded. He could see it all now. They had run into San Andreas, where his father
worked the big quarries, and most probably the safe contained the wages of the thousand
men or more whom he employed. “Don’t say anything,” he cautioned.
‘Frisco Kid agreed knowingly. “French Pete can’t read, anyway,” he muttered, “and the
chances are that Red Nelson won’t know what your name is. But, just the same, it ‘s pretty
rough. They ‘ll break it open and divide up as soon as they can, so I don’t see what you ‘re
going to do about it.”
“Wait and see.” Joe had made up his mind that he would do his best to stand by his
father’s property. At the worst, it could only be lost; and that would surely be the case were he
not along, while, being along, he at least had a fighting chance to save it, or to be in position
to recover it. Responsibilities were showering upon him thick and fast. But a few days back he
had had but himself to consider; then, in some subtle way, he had felt a certain accountability
for ‘Frisco Kid’s future welfare; and after that, and still more subtly, he had become aware of
duties which he owed to his position, to his sister, to his chums and friends; and now, by a
most unexpected chain of circumstances, came the pressing need of service for his father’s
sake. It was a call upon his deepest strength, and he responded bravely. While the future
might be doubtful, he had no doubt of himself; and this very state of mind, this
selfconfidence, by a generous alchemy, gave him added resolution. Nor did he fail to be vaguely
aware of it, and to grasp dimly at the truth that confidence breeds confidence—strength,
Chapter 19 — The Boys Plan an Escape

“Now she takes it!” French Pete cried.
Both lads ran into the cockpit. They were on the edge of the breaking bar. A huge
fortyfooter reared a foam-crested head far above them, stealing their wind for the moment and
threatening to crush the tiny craft like an egg-shell. Joe held his breath. It was the supreme
moment. French Pete luffed straight into it, and the Dazzler mounted the steep slope with a
rush, poised a moment on the giddy summit, and fell into the yawning valley beyond. Keeping
off in the intervals to fill the mainsail, and luffing into the combers, they worked their way
across the dangerous stretch. Once they caught the tail-end of a whitecap and were well-nigh
smothered in the froth, but otherwise the sloop bobbed and ducked with the happy facility of a
To Joe it seemed as though he had been lifted out of himself—out of the world. Ah, this
was life! this was action! Surely it could not be the old, commonplace world he had lived in so
long! The sailors, grouped on the streaming deck-load of the steamer, waved their
sou’westers, and, on the bridge, even the captain was expressing his admiration for the plucky
“Ah, you see! you see!” French Pete pointed astern.
The sloop-yacht had been afraid to venture it, and was skirting back and forth on the
inner edge of the bar. The chase was over. A pilot-boat, running for shelter from the coming
storm, flew by them like a frightened bird, passing the steamer as though the latter were
standing still.
Half an hour later the Dazzler sped beyond the last smoking sea and was sliding up and
down on the long Pacific swell. The wind had increased its velocity and necessitated a reefing
down of jib and mainsail. Then they laid off again, full and free on the starboard tack, for the
Farralones, thirty miles away. By the time breakfast was cooked and eaten they picked up the
Reindeer, which was hove to and working offshore to the south and west. The wheel was
lashed down, and there was not a soul on deck.
French Pete complained bitterly against such recklessness. “Dat is ze one fault of Red
Nelson. He no care. He is afraid of not’ing. Some day he will die, oh, so vaire queeck! I know
he will.”
Three times they circled about the Reindeer, running under her weather quarter and
shouting in chorus, before they brought anybody on deck. Sail was then made at once, and
together the two cockle-shells plunged away into the vastness of the Pacific. This was
necessary, as ‘Frisco Kid informed Joe, in order to have an offing before the whole fury of the
storm broke upon them. Otherwise they would be driven on the lee shore of the California
coast. Grub and water, he said, could be obtained by running into the land when fine weather
came. He congratulated Joe upon the fact that he was not seasick, which circumstance
likewise brought praise from French Pete and put him in better humor with his mutinous young
“I ‘ll tell you what we ‘ll do,” ‘Frisco Kid whispered, while cooking dinner. “To-night we ‘ll
drag French Pete down—”
“Drag French Pete down!”
“Yes, and tie him up good and snug, as soon as it gets dark; then put out the lights and
make a run for land; get to port anyway, anywhere, just so long as we shake loose from Red
“Yes,” Joe deliberated; “that would be all right—if I could do it alone. But as for asking
you to help me—why, that would be treason to French Pete.”
“That ‘s what I ‘m coming to. I ‘ll help you if you promise me a few things. French Petetook me aboard when I ran away from the ‘refuge,’ when I was starving and had no place to
go, and I just can’t repay him for that by sending him to jail. ‘T would n’t be square. Your
father would n’t have you break your word, would he?”
“No; of course not.” Joe knew how sacredly his father held his word of honor.
“Then you must promise, and your father must see it carried out, not to press any
charge against French Pete.”
“All right. And now, what about yourself? You can’t very well expect to go away with him
again on the Dazzler!”
“Oh, don’t bother about me. There ‘s nobody to miss me. I ‘m strong enough, and know
enough about it, to ship to sea as ordinary seaman. I ‘ll go away somewhere over on the other
side of the world, and begin all over again.”
“Then we ‘ll have to call it off, that ‘s all.”
“Call what off?”
“Tying French Pete up and running for it.”
“No, sir. That ‘s decided upon.”
“Now listen here: I ‘ll not have a thing to do with it. I ‘ll go on to Mexico first, if you don’t
make me one promise.”
“And what ‘s the promise?”
“Just this: you place yourself in my hands from the moment we get ashore, and trust to
me. You don’t know anything about the land, anyway—you said so. And I ‘ll fix it with my
father—I know I can—so that you can get to know people of the right sort, and study and get
an education, and be something else than a bay pirate or a sailor. That ‘s what you ‘d like, is
n’t it?”
Though he said nothing, ‘Frisco Kid showed how well he liked it by the expression of his
“And it ‘ll be no more than your due, either,” Joe continued. “You will have stood by me,
and you ‘ll have recovered my father’s money. He ‘ll owe it to you.”
“But I don’t do things that way. I don’t think much of a man who does a favor just to be
paid for it.”
“Now you keep quiet. How much do you think it would cost my father for detectives and
all that to recover that safe? Give me your promise, that ‘s all, and when I ‘ve got things
arranged, if you don’t like them you can back out. Come on; that ‘s fair.”
They shook hands on the bargain, and proceeded to map out their line of action for the


But the storm, yelling down out of the northwest, had something entirely different in store
for the Dazzler and her crew. By the time dinner was over they were forced to put double
reefs in mainsail and jib, and still the gale had not reached its height. The sea, also, had been
kicked up till it was a continuous succession of water-mountains, frightful and withal grand to
look upon from the low deck of the sloop. It was only when the sloops were tossed upon the
crests of the waves at the same time that they caught sight of each other. Occasional
fragments of seas swashed into the cockpit or dashed aft over the cabin, and Joe was
stationed at the small pump to keep the well dry.
At three o’clock, watching his chance, French Pete motioned to the Reindeer that he was
going to heave to and get out a sea-anchor. This latter was of the nature of a large shallow
canvas bag, with the mouth held open by triangularly lashed spars. To this the towing-ropes
were attached, on the kite principle, so that the greatest resisting surface was presented to
the water. The sloop, drifting so much faster, would thus be held bow on to both wind and sea
—the safest possible position in a storm. Red Nelson waved his hand in response that heunderstood and to go ahead.
French Pete went forward to launch the sea-anchor himself, leaving it to ‘Frisco Kid to
put the helm down at the proper moment and run into the wind. The Frenchman poised on the
slippery fore-deck, waiting an opportunity. But at that moment the Dazzler lifted into an
unusually large sea, and, as she cleared the summit, caught a heavy snort of the gale at the
very instant she was righting herself to an even keel. Thus there was not the slightest yield to
this sudden pressure on her sails and mast-gear.
There was a quick snap, followed by a crash. The steel weather-rigging carried away at
the lanyards, and mast, jib, mainsail, blocks, stays, sea-anchor, French Pete—everything—
went over the side. Almost by a miracle, the captain clutched at the bobstay and managed to
get one hand up and over the bowsprit. The boys ran forward to drag him into safety, and Red
Nelson, observing the disaster, put up his helm and ran down to the rescue.
Chapter 20 — Perilous Hours

French Pete was uninjured from the fall overboard with the Dazzler’s mast; but the
seaanchor, which had gone with him, had not escaped so easily. The gaff of the mainsail had
been driven through it, and it refused to work. The wreckage, thumping alongside, held the
sloop in a quartering slant to the seas—not so dangerous a position as it might be, nor so
safe, either. “Good-by, old-a Dazzler. Never no more you wipe ze eye of ze wind. Never no
more you kick your heels at ze crack gentlemen-yachts.”
So the captain lamented, standing in the cockpit and surveying the ruin with wet eyes.
Even Joe, who bore him great dislike, felt sorry for him at this moment. A heavier blast of the
wind caught the jagged crest of a wave and hurled it upon the helpless craft.
“Can’t we save her?” Joe spluttered.
‘Frisco Kid shook his head.
“Nor the safe?”
“Impossible,” he answered. “Could n’t lay another boat alongside for a United States
mint. As it is, it ‘ll keep us guessing to save ourselves.”
Another sea swept over them, and the skiff, which had long since been swamped,
dashed itself to pieces against the stern. Then the Reindeer towered above them on a
mountain of water. Joe caught himself half shrinking back, for it seemed she would fall down
squarely on top of them; but the next instant she dropped into the gaping trough, and they
were looking down upon her far below. It was a striking picture—one Joe was destined never
to forget. The Reindeer was wallowing in the snow-white smother, her rails flush with the sea,
the water scudding across her deck in foaming cataracts. The air was filled with flying spray,
which made the scene appear hazy and unreal. One of the men was clinging to the perilous
after-deck and striving to cast off the water-logged skiff. The boy, leaning far over the
cockpitrail and holding on for dear life, was passing him a knife. The second man stood at the wheel,
putting it up with flying hands and forcing the sloop to pay off. Beside him, his injured arm in a
sling, was Red Nelson, his sou’wester gone and his fair hair plastered in wet, wind-blown
ringlets about his face. His whole attitude breathed indomitability, courage, strength. It
seemed almost as though the divine were blazing forth from him. Joe looked upon him in
sudden awe, and, realizing the enormous possibilities of the man, felt sorrow for the way in
which they had been wasted. A thief and a robber! In that flashing moment Joe caught a
glimpse of human truth, grasped at the mystery of success and failure. Life threw back its
curtains that he might read it and understand. Of such stuff as Red Nelson were heroes
made; but they possessed wherein he lacked—the power of choice, the careful poise of mind,
the sober control of soul: in short, the very things his father had so often “preached” to him
These were the thoughts which came to Joe in the flight of a second. Then the Reindeer
swept skyward and hurtled across their bow to leeward on the breast of a mighty billow.
“Ze wild man! ze wild man!” French Pete shrieked, watching her in amazement. “He t’inks
he can jibe! He will die! We will all die! He must come about. Oh, ze fool, ze fool!”
But time was precious, and Red Nelson ventured the chance. At the right moment he
jibed the mainsail over and hauled back on the wind.
“Here she comes! Make ready to jump for it,” ‘Frisco Kid cried to Joe.
The Reindeer dashed by their stern, heeling over till the cabin windows were buried, and
so close that it appeared she must run them down. But a freak of the waters lurched the two
crafts apart. Red Nelson, seeing that the manoeuver had miscarried, instantly instituted
another. Throwing the helm hard up, the Reindeer whirled on her heel, thus swinging her
overhanging main-boom closer to the Dazzler. French Pete was the nearest, and theopportunity could last no longer than a second. Like a cat he sprang, catching the foot-rope
with both hands. Then the Reindeer forged ahead, dipping him into the sea at every plunge.
But he clung on, working inboard every time he emerged, till he dropped into the cockpit as
Red Nelson squared off to run down to leeward and repeat the manoeuver.
“Your turn next,” ‘Frisco Kid said.
“No; yours,” Joe replied.
“But I know more about the water,” ‘Frisco Kid insisted.
“And I can swim as well as you,” the other retorted.
It would have been hard to forecast the outcome of this dispute; but, as it was, the swift
rush of events made any settlement needless. The Reindeer had jibed over and was plowing
back at breakneck speed, careening at such an angle that it seemed she must surely capsize.
It was a gallant sight. Just then the storm burst in all its fury, the shouting wind flattening the
ragged crests till they boiled. The Reindeer dipped from view behind an immense wave. The
wave rolled on, but the next moment, where the sloop had been, the boys noted with startled
eyes only the angry waters! Doubting, they looked a second time. There was no Reindeer.
They were alone on the torn crest of the ocean!
“God have mercy on their souls!” ‘Frisco Kid said solemnly.
Joe was too horrified at the suddenness of the catastrophe to utter a sound.
“Sailed her clean under, and, with the ballast she carried, went straight to bottom,”
‘Frisco Kid gasped. Then, turning to their own pressing need, he said: “Now we ‘ve got to look
out for ourselves. The back of the storm broke in that puff, but the sea ‘ll kick up worse yet as
the wind eases down. Lend a hand and hang on with the other. We ‘ve got to get her
Together, knives in hand, they crawled forward to where the pounding wreckage
hampered the boat sorely. ‘Frisco Kid took the lead in the ticklish work, but Joe obeyed orders
like a veteran. Every minute or two the bow was swept by the sea, and they were pounded
and buffeted about like a pair of shuttlecocks. First the main portion of the wreckage was
securely fastened to the forward bitts; then, breathless and gasping, more often under the
water than out, they cut and hacked at the tangle of halyards, sheets, stays, and tackles. The
cockpit was taking water rapidly, and it was a race between swamping and completing the
task. At last, however, everything stood clear save the lee rigging. ‘Frisco Kid slashed the
lanyards. The storm did the rest. The Dazzler drifted swiftly to leeward of the wreckage till the
strain on the line fast to the forward bitts jerked her bow into place and she ducked dead into
the eye of the wind and sea.
Pausing only for a cheer at the success of their undertaking, the two lads raced aft,
where the cockpit was half full and the dunnage of the cabin all afloat. With a couple of
buckets procured from the stern lockers, they proceeded to fling the water overboard. It was
heartbreaking work, for many a barrelful was flung back upon them again; but they
persevered, and when night fell the Dazzler, bobbing merrily at her sea-anchor, could boast
that her pumps sucked once more. As ‘Frisco Kid had said, the backbone of the storm was
broken, though the wind had veered to the west, where it still blew stiffly.
“If she holds,” ‘Frisco Kid said, referring to the breeze, “we ‘ll drift to the California coast
sometime to-morrow. Nothing to do now but wait.”
They said little, oppressed by the loss of their comrades and overcome with exhaustion,
preferring to huddle against each other for the sake of warmth and companionship. It was a
miserable night, and they shivered constantly from the cold. Nothing dry was to be obtained
aboard, food, blankets, everything being soaked with the salt water. Sometimes they dozed;
but these intervals were short and harassing, for it seemed each took turn in waking with such
sudden starts as to rouse the other.
At last day broke, and they looked about. Wind and sea had dropped considerably, and
there was no question as to the safety of the Dazzler. The coast was nearer than they hadexpected, its cliffs showing dark and forbidding in the gray of dawn. But with the rising of the
sun they could see the yellow beaches, flanked by the white surf, and beyond—it seemed too
good to be true—the clustering houses and smoking chimneys of a town.
“Santa Cruz!” ‘Frisco Kid cried, “and no chance of being wrecked in the surf!”
“Then the safe is safe?” Joe queried.
“Safe! I should say so. It ain’t much of a sheltered harbor for large vessels, but with this
breeze we ‘ll run right up the mouth of the San Lorenzo River. Then there ‘s a little lake like,
and a boat-house. Water smooth as glass and hardly over your head. You see, I was down
here once before, with Red Nelson. Come on. We ‘ll be in in time for breakfast.”
Bringing to light some spare coils of rope from the lockers, he put a clove-hitch on the
standing part of the sea-anchor hawser, and carried the new running-line aft, making it fast to
the stern bitts. Then he cast off from the forward bitts. The Dazzler swung off into the trough,
completed the evolution, and pointed her nose toward shore. A couple of spare oars from
below, and as many water-soaked blankets, sufficed to make a jury-mast and sail. When this
was in place, Joe cast loose from the wreckage, which was now towing astern, while ‘Frisco
Kid took the tiller.
Chapter 21 — Joe and His Father

“How ‘s that?” cried ‘Frisco Kid, as he finished making the Dazzler fast fore and aft, and
sat down on the stringpiece of the tiny wharf. “What ‘ll we do next, captain?”
Joe looked up in quick surprise. “Why—I—what ‘s the matter?”
“Well, ain’t you captain now? Have n’t we reached land? I ‘m crew from now on, ain’t I?
What ‘s your orders?”
Joe caught the spirit of it. “Pipe all hands for breakfast—that is—wait a minute.”
Diving below, he possessed himself of the money he had stowed away in his bundle
when he came aboard. Then he locked the cabin door, and they went uptown in search of a
restaurant. Over the breakfast Joe planned the next move, and, when they had done,
communicated it to ‘Frisco Kid.
In response to his inquiry, the cashier told him when the morning train started for San
Francisco. He glanced at the clock.
“Just time to catch it,” he said to ‘Frisco Kid. “Keep the cabin doors locked, and don’t let
anybody come aboard. Here ‘s money. Eat at the restaurants. Dry your blankets and sleep in
the cockpit. I ‘ll be back to-morrow. And don’t let anybody into that cabin. Good-by.”
With a hasty hand-grip, he sped down the street to the depot. The conductor looked at
him with surprise when he punched his ticket. And well he might, for it was not the custom of
his passengers to travel in sea-boots and sou’westers. But Joe did not mind. He did not even
notice. He had bought a paper and was absorbed in its contents. Before long his eyes caught
an interesting paragraph:

Supposed to Have Been Lost
The tug Sea Queen, chartered by Bronson & Tate, has returned from a fruitless cruise
outside the Heads. No news of value could be obtained concerning the pirates who so daringly
carried off their safe at San Andreas last Tuesday night. The lighthouse-keeper at the
Farralones mentions having sighted the two sloops Wednesday morning, clawing offshore in
the teeth of the gale. It is supposed by shipping men that they perished in the storm with, their
ill-gotten treasure. Rumor has it that, in addition to the ten thousand dollars in gold, the safe
contained papers of great importance.

When Joe had read this he felt a great relief. It was evident no one had been killed at
San Andreas the night of the robbery, else there would have been some comment on it in the
paper. Nor, if they had had any clue to his own whereabouts, would they have omitted such a
striking bit of information.
At the depot in San Francisco the curious onlookers were surprised to see a boy clad
conspicuously in sea-boots and sou’wester hail a cab and dash away. But Joe was in a hurry.
He knew his father’s hours, and was fearful lest he should not catch him before he went to
The office-boy scowled at him when he pushed open the door and asked to see Mr.
Bronson; nor could the head clerk, when summoned by this disreputable intruder, recognize
“Don’t you know me, Mr. Willis?”
Mr. Willis looked a second time. “Why, it ‘s Joe Bronson! Of all things under the sun,
where did you drop from? Go right in. Your father ‘s in there.”
Mr. Bronson stopped dictating to his stenographer and looked up. “Hello! Where have
you been?” he said.
“To sea,” Joe answered demurely, not sure of just what kind of a reception he was toget, and fingering his sou’wester nervously.
“Short trip, eh? How did you make out?”
“Oh, so-so.” He had caught the twinkle in his father’s eye and knew that it was all clear
sailing. “Not so bad—er—that is, considering.”
“Well, not exactly that; rather, it might have been worse, while it could n’t have been
“That ‘s interesting. Sit down.” Then, turning to the stenographer: “You may go, Mr.
Brown, and—hum!—I won’t need you any more to-day.”
It was all Joe could do to keep from crying, so kindly and naturally had his father
received him, making him feel at once as if not the slightest thing uncommon had occurred. It
seemed as if he had just returned from a vacation, or, man-grown, had come back from some
business trip.
“Now go ahead, Joe. You were speaking to me a moment ago in conundrums, and you
have aroused my curiosity to a most uncomfortable degree.”
Whereupon Joe sat down and told what had happened—all that had happened—from
Monday night to that very moment. Each little incident he related,—every detail,—not
forgetting his conversations with ‘Frisco Kid nor his plans concerning him. His face flushed and
he was carried away with the excitement of the narrative, while Mr. Bronson was almost as
eager, urging him on whenever he slackened his pace, but otherwise remaining silent.
“So you see,” Joe concluded, “it could n’t possibly have turned out any better.”
“Ah, well,” Mr. Bronson deliberated judiciously, “it may be so, and then again it may not.”
“I don’t see it.” Joe felt sharp disappointment at his father’s qualified approval. It seemed
to him that the return of the safe merited something stronger.
That Mr. Bronson fully comprehended the way Joe felt about it was clearly in evidence,
for he went on: “As to the matter of the safe, all hail to you, Joe! Credit, and plenty of it, is
your due. Mr. Tate and myself have already spent five hundred dollars in attempting to
recover it. So important was it that we have also offered five thousand dollars reward, and but
this morning were considering the advisability of increasing the amount. But, my son,”—Mr.
Bronson stood up, resting a hand affectionately on his boy’s shoulder,—”there are certain
things in this world which are of still greater importance than gold, or papers which represent
what gold may buy. How about yourself? That ‘s the point. Will you sell the best possibilities of
your life right now for a million dollars?”
Joe shook his head.
“As I said, that ‘s the point. A human life the money of the world cannot buy; nor can it
redeem one which is misspent; nor can it make full and complete and beautiful a life which is
dwarfed and warped and ugly. How about yourself? What is to be the effect of all these
strange adventures on your life—your life, Joe? Are you going to pick yourself up to-morrow
and try it over again? or the next day? or the day after? Do you understand? Why, Joe, do
you think for one moment that I would place against the best value of my son’s life the paltry
value of a safe? And can I say, until time has told me, whether this trip of yours could not
possibly have been better? Such an experience is as potent for evil as for good. One dollar is
exactly like another—there are many in the world: but no Joe is like my Joe, nor can there be
any others in the world to take his place. Don’t you see, Joe? Don’t you understand?”
Mr. Bronson’s voice broke slightly, and the next instant Joe was sobbing as though his
heart would break. He had never understood this father of his before, and he knew now the
pain he must have caused him, to say nothing of his mother and sister. But the four stirring
days he had lived had given him a clearer view of the world and humanity, and he had always
possessed the power of putting his thoughts into speech; so he spoke of these things and the
lessons he had learned—the conclusions he had drawn from his conversations with ‘Frisco
Kid, from his intercourse with French Pete, from the graphic picture he retained of theReindeer and Red Nelson as they wallowed in the trough beneath him. And Mr. Bronson
listened and, in turn, understood.
“But what of ‘Frisco Kid, father?” Joe asked when he had finished.
“Hum! there seems to be a great deal of promise in the boy, from what you say of him.”
Mr. Bronson hid the twinkle in his eye this time. “And, I must confess, he seems perfectly
capable of shifting for himself.”
“Sir?” Joe could not believe his ears.
“Let us see, then. He is at present entitled to the half of five thousand dollars, the other
half of which belongs to you. It was you two who preserved the safe from the bottom of the
Pacific, and if you only had waited a little longer, Mr. Tate and myself would have increased
the reward.”
“Oh!” Joe caught a glimmering of the light. “Part of that is easily arranged. I simply
refuse to take my half. As to the other—that is n’t exactly what ‘Frisco Kid desires. He wants
friends—and—and—though you did n’t say so, they are far higher than money, nor can
money buy them. He wants friends and a chance for an education, not twenty-five hundred
“Don’t you think it would be better for him to choose for himself?”
“Ah, no. That ‘s all arranged.”
“Yes, sir. He ‘s captain on sea, and I ‘m captain on land. So he ‘s under my charge now.”
“Then you have the power of attorney for him in the present negotiations? Good. I ‘ll
make you a proposition. The twenty-five hundred dollars shall be held in trust by me, on his
demand at any time. We ‘ll settle about yours afterward. Then he shall be put on probation
for, say, a year—in our office. You can either coach him in his studies, for I am confident now
that you will be up in yours hereafter, or he can attend night-school. And after that, if he
comes through his period of probation with flying colors, I ‘ll give him the same opportunities
for an education that you possess. It all depends on himself. And now, Mr. Attorney, what
have you to say to my offer in the interests of your client?”
“That I close with it at once.”
Father and son shook hands.
“And what are you going to do now, Joe?”
“Send a telegram to ‘Frisco Kid first, and then hurry home.”
“Then wait a minute till I call up San Andreas and tell Mr. Tate the good news, and then I
‘ll go with you.”
“Mr. Willis,” Mr. Bronson said as they left the outer office, “the San Andreas safe is
recovered, and we ‘ll all take a holiday. Kindly tell the clerks that they are free for the rest of
the day. And I say,” he called back as they entered the elevator, “don’t forget the office-boy.”
A Daughter of the Snows
First published : 1902

Chapter 1

“All ready, Miss Welse, though I’m sorry we can’t spare one of the steamer’s boats.”
Frona Welse arose with alacrity and came to the first officer’s side.
“We’re so busy,” he explained, “and gold-rushers are such perishable freight, at least—”
“I understand,” she interrupted, “and I, too, am behaving as though I were perishable.
And I am sorry for the trouble I am giving you, but—but—” She turned quickly and pointed to
the shore. “Do you see that big log-house? Between the clump of pines and the river? I was
born there.”
“Guess I’d be in a hurry myself,” he muttered, sympathetically, as he piloted her along
the crowded deck.
Everybody was in everybody else’s way; nor was there one who failed to proclaim it at
the top of his lungs. A thousand gold-seekers were clamoring for the immediate landing of
their outfits. Each hatchway gaped wide open, and from the lower depths the shrieking
donkey-engines were hurrying the misassorted outfits skyward. On either side of the steamer,
rows of scows received the flying cargo, and on each of these scows a sweating mob of men
charged the descending slings and heaved bales and boxes about in frantic search. Men
waved shipping receipts and shouted over the steamer-rails to them. Sometimes two and
three identified the same article, and war arose. The “two-circle” and the “circle-and-dot”
brands caused endless jangling, while every whipsaw discovered a dozen claimants.
“The purser insists that he is going mad,” the first officer said, as he helped Frona Welse
down the gangway to the landing stage, “and the freight clerks have turned the cargo over to
the passengers and quit work. But we’re not so unlucky as the Star of Bethlehem,” he
reassured her, pointing to a steamship at anchor a quarter of a mile away. “Half of her
passengers have pack-horses for Skaguay and White Pass, and the other half are bound over
the Chilcoot. So they’ve mutinied and everything’s at a standstill.”
“Hey, you!” he cried, beckoning to a Whitehall which hovered discreetly on the outer rim
of the floating confusion.
A tiny launch, pulling heroically at a huge tow-barge, attempted to pass between; but the
boatman shot nervily across her bow, and just as he was clear, unfortunately, caught a crab.
This slewed the boat around and brought it to a stop.
“Watch out!” the first officer shouted.
A pair of seventy-foot canoes, loaded with outfits, gold-rushers, and Indians, and under
full sail, drove down from the counter direction. One of them veered sharply towards the
landing stage, but the other pinched the Whitehall against the barge. The boatman had
unshipped his oars in time, but his small craft groaned under the pressure and threatened to
collapse. Whereat he came to his feet, and in short, nervous phrases consigned all
canoemen and launch-captains to eternal perdition. A man on the barge leaned over from above
and baptized him with crisp and crackling oaths, while the whites and Indians in the canoe
laughed derisively.
“Aw, g’wan!” one of them shouted. “Why don’t yeh learn to row?”
The boatman’s fist landed on the point of his critic’s jaw and dropped him stunned upon
the heaped merchandise. Not content with this summary act he proceeded to follow his fist
into the other craft. The miner nearest him tugged vigorously at a revolver which had jammed
in its shiny leather holster, while his brother argonauts, laughing, waited the outcome. But the
canoe was under way again, and the Indian helmsman drove the point of his paddle into the
boatman’s chest and hurled him backward into the bottom of the Whitehall.
When the flood of oaths and blasphemy was at full tide, and violent assault and quickdeath seemed most imminent, the first officer had stolen a glance at the girl by his side. He
had expected to find a shocked and frightened maiden countenance, and was not at all
prepared for the flushed and deeply interested face which met his eyes.
“I am sorry,” he began.
But she broke in, as though annoyed by the interruption, “No, no; not at all. I am enjoying
it every bit. Though I am glad that man’s revolver stuck. If it had not—”
“We might have been delayed in getting ashore.” The first officer laughed, and therein
displayed his tact.
“That man is a robber,” he went on, indicating the boatman, who had now shoved his
oars into the water and was pulling alongside. “He agreed to charge only twenty dollars for
putting you ashore. Said he’d have made it twenty-five had it been a man. He’s a pirate, mark
me, and he will surely hang some day. Twenty dollars for a half-hour’s work! Think of it!”
“Easy, sport! Easy!” cautioned the fellow in question, at the same time making an
awkward landing and dropping one of his oars over-side. “You’ve no call to be flingin’ names
about,” he added, defiantly, wringing out his shirt-sleeve, wet from rescue of the oar.
“You’ve got good ears, my man,” began the first officer.
“And a quick fist,” the other snapped in.
“And a ready tongue.”
“Need it in my business. No gettin’ ‘long without it among you sea-sharks. Pirate, am I?
And you with a thousand passengers packed like sardines! Charge ‘em double first-class
passage, feed ‘em steerage grub, and bunk ‘em worse ‘n pigs! Pirate, eh! Me?”
A red-faced man thrust his head over the rail above and began to bellow lustily.
“I want my stock landed! Come up here, Mr. Thurston! Now! Right away! Fifty cayuses of
| mine eating their heads off in this dirty kennel of yours, and it’ll be a sick time you’ll have if
you don’t hustle them ashore as fast as God’ll let you! I’m losing a thousand dollars a day, and
I won’t stand it! Do you hear? I won’t stand it! You’ve robbed me right and left from the time
you cleared dock in Seattle, and by the hinges of hell I won’t stand it any more! I’ll break this
company as sure as my name’s Thad Ferguson! D’ye hear my spiel? I’m Thad Ferguson, and
you can’t come and see me any too quick for your health! D’ye hear?”
“Pirate; eh?” the boatman soliloquized. “Who? Me?”
Mr. Thurston waved his hand appeasingly at the red-faced man, and turned to the girl.
“I’d like to go ashore with you, and as far as the store, but you see how busy we are.
Goodby, and a lucky trip to you. I’ll tell off a couple of men at once and break out your baggage.
Have it up at the store to-morrow morning, sharp.”
She took his hand lightly and stepped aboard. Her weight gave the leaky boat a sudden
lurch, and the water hurtled across the bottom boards to her shoe-tops: but she took it coolly
enough, settling herself in the stern-sheets and tucking her feet under her.
“Hold on!” the officer cried. “This will never do, Miss Welse. Come on back, and I’ll get
one of our boats over as soon as I can.”
“I’ll see you in—in heaven first,” retorted the boatman, shoving off.
“Let go!” he threatened.
Mr. Thurston gripped tight hold of the gunwale, and as reward for his chivalry had his
knuckles rapped sharply by the oar-blade. Then he forgot himself, and Miss Welse also, and
swore, and swore fervently.
“I dare say our farewell might have been more dignified,” she called back to him, her
laughter rippling across the water.
“Jove!” he muttered, doffing his cap gallantly. “There is a woman!” And a sudden hunger
seized him, and a yearning to see himself mirrored always in the gray eyes of Frona Welse.
He was not analytical; he did not know why; but he knew that with her he could travel to the
end of the earth. He felt a distaste for his profession, and a temptation to throw it all over and
strike out for the Klondike whither she was going; then he glanced up the beetling side of theship, saw the red face of Thad Ferguson, and forgot the dream he had for an instant
Splash! A handful of water from his strenuous oar struck her full in the face. “Hope you
don’t mind it, miss,” he apologized. “I’m doin’ the best I know how, which ain’t much.”
“So it seems,” she answered, good-naturedly.
“Not that I love the sea,” bitterly; “but I’ve got to turn a few honest dollars somehow, and
this seemed the likeliest way. I oughter ‘a ben in Klondike by now, if I’d had any luck at all. Tell
you how it was. I lost my outfit on Windy Arm, half-way in, after packin’ it clean across the
Zip! Splash! She shook the water from her eyes, squirming the while as some of it ran
down her warm back.
“You’ll do,” he encouraged her. “You’re the right stuff for this country. Goin’ all the way
She nodded cheerfully.
“Then you’ll do. But as I was sayin’, after I lost my outfit I hit back for the coast, bein’
broke, to hustle up another one. That’s why I’m chargin’ high-pressure rates. And I hope you
don’t feel sore at what I made you pay. I’m no worse than the rest, miss, sure. I had to dig up
a hundred for this old tub, which ain’t worth ten down in the States. Same kind of prices
everywhere. Over on the Skaguay Trail horseshoe nails is just as good as a quarter any day.
A man goes up to the bar and calls for a whiskey. Whiskey’s half a dollar. Well, he drinks his
whiskey, plunks down two horseshoe nails, and it’s O.K. No kick comin’ on horseshoe nails.
They use ‘em to make change.”
“You must be a brave man to venture into the country again after such an experience.
Won’t you tell me your name? We may meet on the Inside.”
“Who? Me? Oh, I’m Del Bishop, pocket-miner; and if ever we run across each other,
remember I’d give you the last shirt—I mean, remember my last bit of grub is yours.”
“Thank you,” she answered with a sweet smile; for she was a woman who loved the
things which rose straight from the heart.
He stopped rowing long enough to fish about in the water around his feet for an old
cornbeef can.
“You’d better do some bailin’,” he ordered, tossing her the can.
“She’s leakin’ worse since that squeeze.”
Frona smiled mentally, tucked up her skirts, and bent to the work. At every dip, like great
billows heaving along the sky-line, the glacier-fretted mountains rose and fell. Sometimes she
rested her back and watched the teeming beach towards which they were heading, and again,
the land-locked arm of the sea in which a score or so of great steamships lay at anchor. From
each of these, to the shore and back again, flowed a steady stream of scows, launches,
canoes, and all sorts of smaller craft. Man, the mighty toiler, reacting upon a hostile
environment, she thought, going back in memory to the masters whose wisdom she had
shared in lecture-room and midnight study. She was a ripened child of the age, and fairly
understood the physical world and the workings thereof. And she had a love for the world, and
a deep respect.
For some time Del Bishop had only punctuated the silence with splashes from his oars;
but a thought struck him.
“You haven’t told me your name,” he suggested, with complacent delicacy.
“My name is Welse,” she answered. “Frona Welse.”
A great awe manifested itself in his face, and grew to a greater and greater awe. “You—
are—Frona—Welse?” he enunciated slowly. “Jacob Welse ain’t your old man, is he?”
“Yes; I am Jacob Welse’s daughter, at your service.”
He puckered his lips in a long low whistle of understanding and stopped rowing. “Just you
climb back into the stern and take your feet out of that water,” he commanded. “And gimmeholt that can.”
“Am I not bailing satisfactorily?” she demanded, indignantly.
“Yep. You’re doin’ all right; but, but, you are—are—”
“Just what I was before you knew who I was. Now you go on rowing,—that’s your share
of the work; and I’ll take care of mine.”
“Oh, you’ll do!” he murmured ecstatically, bending afresh to the oars. “And Jacob Welse
is your old man? I oughter ‘a known it, sure!”
When they reached the sand-spit, crowded with heterogeneous piles of merchandise and
buzzing with men, she stopped long enough to shake hands with her ferryman. And though
such a proceeding on the part of his feminine patrons was certainly unusual, Del Bishop
squared it easily with the fact that she was Jacob Welse’s daughter.
“Remember, my last bit of grub is yours,” he reassured her, still holding her hand.
“And your last shirt, too; don’t forget.”
“Well, you’re a—a—a crackerjack!” he exploded with a final squeeze. “Sure!”
Her short skirt did not block the free movement of her limbs, and she discovered with
pleasurable surprise that the quick tripping step of the city pavement had departed from her,
and that she was swinging off in the long easy stride which is born of the trail and which
comes only after much travail and endeavor. More than one gold-rusher, shooting keen
glances at her ankles and gray-gaitered calves, affirmed Del Bishop’s judgment. And more
than one glanced up at her face, and glanced again; for her gaze was frank, with the
frankness of comradeship; and in her eyes there was always a smiling light, just trembling on
the verge of dawn; and did the onlooker smile, her eyes smiled also. And the smiling light was
protean-mooded,—merry, sympathetic, joyous, quizzical,—the complement of whatsoever
kindled it. And sometimes the light spread over all her face, till the smile prefigured by it was
realized. But it was always in frank and open comradeship.
And there was much to cause her to smile as she hurried through the crowd, across the
sand-spit, and over the flat towards the log-building she had pointed out to Mr. Thurston. Time
had rolled back, and locomotion and transportation were once again in the most primitive
stages. Men who had never carried more than parcels in all their lives had now become
bearers of burdens. They no longer walked upright under the sun, but stooped the body
forward and bowed the head to the earth. Every back had become a pack-saddle, and the
strap-galls were beginning to form. They staggered beneath the unwonted effort, and legs
became drunken with weariness and titubated in divers directions till the sunlight darkened
and bearer and burden fell by the way. Other men, exulting secretly, piled their goods on
twowheeled go-carts and pulled out blithely enough, only to stall at the first spot where the great
round boulders invaded the trail. Whereat they generalized anew upon the principles of
Alaskan travel, discarded the go-cart, or trundled it back to the beach and sold it at fabulous
price to the last man landed. Tenderfeet, with ten pounds of Colt’s revolvers, cartridges, and
hunting-knives belted about them, wandered valiantly up the trail, and crept back softly,
shedding revolvers, cartridges, and knives in despairing showers. And so, in gasping and
bitter sweat, these sons of Adam suffered for Adam’s sin.
Frona felt vaguely disturbed by this great throbbing rush of gold-mad men, and the old
scene with its clustering associations seemed blotted out by these toiling aliens. Even the old
landmarks appeared strangely unfamiliar. It was the same, yet not the same. Here, on the
grassy flat, where she had played as a child and shrunk back at the sound of her voice
echoing from glacier to glacier, ten thousand men tramped ceaselessly up and down, grinding
the tender herbage into the soil and mocking the stony silence. And just up the trail were ten
thousand men who had passed by, and over the Chilcoot were ten thousand more. And
behind, all down the island-studded Alaskan coast, even to the Horn, were yet ten thousand
more, harnessers of wind and steam, hasteners from the ends of the earth. The Dyea River
as of old roared turbulently down to the sea; but its ancient banks were gored by the feet ofmany men, and these men labored in surging rows at the dripping tow-lines, and the
deepladen boats followed them as they fought their upward way. And the will of man strove with
the will of the water, and the men laughed at the old Dyea River and gored its banks deeper
for the men who were to follow.
The doorway of the store, through which she had once run out and in, and where she
had looked with awe at the unusual sight of a stray trapper or fur-trader, was now packed with
a clamorous throng of men. Where of old one letter waiting a claimant was a thing of wonder,
she now saw, by peering through the window, the mail heaped up from floor to ceiling. And it
was for this mail the men were clamoring so insistently. Before the store, by the scales, was
another crowd. An Indian threw his pack upon the scales, the white owner jotted down the
weight in a note-book, and another pack was thrown on. Each pack was in the straps, ready
for the packer’s back and the precarious journey over the Chilcoot. Frona edged in closer. She
was interested in freights. She remembered in her day when the solitary prospector or trader
had his outfit packed over for six cents,—one hundred and twenty dollars a ton.
The tenderfoot who was weighing up consulted his guide-book. “Eight cents,” he said to
the Indian. Whereupon the Indians laughed scornfully and chorused, “Forty cents!” A pained
expression came into his face, and he looked about him anxiously. The sympathetic light in
Frona’s eyes caught him, and he regarded her with intent blankness. In reality he was busy
reducing a three-ton outfit to terms of cash at forty dollars per hundred-weight. “Twenty-four
hundred dollars for thirty miles!” he cried. “What can I do?”
Frona shrugged her shoulders. “You’d better pay them the forty cents,” she advised,
“else they will take off their straps.”
The man thanked her, but instead of taking heed went on with his haggling. One of the
Indians stepped up and proceeded to unfasten his pack-straps. The tenderfoot wavered, but
just as he was about to give in, the packers jumped the price on him to forty-five cents. He
smiled after a sickly fashion, and nodded his head in token of surrender. But another Indian
joined the group and began whispering excitedly. A cheer went up, and before the man could
realize it they had jerked off their straps and departed, spreading the news as they went that
freight to Lake Linderman was fifty cents.
Of a sudden, the crowd before the store was perceptibly agitated. Its members
whispered excitedly one to another, and all their eyes were focussed upon three men
approaching from up the trail. The trio were ordinary-looking creatures, ill-clad and even
ragged. In a more stable community their apprehension by the village constable and arrest for
vagrancy would have been immediate. “French Louis,” the tenderfeet whispered and passed
the word along. “Owns three Eldorado claims in a block,” the man next to Frona confided to
her. “Worth ten millions at the very least.” French Louis, striding a little in advance of his
companions, did not look it. He had parted company with his hat somewhere along the route,
and a frayed silk kerchief was wrapped carelessly about his head. And for all his ten millions,
he carried his own travelling pack on his broad shoulders. “And that one, the one with the
beard, that’s Swiftwater Bill, another of the Eldorado kings.”
“How do you know?” Frona asked, doubtingly.
“Know!” the man exclaimed. “Know! Why his picture has been in all the papers for the
last six weeks. See!” He unfolded a newspaper. “And a pretty good likeness, too. I’ve looked
at it so much I’d know his mug among a thousand.”
“Then who is the third one?” she queried, tacitly accepting him as a fount of authority.
Her informant lifted himself on his toes to see better. “I don’t know,” he confessed
sorrowfully, then tapped the shoulder of the man next to him. “Who is the lean, smooth-faced
one? The one with the blue shirt and the patch on his knee?”
Just then Frona uttered a glad little cry and darted forward. “Matt!” she cried. “Matt
The man with the patch shook her hand heartily, though he did not know her and distrustwas plain in his eyes.
“Oh, you don’t remember me!” she chattered. “And don’t you dare say you do! If there
weren’t so many looking, I’d hug you, you old bear!
“And so Big Bear went home to the Little Bears,” she recited, solemnly. “And the Little
Bears were very hungry. And Big Bear said, ‘Guess what I have got, my children.’ And one
Little Bear guessed berries, and one Little Bear guessed salmon, and t’other Little Bear
guessed porcupine. Then Big Bear laughed ‘Whoof! Whoof!’ and said, ‘A Nice Big Fat Man!’”
As he listened, recollection avowed itself in his face, and, when she had finished, his
eyes wrinkled up and he laughed a peculiar, laughable silent laugh.
“Sure, an’ it’s well I know ye,” he explained; “but for the life iv me I can’t put me finger on
She pointed into the store and watched him anxiously.
“Now I have ye!” He drew back and looked her up and down, and his expression
changed to disappointment. “It cuddent be. I mistook ye. Ye cud niver a-lived in that shanty,”
thrusting a thumb in the direction of the store.
Frona nodded her head vigorously.
“Thin it’s yer ownself afther all? The little motherless darlin’, with the goold hair I combed
the knots out iv many’s the time? The little witch that run barefoot an’ barelegged over all the
“Yes, yes,” she corroborated, gleefully.
“The little divil that stole the dog-team an’ wint over the Pass in the dead o’ winter for to
see where the world come to an ind on the ither side, just because old Matt McCarthy was
afther tellin’ her fairy stories?”
“O Matt, dear old Matt! Remember the time I went swimming with the Siwash girls from
the Indian camp?”
“An’ I dragged ye out by the hair o’ yer head?”
“And lost one of your new rubber boots?”
“Ah, an’ sure an’ I do. And a most shockin’ an’ immodest affair it was! An’ the boots was
worth tin dollars over yer father’s counter.”
“And then you went away, over the Pass, to the Inside, and we never heard a word of
you. Everybody thought you dead.”
“Well I recollect the day. An’ ye cried in me arms an’ wuddent kiss yer old Matt good-by.
But ye did in the ind,” he exclaimed, triumphantly, “whin ye saw I was goin’ to lave ye for sure.
What a wee thing ye were!”
“I was only eight.”
“An’ ‘tis twelve year agone. Twelve year I’ve spint on the Inside, with niver a trip out. Ye
must be twinty now?”
“And almost as big as you,” Frona affirmed.
“A likely woman ye’ve grown into, tall, an’ shapely, an’ all that.” He looked her over
critically. “But ye cud ‘a’ stood a bit more flesh, I’m thinkin’.”
“No, no,” she denied. “Not at twenty, Matt, not at twenty. Feel my arm, you’ll see.” She
doubled that member till the biceps knotted.
“‘Tis muscle,” he admitted, passing his hand admiringly over the swelling bunch; “just as
though ye’d been workin’ hard for yer livin’.”
“Oh, I can swing clubs, and box, and fence,” she cried, successively striking the typical
postures; “and swim, and make high dives, chin a bar twenty times, and—and walk on my
hands. There!”
“Is that what ye’ve been doin’? I thought ye wint away for book-larnin’,” he commented,
“But they have new ways of teaching, now, Matt, and they don’t turn you out with your
head crammed—”“An’ yer legs that spindly they can’t carry it all! Well, an’ I forgive ye yer muscle.”
“But how about yourself, Matt?” Frona asked. “How has the world been to you these
twelve years?”
“Behold!” He spread his legs apart, threw his head back, and his chest out. “Ye now
behold Mister Matthew McCarthy, a king iv the noble Eldorado Dynasty by the strength iv his
own right arm. Me possessions is limitless. I have more dust in wan minute than iver I saw in
all me life before. Me intintion for makin’ this trip to the States is to look up me ancestors. I
have a firm belafe that they wance existed. Ye may find nuggets in the Klondike, but niver
good whiskey. ‘Tis likewise me intintion to have wan drink iv the rate stuff before I die. Afther
that ‘tis me sworn resolve to return to the superveeshion iv me Klondike properties. Indade,
and I’m an Eldorado king; an’ if ye’ll be wantin’ the lind iv a tidy bit, it’s meself that’ll loan it ye.”
“The same old, old Matt, who never grows old,” Frona laughed.
“An’ it’s yerself is the thrue Welse, for all yer prize-fighter’s muscles an’ yer philosopher’s
brains. But let’s wander inside on the heels of Louis an’ Swiftwater. Andy’s still tindin’ store,
I’m told, an’ we’ll see if I still linger in the pages iv his mimory.”
“And I, also.” Frona seized him by the hand. It was a bad habit she had of seizing the
hands of those she loved. “It’s ten years since I went away.”
The Irishman forged his way through the crowd like a pile-driver, and Frona followed
easily in the lee of his bulk. The tenderfeet watched them reverently, for to them they were as
Northland divinities. The buzz of conversation rose again.
“Who’s the girl?” somebody asked. And just as Frona passed inside the door she caught
the opening of the answer: “Jacob Welse’s daughter. Never heard of Jacob Welse? Where
have you been keeping yourself?”
Chapter 2

She came out of the wood of glistening birch, and with the first fires of the sun blazoning
her unbound hair raced lightly across the dew-dripping meadow. The earth was fat with
excessive moisture and soft to her feet, while the dank vegetation slapped against her knees
and cast off flashing sprays of liquid diamonds. The flush of the morning was in her cheek,
and its fire in her eyes, and she was aglow with youth and love. For she had nursed at the
breast of nature,—in forfeit of a mother,—and she loved the old trees and the creeping green
things with a passionate love; and the dim murmur of growing life was a gladness to her ears,
and the damp earth-smells were sweet to her nostrils.
Where the upper-reach of the meadow vanished in a dark and narrow forest aisle, amid
clean-stemmed dandelions and color-bursting buttercups, she came upon a bunch of great
Alaskan violets. Throwing herself at full length, she buried her face in the fragrant coolness,
and with her hands drew the purple heads in circling splendor about her own. And she was not
ashamed. She had wandered away amid the complexities and smirch and withering heats of
the great world, and she had returned, simple, and clean, and wholesome. And she was glad
of it, as she lay there, slipping back to the old days, when the universe began and ended at
the sky-line, and when she journeyed over the Pass to behold the Abyss.
It was a primitive life, that of her childhood, with few conventions, but such as there
were, stern ones. And they might be epitomized, as she had read somewhere in her later
years, as “the faith of food and blanket.” This faith had her father kept, she thought,
remembering that his name sounded well on the lips of men. And this was the faith she had
learned,—the faith she had carried with her across the Abyss and into the world, where men
had wandered away from the old truths and made themselves selfish dogmas and casuistries
of the subtlest kinds; the faith she had brought back with her, still fresh, and young, and
joyous. And it was all so simple, she had contended; why should not their faith be as her faith
—the faith of food and blanket? The faith of trail and hunting camp? The faith with which
strong clean men faced the quick danger and sudden death by field and flood? Why not? The
faith of Jacob Welse? Of Matt McCarthy? Of the Indian boys she had played with? Of the
Indian girls she had led to Amazonian war? Of the very wolf-dogs straining in the harnesses
and running with her across the snow? It was healthy, it was real, it was good, she thought,
and she was glad.
The rich notes of a robin saluted her from the birch wood, and opened her ears to the
day. A partridge boomed afar in the forest, and a tree-squirrel launched unerringly into space
above her head, and went on, from limb to limb and tree to tree, scolding graciously the while.
From the hidden river rose the shouts of the toiling adventurers, already parted from sleep
and fighting their way towards the Pole.
Frona arose, shook back her hair, and took instinctively the old path between the trees to
the camp of Chief George and the Dyea tribesmen. She came upon a boy, breech-clouted
and bare, like a copper god. He was gathering wood, and looked at her keenly over his bronze
shoulder. She bade him good-morning, blithely, in the Dyea tongue; but he shook his head,
and laughed insultingly, and paused in his work to hurl shameful words after her. She did not
understand, for this was not the old way, and when she passed a great and glowering Sitkan
buck she kept her tongue between her teeth. At the fringe of the forest, the camp confronted
her. And she was startled. It was not the old camp of a score or more of lodges clustering and
huddling together in the open as though for company, but a mighty camp. It began at the very
forest, and flowed in and out among the scattered tree-clumps on the flat, and spilled over
and down to the river bank where the long canoes were lined up ten and twelve deep. It was agathering of the tribes, like unto none in all the past, and a thousand miles of coast made up
the tally. They were all strange Indians, with wives and chattels and dogs. She rubbed
shoulders with Juneau and Wrangel men, and was jostled by wild-eyed Sticks from over the
Passes, fierce Chilcats, and Queen Charlotte Islanders. And the looks they cast upon her
were black and frowning, save—and far worse—where the merrier souls leered patronizingly
into her face and chuckled unmentionable things.
She was not frightened by this insolence, but angered; for it hurt her, and embittered the
pleasurable home-coming. Yet she quickly grasped the significance of it: the old patriarchal
status of her father’s time had passed away, and civilization, in a scorching blast, had swept
down upon this people in a day. Glancing under the raised flaps of a tent, she saw
haggardfaced bucks squatting in a circle on the floor. By the door a heap of broken bottles advertised
the vigils of the night. A white man, low of visage and shrewd, was dealing cards about, and
gold and silver coins leaped into heaping bets upon the blanket board. A few steps farther on
she heard the cluttering whirl of a wheel of fortune, and saw the Indians, men and women,
chancing eagerly their sweat-earned wages for the gaudy prizes of the game. And from tepee
and lodge rose the cracked and crazy strains of cheap music-boxes.
An old squaw, peeling a willow pole in the sunshine of an open doorway, raised her head
and uttered a shrill cry.
“Hee-Hee! Tenas Hee-Hee!” she muttered as well and as excitedly as her toothless
gums would permit.
Frona thrilled at the cry. Tenas Hee-Hee! Little Laughter! Her name of the long gone
Indian past! She turned and went over to the old woman.
“And hast thou so soon forgotten, Tenas Hee-Hee?” she mumbled. “And thine eyes so
young and sharp! Not so soon does Neepoosa forget.”
“It is thou, Neepoosa?” Frona cried, her tongue halting from the disuse of years.
“Ay, it is Neepoosa,” the old woman replied, drawing her inside the tent, and despatching
a boy, hot-footed, on some errand. They sat down together on the floor, and she patted
Frona’s hand lovingly, peering, meanwhile, blear-eyed and misty, into her face. “Ay, it is
Neepoosa, grown old quickly after the manner of our women. Neepoosa, who dandled thee in
her arms when thou wast a child. Neepoosa, who gave thee thy name, Tenas Hee-Hee. Who
fought for thee with Death when thou wast ailing; and gathered growing things from the woods
and grasses of the earth and made of them tea, and gave thee to drink. But I mark little
change, for I knew thee at once. It was thy very shadow on the ground that made me lift my
head. A little change, mayhap. Tall thou art, and like a slender willow in thy grace, and the sun
has kissed thy cheeks more lightly of the years; but there is the old hair, flying wild and of the
color of the brown seaweed floating on the tide, and the mouth, quick to laugh and loth to cry.
And the eyes are as clear and true as in the days when Neepoosa chid thee for wrong-doing,
and thou wouldst not put false words upon thy tongue. Ai! Ai! Not as thou art the other women
who come now into the land!”
“And why is a white woman without honor among you?” Frona demanded. “Your men say
evil things to me in the camp, and as I came through the woods, even the boys. Not in the old
days, when I played with them, was this shame so.”
“Ai! Ai!” Neepoosa made answer. “It is so. But do not blame them. Pour not thine anger
upon their heads. For it is true it is the fault of thy women who come into the land these days.
They can point to no man and say, ‘That is my man.’ And it is not good that women should he
thus. And they look upon all men, bold-eyed and shameless, and their tongues are unclean,
and their hearts bad. Wherefore are thy women without honor among us. As for the boys,
they are but boys. And the men; how should they know?”
The tent-flaps were poked aside and an old man came in. He grunted to Frona and sat
down. Only a certain eager alertness showed the delight he took in her presence.
“So Tenas Hee-Hee has come back in these bad days,” he vouchsafed in a shrill,quavering voice.
“And why bad days, Muskim?” Frona asked. “Do not the women wear brighter colors?
Are not the bellies fuller with flour and bacon and white man’s grub? Do not the young men
contrive great wealth what of their pack-straps and paddles? And art thou not remembered
with the ancient offerings of meat and fish and blanket? Why bad days, Muskim?”
“True,” he replied in his fine, priestly way, a reminiscent flash of the old fire lighting his
eyes. “It is very true. The women wear brighter colors. But they have found favor, in the eyes
of thy white men, and they look no more upon the young men of their own blood. Wherefore
the tribe does not increase, nor do the little children longer clutter the way of our feet. It is so.
The bellies are fuller with the white man’s grub; but also are they fuller with the white man’s
bad whiskey. Nor could it be otherwise that the young men contrive great wealth; but they sit
by night over the cards, and it passes from them, and they speak harsh words one to another,
and in anger blows are struck, and there is bad blood between them. As for old Muskim, there
are few offerings of meat and fish and blanket. For the young women have turned aside from
the old paths, nor do the young men longer honor the old totems and the old gods. So these
are bad days, Tenas Hee-Hee, and they behold old Muskim go down in sorrow to the grave.”
“Ai! Ai! It is so!” wailed Neepoosa.
“Because of the madness of thy people have my people become mad,” Muskim
continued. “They come over the salt sea like the waves of the sea, thy people, and they go—
ah! who knoweth where?”
“Ai! Who knoweth where?” Neepoosa lamented, rocking slowly back and forth.
“Ever they go towards the frost and cold; and ever do they come, more people, wave
upon wave!”
“Ai! Ai! Into the frost and cold! It is a long way, and dark and cold!” She shivered, then
laid a sudden hand on Frona’s arm. “And thou goest?”
Frona nodded.
“And Tenas Hee-Hee goest! Ai! Ai! Ai!”
The tent-flap lifted, and Matt McCarthy peered in. “It’s yerself, Frona, is it? With
breakfast waitin’ this half-hour on ye, an’ old Andy fumin’ an’ frettin’ like the old woman he is.
Good-mornin’ to ye, Neepoosa,” he addressed Frona’s companions, “an’ to ye, Muskim,
though, belike ye’ve little mimory iv me face.”
The old couple grunted salutation and remained stolidly silent.
“But hurry with ye, girl,” turning back to Frona. “Me steamer starts by mid-day, an’ it’s
little I’ll see iv ye at the best. An’ likewise there’s Andy an’ the breakfast pipin’ hot, both iv
Chapter 3

Frona waved her hand to Andy and swung out on the trail. Fastened tightly to her back
were her camera and a small travelling satchel. In addition, she carried for alpenstock the
willow pole of Neepoosa. Her dress was of the mountaineering sort, short-skirted and scant,
allowing the greatest play with the least material, and withal gray of color and modest.
Her outfit, on the backs of a dozen Indians and in charge of Del Bishop, had got under
way hours before. The previous day, on her return with Matt McCarthy from the Siwash camp,
she had found Del Bishop at the store waiting her. His business was quickly transacted, for
the proposition he made was terse and to the point. She was going into the country. He was
intending to go in. She would need somebody. If she had not picked any one yet, why he was
just the man. He had forgotten to tell her the day he took her ashore that he had been in the
country years before and knew all about it. True, he hated the water, and it was mainly a
water journey; but he was not afraid of it. He was afraid of nothing. Further, he would fight for
her at the drop of the hat. As for pay, when they got to Dawson, a good word from her to
Jacob Welse, and a year’s outfit would be his. No, no; no grub-stake about it, no strings on
him! He would pay for the outfit later on when his sack was dusted. What did she think about
it, anyway? And Frona did think about it, for ere she had finished breakfast he was out
hustling the packers together.
She found herself making better speed than the majority of her fellows, who were heavily
laden and had to rest their packs every few hundred yards. Yet she found herself hard put to
keep the pace of a bunch of Scandinavians ahead of her. They were huge strapping
blondhaired giants, each striding along with a hundred pounds on his back, and all harnessed to a
go-cart which carried fully six hundred more. Their faces were as laughing suns, and the joy of
life was in them. The toil seemed child’s play and slipped from them lightly. They joked with
one another, and with the passers-by, in a meaningless tongue, and their great chests
rumbled with cavern-echoing laughs. Men stood aside for them, and looked after them
enviously; for they took the rises of the trail on the run, and rattled down the counter slopes,
and ground the iron-rimmed wheels harshly over the rocks. Plunging through a dark stretch of
woods, they came out upon the river at the ford. A drowned man lay on his back on the
sandbar, staring upward, unblinking, at the sun. A man, in irritated tones, was questioning over and
over, “Where’s his pardner? Ain’t he got a pardner?” Two more men had thrown off their
packs and were coolly taking an inventory of the dead man’s possessions. One called aloud
the various articles, while the other checked them off on a piece of dirty wrapping-paper.
Letters and receipts, wet and pulpy, strewed the sand. A few gold coins were heaped
carelessly on a white handkerchief. Other men, crossing back and forth in canoes and skiffs,
took no notice.
The Scandinavians glanced at the sight, and their faces sobered for a moment. “Where’s
his pardner? Ain’t he got a pardner?” the irritated man demanded of them. They shook their
heads. They did not understand English. They stepped into the water and splashed onward.
Some one called warningly from the opposite bank, whereat they stood still and conferred
together. Then they started on again. The two men taking the inventory turned to watch. The
current rose nigh to their hips, but it was swift and they staggered, while now and again the
cart slipped sideways with the stream. The worst was over, and Frona found herself holding
her breath. The water had sunk to the knees of the two foremost men, when a strap snapped
on one nearest the cart. His pack swung suddenly to the side, overbalancing him. At the same
instant the man next to him slipped, and each jerked the other under. The next two were
whipped off their feet, while the cart, turning over, swept from the bottom of the ford into thedeep water. The two men who had almost emerged threw themselves backward on the
pullropes. The effort was heroic, but giants though they were, the task was too great and they
were dragged, inch by inch, downward and under.
Their packs held them to the bottom, save him whose strap had broken. This one struck
out, not to the shore, but down the stream, striving to keep up with his comrades. A couple of
hundred feet below, the rapid dashed over a toothed-reef of rocks, and here, a minute later,
they appeared. The cart, still loaded, showed first, smashing a wheel and turning over and
over into the next plunge. The men followed in a miserable tangle. They were beaten against
the submerged rocks and swept on, all but one. Frona, in a canoe (a dozen canoes were
already in pursuit), saw him grip the rock with bleeding fingers. She saw his white face and the
agony of the effort; but his hold relaxed and he was jerked away, just as his free comrade,
swimming mightily, was reaching for him. Hidden from sight, they took the next plunge,
showing for a second, still struggling, at the shallow foot of the rapid.
A canoe picked up the swimming man, but the rest disappeared in a long stretch of swift,
deep water. For a quarter of an hour the canoes plied fruitlessly about, then found the dead
men gently grounded in an eddy. A tow-rope was requisitioned from an up-coming boat, and a
pair of horses from a pack-train on the bank, and the ghastly jetsam hauled ashore. Frona
looked at the five young giants lying in the mud, broken-boned, limp, uncaring. They were still
harnessed to the cart, and the poor worthless packs still clung to their backs, The sixth sat in
the midst, dry-eyed and stunned. A dozen feet away the steady flood of life flowed by and
Frona melted into it and went on.
The dark spruce-shrouded mountains drew close together in the Dyea Canyon, and the
feet of men churned the wet sunless earth into mire and bog-hole. And when they had done
this they sought new paths, till there were many paths. And on such a path Frona came upon
a man spread carelessly in the mud. He lay on his side, legs apart and one arm buried
beneath him, pinned down by a bulky pack. His cheek was pillowed restfully in the ooze, and
on his face there was an expression of content. He brightened when he saw her, and his eyes
twinkled cheerily.
“‘Bout time you hove along,” he greeted her. “Been waitin’ an hour on you as it is.”
“That’s it,” as Frona bent over him. “Just unbuckle that strap. The pesky thing! ‘Twas just
out o’ my reach all the time.”
“Are you hurt?” she asked.
He slipped out of his straps, shook himself, and felt the twisted arm. “Nope. Sound as a
dollar, thank you. And no kick to register, either.” He reached over and wiped his muddy
hands on a low-bowed spruce. “Just my luck; but I got a good rest, so what’s the good of
makin’ a beef about it? You see, I tripped on that little root there, and slip! slump! slam! and
slush!—there I was, down and out, and the buckle just out o’ reach. And there I lay for a
blasted hour, everybody hitting the lower path.”
“But why didn’t you call out to them?”
“And make ‘em climb up the hill to me? Them all tuckered out with their own work? Not
on your life! Wasn’t serious enough. If any other man ‘d make me climb up just because he’d
slipped down, I’d take him out o’ the mud all right, all right, and punch and punch him back
into the mud again. Besides, I knew somebody was bound to come along my way after a
“Oh, you’ll do!” she cried, appropriating Del Bishop’s phrase. “You’ll do for this country!”
“Yep,” he called back, shouldering his pack and starting off at a lively clip. “And, anyway,
I got a good rest.”
The trail dipped through a precipitous morass to the river’s brink. A slender pine-tree
spanned the screaming foam and bent midway to touch the water. The surge beat upon the
taper trunk and gave it a rhythmical swaying motion, while the feet of the packers had worn
smooth its wave-washed surface. Eighty feet it stretched in ticklish insecurity. Frona steppedupon it, felt it move beneath her, heard the bellowing of the water, saw the mad rush—and
shrank back. She slipped the knot of her shoe-laces and pretended great care in the tying
thereof as a bunch of Indians came out of the woods above and down through the mud.
Three or four bucks led the way, followed by many squaws, all bending in the head-straps to
the heavy packs. Behind came the children burdened according to their years, and in the rear
half a dozen dogs, tongues lagging out and dragging forward painfully under their several
The men glanced at her sideways, and one of them said something in an undertone.
Frona could not hear, but the snicker which went down the line brought the flush of shame to
her brow and told her more forcibly than could the words. Her face was hot, for she sat
disgraced in her own sight; but she gave no sign. The leader stood aside, and one by one,
and never more than one at a time, they made the perilous passage. At the bend in the
middle their weight forced the tree under, and they felt for their footing, up to the ankles in the
cold, driving torrent. Even the little children made it without hesitancy, and then the dogs
whining and reluctant but urged on by the man. When the last had crossed over, he turned to
“Um horse trail,” he said, pointing up the mountain side. “Much better you take um horse
trail. More far; much better.”
But she shook her head and waited till he reached the farther bank; for she felt the call,
not only upon her own pride, but upon the pride of her race; and it was a greater demand than
her demand, just as the race was greater than she. So she put foot upon the log, and, with
the eyes of the alien people upon her, walked down into the foam-white swirl.
She came upon a man weeping by the side of the trail. His pack, clumsily strapped,
sprawled on the ground. He had taken off a shoe, and one naked foot showed swollen and
“What is the matter?” she asked, halting before him.
He looked up at her, then down into the depths where the Dyea River cut the gloomy
darkness with its living silver. The tears still welled in his eyes, and he sniffled.
“What is the matter?” she repeated. “Can I be of any help?”
“No,” he replied. “How can you help? My feet are raw, and my back is nearly broken, and
I am all tired out. Can you help any of these things?”
“Well,” judiciously, “I am sure it might be worse. Think of the men who have just landed
on the beach. It will take them ten days or two weeks to back-trip their outfits as far as you
have already got yours.”
“But my partners have left me and gone on,” he moaned, a sneaking appeal for pity in
his voice. “And I am all alone, and I don’t feel able to move another step. And then think of my
wife and babies. I left them down in the States. Oh, if they could only see me now! I can’t go
back to them, and I can’t go on. It’s too much for me. I can’t stand it, this working like a horse.
I was not made to work like a horse. I’ll die, I know I will, if I do. Oh, what shall I do? What
shall I do?”
“Why did your comrades leave you?”
“Because I was not so strong as they; because I could not pack as much or as long. And
they laughed at me and left me.”
“Have you ever roughed it?” Frona asked.
“You look well put up and strong. Weigh probably one hundred and sixty-five?”
“One hundred-and seventy,” he corrected.
“You don’t look as though you had ever been troubled with sickness. Never an invalid?”
“And your comrades? They are miners?”
“Never mining in their lives. They worked in the same establishment with me. That’s whatmakes it so hard, don’t you see! We’d known one another for years! And to go off and leave
me just because I couldn’t keep up!”
“My friend,” and Frona knew she was speaking for the race, “you are strong as they. You
can work just as hard as they; pack as much. But you are weak of heart. This is no place for
the weak of heart. You cannot work like a horse because you will not. Therefore the country
has no use for you. The north wants strong men,—strong of soul, not body. The body does
not count. So go back to the States. We do not want you here. If you come you will die, and
what then of| your wife and babies? So sell out your outfit and go back. You will be home in
three weeks. Good-by.”
She passed through Sheep Camp. Somewhere above, a mighty glacier, under the pent
pressure of a subterranean reservoir, had burst asunder and hurled a hundred thousand tons
of ice and water down the rocky gorge. The trail was yet slippery with the slime of the flood,
and men were rummaging disconsolately in the rubbish of overthrown tents and caches. But
here and there they worked with nervous haste, and the stark corpses by the trail-side
attested dumbly to their labor. A few hundred yards beyond, the work of the rush went on
uninterrupted. Men rested their packs on jutting stones, swapped escapes whilst they
regained their breath, then stumbled on to their toil again.
The mid-day sun beat down upon the stone “Scales.” The forest had given up the
struggle, and the dizzying heat recoiled from the unclothed rock. On either hand rose the
icemarred ribs of earth, naked and strenuous in their nakedness. Above towered storm-beaten
Chilcoot. Up its gaunt and ragged front crawled a slender string of men. But it was an endless
string. It came out of the last fringe of dwarfed shrub below, drew a black line across a
dazzling stretch of ice, and filed past Frona where she ate her lunch by the way. And it went
on, up the pitch of the steep, growing fainter and smaller, till it squirmed and twisted like a
column of ants and vanished over the crest of the pass.
Even as she looked, Chilcoot was wrapped in rolling mist and whirling cloud, and a storm
of sleet and wind roared down upon the toiling pigmies. The light was swept out of the day,
and a deep gloom prevailed; but Frona knew that somewhere up there, clinging and climbing
and immortally striving, the long line of ants still twisted towards the sky. And she thrilled at
the thought, strong with man’s ancient love of mastery, and stepped into the line which came
out of the storm behind and disappeared into the storm before.
She blew through the gap of the pass in a whirlwind of vapor, with hand and foot
clambered down the volcanic ruin of Chilcoot’s mighty father, and stood on the bleak edge of
the lake which filled the pit of the crater. The lake was angry and white-capped, and though a
hundred caches were waiting ferriage, no boats were plying back and forth. A rickety skeleton
of sticks, in a shell of greased canvas, lay upon the rocks. Frona sought out the owner, a
bright-faced young fellow, with sharp black eyes and a salient jaw. Yes, he was the ferryman,
but he had quit work for the day. Water too rough for freighting. He charged twenty-five
dollars for passengers, but he was not taking passengers to-day. Had he not said it was too
rough? That was why.
“But you will take me, surely?” she asked.
He shook his head and gazed out over the lake. “At the far end it’s rougher than you see
it here. Even the big wooden boats won’t tackle it. The last that tried, with a gang of packers
aboard, was blown over on the west shore. We could see them plainly. And as there’s no trail
around from there, they’ll have to camp it out till the blow is over.”
“But they’re better off than I am. My camp outfit is at Happy Camp, and I can’t very well
stay here,” Frona smiled winsomely, but there was no appeal in the smile; no feminine
helplessness throwing itself on the strength and chivalry of the male. “Do reconsider and take
me across.”
“I’ll give you fifty.”“No, I say.”
“But I’m not afraid, you know.”
The young fellow’s eyes flashed angrily. He turned upon her suddenly, but on second
thought did not utter the words forming on his lips. She realized the unintentional slur she had
cast, and was about to explain. But on second thought she, too, remained silent; for she read
him, and knew that it was perhaps the only way for her to gain her point. They stood there,
bodies inclined to the storm in the manner of seamen on sloped decks, unyieldingly looking
into each other’s eyes. His hair was plastered in wet ringlets on his forehead, while hers, in
longer wisps, beat furiously about her face.
“Come on, then!” He flung the boat into the water with an angry jerk, and tossed the oars
aboard. “Climb in! I’ll take you, but not for your fifty dollars. You pay the regulation price, and
that’s all.”
A gust of the gale caught the light shell and swept it broadside for a score of feet. The
spray drove inboard in a continuous stinging shower, and Frona at once fell to work with the
“I hope we’re blown ashore,” he shouted, stooping forward to the oars. “It would be
embarrassing—for you.” He looked up savagely into her face.
“No,” she modified; “but it would be very miserable for both of us,—a night without tent,
blankets, or fire. Besides, we’re not going to blow ashore.”
She stepped out on the slippery rocks and helped him heave up the canvas craft and tilt
the water out. On either side uprose bare wet walls of rock. A heavy sleet was falling steadily,
through which a few streaming caches showed in the gathering darkness.
“You’d better hurry up,” he advised, thanking her for the assistance and relaunching the
boat. “Two miles of stiff trail from here to Happy Camp. No wood until you get there, so you’d
best hustle along. Good-by.”
Frona reached out and took his hand, and said, “You are a brave man.”
“Oh, I don’t know.” He returned the grip with usury and looked his admiration.
A dozen tents held grimly to their pegs on the extreme edge of the timber line at Happy
Camp. Frona, weary with the day, went from tent to tent. Her wet skirts clung heavily to her
tired limbs, while the wind buffeted her brutally about. Once, through a canvas wall, she heard
a man apostrophizing gorgeously, and felt sure that it was Del Bishop. But a peep into the
interior told a different tale; so she wandered fruitlessly on till she reached the last tent in the
camp. She untied the flap and looked in. A spluttering candle showed the one occupant, a
man, down on his knees and blowing lustily into the fire-box of a smoky Yukon stove.
Chapter 4

She cast off the lower flap-fastenings and entered. The man still blew into the stove,
unaware of his company. Frona coughed, and he raised a pair of smoke-reddened eyes to
“Certainly,” he said, casually enough. “Fasten the flaps and make yourself comfortable.”
And thereat returned to his borean task.
“Hospitable, to say the least,” she commented to herself, obeying his command and
coming up to the stove.
A heap of dwarfed spruce, gnarled and wet and cut to proper stove-length, lay to one
side. Frona knew it well, creeping and crawling and twisting itself among the rocks of the
shallow alluvial deposit, unlike its arboreal prototype, rarely lifting its head more than a foot
from the earth. She looked into the oven, found it empty, and filled it with the wet wood. The
man arose to his feet, coughing from the smoke which had been driven into his lungs, and
nodding approval.
When he had recovered his breath, “Sit down and dry your skirts. I’ll get supper.”
He put a coffee-pot on the front lid of the stove, emptied the bucket into it, and went out
of the tent after more water. As his back disappeared, Frona dived for her satchel, and when
he returned a moment later he found her with a dry skirt on and wringing the wet one out.
While he fished about in the grub-box for dishes and eating utensils, she stretched a spare bit
of rope between the tent-poles and hung the skirt on it to dry. The dishes were dirty, and, as
he bent over and washed them, she turned her back and deftly changed her stockings. Her
childhood had taught her the value of well-cared feet for the trail. She put her wet shoes on a
pile of wood at the back of the stove, substituting for them a pair of soft and dainty
housemoccasins of Indian make. The fire had now grown strong, and she was content to let her
under-garments dry on her body.
During all this time neither had spoken a word. Not only had the man remained silent, but
he went about his work in so preoccupied a way that it seemed to Frona that he turned a deaf
ear to the words of explanation she would have liked to utter. His whole bearing conveyed the
impression that it was the most ordinary thing under the sun for a young woman to come in
out of the storm and night and partake of his hospitality. In one way, she liked this; but in so
far as she did not comprehend it, she was troubled. She had a perception of a something
being taken for granted which she did not understand. Once or twice she moistened her lips to
speak, but he appeared so oblivious of her presence that she withheld.
After opening a can of corned beef with the axe, he fried half a dozen thick slices of
bacon, set the frying-pan back, and boiled the coffee. From the grub-box he resurrected the
half of a cold heavy flapjack. He looked at it dubiously, and shot a quick glance at her. Then
he threw the sodden thing out of doors and dumped the contents of a sea-biscuit bag upon a
camp cloth. The sea-biscuit had been crumbled into chips and fragments and generously
soaked by the rain till it had become a mushy, pulpy mass of dirty white.
“It’s all I have in the way of bread,” he muttered; “but sit down and we will make the best
of it.”
“One moment—” And before he could protest, Frona had poured the sea-biscuit into the
frying-pan on top of the grease and bacon. To this she added a couple of cups of water and
stirred briskly over the fire. When it had sobbed and sighed with the heat for some few
minutes, she sliced up the corned beef and mixed it in with the rest. And by the time she had
seasoned it heavily with salt and black pepper, a savory steam was rising from the concoction.
“Must say it’s pretty good stuff,” he said, balancing his plate on his knee and samplingthe mess avidiously. “What do you happen to call it?”
“Slumgullion,” she responded curtly, and thereafter the meal went on in silence.
Frona helped him to the coffee, studying him intently the while. And not only was it not an
unpleasant face, she decided, but it was strong. Strong, she amended, potentially rather than
actually. A student, she added, for she had seen many students’ eyes and knew the lasting
impress of the midnight oil long continued; and his eyes bore the impress. Brown eyes, she
concluded, and handsome as the male’s should be handsome; but she noted with surprise,
when she refilled his plate with slumgullion, that they were not at all brown in the ordinary
sense, but hazel-brown. In the daylight, she felt certain, and in times of best health, they
would seem gray, and almost blue-gray. She knew it well; her one girl chum and dearest
friend had had such an eye.
His hair was chestnut-brown, glinting in the candle-light to gold, and the hint of waviness
in it explained the perceptible droop to his tawny moustache. For the rest, his face was
cleanshaven and cut on a good masculine pattern. At first she found fault with the more than slight
cheek-hollows under the cheek-bones, but when she measured his well-knit, slenderly
muscular figure, with its deep chest and heavy shoulders, she discovered that she preferred
the hollows; at least they did not imply lack of nutrition. The body gave the lie to that; while
they themselves denied the vice of over-feeding. Height, five feet, nine, she summed up from
out of her gymnasium experience; and age anywhere between twenty-five and thirty, though
nearer the former most likely.
“Haven’t many blankets,” he said abruptly, pausing to drain his cup and set it over on the
grub-box. “I don’t expect my Indians back from Lake Linderman till morning, and the beggars
have packed over everything except a few sacks of flour and the bare camp outfit. However,
I’ve a couple of heavy ulsters which will serve just as well.”
He turned his back, as though he did not expect a reply, and untied a rubber-covered roll
of blankets. Then he drew the two ulsters from a clothes-bag and threw them down on the
“Vaudeville artist, I suppose?”
He asked the question seemingly without interest, as though to keep the conversation
going, and, in fact, as if he knew the stereotyped answer beforehand. But to Frona the
question was like a blow in the face. She remembered Neepoosa’s philippic against the white
women who were coming into the land, and realized the falseness of her position and the way
in which he looked upon her.
But he went on before she could speak. “Last night I had two vaudeville queens, and
three the night before. Only there was more bedding then. It’s unfortunate, isn’t it, the aptitude
they display in getting lost from their outfits? Yet somehow I have failed to find any lost outfits
so far. And they are all queens, it seems. No under-studies or minor turns about them,—no,
no. And I presume you are a queen, too?”
The too-ready blood sprayed her cheek, and this made her angrier than did he; for
whereas she was sure of the steady grip she had on herself, her flushed face betokened a
confusion which did not really possess her.
“No,” she answered, coolly; “I am not a vaudeville artist.”
He tossed several sacks of flour to one side of the stove, without replying, and made of
them the foundation of a bed; and with the remaining sacks he duplicated the operation on the
opposite side of the stove.
“But you are some kind of an artist, then,” he insisted when he had finished, with an open
contempt on the “artist.”
“Unfortunately, I am not any kind of an artist at all.”
He dropped the blanket he was folding and straightened his back. Hitherto he had no
more than glanced at her; but now he scrutinized her carefully, every inch of her, from head to
heel and back again, the cut of her garments and the very way she did her hair. And he tookhis time about it.
“Oh! I beg pardon,” was his verdict, followed by another stare. “Then you are a very
foolish woman dreaming of fortune and shutting your eyes to the dangers of the pilgrimage. It
is only meet that two kinds of women come into this country. Those who by virtue of wifehood
and daughterhood are respectable, and those who are not respectable. Vaudeville stars and
artists, they call themselves for the sake of decency; and out of courtesy we countenance it.
Yes, yes, I know. But remember, the women who come over the trail must be one or the
other. There is no middle course, and those who attempt it are bound to fail. So you are a
very, very foolish girl, and you had better turn back while there is yet a chance. If you will view
it in the light of a loan from a stranger, I will advance your passage back to the States, and
start an Indian over the trail with you to-morrow for Dyea.”
Once or twice Frona had attempted to interrupt him, but he had waved her imperatively
to silence with his hand.
“I thank you,” she began; but he broke in,—
“Oh, not at all, not at all.”
“I thank you,” she repeated; but it happens that—a—that you are mistaken. I have just
come over the trail from Dyea and expect to meet my outfit already in camp here at Happy
Camp. They started hours ahead of me, and I can’t understand how I passed them—yes I do,
too! A boat was blown over to the west shore of Crater Lake this afternoon, and they must
have been in it. That is where I missed them and came on. As for my turning back, I
appreciate your motive for suggesting it, but my father is in Dawson, and I have not seen him
for three years. Also, I have come through from Dyea this day, and am tired, and I would like
to get some rest. So, if you still extend your hospitality, I’ll go to bed.”
“Impossible!” He kicked the blankets to one side, sat down on the flour sacks, and
directed a blank look upon her.
“Are—are there any women in the other tents?” she asked, hesitatingly. “I did not see
any, but I may have overlooked.”
“A man and his wife were, but they pulled stakes this morning. No; there are no other
women except—except two or three in a tent, which—er—which will not do for you.”
“Do you think I am afraid of their hospitality?” she demanded, hotly. “As you said, they
are women.”
“But I said it would not do,” he answered, absently, staring at the straining canvas and
listening to the roar of the storm. “A man would die in the open on a night like this.
“And the other tents are crowded to the walls,” he mused. “I happen to know. They have
stored all their caches inside because of the water, and they haven’t room to turn around.
Besides, a dozen other strangers are storm-bound with them. Two or three asked to spread
their beds in here to-night if they couldn’t pinch room elsewhere. Evidently they have; but that
does not argue that there is any surplus space left. And anyway—”
He broke off helplessly. The inevitableness of the situation was growing.
“Can I make Deep Lake to-night?” Frona asked, forgetting herself to sympathize with
him, then becoming conscious of what she was doing and bursting into laughter.
“But you couldn’t ford the river in the dark.” He frowned at her levity. “And there are no
camps between.”
“Are you afraid?” she asked with just the shadow of a sneer.
“Not for myself.”
“Well, then, I think I’ll go to bed.”
“I might sit up and keep the fire going,” he suggested after a pause.
“Fiddlesticks!” she cried. “As though your foolish little code were saved in the least! We
are not in civilization. This is the trail to the Pole. Go to bed.”
He elevated his shoulders in token of surrender. “Agreed. What shall I do then?”
“Help me make my bed, of course. Sacks laid crosswise! Thank you, sir, but I havebones and muscles that rebel. Here— Pull them around this way.”
Under her direction he laid the sacks lengthwise in a double row. This left an
uncomfortable hollow with lumpy sack-corners down the middle; but she smote them flat with
the side of the axe, and in the same manner lessened the slope to the walls of the hollow.
Then she made a triple longitudinal fold in a blanket and spread it along the bottom of the long
“Hum!” he soliloquized. “Now I see why I sleep so badly. Here goes!” And he speedily
flung his own sacks into shape.
“It is plain you are unused to the trail,” she informed him, spreading the topmost blanket
and sitting down.
“Perhaps so,” he made answer. “But what do you know about this trail life?” he growled a
little later.
“Enough to conform,” she rejoined equivocally, pulling out the dried wood from the oven
and replacing it with wet.
“Listen to it! How it storms!” he exclaimed. “It’s growing worse, if worse be possible.”
The tent reeled under the blows of the wind, the canvas booming hollowly at every
shock, while the sleet and rain rattled overhead like skirmish-fire grown into a battle. In the
lulls they could hear the water streaming off at the side-walls with the noise of small cataracts.
He reached up curiously and touched the wet roof. A burst of water followed instantly at the
point of contact and coursed down upon the grub-box.
“You mustn’t do that!” Frona cried, springing to her feet. She put her finger on the spot,
and, pressing tightly against the canvas, ran it down to the side-wall. The leak at once
stopped. “You mustn’t do it, you know,” she reproved.
“Jove!” was his reply. “And you came through from Dyea to-day! Aren’t you stiff?”
“Quite a bit,” she confessed, candidly, “and sleepy.”
“Good-night,” she called to him several minutes later, stretching her body luxuriously in
the warm blankets. And a quarter of an hour after that, “Oh, I say! Are you awake?”
“Yes,” his voice came muffled across the stove. “What is it?”
“Have you the shavings cut?”
“Shavings?” he queried, sleepily. “What shavings?”
“For the fire in the morning, of course. So get up and cut them.”
He obeyed without a word; but ere he was done she had ceased to hear him.
The ubiquitous bacon was abroad on the air when she opened her eyes. Day had
broken, and with it the storm. The wet sun was shining cheerily over the drenched landscape
and in at the wide-spread flaps. Already work had begun, and groups of men were filing past
under their packs. Frona turned over on her side. Breakfast was cooked. Her host had just put
the bacon and fried potatoes in the oven, and was engaged in propping the door ajar with two
sticks of firewood.
“Good-morning,” she greeted.
“And good-morning to you,” he responded, rising to his feet and picking up the
waterbucket. “I don’t hope that you slept well, for I know you did.”
Frona laughed.
“I’m going out after some water,” he vouchsafed. “And when I return I shall expect you
ready for breakfast.”
After breakfast, basking herself in the sun, Frona descried a familiar bunch of men
rounding the tail of the glacier in the direction of Crater Lake. She clapped her hands.
“There comes my outfit, and Del Bishop as shame-faced as can be, I’m sure, at his
failure to connect.” Turning to the man, and at the same time slinging camera and satchel
over her shoulder, “So I must say good-by, not forgetting to thank you for your kindness.”
“Oh, not at all, not at all. Pray don’t mention it. I’d do the same for any—”
“Vaudeville artist!”He looked his reproach, but went on. “I don’t know your name, nor do I wish to know it.”
“Well, I shall not be so harsh, for I do know your name, MISTER VANCE CORLISS! I
saw it on the shipping tags, of course,” she explained. “And I want you to come and see me
when you get to Dawson. My name is Frona Welse. Good-by.”
“Your father is not Jacob Welse?” he called after her as she ran lightly down towards the
She turned her head and nodded.
But Del Bishop was not shamefaced, nor even worried. “Trust a Welse to land on their
feet on a soft spot,” he had consoled himself as he dropped off to sleep the night before. But
he was angry—”madder ‘n hops,” in his own vernacular.
“Good-mornin’,” he saluted. “And it’s plain by your face you had a comfortable night of it,
and no thanks to me.”
“You weren’t worried, were you?” she asked.
“Worried? About a Welse? Who? Me? Not on your life. I was too busy tellin’ Crater Lake
what I thought of it. I don’t like the water. I told you so. And it’s always playin’ me scurvy—not
that I’m afraid of it, though.”
“Hey, you Pete!” turning to the Indians. “Hit ‘er up! Got to make Linderman by noon!”
“Frona Welse?” Vance Corliss was repeating to himself.
The whole thing seemed a dream, and he reassured himself by turning and looking after
her retreating form. Del Bishop and the Indians were already out of sight behind a wall of rock.
Frona was just rounding the base. The sun was full upon her, and she stood out radiantly
against the black shadow of the wall beyond. She waved her alpenstock, and as he doffed his
cap, rounded the brink and disappeared.
Chapter 5

The position occupied by Jacob Welse was certainly an anomalous one. He was a giant
trader in a country without commerce, a ripened product of the nineteenth century flourishing
in a society as primitive as that of the Mediterranean vandals. A captain of industry and a
splendid monopolist, he dominated the most independent aggregate of men ever drawn
together from the ends of the earth. An economic missionary, a commercial St. Paul, he
preached the doctrines of expediency and force. Believing in the natural rights of man, a child
himself of democracy, he bent all men to his absolutism. Government of Jacob Welse, for
Jacob Welse and the people, by Jacob Welse, was his unwritten gospel. Single-handed he
had carved out his dominion till he gripped the domain of a dozen Roman provinces. At his
ukase the population ebbed and flowed over a hundred thousand miles of territory, and cities
sprang up or disappeared at his bidding.
Yet he was a common man. The air of the world first smote his lungs on the open prairie
by the River Platte, the blue sky over head, and beneath, the green grass of the earth
pressing against his tender nakedness. On the horses his eyes first opened, still saddled and
gazing in mild wonder on the miracle; for his trapper father had but turned aside from the trail
that the wife might have quiet and the birth be accomplished. An hour or so and the two,
which were now three, were in the saddle and overhauling their trapper comrades. The party
had not been delayed; no time lost. In the morning his mother cooked the breakfast over the
camp-fire, and capped it with a fifty-mile ride into the next sun-down.
The trapper father had come of the sturdy Welsh stock which trickled into early Ohio out
of the jostling East, and the mother was a nomadic daughter of the Irish emigrant settlers of
Ontario. From both sides came the Wanderlust of the blood, the fever to be moving, to be
pushing on to the edge of things. In the first year of his life, ere he had learned the way of his
legs, Jacob Welse had wandered a-horse through a thousand miles of wilderness, and
wintered in a hunting-lodge on the head-waters of the Red River of the North. His first
footgear was moccasins, his first taffy the tallow from a moose. His first generalizations were that
the world was composed of great wastes and white vastnesses, and populated with Indians
and white hunters like his father. A town was a cluster of deer-skin lodges; a trading-post a
seat of civilization; and a factor God Almighty Himself. Rivers and lakes existed chiefly for
man’s use in travelling. Viewed in this light, the mountains puzzled him; but he placed them
away in his classification of the Inexplicable and did not worry. Men died, sometimes. But their
meat was not good to eat, and their hides worthless,—perhaps because they did not grow fur.
Pelts were valuable, and with a few bales a man might purchase the earth. Animals were
made for men to catch and skin. He did not know what men were made for, unless, perhaps,
for the factor.
As he grew older he modified these concepts, but the process was a continual source of
naive apprehension and wonderment. It was not until he became a man and had wandered
through half the cities of the States that this expression of childish wonder passed out of his
eyes and left them wholly keen and alert. At his boy’s first contact with the cities, while he
revised his synthesis of things, he also generalized afresh. People who lived in cities were
effeminate. They did not carry the points of the compass in their heads, and they got lost
easily. That was why they elected to stay in the cities. Because they might catch cold and
because they were afraid of the dark, they slept under shelter and locked their doors at night.
The women were soft and pretty, but they could not lift a snowshoe far in a day’s journey.
Everybody talked too much. That was why they lied and were unable to work greatly with their
hands. Finally, there was a new human force called “bluff.” A man who made a bluff must bedead sure of it, or else be prepared to back it up. Bluff was a very good thing—when
exercised with discretion.
Later, though living his life mainly in the woods and mountains, he came to know that the
cities were not all bad; that a man might live in a city and still be a man. Accustomed to do
battle with natural forces, he was attracted by the commercial battle with social forces. The
masters of marts and exchanges dazzled but did not blind him, and he studied them, and
strove to grasp the secrets of their strength. And further, in token that some good did come
out of Nazareth, in the full tide of manhood he took to himself a city-bred woman. But he still
yearned for the edge of things, and the leaven in his blood worked till they went away, and
above the Dyea Beach, on the rim of the forest, built the big log trading-post. And here, in the
mellow of time, he got a proper focus on things and unified the phenomena of society
precisely as he had already unified the phenomena of nature. There was naught in one which
could not be expressed in terms of the other. The same principles underlaid both; the same
truths were manifest of both. Competition was the secret of creation. Battle was the law and
the way of progress. The world was made for the strong, and only the strong inherited it, and
through it all there ran an eternal equity. To be honest was to be strong. To sin was to
weaken. To bluff an honest man was to be dishonest. To bluff a bluffer was to smite with the
steel of justice. The primitive strength was in the arm; the modern strength in the brain.
Though it had shifted ground, the struggle was the same old struggle. As of old time, men still
fought for the mastery of the earth and the delights thereof. But the sword had given way to
the ledger; the mail-clad baron to the soft-garbed industrial lord, and the centre of imperial
political power to the seat of commercial exchanges. The modern will had destroyed the
ancient brute. The stubborn earth yielded only to force. Brain was greater than body. The man
with the brain could best conquer things primitive.
He did not have much education as education goes. To the three R’s his mother taught
him by camp-fire and candle-light, he had added a somewhat miscellaneous book-knowledge;
but he was not burdened with what he had gathered. Yet he read the facts of life
understandingly, and the sobriety which comes of the soil was his, and the clear earth-vision.
And so it came about that Jacob Welse crossed over the Chilcoot in an early day, and
disappeared into the vast unknown. A year later he emerged at the Russian missions
clustered about the mouth of the Yukon on Bering Sea. He had journeyed down a river three
thousand miles long, he had seen things, and dreamed a great dream. But he held his tongue
and went to work, and one day the defiant whistle of a crazy stern-wheel tub saluted the
midnight sun on the dank river-stretch by Fort o’ Yukon. It was a magnificent adventure. How
he achieved it only Jacob Welse can tell; but with the impossible to begin with, plus the
impossible, he added steamer to steamer and heaped enterprise upon enterprise. Along many
a thousand miles of river and tributary he built trading-posts and warehouses. He forced the
white man’s axe into the hands of the aborigines, and in every village and between the villages
rose the cords of four-foot firewood for his boilers. On an island in Bering Sea, where the river
and the ocean meet, he established a great distributing station, and on the North Pacific he
put big ocean steamships; while in his offices in Seattle and San Francisco it took clerks by
the score to keep the order and system of his business.
Men drifted into the land. Hitherto famine had driven them out, but Jacob Welse was
there now, and his grub-stores; so they wintered in the frost and groped in the frozen muck
for gold. He encouraged them, grub-staked them, carried them on the books of the company.
His steamers dragged them up the Koyokuk in the old days of Arctic City. Wherever pay was
struck he built a warehouse and a store. The town followed. He explored; he speculated; he
developed. Tireless, indomitable, with the steel-glitter in his dark eyes, he was everywhere at
once, doing all things. In the opening up of a new river he was in the van; and at the tail-end
also, hurrying forward the grub. On the Outside he fought trade-combinations; made alliances
with the corporations of the earth, and forced discriminating tariffs from the great carriers. Onthe Inside he sold flour, and blankets, and tobacco; built saw-mills, staked townsites, and
sought properties in copper, iron, and coal; and that the miners should be well-equipped,
ransacked the lands of the Arctic even as far as Siberia for native-made snow-shoes,
muclucs, and parkas.
He bore the country on his shoulders; saw to its needs; did its work. Every ounce of its
dust passed through his hands; every post-card and letter of credit. He did its banking and
exchange; carried and distributed its mails. He frowned upon competition; frightened out
predatory capital; bluffed militant syndicates, and when they would not, backed his bluff and
broke them. And for all, yet found time and place to remember his motherless girl, and to love
her, and to fit her for the position he had made.
Chapter 6

“So I think, captain, you will agree that we must exaggerate the seriousness of the
situation.” Jacob Welse helped his visitor into his fur great-coat and went on. “Not that it is not
serious, but that it may not become more serious. Both you and I have handled famines
before. We must frighten them, and frighten them now, before it is too late. Take five
thousand men out of Dawson and there will be grub to last. Let those five thousand carry their
tale of famine to Dyea and Skaguay, and they will prevent five thousand more coming in over
the ice.”
“Quite right! And you may count on the hearty co-operation of the police, Mr. Welse.”
The speaker, a strong-faced, grizzled man, heavy-set and of military bearing, pulled up his
collar and rested his hand on the door-knob. “I see already, thanks to you, the newcomers are
beginning to sell their outfits and buy dogs. Lord! won’t there be a stampede out over the ice
as soon as the river closes down! And each that sells a thousand pounds of grub and goes
lessens the proposition by one empty stomach and fills another that remains. When does the
Laura start?”
“This morning, with three hundred grubless men aboard. Would that they were three
Amen to that! And by the way, when does your daughter arrive?”
“‘Most any day, now.” Jacob Welse’s eyes warmed. “And I want you to dinner when she
does, and bring along a bunch of your young bucks from the Barracks. I don’t know all their
names, but just the same extend the invitation as though from me personally. I haven’t
cultivated the social side much,—no time, but see to it that the girl enjoys herself. Fresh from
the States and London, and she’s liable to feel lonesome. You understand.”
Jacob Welse closed the door, tilted his chair back, and cocked his feet on the guard-rail
of the stove. For one half-minute a girlish vision wavered in the shimmering air above the
stove, then merged into a woman of fair Saxon type.
The door opened. “Mr. Welse, Mr. Foster sent me to find out if he is to go on filling
signed warehouse orders?”
“Certainly, Mr. Smith. But tell him to scale them down by half. If a man holds an order for
a thousand pounds, give him five hundred.”
He lighted a cigar and tilted back again in his chair.
“Captain McGregor wants to see you, sir.”
“Send him in.”
Captain McGregor strode in and remained standing before his employer. The rough hand
of the New World had been laid upon the Scotsman from his boyhood; but sterling honesty
was written in every line of his bitter-seamed face, while a prognathous jaw proclaimed to the
onlooker that honesty was the best policy,—for the onlooker at any rate, should he wish to do
business with the owner of the jaw. This warning was backed up by the nose, side-twisted and
broken, and by a long scar which ran up the forehead and disappeared in the gray-grizzled
“We throw off the lines in an hour, sir; so I’ve come for the last word.”
“Good.” Jacob Welse whirled his chair about. “Captain McGregor.”
“I had other work cut out for you this winter; but I have changed my mind and chosen
you to go down with the Laura. Can you guess why?”
Captain McGregor swayed his weight from one leg to the other, and a shrewd chuckle of
a smile wrinkled the corners of his eyes. “Going to be trouble,” he grunted.“And I couldn’t have picked a better man. Mr. Bally will give you detailed instructions as
you go aboard. But let me say this: If we can’t scare enough men out of the country, there’ll
be need for every pound of grub at Fort Yukon. Understand?”
“So no extravagance. You are taking three hundred men down with you. The chances
are that twice as many more will go down as soon as the river freezes. You’ll have a thousand
to feed through the winter. Put them on rations,—working rations,—and see that they work.
Cordwood, six dollars per cord, and piled on the bank where steamers can make a landing.
No work, no rations. Understand?”
“A thousand men can get ugly, if they are idle. They can get ugly anyway. Watch out
they don’t rush the caches. If they do,—do your duty.”
The other nodded grimly. His hands gripped unconsciously, while the scar on his
forehead took on a livid hue.
“There are five steamers in the ice. Make them safe against the spring break-up. But first
transfer all their cargoes to one big cache. You can defend it better, and make the cache
impregnable. Send a messenger down to Fort Burr, asking Mr. Carter for three of his men. He
doesn’t need them. Nothing much is doing at Circle City. Stop in on the way down and take
half of Mr. Burdwell’s men. You’ll need them. There’ll be gun-fighters in plenty to deal with. Be
stiff. Keep things in check from the start. Remember, the man who shoots first comes off with
the whole hide. And keep a constant eye on the grub.”
“And on the forty-five-nineties,” Captain McGregor rumbled back as he passed out the
“John Melton—Mr. Melton, sir. Can he see you?”
“See here, Welse, what’s this mean?” John Melton followed wrathfully on the heels of the
clerk, and he almost walked over him as he flourished a paper before the head of the
company. “Read that! What’s it stand for?”
Jacob Welse glanced over it and looked up coolly. “One thousand pounds of grub.”
“That’s what I say, but that fellow you’ve got in the warehouse says no,—five hundred’s
all it’s good for.”
“He spoke the truth.”
“It stands for one thousand pounds, but in the warehouse it is only good for five
“That your signature?” thrusting the receipt again into the other’s line of vision.
“Then what are you going to do about it?”
“Give you five hundred. What are you going to do about it?”
“Refuse to take it.”
“Very good. There is no further discussion.”
“Yes there is. I propose to have no further dealings with you. I’m rich enough to freight
my own stuff in over the Passes, and I will next year. Our business stops right now and for all
“I cannot object to that. You have three hundred thousand dollars in dust deposited with
me. Go to Mr. Atsheler and draw it at once.”
The man fumed impotently up and down. “Can’t I get that other five hundred? Great
God, man! I’ve paid for it! You don’t intend me to starve?”
“Look here, Melton.” Jacob Welse paused to knock the ash from his cigar. “At this very
moment what are you working for? What are you trying to get?”
“A thousand pounds of grub.”
“For your own stomach?”The Bonanzo king nodded his head.
“Just so.” The lines showed more sharply on Jacob Welse’s forehead. “You are working
for your own stomach. I am working for the stomachs of twenty thousand.”
“But you filled Tim McReady’s thousand pounds yesterday all right.”
“The scale-down did not go into effect until to-day.”
“But why am I the one to get it in the neck hard?”
“Why didn’t you come yesterday, and Tim McReady to-day?”
Melton’s face went blank, and Jacob Welse answered his own question with shrugging
“That’s the way it stands, Melton. No favoritism. If you hold me responsible for Tim
McReady, I shall hold you responsible for not coming yesterday. Better we both throw it upon
Providence. You went through the Forty Mile Famine. You are a white man. A Bonanzo
property, or a block of Bonanzo properties, does not entitle you to a pound more than the
oldest penniless ‘sour-dough’ or the newest baby born. Trust me. As long as I have a pound
of grub you shall not starve. Stiffen up. Shake hands. Get a smile on your face and make the
best of it.”
Still savage of spirit, though rapidly toning down, the king shook hands and flung out of
the room. Before the door could close on his heels, a loose-jointed Yankee shambled in,
thrust a moccasined foot to the side and hooked a chair under him, and sat down.
“Say,” he opened up, confidentially, “people’s gittin’ scairt over the grub proposition, I
guess some.”
“Hello, Dave. That you?”
“S’pose so. But ez I was saying there’ll be a lively stampede fer the
Outside soon as the river freezes.”
“Think so?”
“Unh huh.”
“Then I’m glad to hear it. It’s what the country needs. Going to join them?”
“Not in a thousand years.” Dave Harney threw his head back with smug complacency.
“Freighted my truck up to the mine yesterday. Wa’n’t a bit too soon about it, either. But say...
Suthin’ happened to the sugar. Had it all on the last sled, an’ jest where the trail turns off the
Klondike into Bonanzo, what does that sled do but break through the ice! I never seen the
beat of it—the last sled of all, an’ all the sugar! So I jest thought I’d drop in to-day an’ git a
hundred pounds or so. White or brown, I ain’t pertickler.”
Jacob Welse shook his head and smiled, but Harney hitched his chair closer.
“The clerk of yourn said he didn’t know, an’ ez there wa’n’t no call to pester him, I said I’d
jest drop round an’ see you. I don’t care what it’s wuth. Make it a hundred even; that’ll do me
“Say,” he went on easily, noting the decidedly negative poise of the other’s head. “I’ve
got a tolerable sweet tooth, I have. Recollect the taffy I made over on Preacher Creek that
time? I declare! how time does fly! That was all of six years ago if it’s a day. More’n that,
surely. Seven, by the Jimcracky! But ez I was sayin’, I’d ruther do without my plug of ‘Star’
than sugar. An’ about that sugar? Got my dogs outside. Better go round to the warehouse an’
git it, eh? Pretty good idea.”
But he saw the “No” shaping on Jacob Welse’s lips, and hurried on before it could be
“Now, I don’t want to hog it. Wouldn’t do that fer the world. So if yer short, I can put up
with seventy-five—” (he studied the other’s face), “an’ I might do with fifty. I ‘preciate your
position, an’ I ain’t low-down critter enough to pester—”
“What’s the good of spilling words, Dave? We haven’t a pound of sugar to spare—”
“Ez I was sayin’, I ain’t no hog; an’ seein’ ‘s it’s you, Welse, I’ll make to scrimp along on
twenty-five—”“Not an ounce!”
“Not the least leetle mite? Well, well, don’t git het up. We’ll jest fergit I ast you fer any, an’
I’ll drop round some likelier time. So long. Say!” He threw his jaw to one side and seemed to
stiffen the muscles of his ear as he listened intently. “That’s the Laura’s whistle. She’s startin’
soon. Goin’ to see her off? Come along.”
Jacob Welse pulled on his bearskin coat and mittens, and they passed through the outer
offices into the main store. So large was it, that the tenscore purchasers before the counters
made no apparent crowd. Many were serious-faced, and more than one looked darkly at the
head of the company as he passed. The clerks were selling everything except grub, and it
was grub that was in demand. “Holding it for a rise. Famine prices,” a red-whiskered miner
sneered. Jacob Welse heard it, but took no notice. He expected to hear it many times and
more unpleasantly ere the scare was over.
On the sidewalk he stopped to glance over the public bulletins posted against the side of
the building. Dogs lost, found, and for sale occupied some space, but the rest was devoted to
notices of sales of outfits. The timid were already growing frightened. Outfits of five hundred
pounds were offering at a dollar a pound, without flour; others, with flour, at a dollar and a
half. Jacob Welse saw Melton talking with an anxious-faced newcomer, and the satisfaction
displayed by the Bonanzo king told that he had succeeded in filling his winter’s cache.
“Why don’t you smell out the sugar, Dave?” Jacob Welse asked, pointing to the bulletins.
Dave Harney looked his reproach. “Mebbe you think I ain’t ben smellin’. I’ve clean wore
my dogs out chasin’ round from Klondike City to the Hospital. Can’t git yer fingers on it fer love
or money.”
They walked down the block-long sidewalk, past the warehouse doors and the long
teams of waiting huskies curled up in wolfish comfort in the snow. It was for this snow, the first
permanent one of the fall, that the miners up-creek had waited to begin their freighting.
“Curious, ain’t it?” Dave hazarded suggestively, as they crossed the main street to the
river bank. “Mighty curious—me ownin’ two five-hundred-foot Eldorado claims an’ a fraction,
wuth five millions if I’m wuth a cent, an’ no sweetenin’ fer my coffee or mush! Why,
goshdang-it! this country kin go to blazes! I’ll sell out! I’ll quit it cold! I’ll—I’ll—go back to the States!”
“Oh, no, you won’t,” Jacob Welse answered. “I’ve heard you talk before. You put in a
year up Stuart River on straight meat, if I haven’t forgotten. And you ate salmon-belly and
dogs up the Tanana, to say nothing of going through two famines; and you haven’t turned
your back on the country yet. And you never will. And you’ll die here as sure as that’s the
Laura’s spring being hauled aboard. And I look forward confidently to the day when I shall ship
you out in a lead-lined box and burden the San Francisco end with the trouble of winding up
your estate. You are a fixture, and you know it.”
As he talked he constantly acknowledged greetings from the passers-by. Those who
knew him were mainly old-timers and he knew them all by name, though there was scarcely a
newcomer to whom his face was not familiar.
“I’ll jest bet I’ll be in Paris in 1900,” the Eldorado king protested feebly.
But Jacob Welse did not hear. There was a jangling of gongs as McGregor saluted him
from the pilot-house and the Laura slipped out from the bank. The men on the shore filled the
air with good-luck farewells and last advice, but the three hundred grubless ones, turning their
backs on the golden dream, were moody and dispirited, and made small response. The Laura
backed out through a channel cut in the shore-ice, swung about in the current, and with a final
blast put on full steam ahead.
The crowd thinned away and went about its business, leaving Jacob Welse the centre of
a group of a dozen or so. The talk was of the famine, but it was the talk of men. Even Dave
Harney forgot to curse the country for its sugar shortage, and waxed facetious over the
newcomers,—chechaquos, he called them, having recourse to the Siwash tongue. In the
midst of his remarks his quick eye lighted on a black speck floating down with the mush-ice ofthe river. “Jest look at that!” he cried. “A Peterborough canoe runnin’ the ice!”
Twisting and turning, now paddling, now shoving clear of the floating cakes, the two men
in the canoe worked in to the rim-ice, along the edge of which they drifted, waiting for an
opening. Opposite the channel cut out by the steamer, they drove their paddles deep and
darted into the calm dead water. The waiting group received them with open arms, helping
them up the bank and carrying their shell after them.
In its bottom were two leather mail-pouches, a couple of blankets, coffee-pot and
fryingpan, and a scant grub-sack. As for the men, so frosted were they, and so numb with the cold,
that they could hardly stand. Dave Harney proposed whiskey, and was for haling them away
at once; but one delayed long enough to shake stiff hands with Jacob Welse.
“She’s coming,” he announced. “Passed her boat an hour back. It ought to be round the
bend any minute. I’ve got despatches for you, but I’ll see you later. Got to get something into
me first.” Turning to go with Harney, he stopped suddenly and pointed up stream. “There she
is now. Just coming out past the bluff.”
“Run along, boys, an’ git yer whiskey,” Harney admonished him and his mate. “Tell ‘m it’s
on me, double dose, an’ jest excuse me not drinkin’ with you, fer I’m goin’ to stay.”
The Klondike was throwing a thick flow of ice, partly mush and partly solid, and swept the
boat out towards the middle of the Yukon. They could see the struggle plainly from the bank,
—four men standing up and poling a way through the jarring cakes. A Yukon stove aboard
was sending up a trailing pillar of blue smoke, and, as the boat drew closer, they could see a
woman in the stern working the long steering-sweep. At sight of this there was a snap and
sparkle in Jacob Welse’s eyes. It was the first omen, and it was good, he thought. She was
still a Welse; a struggler and a fighter. The years of her culture had not weakened her.
Though tasting of the fruits of the first remove from the soil, she was not afraid of the soil; she
could return to it gleefully and naturally.
So he mused till the boat drove in, ice-rimed and battered, against the edge of the
rimice. The one white man aboard sprang: out, painter in hand, to slow it down and work into the
channel. But the rim-ice was formed of the night, and the front of it shelved off with him into
the current. The nose of the boat sheered out under the pressure of a heavy cake, so that he
came up at the stern. The woman’s arm flashed over the side to his collar, and at the same
instant, sharp and authoritative, her voice rang out to the Indian oarsmen to back water. Still
holding the man’s head above water, she threw her body against the sweep and guided the
boat stern-foremost into the opening. A few more strokes and it grounded at the foot of the
bank. She passed the collar of the chattering man to Dave Harney, who dragged him out and
started him off on the trail of the mail-carriers.
Frona stood up, her cheeks glowing from the quick work. Jacob Welse hesitated. Though
he stood within reach of the gunwale, a gulf of three years was between. The womanhood of
twenty, added unto the girl of seventeen, made a sum more prodigious than he had imagined.
He did not know whether to bear-hug the radiant young creature or to take her hand and help
her ashore. But there was no apparent hitch, for she leaped beside him and was into his
arms. Those above looked away to a man till the two came up the bank hand in hand.
“Gentlemen, my daughter.” There was a great pride in his face.
Frona embraced them all with a comrade smile, and each man felt that for an instant her
eyes had looked straight into his.
Chapter 7

That Vance Corliss wanted to see more of the girl he had divided blankets with, goes with
the saying. He had not been wise enough to lug a camera into the country, but none the less,
by a yet subtler process, a sun-picture had been recorded somewhere on his cerebral tissues.
In the flash of an instant it had been done. A wave message of light and color, a molecular
agitation and integration, a certain minute though definite corrugation in a brain recess,—and
there it was, a picture complete! The blazing sunlight on the beetling black; a slender gray
form, radiant, starting forward to the vision from the marge where light and darkness met; a
fresh young morning smile wreathed in a flame of burning gold.
It was a picture he looked at often, and the more he looked the greater was his desire, to
see Frona Welse again. This event he anticipated with a thrill, with the exultancy over change
which is common of all life. She was something new, a fresh type, a woman unrelated to all
women he had met. Out of the fascinating unknown a pair of hazel eyes smiled into his, and a
hand, soft of touch and strong of grip, beckoned him. And there was an allurement about it
which was as the allurement of sin.
Not that Vance Corliss was anybody’s fool, nor that his had been an anchorite’s
existence; but that his upbringing, rather, had given his life a certain puritanical bent.
Awakening intelligence and broader knowledge had weakened the early influence of an
austere mother, but had not wholly eradicated it. It was there, deep down, very shadowy, but
still a part of him. He could not get away from it. It distorted, ever so slightly, his concepts of
things. It gave a squint to his perceptions, and very often, when the sex feminine was
concerned, determined his classifications. He prided himself on his largeness when he granted
that there were three kinds of women. His mother had only admitted two. But he had
outgrown her. It was incontestable that there were three kinds,—the good, the bad, and the
partly good and partly bad. That the last usually went bad, he believed firmly. In its very
nature such a condition could not be permanent. It was the intermediary stage, marking the
passage from high to low, from best to worst.
All of which might have been true, even as he saw it; but with definitions for premises,
conclusions cannot fail to be dogmatic. What was good and bad? There it was. That was
where his mother whispered with dead lips to him. Nor alone his mother, but divers
conventional generations, even back to the sturdy ancestor who first uplifted from the soil and
looked down. For Vance Corliss was many times removed from the red earth, and, though he
did not know it, there was a clamor within him for a return lest he perish.
Not that he pigeon-holed Frona according to his inherited definitions. He refused to
classify her at all. He did not dare. He preferred to pass judgment later, when he had gathered
more data. And there was the allurement, the gathering of the data; the great critical point
where purity reaches dreamy hands towards pitch and refuses to call it pitch—till defiled. No;
Vance Corliss was not a cad. And since purity is merely a relative term, he was not pure. That
there was no pitch under his nails was not because he had manicured diligently, but because
it had not been his luck to run across any pitch. He was not good because he chose to be,
because evil was repellant; but because he had not had opportunity to become evil. But from
this, on the other hand, it is not to be argued that he would have gone bad had he had a
He was a product of the sheltered life. All his days had been lived in a sanitary dwelling;
the plumbing was excellent. The air he had breathed had been mostly ozone artificially
manufactured. He had been sun-bathed in balmy weather, and brought in out of the wet when
it rained. And when he reached the age of choice he had been too fully occupied to deviatefrom the straight path, along which his mother had taught him to creep and toddle, and along
which he now proceeded to walk upright, without thought of what lay on either side.
Vitality cannot be used over again. If it be expended on one thing, there is none left for
the other thing. And so with Vance Corliss. Scholarly lucubrations and healthy exercises
during his college days had consumed all the energy his normal digestion extracted from a
wholesome omnivorous diet. When he did discover a bit of surplus energy, he worked it off in
the society of his mother and of the conventional minds and prim teas she surrounded herself
with. Result: A very nice young man, of whom no maid’s mother need ever be in trepidation; a
very strong young man, whose substance had not been wasted in riotous living; a very
learned young man, with a Freiberg mining engineer’s diploma and a B.A. sheepskin from
Yale; and, lastly, a very self-centred, self-possessed young man.
Now his greatest virtue lay in this: he had not become hardened in the mould baked by
his several forbears and into which he had been pressed by his mother’s hands. Some
atavism had been at work in the making of him, and he had reverted to that ancestor who
sturdily uplifted. But so far this portion of his heritage had lain dormant. He had simply
remained adjusted to a stable environment. There had been no call upon the adaptability
which was his. But whensoever the call came, being so constituted, it was manifest that he
should adapt, should adjust himself to the unwonted pressure of new conditions. The maxim
of the rolling stone may be all true; but notwithstanding, in the scheme of life, the inability to
become fixed is an excellence par excellence. Though he did not know it, this inability was
Vance Corliss’s most splendid possession.
But to return. He looked forward with great sober glee to meeting Frona Welse, and in
the meanwhile consulted often the sun-picture he carried of her. Though he went over the
Pass and down the lakes and river with a push of money behind him (London syndicates are
never niggardly in such matters). Frona beat him into Dawson by a fortnight. While on his part
money in the end overcame obstacles, on hers the name of Welse was a talisman greater
than treasure. After his arrival, a couple of weeks were consumed in buying a cabin,
presenting his letters of introduction, and settling down. But all things come in the fulness of
time, and so, one night after the river closed, he pointed his moccasins in the direction of
Jacob Welse’s house. Mrs. Schoville, the Gold Commissioner’s wife, gave him the honor of
her company.
Corliss wanted to rub his eyes. Steam-heating apparatus in the Klondike! But the next
instant he had passed out of the hall through the heavy portieres and stood inside the
drawing-room. And it was a drawing-room. His moose-hide moccasins sank luxuriantly into the
deep carpet, and his eyes were caught by a Turner sunrise on the opposite wall. And there
were other paintings and things in bronze. Two Dutch fireplaces were roaring full with huge
back-logs of spruce. There was a piano; and somebody was singing. Frona sprang from the
stool and came forward, greeting him with both hands. He had thought his sun-picture perfect,
but this fire-picture, this young creature with the flush and warmth of ringing life, quite eclipsed
it. It was a whirling moment, as he held her two hands in his, one of those moments when an
incomprehensible orgasm quickens the blood and dizzies the brain. Though the first syllables
came to him faintly, Mrs. Schoville’s voice brought him back to himself.
“Oh!” she cried. “You know him!”
And Frona answered, “Yes, we met on the Dyea Trail; and those who meet on the Dyea
Trail can never forget.”
“How romantic!”
The Gold Commissioner’s wife clapped her hands. Though fat and forty, and phlegmatic
of temperament, between exclamations and hand-clappings her waking existence was mostly
explosive. Her husband secretly averred that did God Himself deign to meet her face to face,
she would smite together her chubby hands and cry out, “How romantic!”
“How did it happen?” she continued. “He didn’t rescue you over a cliff, or that sort ofthing, did he? Do say that he did! And you never said a word about it, Mr. Corliss. Do tell me.
I’m just dying to know!”
“Oh, nothing like that,” he hastened to answer. “Nothing much. I, that is we—”
He felt a sinking as Frona interrupted. There was no telling what this remarkable girl
might say.
“He gave me of his hospitality, that was all,” she said. “And I can vouch for his fried
potatoes; while for his coffee, it is excellent—when one is very hungry.”
“Ingrate!” he managed to articulate, and thereby to gain a smile, ere he was introduced
to a cleanly built lieutenant of the Mounted Police, who stood by the fireplace discussing the
grub proposition with a dapper little man very much out of place in a white shirt and stiff collar.
Thanks to the particular niche in society into which he happened to be born, Corliss
drifted about easily from group to group, and was much envied therefore by Del Bishop, who
sat stiffly in the first chair he had dropped into, and who was waiting patiently for the first
person to take leave that he might know how to compass the manoeuvre. In his mind’s eye he
had figured most of it out, knew just how many steps required to carry him to the door, was
certain he would have to say good-by to Frona, but did not know whether or not he was
supposed to shake hands all around. He had just dropped in to see Frona and say “Howdee,”
as he expressed it, and had unwittingly found himself in company.
Corliss, having terminated a buzz with a Miss Mortimer on the decadence of the French
symbolists, encountered Del Bishop. But the pocket-miner remembered him at once from the
one glimpse he had caught of Corliss standing by his tent-door in Happy Camp. Was almighty
obliged to him for his night’s hospitality to Miss Frona, seein’ as he’d ben side-tracked down
the line; that any kindness to her was a kindness to him; and that he’d remember it, by God,
as long as he had a corner of a blanket to pull over him. Hoped it hadn’t put him out. Miss
Frona’d said that bedding was scarce, but it wasn’t a cold night (more blowy than crisp), so he
reckoned there couldn’t ‘a’ ben much shiverin’. All of which struck Corliss as perilous, and he
broke away at the first opportunity, leaving the pocket-miner yearning for the door.
But Dave Harney, who had not come by mistake, avoided gluing himself to the first chair.
Being an Eldorado king, he had felt it incumbent to assume the position in society to which his
numerous millions entitled him; and though unused all his days to social amenities other than
the out-hanging latch-string and the general pot, he had succeeded to his own satisfaction as
a knight of the carpet. Quick to take a cue, he circulated with an aplomb which his striking
garments and long shambling gait only heightened, and talked choppy and disconnected
fragments with whomsoever he ran up against. The Miss Mortimer, who spoke Parisian
French, took him aback with her symbolists; but he evened matters up with a goodly measure
of the bastard lingo of the Canadian voyageurs, and left her gasping and meditating over a
proposition to sell him twenty-five pounds of sugar, white or brown. But she was not unduly
favored, for with everybody he adroitly turned the conversation to grub, and then led up to the
eternal proposition. “Sugar or bust,” he would conclude gayly each time and wander on to the
But he put the capstone on his social success by asking Frona to sing the touching ditty,
“I Left My Happy Home for You.” This was something beyond her, though she had him hum
over the opening bars so that she could furnish the accompaniment. His voice was more
strenuous than sweet, and Del Bishop, discovering himself at last, joined in raucously on the
choruses. This made him feel so much better that he disconnected himself from the chair, and
when he finally got home he kicked up his sleepy tent-mate to tell him about the high time he’d
had over at the Welse’s. Mrs. Schoville tittered and thought it all so unique, and she thought it
so unique several times more when the lieutenant of Mounted Police and a couple of
compatriots roared “Rule Britannia” and “God Save the Queen,” and the Americans
responded with “My Country, ‘Tis of Thee” and “John Brown.” Then big Alec Beaubien, the
Circle City king, demanded the “Marseillaise,” and the company broke up chanting “Die Wachtam Rhein” to the frosty night.
“Don’t come on these nights,” Frona whispered to Corliss at parting. “We haven’t spoken
three words, and I know we shall be good friends. Did Dave Harney succeed in getting any
sugar out of you?”
They mingled their laughter, and Corliss went home under the aurora borealis, striving to
reduce his impressions to some kind of order.
Chapter 8

“And why should I not be proud of my race?”
Frona’s cheeks were flushed and her eyes sparkling. They had both been harking back
to childhood, and she had been telling Corliss of her mother, whom she faintly remembered.
Fair and flaxen-haired, typically Saxon, was the likeness she had drawn, filled out largely with
knowledge gained from her father and from old Andy of the Dyea Post. The discussion had
then turned upon the race in general, and Frona had said things in the heat of enthusiasm
which affected the more conservative mind of Corliss as dangerous and not solidly based on
fact. He deemed himself too large for race egotism and insular prejudice, and had seen fit to
laugh at her immature convictions.
“It’s a common characteristic of all peoples,” he proceeded, “to consider themselves
superior races,—a naive, natural egoism, very healthy and very good, but none the less
manifestly untrue. The Jews conceived themselves to be God’s chosen people, and they still
so conceive themselves—”
“And because of it they have left a deep mark down the page of history,” she interrupted.
“But time has not proved the stability of their conceptions. And you must also view the
other side. A superior people must look upon all others as inferior peoples. This comes home
to you. To be a Roman were greater than to be a king, and when the Romans rubbed against
your savage ancestors in the German forests, they elevated their brows and said, ‘An inferior
people, barbarians.’”
“But we are here, now. We are, and the Romans are not. The test is time. So far we
have stood the test; the signs are favorable that we shall continue to stand it. We are the best
“But wait. Put it to the test.”
As she spoke her hand flew out impulsively to his. At the touch his heart pulsed upward,
there was a rush Of blood and a tightening across the temples. Ridiculous, but delightful, he
thought. At this rate he could argue with her the night through.
“The test,” she repeated, withdrawing her hand without embarrassment. “We are a race
of doers and fighters, of globe-encirclers and zone-conquerors. We toil and struggle, and
stand by the toil and struggle no matter how hopeless it may be. While we are persistent and
resistant, we are so made that we fit ourselves to the most diverse conditions. Will the Indian,
the Negro, or the Mongol ever conquer the Teuton? Surely not! The Indian has persistence
without variability; if he does not modify he dies, if he does try to modify he dies anyway. The
Negro has adaptability, but he is servile and must be led. As for the Chinese, they are
permanent. All that the other races are not, the Anglo-Saxon, or Teuton if you please, is. All
that the other races have not, the Teuton has. What race is to rise up and overwhelm us?”
“Ah, you forget the Slav,” Corliss suggested slyly.
“The Slav!” Her face fell. “True, the Slav! The only stripling in this world of young men
and gray-beards! But he is still in the future, and in the future the decision rests. In the mean
time we prepare. If may be we shall have such a start that we shall prevent him growing. You
know, because he was better skilled in chemistry, knew how to manufacture gunpowder, that
the Spaniard destroyed the Aztec. May not we, who are possessing ourselves of the world
and its resources, and gathering to ourselves all its knowledge, may not we nip the Slav ere
he grows a thatch to his lip?”
Vance Corliss shook his head non-committally, and laughed.
“Oh! I know I become absurd and grow over-warm!” she exclaimed. “But after all, onereason that we are the salt of the earth is because we have the courage to say so.”
“And I am sure your warmth spreads,” he responded. “See, I’m beginning to glow myself.
We are not God’s, but Nature’s chosen people, we Angles, and Saxons, and Normans, and
Vikings, and the earth is our heritage. Let us arise and go forth!”
“Now you are laughing at me, and, besides, we have already gone forth. Why have you
fared into the north, if not to lay hands on the race legacy?”
She turned her head at the sound of approaching footsteps, and cried for greeting, “I
appeal to you, Captain Alexander! I summon you to bear witness!”
The captain of police smiled in his sternly mirthful fashion as he shook hands with Frona
and Corliss. “Bear witness?” he questioned. “Ah, yes!
“‘Bear witness, O my comrades, what a hard-bit gang were we,—The servants of the
sweep-head, but the masters of the sea!’”
He quoted the verse with a savage solemnity exulting through his deep voice. This, and
the appositeness of it, quite carried Frona away, and she had both his hands in hers on the
instant. Corliss was aware of an inward wince at the action. It was uncomfortable. He did not
like to see her so promiscuous with those warm, strong hands of hers. Did she so favor all
men who delighted her by word or deed? He did not mind her fingers closing round his, but
somehow it seemed wanton when shared with the next comer. By the time he had thought
thus far, Frona had explained the topic under discussion, and Captain Alexander was
“I don’t know much about your Slav and other kin, except that they are good workers and
strong; but I do know that the white man is the greatest and best breed in the world. Take the
Indian, for instance. The white man comes along and beats him at all his games, outworks
him, out-roughs him, out-fishes him, out-hunts him. As far back as their myths go, the
Alaskan Indians have packed on their backs. But the gold-rushers, as soon as they had
learned the tricks of the trade, packed greater loads and packed them farther than did the
Indians. Why, last May, the Queen’s birthday, we had sports on the river. In the one, two,
three, four, and five men canoe races we beat the Indians right and left. Yet they had been
born to the paddle, and most of us had never seen a canoe until man-grown.”
“But why is it?” Corliss queried.
“I do not know why. I only know that it is. I simply bear witness. I do know that we do
what they cannot do, and what they can do, we do better.”
Frona nodded her head triumphantly at Corliss. “Come, acknowledge your defeat, so that
we may go in to dinner. Defeat for the time being, at least. The concrete facts of paddles and
pack-straps quite overcome your dogmatics. Ah, I thought so. More time? All the time in the
world. But let us go in. We’ll see what my father thinks of it,—and Mr. Kellar. A symposium on
Anglo-Saxon supremacy!”
Frost and enervation are mutually repellant. The Northland gives a keenness and zest to
the blood which cannot be obtained in warmer climes. Naturally so, then, the friendship which
sprang up between Corliss and Frona was anything but languid. They met often under her
father’s roof-tree, and went many places together. Each found a pleasurable attraction in the
other, and a satisfaction which the things they were not in accord with could not mar. Frona
liked the man because he was a man. In her wildest flights she could never imagine linking
herself with any man, no matter how exalted spiritually, who was not a man physically. It was
a delight to her and a joy to look upon the strong males of her kind, with bodies comely in the
sight of God and muscles swelling with the promise of deeds and work. Man, to her, was
preeminently a fighter. She believed in natural selection and in sexual selection, and was
certain that if man had thereby become possessed of faculties and functions, they were for
him to use and could but tend to his good. And likewise with instincts. If she felt drawn to any
person or thing, it was good for her to be so drawn, good for herself. If she felt impelled to joy
in a well-built frame and well-shaped muscle, why should she restrain? Why should she notlove the body, and without shame? The history of the race, and of all races, sealed her choice
with approval. Down all time, the weak and effeminate males had vanished from the
worldstage. Only the strong could inherit the earth. She had been born of the strong, and she
chose to cast her lot with the strong.
Yet of all creatures, she was the last to be deaf and blind to the things of the spirit. But
the things of the spirit she demanded should be likewise strong. No halting, no stuttered
utterance, tremulous waiting, minor wailing! The mind and the soul must be as quick and
definite and certain as the body. Nor was the spirit made alone for immortal dreaming. Like
the flesh, it must strive and toil. It must be workaday as well as idle day. She could
understand a weakling singing sweetly and even greatly, and in so far she could love him for
his sweetness and greatness; but her love would have fuller measure were he strong of body
as well. She believed she was just. She gave the flesh its due and the spirit its due; but she
had, over and above, her own choice, her own individual ideal. She liked to see the two go
hand in hand. Prophecy and dyspepsia did not affect her as a felicitous admixture. A splendid
savage and a weak-kneed poet! She could admire the one for his brawn and the other for his
song; but she would prefer that they had been made one in the beginning.
As to Vance Corliss. First, and most necessary of all, there was that physiological affinity
between them that made the touch of his hand a pleasure to her. Though souls may rush
together, if body cannot endure body, happiness is reared on sand and the structure will be
ever unstable and tottery. Next, Corliss had the physical potency of the hero without the
grossness of the brute. His muscular development was more qualitative than quantitative, and
it is the qualitative development which gives rise to beauty of form. A giant need not be
proportioned in the mould; nor a thew be symmetrical to be massive.
And finally,—none the less necessary but still finally,—Vance Corliss was neither
spiritually dead nor decadent. He affected her as fresh and wholesome and strong, as reared
above the soil but not scorning the soil. Of course, none of this she reasoned out otherwise
than by subconscious processes. Her conclusions were feelings, not thoughts.
Though they quarrelled and disagreed on innumerable things, deep down, underlying all,
there was a permanent unity. She liked him for a certain stern soberness that was his, and for
his saving grace of humor. Seriousness and banter were not incompatible. She liked him for
his gallantry, made to work with and not for display. She liked the spirit of his offer at Happy
Camp, when he proposed giving her an Indian guide and passage-money back to the United
States. He could do as well as talk. She liked him for his outlook, for his innate liberality, which
she felt to be there, somehow, no matter that often he was narrow of expression. She liked
him for his mind. Though somewhat academic, somewhat tainted with latter-day
scholasticism, it was still a mind which permitted him to be classed with the “Intellectuals.” He
was capable of divorcing sentiment and emotion from reason. Granted that he included all the
factors, he could not go wrong. And here was where she found chief fault with him,—his
narrowness which precluded all the factors; his narrowness which gave the lie to the breadth
she knew was really his. But she was aware that it was not an irremediable defect, and that
the new life he was leading was very apt to rectify it. He was filled with culture; what he
needed was a few more of life’s facts.
And she liked him for himself, which is quite different from liking the parts which went to
compose him. For it is no miracle for two things, added together, to produce not only the sum
of themselves, but a third thing which is not to be found in either of them. So with him. She
liked him for himself, for that something which refused to stand out as a part, or a sum of
parts; for that something which is the corner-stone of Faith and which has ever baffled
Philosophy and Science. And further, to like, with Frona Welse, did not mean to love.
First, and above all, Vance Corliss was drawn to Frona Welse because of the clamor
within him for a return to the soil. In him the elements were so mixed that it was impossible for
women many times removed to find favor in his eyes. Such he had met constantly, but notone had ever drawn from him a superfluous heart-beat. Though there had been in him a
growing instinctive knowledge of lack of unity,—the lack of unity which must precede, always,
the love of man and woman,—not one of the daughters of Eve he had met had flashed
irresistibly in to fill the void. Elective affinity, sexual affinity, or whatsoever the intangible
essence known as love is, had never been manifest. When he met Frona it had at once
sprung, full-fledged, into existence. But he quite misunderstood it, took it for a mere attraction
towards the new and unaccustomed.
Many men, possessed of birth and breeding, have yielded to this clamor for return. And
giving the apparent lie to their own sanity and moral stability, many such men have married
peasant girls or barmaids, And those to whom evil apportioned itself have been prone to
distrust the impulse they obeyed, forgetting that nature makes or mars the individual for the
sake, always, of the type. For in every such case of return, the impulse was sound,—only that
time and space interfered, and propinquity determined whether the object of choice should be
bar-maid or peasant girl.
Happily for Vance Corliss, time and space were propitious, and in Frona he found the
culture he could not do without, and the clean sharp tang of the earth he needed. In so far as
her education and culture went, she was an astonishment. He had met the scientifically
smattered young woman before, but Frona had something more than smattering. Further, she
gave new life to old facts, and her interpretations of common things were coherent and
vigorous and new. Though his acquired conservatism was alarmed and cried danger, he could
not remain cold to the charm of her philosophizing, while her scholarly attainments were fully
redeemed by her enthusiasm. Though he could not agree with much that she passionately
held, he yet recognized that the passion of sincerity and enthusiasm was good.
But her chief fault, in his eyes, was her unconventionality. Woman was something so
inexpressibly sacred to him, that he could not bear to see any good woman venturing where
the footing was precarious. Whatever good woman thus ventured, overstepping the metes
and bounds of sex and status, he deemed did so of wantonness. And wantonness of such
order was akin to—well, he could not say it when thinking of Frona, though she hurt him often
by her unwise acts. However, he only felt such hurts when away from her. When with her,
looking into her eyes which always looked back, or at greeting and parting pressing her hand
which always pressed honestly, it seemed certain that there was in her nothing but goodness
and truth.
And then he liked her in many different ways for many different things. For her impulses,
and for her passions which were always elevated. And already, from breathing the Northland
air, he had come to like her for that comradeship which at first had shocked him. There were
other acquired likings, her lack of prudishness, for instance, which he awoke one day to find
that he had previously confounded with lack of modesty. And it was only the day before that
day that he drifted, before he thought, into a discussion with her of “Camille.” She had seen
Bernhardt, and dwelt lovingly on the recollection. He went home afterwards, a dull pain
gnawing at his heart, striving to reconcile Frona with the ideal impressed upon him by his
mother that innocence was another term for ignorance. Notwithstanding, by the following day
he had worked it out and loosened another finger of the maternal grip.
He liked the flame of her hair in the sunshine, the glint of its gold by the firelight, and the
waywardness of it and the glory. He liked her neat-shod feet and the gray-gaitered calves,—
alas, now hidden in long-skirted Dawson. He liked her for the strength of her slenderness; and
to walk with her, swinging her step and stride to his, or to merely watch her come across a
room or down the street, was a delight. Life and the joy of life romped through her blood,
abstemiously filling out and rounding off each shapely muscle and soft curve. And he liked it
all. Especially he liked the swell of her forearm, which rose firm and strong and tantalizing and
sought shelter all too quickly under the loose-flowing sleeve.
The co-ordination of physical with spiritual beauty is very strong in normal men, and so itwas with Vance Corliss. That he liked the one was no reason that he failed to appreciate the
other. He liked Frona for both, and for herself as well. And to like, with him, though he did not
know it, was to love.
Chapter 9

Vance Corliss proceeded at a fair rate to adapt himself to the Northland life, and he
found that many adjustments came easy. While his own tongue was alien to the brimstone of
the Lord, he became quite used to strong language on the part of other men, even in the
most genial conversation. Carthey, a little Texan who went to work for him for a while, opened
or closed every second sentence, on an average, with the mild expletive, “By damn!” It was
also his invariable way of expressing surprise, disappointment, consternation, or all the rest of
the tribe of sudden emotions. By pitch and stress and intonation, the protean oath was made
to perform every function of ordinary speech. At first it was a constant source of irritation and
disgust to Corliss, but erelong he grew not only to tolerate it, but to like it, and to wait for it
eagerly. Once, Carthey’s wheel-dog lost an ear in a hasty contention with a dog of the Hudson
Bay, and when the young fellow bent over the animal and discovered the loss, the blended
endearment and pathos of the “by damn” which fell from his lips was a relation to Corliss. All
was not evil out of Nazareth, he concluded sagely, and, like Jacob Welse of old, revised his
philosophy of life accordingly.
Again, there were two sides to the social life of Dawson. Up at the Barracks, at the
Welse’s, and a few other places, all men of standing were welcomed and made comfortable
by the womenkind of like standing. There were teas, and dinners, and dances, and socials for
charity, and the usual run of things; all of which, however, failed to wholly satisfy the men.
Down in the town there was a totally different though equally popular other side. As the
country was too young for club-life, the masculine portion of the community expressed its
masculinity by herding together in the saloons,—the ministers and missionaries being the only
exceptions to this mode of expression. Business appointments and deals were made and
consummated in the saloons, enterprises projected, shop talked, the latest news discussed,
and a general good fellowship maintained. There all life rubbed shoulders, and kings and
dogdrivers, old-timers and chechaquos, met on a common level. And it so happened, probably
because saw-mills and house-space were scarce, that the saloons accommodated the
gambling tables and the polished dance-house floors. And here, because he needs must bend
to custom, Corliss’s adaptation went on rapidly. And as Carthey, who appreciated him,
soliloquized, “The best of it is he likes it damn well, by damn!”
But any adjustment must have its painful periods, and while Corliss’s general change
went on smoothly, in the particular case of Frona it was different. She had a code of her own,
quite unlike that of the community, and perhaps believed woman might do things at which
even the saloon-inhabiting males would be shocked. And because of this, she and Corliss had
their first disagreeable disagreement.
Frona loved to run with the dogs through the biting frost, cheeks tingling, blood bounding,
body thrust forward, and limbs rising and falling ceaselessly to the pace. And one November
day, with the first cold snap on and the spirit thermometer frigidly marking sixty-five below,
she got out the sled, harnessed her team of huskies, and flew down the river trail. As soon as
she cleared the town she was off and running. And in such manner, running and riding by
turns, she swept through the Indian village below the bluff’s, made an eight-mile circle up
Moosehide Creek and back, crossed the river on the ice, and several hours later came flying
up the west bank of the Yukon opposite the town. She was aiming to tap and return by the
trail for the wood-sleds which crossed thereabout, but a mile away from it she ran into the soft
snow and brought the winded dogs to a walk.
Along the rim of the river and under the frown of the overhanging cliffs, she directed the
path she was breaking. Here and there she made detours to avoid the out-jutting talus, and atother times followed the ice in against the precipitous walls and hugged them closely around
the abrupt bends. And so, at the head of her huskies, she came suddenly upon a woman
sitting in the snow and gazing across the river at smoke-canopied Dawson. She had been
crying, and this was sufficient to prevent Frona’s scrutiny from wandering farther. A tear,
turned to a globule of ice, rested on her cheek, and her eyes were dim and moist; there was
an-expression of hopeless, fathomless woe.
“Oh!” Frona cried, stopping the dogs and coming up to her. “You are hurt? Can I help
you?” she queried, though the stranger shook her head. “But you mustn’t sit there. It is nearly
seventy below, and you’ll freeze in a few minutes. Your cheeks are bitten already.” She
rubbed the afflicted parts vigorously with a mitten of snow, and then looked down on the warm
returning glow.
“I beg pardon.” The woman rose somewhat stiffly to her feet. “And I thank you, but I am
perfectly warm, you see” (settling the fur cape more closely about her with a snuggling
movement), “and I had just sat down for the moment.”
Frona noted that she was very beautiful, and her woman’s eye roved over and took in
the splendid furs, the make of the gown, and the bead-work of the moccasins which peeped
from beneath. And in view of all this, and of the fact that the face was unfamiliar, she felt an
instinctive desire to shrink back.
“And I haven’t hurt myself,” the woman went on. “Just a mood, that was all, looking out
over the dreary endless white.”
“Yes,” Frona replied, mastering herself; “I can understand. There must be much of
sadness in such a landscape, only it never comes that way to me. The sombreness and the
sternness of it appeal to me, but not the sadness.”
“And that is because the lines of our lives have been laid in different places,” the other
ventured, reflectively. “It is not what the landscape is, but what we are. If we were not, the
landscape would remain, but without human significance. That is what we invest it with.

“‘Truth is within ourselves; it takes no rise
From outward things, whate’er you may believe.’”

Frona’s eyes brightened, and she went on to complete the passage:

“‘There is an inmost centre in us all,
Where truth abides in fulness; and around.’

“And—and—how does it go? I have forgotten.”
“‘Wall upon wall, the gross flesh hems it in—’”
The woman ceased abruptly, her voice trilling off into silvery laughter with a certain bitter
reckless ring to it which made Frona inwardly shiver. She moved as though to go back to her
dogs, but the woman’s hand went out in a familiar gesture,—twin to Frona’s own,—which went
at once to Frona’s heart.
“Stay a moment,” she said, with an undertone of pleading in the words, “and talk with
me. It is long since I have met a woman”—she paused while her tongue wandered for the
word—”who could quote ‘Paracelsus.’ You are,—I know you, you see,—you are Jacob
Welse’s daughter, Frona Welse, I believe.”
Frona nodded her identity, hesitated, and looked at the woman with secret intentness.
She was conscious of a great and pardonable curiosity, of a frank out-reaching for fuller
knowledge. This creature, so like, so different; old as the oldest race, and young as the last
rose-tinted babe; flung far as the farthermost fires of men, and eternal as humanity itself—
where were they unlike, this woman and she? Her five senses told her not; by every law of life
they were no; only, only by the fast-drawn lines of social caste and social wisdom were theynot the same. So she thought, even as for one searching moment she studied the other’s
face. And in the situation she found an uplifting awfulness, such as comes when the veil is
thrust aside and one gazes on the mysteriousness of Deity. She remembered: “Her feet take
hold of hell; her house is the way to the grave, going down to the chamber of death,” and in
the same instant strong upon her was the vision of the familiar gesture with which the
woman’s hand had gone out in mute appeal, and she looked aside, out over the dreary
endless white, and for her, too, the day became filled with sadness.
She gave an involuntary, half-nervous shiver, though she said, naturally enough, “Come,
let us walk on and get the blood moving again. I had no idea it was so cold till I stood still.”
She turned to the dogs: “Mush-on! King! You Sandy! Mush!” And back again to the woman, “I
am quite chilled, and as for you, you must be—”
“Quite warm, of course. You have been running and your clothes are wet against you,
while I have kept up the needful circulation and no more. I saw you when you leaped off the
sled below the hospital and vanished down the river like a Diana of the snows. How I envied
you! You must enjoy it.”
“Oh, I do,” Frona answered, simply. “I was raised with the dogs.”
“It savors of the Greek.”
Frona did not reply, and they walked on in silence. Yet Frona wished, though she dared
not dare, that she could give her tongue free rein, and from out of the other’s bitter
knowledge, for her own soul’s sake and sanity, draw the pregnant human generalizations
which she must possess. And over her welled a wave of pity and distress; and she felt a
discomfort, for she knew not what to say or how to voice her heart. And when the other’s
speech broke forth, she hailed it with a great relief.
“Tell me,” the woman demanded, half-eagerly, half-masterly, “tell me about yourself. You
are new to the Inside. Where were you before you came in? Tell me.”
So the difficulty was solved, in a way, and Frona talked on about herself, with a
successfully feigned girlhood innocence, as though she did not appreciate the other or
understand her ill-concealed yearning for that which she might not have, but which was
“There is the trail you are trying to connect with.” They had rounded the last of the cliffs,
and Frona’s companion pointed ahead to where the walls receded and wrinkled to a gorge,
out of which the sleds drew the firewood across the river to town. “I shall leave you there,” she
“But are you not going back to Dawson?” Frona queried. “It is growing late, and you had
better not linger.”
“No... I...”
Her painful hesitancy brought Frona to a realization of her own thoughtlessness. But she
had made the step, and she knew she could not retrace it.
“We will go back together,” she said, bravely. And in candid all-knowledge of the other, “I
do not mind.”
Then it was that the blood surged into the woman’s cold face, and her hand went out to
the girl in the old, old way.
“No, no, I beg of you,” she stammered. “I beg of you... I... I prefer to continue my walk a
little farther. See! Some one is coming now!”
By this time they had reached the wood-trail, and Frona’s face was flaming as the other’s
had flamed. A light sled, dogs a-lope and swinging down out of the gorge, was just upon them.
A man was running with the team, and he waved his hand to the two women.
“Vance!” Frona exclaimed, as he threw his lead-dogs in the snow and brought the sled to
a halt. “What are you doing over here? Is the syndicate bent upon cornering the firewood
“No. We’re not so bad as that.” His face was full of smiling happiness at the meeting ashe shook hands with her. “But Carthey is leaving me,—going prospecting somewhere around
the North Pole, I believe,—and I came across to look up Del Bishop, if he’ll serve.”
He turned his head to glance expectantly at her companion, and she saw the smile go
out of his face and anger come in. Frona was helplessly aware that she had no grip over the
situation, and, though a rebellion at the cruelty and injustice of it was smouldering somewhere
deep down, she could only watch the swift culmination of the little tragedy. The woman met
his gaze with a half-shrinking, as from an impending blow, and with a softness of expression
which entreated pity. But he regarded her long and coldly, then deliberately turned his back.
As he did this, Frona noted her face go tired and gray, and the hardness and recklessness of
her laughter were there painted in harsh tones, and a bitter devil rose up and lurked in her
eyes. It was evident that the same bitter devil rushed hotly to her tongue. But it chanced just
then that she glanced at Frona, and all expression was brushed from her face save the infinite
tiredness. She smiled wistfully at the girl, and without a word turned and went down the trail.
And without a word Frona sprang upon her sled and was off. The way was wide, and
Corliss swung in his dogs abreast of hers. The smouldering rebellion flared up, and she
seemed to gather to herself some of the woman’s recklessness.
“You brute!”
The words left her mouth, sharp, clear-cut, breaking the silence like the lash of a whip.
The unexpectedness of it, and the savagery, took Corliss aback. He did not know what to do
or say.
“Oh, you coward! You coward!”
“Frona! Listen to me—”
But she cut him off. “No. Do not speak. You can have nothing to say. You have behaved
abominably. I am disappointed in you. It is horrible! horrible!”
“Yes, it was horrible,—horrible that she should walk with you, have speech with you, be
seen with you.”
“‘Not until the sun excludes you, do I exclude you,’” she flung back at him.
“But there is a fitness of things—”
“Fitness!” She turned upon him and loosed her wrath. “If she is unfit, are you fit? May
you cast the first stone with that smugly sanctimonious air of yours?”
“You shall not talk to me in this fashion. I’ll not have it.”
He clutched at her sled, and even in the midst of her anger she noticed it with a little thrill
of pleasure.
“Shall not? You coward!”
He reached out as though to lay hands upon her, and she raised her coiled whip to
strike. But to his credit he never flinched; his white face calmly waited to receive the blow.
Then she deflected the stroke, and the long lash hissed out and fell among the dogs. Swinging
the whip briskly, she rose to her knees on the sled and called frantically to the animals. Hers
was the better team, and she shot rapidly away from Corliss. She wished to get away, not so
much from him as from herself, and she encouraged the huskies into wilder and wilder speed.
She took the steep river-bank in full career and dashed like a whirlwind through the town and
home. Never in her life had she been in such a condition; never had she experienced such
terrible anger. And not only was she already ashamed, but she was frightened and afraid of
Chapter 10

The next morning Corliss was knocked out of a late bed by Bash, one of Jacob Welse’s
Indians. He was the bearer of a brief little note from Frona, which contained a request for the
mining engineer to come and see her at his first opportunity. That was all that was said, and
he pondered over it deeply. What did she wish to say to him? She was still such an unknown
quantity,—and never so much as now in the light of the day before,—that he could not guess.
Did she desire to give him his dismissal on a definite, well-understood basis? To take
advantage of her sex and further humiliate him? To tell him what she thought of him in coolly
considered, cold-measured terms? Or was she penitently striving to make amends for the
unmerited harshness she had dealt him? There was neither contrition nor anger in the note,
no clew, nothing save a formally worded desire to see him.
So it was in a rather unsettled and curious frame of mind that he walked in upon her as
the last hour of the morning drew to a close. He was neither on his dignity nor off, his attitude
being strictly non-committal against the moment she should disclose hers. But without beating
about the bush, in that way of hers which he had come already to admire, she at once
showed her colors and came frankly forward to him. The first glimpse of her face told him, the
first feel of her hand, before she had said a word, told him that all was well.
“I am glad you have come,” she began. “I could not be at peace with myself until I had
seen you and told you how sorry I am for yesterday, and how deeply ashamed I—”
“There, there. It’s not so bad as all that.” They were still standing, and he took a step
nearer to her. “I assure you I can appreciate your side of it; and though, looking at it
theoretically, it was the highest conduct, demanding the fullest meed of praise, still, in all
frankness, there is much to—to—”
“Much to deplore in it from the social stand-point. And unhappily, we cannot leave the
social stand-point out of our reckoning. But so far as I may speak for myself, you have done
nothing to feel sorry for or be ashamed of.”
“It is kind of you,” she cried, graciously. “Only it is not true, and you know it is not true.
You know that you acted for the best; you know that I hurt you, insulted you; you know that I
behaved like a fish-wife, and you do know that I disgusted you—”
“No, no!” He raised his hand as though to ward from her the blows she dealt herself.
“But yes, yes. And I have all reason in the world to be ashamed. I can only say this in
defence: the woman had affected me deeply—so deeply that I was close to weeping. Then
you came on the scene,—you know what you did,—and the sorrow for her bred an indignation
against you, and—well, I worked myself into a nervous condition such as I had never
experienced in my life. It was hysteria, I suppose. Anyway, I was not myself.”
“We were neither of us ourselves.”
“Now you are untrue. I did wrong, but you were yourself, as much so then as now. But
do be seated. Here we stand as though you were ready to run away at first sign of another
“Surely you are not so terrible!” he laughed, adroitly pulling his chair into position so that
the light fell upon her face.
“Rather, you are not such a coward. I must have been terrible yesterday. I—I almost
struck you. And you were certainly brave when the whip hung over you. Why, you did not
even attempt to raise a hand and shield yourself.”
“I notice the dogs your whip falls among come nevertheless to lick your hand and to be
petted.”“Ergo?” she queried, audaciously.
“Ergo, it all depends,” he equivocated.
“And, notwithstanding, I am forgiven?”
“As I hope to be forgiven.”
“Then I am glad—only, you have done nothing to be forgiven for. You acted according to
your light, and I to mine, though it must be acknowledged that mine casts the broader flare.
Ah! I have it,” clapping her hands in delight, “I was not angry with you yesterday; nor did I
behave rudely to you, or even threaten you. It was utterly impersonal, the whole of it. You
simply stood for society, for the type which aroused my indignation and anger; and, as its
representative, you bore the brunt of it. Don’t you see?”
“I see, and cleverly put; only, while you escape the charge of maltreating me yesterday;
you throw yourself open to it to-day. You make me out all that is narrow-minded and mean
and despicable, which is very unjust. Only a few minutes past I said that your way of looking
at it, theoretically considered, was irreproachable. But not so when we include society.”
“But you misunderstand me, Vance. Listen.” Her hand went out to his, and he was
content to listen. “I have always upheld that what is is well. I grant the wisdom of the prevailing
social judgment in this matter. Though I deplore it, I grant it; for the human is so made. But I
grant it socially only. I, as an individual, choose to regard such things differently. And as
between individuals so minded, why should it not be so regarded? Don’t you see? Now I find
you guilty. As between you and me, yesterday, on the river, you did not so regard it. You
behaved as narrow-mindedly as would have the society you represent.”
“Then you would preach two doctrines?” he retaliated. “One for the elect and one for the
herd? You would be a democrat in theory and an aristocrat in practice? In fact, the whole
stand you are making is nothing more or less than Jesuitical.”
“I suppose with the next breath you will be contending that all men are born free and
equal, with a bundle of natural rights thrown in? You are going to have Del Bishop work for
you; by what equal free-born right will he work for you, or you suffer him to work?”
“No,” he denied. “I should have to modify somewhat the questions of equality and rights.”
“And if you modify, you are lost!” she exulted. “For you can only modify in the direction of
my position, which is neither so Jesuitical nor so harsh as you have defined it. But don’t let us
get lost in dialectics. I want to see what I can see, so tell me about this woman.”
“Not a very tasteful topic,” Corliss objected.
“But I seek knowledge.”
“Nor can it be wholesome knowledge.”
Frona tapped her foot impatiently, and studied him.
“She is beautiful, very beautiful,” she suggested. “Do you not think so?”
“As beautiful as hell.”
“But still beautiful,” she insisted.
“Yes, if you will have it so. And she is as cruel, and hard, and hopeless as she is
“Yet I came upon her, alone, by the trail, her face softened, and tears in her eyes. And I
believe, with a woman’s ken, that I saw a side of her to which you are blind. And so strongly
did I see it, that when you appeared my mind was blank to all save the solitary wail, Oh, the
pity of it! The pity of it! And she is a woman, even as I, and I doubt not that we are very much
alike. Why, she even quoted Browning—”
“And last week,” he cut her short, “in a single sitting, she gambled away thirty thousand
of Jack Dorsey’s dust,—Dorsey, with two mortgages already on his dump! They found him in
the snow next morning, with one chamber empty in his revolver.”
Frona made no reply, but, walking over to the candle, deliberately thrust her finger into
the flame. Then she held it up to Corliss that he might see the outraged skin, red and angry.
“And so I point the parable. The fire is very good, but I misuse it, and I am punished.”“You forget,” he objected. “The fire works in blind obedience to natural law. Lucile is a
free agent. That which she has chosen to do, that she has done.”
“Nay, it is you who forget, for just as surely Dorsey was a free agent. But you said Lucile.
Is that her name? I wish I knew her better.”
Corliss winced. “Don’t! You hurt me when you say such things.”
“And why, pray?”
“Because I honor woman highly. Frona, you have always made a stand for frankness,
and I can now advantage by it. It hurts me because of the honor in which I hold you, because
I cannot bear to see taint approach you. Why, when I saw you and that woman together on
the trail, I—you cannot understand what I suffered.”
“Taint?” There was a tightening about her lips which he did not notice, and a just
perceptible lustre of victory lighted her eyes.
“Yes, taint,—contamination,” he reiterated. “There are some things which it were not well
for a good woman to understand. One cannot dabble with mud and remain spotless.”
“That opens the field wide.” She clasped and unclasped her hands gleefully. “You have
said that her name was Lucile; you display a knowledge of her; you have given me facts about
her; you doubtless retain many which you dare not give; in short, if one cannot dabble and
remain spotless, how about you?”
“But I am—”
“A man, of course. Very good. Because you are a man, you may court contamination.
Because I am a woman, I may not. Contamination contaminates, does it not? Then you, what
do you here with me? Out upon you!”
Corliss threw up his hands laughingly. “I give in. You are too much for me with your
formal logic. I can only fall back on the higher logic, which you will not recognize.”
“Which is—”
“Strength. What man wills for woman, that will he have.”
“I take you, then, on your own ground,” she rushed on. “What of Lucile? What man has
willed that he has had. So you, and all men, have willed since the beginning of time. So poor
Dorsey willed. You cannot answer, so let me speak something that occurs to me concerning
that higher logic you call strength. I have met it before. I recognized it in you, yesterday, on
the sleds.”
“In me?”
“In you, when you reached out and clutched at me. You could not down the primitive
passion, and, for that matter, you did not know it was uppermost. But the expression on your
face, I imagine, was very like that of a woman-stealing cave-man. Another instant, and I am
sure you would have laid violent hands upon me.”
“Then I ask your pardon. I did not dream—”
“There you go, spoiling it all! I—I quite liked you for it. Don’t you remember, I, too, was a
cave-woman, brandishing the whip over your head?
“But I am not done with you yet, Sir Doubleface, even if you have dropped out of the
battle.” Her eyes were sparkling mischievously, and the wee laughter-creases were forming on
her cheek. “I purpose to unmask you.”
“As clay in the hands of the potter,” he responded, meekly.
“Then you must remember several things. At first, when I was very humble and
apologetic, you made it easier for me by saying that you could only condemn my conduct on
the ground of being socially unwise. Remember?”
Corliss nodded.
“Then, just after you branded me as Jesuitical, I turned the conversation to Lucile, saying
that I wished to see what I could see.”Again he nodded.
“And just as I expected, I saw. For in only a few minutes you began to talk about taint,
and contamination, and dabbling in mud,—and all in relation to me. There are your two
propositions, sir. You may only stand on one, and I feel sure that you stand on the last one.
Yes, I am right. You do. And you were insincere, confess, when you found my conduct unwise
only from the social point of view. I like sincerity.”
“Yes,” he began, “I was unwittingly insincere. But I did not know it until further analysis,
with your help, put me straight. Say what you will, Frona, my conception of woman is such
that she should not court defilement.”
“But cannot we be as gods, knowing good and evil?”
“But we are not gods,” he shook his head, sadly.
“Only the men are?”
“That is new-womanish talk,” he frowned. “Equal rights, the ballot, and all that.”
“Oh! Don’t!” she protested. “You won’t understand me; you can’t. I am no woman’s
rights’ creature; and I stand, not for the new woman, but for the new womanhood. Because I
am sincere; because I desire to be natural, and honest, and true; and because I am
consistent with myself, you choose to misunderstand it all and to lay wrong strictures upon
me. I do try to be consistent, and I think I fairly succeed; but you can see neither rhyme nor
reason in my consistency. Perhaps it is because you are unused to consistent, natural
women; because, more likely, you are only familiar with the hot-house breeds,—pretty,
helpless, well-rounded, stall-fatted little things, blissfully innocent and criminally ignorant. They
are not natural or strong; nor can they mother the natural and strong.”
She stopped abruptly. They heard somebody enter the hall, and a heavy,
softmoccasined tread approaching.
“We are friends,” she added hurriedly, and Corliss answered with his eyes.
“Ain’t intrudin’, am I?” Dave Harney grinned broad insinuation and looked about
ponderously before coming up to shake hands.
“Not at all,” Corliss answered. “We’ve bored each other till we were pining for some one
to come along. If you hadn’t, we would soon have been quarrelling, wouldn’t we, Miss Welse?”
“I don’t think he states the situation fairly,” she smiled back. “In fact, we had already
begun to quarrel.”
“You do look a mite flustered,” Harney criticised, dropping his loose-jointed frame all over
the pillows of the lounging couch.
“How’s the famine?” Corliss asked. “Any public relief started yet?”
“Won’t need any public relief. Miss Frona’s old man was too forehanded fer ‘em. Scairt
the daylights out of the critters, I do b’lieve. Three thousand went out over the ice hittin’ the
high places, an’ half ez many again went down to the caches, and the market’s loosened
some considerable. Jest what Welse figgered on, everybody speculated on a rise and held all
the grub they could lay hand to. That helped scare the shorts, and away they stampeded fer
Salt Water, the whole caboodle, a-takin’ all the dogs with ‘em. Say!” he sat up solemnly,
“corner dogs! They’ll rise suthin’ unheard on in the spring when freightin’ gits brisk. I’ve
corralled a hundred a’ready, an’ I figger to clear a hundred dollars clean on every hide of ‘em.”
“Think so?”
“Think so! I guess yes. Between we three, confidential, I’m startin’ a couple of lads down
into the Lower Country next week to buy up five hundred of the best huskies they kin spot.
Think so! I’ve limbered my jints too long in the land to git caught nappin’.”
Frona burst out laughing. “But you got pinched on the sugar, Dave.”
“Oh, I dunno,” he responded, complacently. “Which reminds me. I’ve got a noospaper,
an’ only four weeks’ old, the Seattle Post-Intelligencer.”
“Has the United States and Spain—”
“Not so fast, not so fast!” The long Yankee waved his arms for silence, cutting offFrona’s question which was following fast on that of Corliss.
“But have you read it?” they both demanded.
“Unh huh, every line, advertisements an’ all.”
“Then do tell me,” Frona began. “Has—”
“Now you keep quiet, Miss Frona, till I tell you about it reg’lar. That noospaper cost me
fifty dollars—caught the man comin’ in round the bend above Klondike City, an’ bought it on
the spot. The dummy could a-got a hundred fer it, easy, if he’d held on till he made town—”
“But what does it say? Has—”
“Ez I was sayin’, that noospaper cost me fifty dollars. It’s the only one that come in.
Everybody’s jest dyin’ to hear the noos. So I invited a select number of ‘em to come here to
yer parlors to-night, Miss Frona, ez the only likely place, an’ they kin read it out loud, by shifts,
ez long ez they want or till they’re tired—that is, if you’ll let ‘em have the use of the place.”
“Why, of course, they are welcome. And you are very kind to—”
He waved her praise away. “Jest ez I kalkilated. Now it so happens, ez you said, that I
was pinched on sugar. So every mother’s son and daughter that gits a squint at that paper
tonight got to pony up five cups of sugar. Savve? Five cups,—big cups, white, or brown, or
cube,—an’ I’ll take their IOU’s, an’ send a boy round to their shacks the day followin’ to
Frona’s face went blank at the telling, then the laughter came back into it. “Won’t it be
jolly? I’ll do it if it raises a scandal. To-night, Dave? Sure to-night?”
“Sure. An’ you git a complimentary, you know, fer the loan of yer parlor.”
“But papa must pay his five cups. You must insist upon it, Dave.”
Dave’s eyes twinkled appreciatively. “I’ll git it back on him, you bet!”
“And I’ll make him come,” she promised, “at the tail of Dave Harney’s chariot.”
“Sugar cart,” Dave suggested. “An’ to-morrow night I’ll take the paper down to the Opery
House. Won’t be fresh, then, so they kin git in cheap; a cup’ll be about the right thing, I
reckon.” He sat up and cracked his huge knuckles boastfully. “I ain’t ben a-burnin’ daylight
sence navigation closed; an’ if they set up all night they won’t be up early enough in the
mornin’ to git ahead of Dave Harney—even on a sugar proposition.”
Chapter 11

Over in the corner Vance Corliss leaned against the piano, deep in conversation with
Colonel Trethaway. The latter, keen and sharp and wiry, for all his white hair and sixty-odd
years, was as young in appearance as a man of thirty. A veteran mining engineer, with a
record which put him at the head of his profession, he represented as large American
interests as Corliss did British. Not only had a cordial friendship sprung up between them, but
in a business way they had already been of large assistance to each other. And it was well
that they should stand together,—a pair who held in grip and could direct at will the potent
capital which two nations had contributed to the development of the land under the Pole.
The crowded room was thick with tobacco smoke. A hundred men or so, garbed in furs
and warm-colored wools, lined the walls and looked on. But the mumble of their general
conversation destroyed the spectacular feature of the scene and gave to it the geniality of
common comradeship. For all its bizarre appearance, it was very like the living-room of the
home when the members of the household come together after the work of the day. Kerosene
lamps and tallow candles glimmered feebly in the murky atmosphere, while large stoves
roared their red-hot and white-hot cheer.
On the floor a score of couples pulsed rhythmically to the swinging waltz-time music.
Starched shirts and frock coats were not. The men wore their wolf- and beaver-skin caps, with
the gay-tasselled ear-flaps flying free, while on their feet were the moose-skin moccasins and
walrus-hide muclucs of the north. Here and there a woman was in moccasins, though the
majority danced in frail ball-room slippers of silk and satin. At one end of the hall a great open
doorway gave glimpse of another large room where the crowd was even denser. From this
room, in the lulls in the music, came the pop of corks and the clink of glasses, and as an
undertone the steady click and clatter of chips and roulette balls.
The small door at the rear opened, and a woman, befurred and muffled, came in on a
wave of frost. The cold rushed in with her to the warmth, taking form in a misty cloud which
hung close to the floor, hiding the feet of the dancers, and writhing and twisting until
vanquished by the heat.
“A veritable frost queen, my Lucile,” Colonel Trethaway addressed her.
She tossed her head and laughed, and, as she removed her capes and
streetmoccasins, chatted with him gayly. But of Corliss, though he stood within a yard of her, she
took no notice. Half a dozen dancing men were waiting patiently at a little distance till she
should have done with the colonel. The piano and violin played the opening bars of a
schottische, and she turned to go; but a sudden impulse made Corliss step up to her. It was
wholly unpremeditated; he had not dreamed of doing it.
“I am very sorry,” he said.
Her eyes flashed angrily as she turned upon him.
“I mean it,” he repeated, holding out his hand. “I am very sorry. I was a brute and a
coward. Will you forgive me?”
She hesitated, and, with the wisdom bought of experience, searched him for the ulterior
motive. Then, her face softened, and she took his hand. A warm mist dimmed her eyes.
“Thank you,” she said.
But the waiting men had grown impatient, and she was whirled away in the arms of a
handsome young fellow, conspicuous in a cap of yellow Siberian wolf-skin. Corliss came back
to his companion, feeling unaccountably good and marvelling at what he had done.
“It’s a damned shame.” The colonel’s eye still followed Lucile, and Vance understood.
“Corliss, I’ve lived my threescore, and lived them well, and do you know, woman is a greatermystery than ever. Look at them, look at them all!” He embraced the whole scene with his
eyes. “Butterflies, bits of light and song and laughter, dancing, dancing down the last tail-reach
of hell. Not only Lucile, but the rest of them. Look at May, there, with the brow of a Madonna
and the tongue of a gutter-devil. And Myrtle—for all the world one of Gainsborough’s old
English beauties stepped down from the canvas to riot out the century in Dawson’s
dancehalls. And Laura, there, wouldn’t she make a mother? Can’t you see the child in the curve of
her arm against her breast! They’re the best of the boiling, I know,—a new country always
gathers the best,—but there’s something wrong, Corliss, something wrong. The heats of life
have passed with me, and my vision is truer, surer. It seems a new Christ must arise and
preach a new salvation—economic or sociologic—in these latter days, it matters not, so long
as it is preached. The world has need of it.”
The room was wont to be swept by sudden tides, and notably between the dances, when
the revellers ebbed through the great doorway to where corks popped and glasses tinkled.
Colonel Trethaway and Corliss followed out on the next ebb to the bar, where fifty men and
women were lined up. They found themselves next to Lucile and the fellow in the yellow
wolfskin cap. He was undeniably handsome, and his looks were enhanced by a warm overplus of
blood in the cheeks and a certain mellow fire in the eyes. He was not technically drunk, for he
had himself in perfect physical control; but his was the soul-exhilaration which comes of the
juice of the grape. His voice was raised the least bit and joyous, and his tongue made quick
and witty—just in the unstable condition when vices and virtues are prone to extravagant
As he raised his glass, the man next to him accidentally jostled his arm. He shook the
wine from his sleeve and spoke his mind. It was not a nice word, but one customarily
calculated to rouse the fighting blood. And the other man’s blood roused, for his fist landed
under the wolf-skin cap with force sufficient to drive its owner back against Corliss. The
insulted man followed up his attack swiftly. The women slipped away, leaving a free field for
the men, some of whom were for crowding in, and some for giving room and fair play.
The wolf-skin cap did not put up a fight or try to meet the wrath he had invoked, but, with
his hands shielding his face, strove to retreat. The crowd called upon him to stand up and
fight. He nerved himself to the attempt, but weakened as the man closed in on him, and
dodged away.
“Let him alone. He deserves it,” the colonel called to Vance as he showed signs of
interfering. “He won’t fight. If he did, I think I could almost forgive him.”
“But I can’t see him pummelled,” Vance objected. “If he would only stand up, it wouldn’t
seem so brutal.”
The blood was streaming from his nose and from a slight cut over one eye, when Corliss
sprang between. He attempted to hold the two men apart, but pressing too hard against the
truculent individual, overbalanced him and threw him to the floor. Every man has friends in a
bar-room fight, and before Vance knew what was taking place he was staggered by a blow
from a chum of the man he had downed. Del Bishop, who had edged in, let drive promptly at
the man who had attacked his employer, and the fight became general. The crowd took sides
on the moment and went at it.
Colonel Trethaway forgot that the heats of life had passed, and swinging a three-legged
stool, danced nimbly into the fray. A couple of mounted police, on liberty, joined him, and with
half a dozen others safeguarded the man with the wolf-skin cap.
Fierce though it was, and noisy, it was purely a local disturbance. At the far end of the
bar the barkeepers still dispensed drinks, and in the next room the music was on and the
dancers afoot. The gamblers continued their play, and at only the near tables did they evince
any interest in the affair.
“Knock’m down an’ drag’m out!” Del Bishop grinned, as he fought for a brief space
shoulder to shoulder with Corliss.Corliss grinned back, met the rush of a stalwart dog-driver with a clinch, and came down
on top of him among the stamping feet. He was drawn close, and felt the fellow’s teeth sinking
into his ear. Like a flash, he surveyed his whole future and saw himself going one-eared
through life, and in the same dash, as though inspired, his thumbs flew to the man’s eyes and
pressed heavily on the balls. Men fell over him and trampled upon him, but it all seemed very
dim and far away. He only knew, as he pressed with his thumbs, that the man’s teeth wavered
reluctantly. He added a little pressure (a little more, and the man would have been eyeless),
and the teeth slackened and slipped their grip.
After that, as he crawled out of the fringe of the melee and came to his feet by the side
of the bar, all distaste for fighting left him. He had found that he was very much like other men
after all, and the imminent loss of part of his anatomy had scraped off twenty years of culture.
Gambling without stakes is an insipid amusement, and Corliss discovered, likewise, that the
warm blood which rises from hygienic gymnasium work is something quite different from that
which pounds hotly along when thew matches thew and flesh impacts on flesh and the stake
is life and limb. As he dragged himself to his feet by means of the bar-rail, he saw a man in a
squirrel-skin parka lift a beer-mug to hurl at Trethaway, a couple of paces off. And the fingers,
which were more used to test-tubes and water colors, doubled into a hard fist which smote the
mug-thrower cleanly on the point of the jaw. The man merely dropped the glass and himself
on the floor. Vance was dazed for the moment, then he realized that he had knocked the man
unconscious,—the first in his life,—and a pang of delight thrilled through him.
Colonel Trethaway thanked him with a look, and shouted, “Get on the outside! Work to
the door, Corliss! Work to the door!”
Quite a struggle took place before the storm-doors could be thrown open; but the
colonel, still attached to the three-legged stool, effectually dissipated the opposition, and the
Opera House disgorged its turbulent contents into the street. This accomplished, hostilities
ceased, after the manner of such fights, and the crowd scattered. The two policemen went
back to keep order, accompanied by the rest of the allies, while Corliss and the colonel,
followed by the Wolf-Skin Cap and Del Bishop, proceeded up the street.
“Blood and sweat! Blood and sweat!” Colonel Trethaway exulted. “Talk about putting the
vim into one! Why, I’m twenty years younger if I’m a day! Corliss, your hand. I congratulate
you, I do, I heartily do. Candidly, I didn’t think it was in you. You’re a surprise, sir, a surprise!”
“And a surprise to myself,” Corliss answered. The reaction had set in, and he was feeling
sick and faint. “And you, also, are a surprise. The way you handled that stool—”
“Yes, now! I flatter myself I did fairly well with it. Did you see—well, look at that!” He held
up the weapon in question, still tightly clutched, and joined in the laugh against himself.
“Whom have I to thank, gentlemen?”
They had come to a pause at the corner, and the man they had rescued was holding out
his hand.
“My name is St. Vincent,” he went on, “and—”
“What name?” Del Bishop queried with sudden interest.
“St. Vincent, Gregory St. Vincent—”
Bishop’s fist shot out, and Gregory St. Vincent pitched heavily into the snow. The colonel
instinctively raised the stool, then helped Corliss to hold the pocket-miner back.
“Are you crazy, man?” Vance demanded.
“The skunk! I wish I’d hit ‘m harder!” was the response. Then, “Oh, that’s all right. Let go
o’ me. I won’t hit ‘m again. Let go o’ me, I’m goin’ home. Good-night.”
As they helped St. Vincent to his feet, Vance could have sworn he heard the colonel
giggling. And he confessed to it later, as he explained, “It was so curious and unexpected.”
But he made amends by taking it upon himself to see St. Vincent home.
“But why did you hit him?” Corliss asked, unavailingly, for the fourth time after he had got
into his cabin.“The mean, crawlin’ skunk!” the pocket-miner gritted in his blankets. “What’d you stop me
for, anyway? I wish I’d hit ‘m twice as hard!”
Chapter 12

“Mr. Harney, pleased to meet you. Dave, I believe, Dave Harney?” Dave Harney nodded,
and Gregory St. Vincent turned to Frona. “You see, Miss Welse, the world is none so large.
Mr. Harney and I are not strangers after all.”
The Eldorado king studied the other’s face until a glimmering intelligence came to him.
“Hold on!” he cried, as St. Vincent started to speak, “I got my finger on you. You were
smooth-faced then. Let’s see,—’86, fall of ‘87, summer of ‘88,—yep, that’s when. Summer of
‘88 I come floatin’ a raft out of Stewart River, loaded down with quarters of moose an’ strainin’
to make the Lower Country ‘fore they went bad. Yep, an’ down the Yukon you come, in a
Linderman boat. An’ I was holdin’ strong, ez it was Wednesday, an’ my pardner ez it was
Friday, an’ you put us straight—Sunday, I b’lieve it was. Yep, Sunday. I declare! Nine years
ago! And we swapped moose-steaks fer flour an’ bakin’ soda, an’—an’—an’ sugar! By the
Jimcracky! I’m glad to see you!”
He shoved out his hand and they shook again.
“Come an’ see me,” he invited, as he moved away. “I’ve a right tidy little shack up on the
hill, and another on Eldorado. Latch-string’s always out. Come an’ see me, an’ stay ez long ez
you’ve a mind to. Sorry to quit you cold, but I got to traipse down to the Opery House and
collect my taxes,—sugar. Miss Frona’ll tell you.”
“You are a surprise, Mr. St. Vincent.” Frona switched back to the point of interest, after
briefly relating Harney’s saccharine difficulties. “The country must indeed have been a
wilderness nine years ago, and to think that you went through it at that early day! Do tell me
about it.”
Gregory St. Vincent shrugged his shoulders, “There is very little to tell. It was an ugly
failure, filled with many things that are not nice, and containing nothing of which to be proud.”
“But do tell me, I enjoy such things. They seem closer and truer to life than the ordinary
every-day happenings. A failure, as you call it, implies something attempted. What did you
He noted her frank interest with satisfaction. “Well, if you will, I can tell you in few words
all there is to tell. I took the mad idea into my head of breaking a new path around the world,
and in the interest of science and journalism, particularly journalism, I proposed going through
Alaska, crossing the Bering Straits on the ice, and journeying to Europe by way of Northern
Siberia. It was a splendid undertaking, most of it being virgin ground, only I failed. I crossed
the Straits in good order, but came to grief in Eastern Siberia—all because of Tamerlane is
the excuse I have grown accustomed to making.”
“A Ulysses!” Mrs. Schoville clapped her hands and joined them. “A modern Ulysses! How
“But not an Othello,” Frona replied. “His tongue is a sluggard. He leaves one at the most
interesting point with an enigmatical reference to a man of a bygone age. You take an unfair
advantage of us, Mr. St. Vincent, and we shall be unhappy until you show how Tamerlane
brought your journey to an untimely end.”
He laughed, and with an effort put aside his reluctance to speak of his travels. “When
Tamerlane swept with fire and sword over Eastern Asia, states were disrupted, cities
overthrown, and tribes scattered like star-dust. In fact, a vast people was hurled broadcast
over the land. Fleeing before the mad lust of the conquerors, these refugees swung far into
Siberia, circling to the north and east and fringing the rim of the polar basin with a spray of
Mongol tribes—am I not tiring you?”
“No, no!” Mrs. Schoville exclaimed. “It is fascinating! Your method of narration is so vivid!It reminds me of—of—”
“Of Macaulay,” St. Vincent laughed, good-naturedly. “You know I am a journalist, and he
has strongly influenced my style. But I promise you I shall tone down. However, to return, had
it not been for these Mongol tribes, I should not have been halted in my travels. Instead of
being forced to marry a greasy princess, and to become proficient in interclannish warfare and
reindeer-stealing, I should have travelled easily and peaceably to St. Petersburg.”
“Oh, these heroes! Are they not exasperating, Frona? But what about the
reindeerstealing and the greasy princesses?”
The Gold Commissioner’s wife beamed upon him, and glancing for permission to Frona,
he went on.
“The coast people were Esquimo stock, merry-natured and happy, and inoffensive. They
called themselves the Oukilion, or the Sea Men. I bought dogs and food from them, and they
treated me splendidly. But they were subject to the Chow Chuen, or interior people, who were
known as the Deer Men. The Chow Chuen were a savage, indomitable breed, with all the
fierceness of the untamed Mongol, plus double his viciousness. As soon as I left the coast
they fell upon me, confiscated my goods, and made me a slave.”
“But were there no Russians?” Mrs. Schoville asked.
“Russians? Among the Chow Chuen?” He laughed his amusement. “Geographically, they
are within the White Tsar’s domain; but politically, no. I doubt if they ever heard of him.
Remember, the interior of North-Eastern Siberia is hidden in the polar gloom, a terra
incognita, where few men have gone and none has returned.”
“But you—”
“I chance to be the exception. Why I was spared, I do not know. It just so happened. At
first I was vilely treated, beaten by the women and children, clothed in vermin-infested mangy
furs, and fed on refuse. They were utterly heartless. How I managed to survive is beyond me;
but I know that often and often, at first, I meditated suicide. The only thing that saved me
during that period from taking my own life was the fact that I quickly became too stupefied and
bestial, what of my suffering and degradation. Half-frozen, half-starved, undergoing untold
misery and hardship, beaten many and many a time into insensibility, I became the sheerest
“On looking back much of it seems a dream. There are gaps which my memory cannot
fill. I have vague recollections of being lashed to a sled and dragged from camp to camp and
tribe to tribe. Carted about for exhibition purposes, I suppose, much as we do lions and
elephants and wild men. How far I so journeyed up and down that bleak region I cannot
guess, though it must have been several thousand miles. I do know that when consciousness
returned to me and I really became myself again, I was fully a thousand miles to the west of
the point where I was captured.
“It was springtime, and from out of a forgotten past it seemed I suddenly opened my
eyes. A reindeer thong was about my waist and made fast to the tail-end of a sled. This thong
I clutched with both hands, like an organ-grinder’s monkey; for the flesh of my body was raw
and in great sores from where the thong had cut in.
“A low cunning came to me, and I made myself agreeable and servile. That night I
danced and sang, and did my best to amuse them, for I was resolved to incur no more of the
maltreatment which had plunged me into darkness. Now the Deer Men traded with the Sea
Men, and the Sea Men with the whites, especially the whalers. So later I discovered a deck of
cards in the possession of one of the women, and I proceeded to mystify the Chow Chuen
with a few commonplace tricks. Likewise, with fitting solemnity, I perpetrated upon them the
little I knew of parlor legerdemain. Result: I was appreciated at once, and was better fed and
better clothed.
“To make a long story short, I gradually became a man of importance. First the old
people and the women came to me for advice, and later the chiefs. My slight but rough andready knowledge of medicine and surgery stood me in good stead, and I became
indispensable. From a slave, I worked myself to a seat among the head men, and in war and
peace, so soon as I had learned their ways, was an unchallenged authority. Reindeer was
their medium of exchange, their unit of value as it were, and we were almost constantly
engaged in cattle forays among the adjacent clans, or in protecting our own herds from their
inroads. I improved upon their methods, taught them better strategy and tactics, and put a
snap and go into their operations which no neighbor tribe could withstand.
“But still, though I became a power, I was no nearer my freedom. It was laughable, for I
had over-reached myself and made myself too valuable. They cherished me with exceeding
kindness, but they were jealously careful. I could go and come and command without
restraint, but when the trading parties went down to the coast I was not permitted to
accompany them. That was the one restriction placed upon my movements.
“Also, it is very tottery in the high places, and when I began altering their political
structures I came to grief again. In the process of binding together twenty or more of the
neighboring tribes in order to settle rival claims, I was given the over-lordship of the
federation. But Old Pi-Une was the greatest of the under-chiefs,—a king in a way,—and in
relinquishing his claim to the supreme leadership he refused to forego all the honors. The
least that could be done to appease him was for me to marry his daughter Ilswunga. Nay, he
demanded it. I offered to abandon the federation, but he would not hear of it. And—”
“And?” Mrs. Schoville murmured ecstatically.
“And I married Ilswunga, which is the Chow Chuen name for Wild Deer. Poor Ilswunga!
Like Swinburne’s Iseult of Brittany, and I Tristram! The last I saw of her she was playing
solitaire in the Mission of Irkutsky and stubbornly refusing to take a bath.”
“Oh, mercy! It’s ten o’clock!” Mrs. Schoville suddenly cried, her husband having at last
caught her eye from across the room. “I’m so sorry I can’t hear the rest, Mr. St. Vincent, how
you escaped and all that. But you must come and see me. I am just dying to hear!”
“And I took you for a tenderfoot, a chechaquo,” Frona said meekly, as St. Vincent tied
his ear-flaps and turned up his collar preparatory to leaving.
“I dislike posing,” he answered, matching her meekness. “It smacks of insincerity; it really
is untrue. And it is so easy to slip into it. Look at the old-timers,—’sour-doughs’ as they
proudly call themselves. Just because they have been in the country a few years, they let
themselves grow wild and woolly and glorify in it. They may not know it, but it is a pose. In so
far as they cultivate salient peculiarities, they cultivate falseness to themselves and live lies.”
“I hardly think you are wholly just,” Frona said, in defence of her chosen heroes. “I do like
what you say about the matter in general, and I detest posing, but the majority of the
oldtimers would be peculiar in any country, under any circumstances. That peculiarity is their
own; it is their mode of expression. And it is, I am sure, just what makes them go into new
countries. The normal man, of course, stays at home.”
“Oh, I quite agree with you, Miss Welse,” he temporized easily. “I did not intend it so
sweepingly. I meant to brand that sprinkling among them who are poseurs. In the main, as
you say, they are honest, and sincere, and natural.”
“Then we have no quarrel. But Mr. St. Vincent, before you go, would you care to come
to-morrow evening? We are getting up theatricals for Christmas. I know you can help us
greatly, and I think it will not be altogether unenjoyable to you. All the younger people are
interested,—the officials, officers of police, mining engineers, gentlemen rovers, and so forth,
to say nothing of the nice women. You are bound to like them.”
“I am sure I shall,” as he took her hand. “Tomorrow, did you say?”
“To-morrow evening. Good-night.”
A brave man, she told herself as she went bade from the door, and a splendid type of
the race.
Chapter 13

Gregory St. Vincent swiftly became an important factor in the social life of Dawson. As a
representative of the Amalgamated Press Association, he had brought with him the best
credentials a powerful influence could obtain, and over and beyond, he was well qualified
socially by his letters of introduction. It developed in a quiet way that he was a wanderer and
explorer of no small parts, and that he had seen life and strife pretty well all over the earth’s
crust. And withal, he was so mild and modest about it, that nobody, not even among the men,
was irritated by his achievements. Incidentally, he ran across numerous old acquaintances.
Jacob Welse he had met at St. Michael’s in the fall of ‘88, just prior to his crossing Bering
Straits on the ice. A month or so later, Father Barnum (who had come up from the Lower
River to take charge of the hospital) had met him a couple of hundred miles on his way north
of St. Michael’s. Captain Alexander, of the Police, had rubbed shoulders with him in the British
Legation at Peking. And Bettles, another old-timer of standing, had met him at Fort o’ Yukon
nine years before.
So Dawson, ever prone to look askance at the casual comer, received him with open
arms. Especially was he a favorite with the women. As a promoter of pleasures and an
organizer of amusements he took the lead, and it quickly came to pass that no function was
complete without him. Not only did he come to help in the theatricals, but insensibly, and as a
matter of course, he took charge. Frona, as her friends charged, was suffering from a stroke
of Ibsen, so they hit upon the “Doll’s House,” and she was cast for Nora. Corliss, who was
responsible, by the way, for the theatricals, having first suggested them, was to take Torvald’s
part; but his interest seemed to have died out, or at any rate he begged off on the plea of
business rush. So St. Vincent, without friction, took Torvald’s lines. Corliss did manage to
attend one rehearsal. It might have been that he had come tired from forty miles with the
dogs, and it might have been that Torvald was obliged to put his arm about Nora at divers
times and to toy playfully with her ear; but, one way or the other, Corliss never attended
Busy he certainly was, and when not away on trail he was closeted almost continually
with Jacob Welse and Colonel Trethaway. That it was a deal of magnitude was evidenced by
the fact that Welse’s mining interests involved alone mounted to several millions. Corliss was
primarily a worker and doer, and on discovering that his thorough theoretical knowledge
lacked practical experience, he felt put upon his mettle and worked the harder. He even
marvelled at the silliness of the men who had burdened him with such responsibilities, simply
because of his pull, and he told Trethaway as much. But the colonel, while recognizing his
shortcomings, liked him for his candor, and admired him for his effort and for the quickness
with which he came to grasp things actual.
Del Bishop, who had refused to play any hand but his own, had gone to work for Corliss
because by so doing he was enabled to play his own hand better. He was practically
unfettered, while the opportunities to further himself were greatly increased. Equipped with the
best of outfits and a magnificent dog-team, his task was mainly to run the various creeks and
keep his eyes and ears open. A pocket-miner, first, last, and always, he was privately on the
constant lookout for pockets, which occupation did not interfere in the least with the duty he
owed his employer. And as the days went by he stored his mind with miscellaneous data
concerning the nature of the various placer deposits and the lay of the land, against the
summer when the thawed surface and the running water would permit him to follow a trace
from creek-bed to side-slope and source.
Corliss was a good employer, paid well, and considered it his right to work men as heworked himself. Those who took service with him either strengthened their own manhood and
remained, or quit and said harsh things about him. Jacob Welse noted this trait with
appreciation, and he sounded the mining engineer’s praises continually. Frona heard and was
gratified, for she liked the things her father liked; and she was more gratified because the man
was Corliss. But in his rush of business she saw less of him than formerly, while St. Vincent
came to occupy a greater and growing portion of her time. His healthful, optimistic spirit
pleased her, while he corresponded well to her idealized natural man and favorite racial type.
Her first doubt—that if what he said was true—had passed away. All the evidence had gone
counter. Men who at first questioned the truth of his wonderful adventures gave in after
hearing him talk. Those to any extent conversant with the parts of the world he made mention
of, could not but acknowledge that he knew what he talked about. Young Soley, representing
Bannock’s News Syndicate, and Holmes of the Fairweather, recollected his return to the world
in ‘91, and the sensation created thereby. And Sid Winslow, Pacific Coast journalist, had made
his acquaintance at the Wanderers’ Club shortly after he landed from the United States
revenue cutter which had brought him down from the north. Further, as Frona well saw, he
bore the ear-marks of his experiences; they showed their handiwork in his whole outlook on
life. Then the primitive was strong in him, and his was a passionate race pride which fully
matched hers. In the absence of Corliss they were much together, went out frequently with
the dogs, and grew to know each other thoroughly.
All of which was not pleasant to Corliss, especially when the brief intervals he could
devote to her were usually intruded upon by the correspondent. Naturally, Corliss was not
drawn to him, and other men, who knew or had heard of the Opera House occurrence, only
accepted him after a tentative fashion. Trethaway had the indiscretion, once or twice, to speak
slightingly of him, but so fiercely was he defended by his admirers that the colonel developed
the good taste to thenceforward keep his tongue between his teeth. Once, Corliss, listening to
an extravagant panegyric bursting from the lips of Mrs. Schoville, permitted himself the luxury
of an incredulous smile; but the quick wave of color in Frona’s face, and the gathering of the
brows, warned him.
At another time he was unwise enough and angry enough to refer to the Opera House
broil. He was carried away, and what he might have said of that night’s happening would have
redounded neither to St. Vincent’s credit nor to his own, had not Frona innocently put a seal
upon his lips ere he had properly begun.
“Yes,” she said. “Mr. St. Vincent told me about it. He met you for the first time that night,
I believe. You all fought royally on his side,—you and Colonel Trethaway. He spoke his
admiration unreservedly and, to tell the truth, with enthusiasm.”
Corliss made a gesture of depreciation.
“No! no! From what he said you must have behaved splendidly. And I was most pleased
to hear. It must be great to give the brute the rein now and again, and healthy, too. Great for
us who have wandered from the natural and softened to sickly ripeness. Just to shake off
artificiality and rage up and down! and yet, the inmost mentor, serene and passionless,
viewing all and saying: ‘This is my other self. Behold! I, who am now powerless, am the power
behind and ruleth still! This other self, mine ancient, violent, elder self, rages blindly as the
beast, but ‘tis I, sitting apart, who discern the merit of the cause and bid him rage or bid him
cease!’ Oh, to be a man!”
Corliss could not help a humoring smile, which put Frona upon defence at once.
“Tell me, Vance, how did it feel? Have I not described it rightly? Were the symptoms
yours? Did you not hold aloof and watch yourself play the brute?”
He remembered the momentary daze which came when he stunned the man with his
fist, and nodded.
“And pride?” she demanded, inexorably. “Or shame?”
“A—a little of both, and more of the first than the second,” he confessed. “At the time Isuppose I was madly exultant; then afterwards came the shame, and I tossed awake half the
“And finally?”
“Pride, I guess. I couldn’t help it, couldn’t down it. I awoke in the morning feeling as
though I had won my spurs. In a subconscious way I was inordinately proud of myself, and
time and again, mentally, I caught myself throwing chests. Then came the shame again, and I
tried to reason back my self-respect. And last of all, pride. The fight was fair and open. It was
none of my seeking. I was forced into it by the best of motives. I am not sorry, and I would
repeat it if necessary.”
“And rightly so.” Frona’s eyes were sparkling. “And how did Mr. St. Vincent acquit
“He?... Oh, I suppose all right, creditably. I was too busy watching my other self to take
“But he saw you.”
“Most likely so. I acknowledge my negligence. I should have done better, the chances
are, had I thought it would have been of interest to you—pardon me. Just my bungling wit.
The truth is, I was too much of a greenhorn to hold my own and spare glances on my
So Corliss went away, glad that he had not spoken, and keenly appreciating St. Vincent’s
craft whereby he had so adroitly forestalled adverse comment by telling the story in his own
modest, self-effacing way.
Two men and a woman! The most potent trinity of factors in the creating of human
pathos and tragedy! As ever in the history of man, since the first father dropped down from
his arboreal home and walked upright, so at Dawson. Necessarily, there were minor factors,
not least among which was Del Bishop, who, in his aggressive way, stepped in and
accelerated things. This came about in a trail-camp on the way to Miller Creek, where Corliss
was bent on gathering in a large number of low-grade claims which could only be worked
profitably on a large scale.
“I’ll not be wastin’ candles when I make a strike, savve!” the pocket-miner remarked
savagely to the coffee, which he was settling with a chunk of ice. “Not on your life, I guess
rather not!”
“Kerosene?” Corliss queried, running a piece of bacon-rind round the frying-pan and
pouring in the batter.
“Kerosene, hell! You won’t see my trail for smoke when I get a gait on for God’s country,
my wad in my poke and the sunshine in my eyes. Say! How’d a good juicy tenderloin strike
you just now, green onions, fried potatoes, and fixin’s on the side? S’help me, that’s the first
proposition I’ll hump myself up against. Then a general whoop-la! for a week—Seattle or
‘Frisco, I don’t care a rap which, and then—”
“Out of money and after a job.”
“Not on your family tree!” Bishop roared. “Cache my sack before I go on the tear, sure
pop, and then, afterwards, Southern California. Many’s the day I’ve had my eye on a peach of
a fruit farm down there—forty thousand’ll buy it. No more workin’ for grub-stakes and the like.
Figured it out long; ago,—hired men to work the ranch, a manager to run it, and me ownin’ the
game and livin’ off the percentage. A stable with always a couple of bronchos handy; handy to
slap the packs and saddles on and be off and away whenever the fever for chasin’ pockets
came over me. Great pocket country down there, to the east and along the desert.”
“And no house on the ranch?”
“Cert! With sweet peas growin’ up the sides, and in back a patch for
vegetables—stringbeans and spinach and radishes, cucumbers and ‘sparagrass, turnips, carrots, cabbage, and
such. And a woman inside to draw me back when I get to runnin’ loco after the pockets. Say,
you know all about minin’. Did you ever go snoozin’ round after pockets? No? Then just steerclear. They’re worse than whiskey, horses, or cards. Women, when they come afterwards,
ain’t in it. Whenever you get a hankerin’ after pockets, go right off and get married. It’s the
only thing’ll save you; and even then, mebbe, it won’t. I ought ‘a’ done it years ago. I might ‘a’
made something of myself if I had. Jerusalem! the jobs I’ve jumped and the good things
chucked in my time, just because of pockets! Say, Corliss, you want to get married, you do,
and right off. I’m tellin’ you straight. Take warnin’ from me and don’t stay single any longer
than God’ll let you, sure!”
Corliss laughed.
“Sure, I mean it. I’m older’n you, and know what I’m talkin’. Now there’s a bit of a thing
down in Dawson I’d like to see you get your hands on. You was made for each other, both of
Corliss was past the stage when he would have treated Bishop’s meddling as an
impertinence. The trail, which turns men into the same blankets and makes them brothers,
was the great leveller of distinctions, as he had come to learn. So he flopped a flapjack and
held his tongue.
“Why don’t you waltz in and win?” Del demanded, insistently. “Don’t you cotton to her? I
know you do, or you wouldn’t come back to cabin, after bein’ with her, a-walkin’-like on air.
Better waltz in while you got a chance. Why, there was Emmy, a tidy bit of flesh as women
go, and we took to each other on the jump. But I kept a-chasin’ pockets and chasin’ pockets,
and delayin’. And then a big black lumberman, a Kanuck, began sidlin’ up to her, and I made
up my mind to speak—only I went off after one more pocket, just one more, and when I got
back she was Mrs. Somebody Else.
“So take warnin’. There’s that writer-guy, that skunk I poked outside the Opera House.
He’s walkin’ right in and gettin’ thick; and here’s you, just like me, a-racin’ round all creation
and lettin’ matrimony slide. Mark my words, Corliss! Some fine frost you’ll come slippin’ into
camp and find ‘em housekeepin’. Sure! With nothin’ left for you in life but pocketing!”
The picture was so unpleasant that Corliss turned surly and ordered him to shut up.
“Who? Me?” Del asked so aggrievedly that Corliss laughed.
“What would you do, then?” he asked.
“Me? In all kindness I’ll tell you. As soon as you get back you go and see her. Make
dates with her ahead till you got to put ‘em on paper to remember ‘em all. Get a cinch on her
spare time ahead so as to shut the other fellow out. Don’t get down in the dirt to her,—she’s
not that kind,—but don’t be too high and mighty, neither. Just so-so—savve? And then, some
time when you see she’s feelin’ good, and smilin’ at you in that way of hers, why up and call
her hand. Of course I can’t say what the showdown’ll be. That’s for you to find out. But don’t
hold off too long about it. Better married early than never. And if that writer-guy shoves in,
poke him in the breadbasket—hard! That’ll settle him plenty. Better still, take him off to one
side and talk to him. Tell’m you’re a bad man, and that you staked that claim before he was
dry behind the ears, and that if he comes nosin’ around tryin’ to file on it you’ll beat his head
Bishop got up, stretched, and went outside to feed the dogs. “Don’t forget to beat his
head off,” he called back. “And if you’re squeamish about it, just call on me. I won’t keep ‘m
waitin’ long.”
Chapter 14

“Ah, the salt water, Miss Welse, the strong salt water and the big waves and the heavy
boats for smooth or rough—that I know. But the fresh water, and the little canoes, egg-shells,
fairy bubbles; a big breath, a sigh, a heart-pulse too much, and pouf! over you go; not so, that
I do not know.” Baron Courbertin smiled self-commiseratingly and went on. “But it is delightful,
magnificent. I have watched and envied. Some day I shall learn.”
“It is not so difficult,” St. Vincent interposed. “Is it, Miss Welse? Just a sure and delicate
poise of mind and body—”
“Like the tight-rope dancer?”
“Oh, you are incorrigible,” Frona laughed. “I feel certain that you know as much about
canoes as we.”
“And you know?—a woman?” Cosmopolitan as the Frenchman was, the independence
and ability for doing of the Yankee women were a perpetual wonder to him. “How?”
“When I was a very little girl, at Dyea, among the Indians. But next spring, after the river
breaks, we’ll give you your first lessons, Mr. St. Vincent and I. So you see, you will return to
civilization with accomplishments. And you will surely love it.”
“Under such charming tutorship,” he murmured, gallantly. “But you, Mr. St. Vincent, do
you think I shall be so successful that I may come to love it? Do you love it?—you, who stand
always in the background, sparing of speech, inscrutable, as though able but unwilling to
speak from out the eternal wisdom of a vast experience.” The baron turned quickly to Frona.
“We are old friends, did I not tell you? So I may, what you Americans call, josh with him. Is it
not so, Mr. St. Vincent?”
Gregory nodded, and Frona said, “I am sure you met at the ends of the earth
“Yokohama,” St. Vincent cut in shortly; “eleven years ago, in cherry-blossom time. But
Baron Courbertin does me an injustice, which stings, unhappily, because it is not true. I am
afraid, when I get started, that I talk too much about myself.”
“A martyr to your friends,” Frona conciliated. “And such a teller of good tales that your
friends cannot forbear imposing upon you.”
“Then tell us a canoe story,” the baron begged. “A good one! A—what you Yankees call
—a hair-raiser!”
They drew up to Mrs. Schoville’s fat wood-burning stove, and St. Vincent told of the great
whirlpool in the Box Canyon, of the terrible corkscrew in the mane of the White Horse Rapids,
and of his cowardly comrade, who, walking around, had left him to go through alone—nine
years before when the Yukon was virgin.
Half an hour later Mrs. Schoville bustled in, with Corliss in her wake.
“That hill! The last of my breath!” she gasped, pulling off her mittens. “Never saw such
luck!” she declared none the less vehemently the next moment.
“This play will never come off! I never shall be Mrs. Linden! How can I? Krogstad’s gone
on a stampede to Indian River, and no one knows when he’ll be back! Krogstad” (to Corliss)
“is Mr. Maybrick, you know. And Mrs. Alexander has the neuralgia and can’t stir out. So
there’s no rehearsal to-day, that’s flat!” She attitudinized dramatically: “‘Yes, in my first terror!
But a day has passed, and in that day I have seen incredible things in this house! Helmer
must know everything! There must be an end to this unhappy secret! O Krogstad, you need
me, and I—I need you,’ and you are over on the Indian River making sour-dough bread, and I
shall never see you more!”
They clapped their applause.“My only reward for venturing out and keeping you all waiting was my meeting with this
ridiculous fellow.” She shoved Corliss forward. “Oh! you have not met! Baron Courbertin, Mr.
Corliss. If you strike it rich, baron, I advise you to sell to Mr. Corliss. He has the money-bags
of Croesus, and will buy anything so long as the title is good. And if you don’t strike, sell
anyway. He’s a professional philanthropist, you know.
“But would you believe it!” (addressing the general group) “this ridiculous fellow kindly
offered to see me up the hill and gossip along the way—gossip! though he refused point-blank
to come in and watch the rehearsal. But when he found there wasn’t to be any, he changed
about like a weather-vane. So here he is, claiming to have been away to Miller Creek; but
between ourselves there is no telling what dark deeds—”
“Dark deeds! Look!” Frona broke in, pointing to the tip of an amber mouth-piece which
projected from Vance’s outside breast-pocket. “A pipe! My congratulations.”
She held out her hand and he shook good-humoredly.
“All Del’s fault,” he laughed. “When I go before the great white throne, it is he who shall
stand forth and be responsible for that particular sin.”
“An improvement, nevertheless,” she argued. “All that is wanting is a good round
swearword now and again.”
“Oh, I assure you I am not unlearned,” he retorted. “No man can drive dogs else. I can
swear from hell to breakfast, by damn, and back again, if you will permit me, to the last link of
perdition. By the bones of Pharaoh and the blood of Judas, for instance, are fairly efficacious
with a string of huskies; but the best of my dog-driving nomenclature, more’s the pity, women
cannot stand. I promise you, however, in spite of hell and high water—”
“Oh! Oh!” Mrs. Schoville screamed, thrusting her fingers into her ears.
“Madame,” Baron Courbertin spoke up gravely, “it is a fact, a lamentable fact, that the
dogs of the north are responsible for more men’s souls than all other causes put together. Is it
not so? I leave it to the gentlemen.”
Both Corliss and St. Vincent solemnly agreed, and proceeded to detonate the lady by
swapping heart-rending and apposite dog tales.
St. Vincent and the baron remained behind to take lunch with the Gold Commissioner’s
wife, leaving Frona and Corliss to go down the hill together. Silently consenting, as though to
prolong the descent, they swerved to the right, cutting transversely the myriad foot-paths and
sled roads which led down into the town. It was a mid-December day, clear and cold; and the
hesitant high-noon sun, having laboriously dragged its pale orb up from behind the southern
land-rim, balked at the great climb to the zenith, and began its shamefaced slide back
beneath the earth. Its oblique rays refracted from the floating frost particles till the air was
filled with glittering jewel-dust—resplendent, blazing, flashing light and fire, but cold as outer
They passed down through the scintillant, magical sheen, their moccasins rhythmically
crunching the snow and their breaths wreathing mysteriously from their lips in sprayed
opalescence. Neither spoke, nor cared to speak, so wonderful was it all. At their feet, under
the great vault of heaven, a speck in the midst of the white vastness, huddled the golden city
—puny and sordid, feebly protesting against immensity, man’s challenge to the infinite!
Calls of men and cries of encouragement came sharply to them from close at hand, and
they halted. There was an eager yelping, a scratching of feet, and a string of ice-rimed
wolfdogs, with hot-lolling tongues and dripping jaws, pulled up the slope and turned into the path
ahead of them. On the sled, a long and narrow box of rough-sawed spruce told the nature of
the freight. Two dog-drivers, a woman walking blindly, and a black-robed priest, made up the
funeral cortege. A few paces farther on the dogs were again put against the steep, and with
whine and shout and clatter the unheeding clay was hauled on and upward to its ice-hewn
hillside chamber.
“A zone-conqueror,” Frona broke voice.Corliss found his thought following hers, and answered, “These battlers of frost and
fighters of hunger! I can understand how the dominant races have come down out of the
north to empire. Strong to venture, strong to endure, with infinite faith and infinite patience, is
it to be wondered at?”
Frona glanced at him in eloquent silence.
“‘We smote with our swords,’” he chanted; “‘to me it was a joy like having my bright bride
by me on the couch.’ ‘I have marched with my bloody sword, and the raven has followed me.
Furiously we fought; the fire passed over the dwellings of men; we slept in the blood of those
who kept the gates.’”
“But do you feel it, Vance?” she cried, her hand flashing out and resting on his arm.
“I begin to feel, I think. The north has taught me, is teaching me. The old thing’s come
back with new significance. Yet I do not know. It seems a tremendous egotism, a magnificent
“But you are not a negro or a Mongol, nor are you descended from the negro or
“Yes,” he considered, “I am my father’s son, and the line goes back to the sea-kings who
never slept under the smoky rafters of a roof or drained the ale-horn by inhabited hearth.
There must be a reason for the dead-status of the black, a reason for the Teuton spreading
over the earth as no other race has ever spread. There must be something in race heredity,
else I would not leap at the summons.”
“A great race, Vance. Half of the earth its heritage, and all of the sea! And in threescore
generations it has achieved it all—think of it! threescore generations!—and to-day it reaches
out wider-armed than ever. The smiter and the destroyer among nations! the builder and the
law-giver! Oh, Vance, my love is passionate, but God will forgive, for it is good. A great race,
greatly conceived; and if to perish, greatly to perish! Don’t you remember:
“‘Trembles Yggdrasil’s ash yet standing; groans that ancient tree, and the Jotun Loki is
loosed. The shadows groan on the ways of Hel, until the fire of Surt has consumed the tree.
Hrym steers from the east, the waters rise, the mundane snake is coiled in jotun-rage. The
worm heats the water, and the eagle screams; the pale of beak tears carcases; the ship
Naglfar is loosed. Surt from the south comes with flickering flame; shines from his sword the
Val-god’s sun.’”
Swaying there like a furred Valkyrie above the final carnage of men and gods, she
touched his imagination, and the blood surged exultingly along unknown channels, thrilling and
“‘The stony hills are dashed together, the giantesses totter; men tread the path of Hel,
and heaven is cloven. The sun darkens, earth in ocean sinks, fall from heaven the bright
stars, fire’s breath assails the all-nourishing tree, towering fire plays against heaven itself.’”
Outlined against the blazing air, her brows and lashes white with frost, the jewel-dust
striking and washing against hair and face, and the south-sun lighting her with a great
redness, the man saw her as the genius of the race. The traditions of the blood laid hold of
him, and he felt strangely at one with the white-skinned, yellow-haired giants of the younger
world. And as he looked upon her the mighty past rose before him, and the caverns of his
being resounded with the shock and tumult of forgotten battles. With bellowing of storm-winds
and crash of smoking North Sea waves, he saw the sharp-beaked fighting galleys, and the
sea-flung Northmen, great-muscled, deep-chested, sprung from the elements, men of sword
and sweep, marauders and scourgers of the warm south-lands! The din of twenty centuries of
battle was roaring in his ear, and the clamor for return to type strong upon him. He seized her
hands passionately.
“Be the bright bride by me, Frona! Be the bright bride by me on the couch!”
She started and looked down at him, questioningly. Then the import of it reached her and
she involuntarily drew back. The sun shot a last failing flicker across the earth and vanished.The fire went out of the air, and the day darkened. Far above, the hearse-dogs howled
“No,” he interrupted, as words formed on her lips. “Do not speak. I know my answer,
your answer... now... I was a fool... Come, let us go down.”
It was not until they had left the mountain behind them, crossed the flat, and come out
on the river by the saw-mill, that the bustle and skurry of human life made it seem possible for
them to speak. Corliss had walked with his eyes moodily bent to the ground; and Frona, with
head erect and looking everywhere, stealing an occasional glance to his face. Where the road
rose over the log run-way of the mill the footing was slippery, and catching at her to save her
from falling, their eyes met.
“I—I am grieved,” she hesitated. And then, in unconscious self-defence, “It was so... I
had not expected it—just then.”
“Else you would have prevented?” he asked, bitterly.
“Yes. I think I should have. I did not wish to give you pain—”
“Then you expected it, some time?”
“And feared it. But I had hoped... I... Vance, I did not come into the Klondike to get
married. I liked you at the beginning, and I have liked you more and more,—never so much as
“But you had never looked upon me in the light of a possible husband—that is what you
are trying to say.”
As he spoke, he looked at her side-wise, and sharply; and when her eyes met his with
the same old frankness, the thought of losing her maddened him.
“But I have,” she answered at once. “I have looked upon you in that light, but somehow it
was not convincing. Why, I do not know. There was so much I found to like in you, so much
He tried to stop her with a dissenting gesture, but she went on.
“So much to admire. There was all the warmth of friendship, and closer friendship,—a
growing camaraderie, in fact; but nothing more. Though I did not wish more, I should have
welcomed it had it come.”
“As one welcomes the unwelcome guest.”
“Why won’t you help me, Vance, instead of making it harder? It is hard on you, surely,
but do you imagine that I am enjoying it? I feel because of your pain, and, further, I know
when I refuse a dear friend for a lover the dear friend goes from me. I do not part with friends
“I see; doubly bankrupt; friend and lover both. But they are easily replaced. I fancy I was
half lost before I spoke. Had I remained silent, it would have been the same anyway. Time
softens; new associations, new thoughts and faces; men with marvellous adventures—”
She stopped him abruptly.
“It is useless, Vance, no matter what you may say. I shall not quarrel with you. I can
understand how you feel—”
“If I am quarrelsome, then I had better leave you.” He halted suddenly, and she stood
beside him. “Here comes Dave Harney. He will see you home. It’s only a step.”
“You are doing neither yourself nor me kindness.” She spoke with final firmness. “I
decline to consider this the end. We are too close to it to understand it fairly. You must come
and see me when we are both calmer. I refuse to be treated in this fashion. It is childish of
you.” She shot a hasty glance at the approaching Eldorado king. “I do not think I deserve it at
your hands. I refuse to lose you as a friend. And I insist that you come and see me, that
things remain on the old footing.”
He shook his head.
“Hello!” Dave Harney touched his cap and slowed down loose-jointedly. “Sorry you didn’t
take my tip? Dogs gone up a dollar a pound since yesterday, and still a-whoopin’. Good-afternoon, Miss Frona, and Mr. Corliss. Goin’ my way?”
“Miss Welse is.” Corliss touched the visor of his cap and half-turned on his heel.
“Where’re you off to?” Dave demanded.
“Got an appointment,” he lied.
“Remember,” Frona called to him, “you must come and see me.”
“Too busy, I’m afraid, just now. Good-by. So long, Dave.”
“Jemimy!” Dave remarked, staring after him; “but he’s a hustler. Always busy—with big
things, too. Wonder why he didn’t go in for dogs?”
Chapter 15

But Corliss did go back to see her, and before the day was out. A little bitter
selfcommunion had not taken long to show him his childishness. The sting of loss was hard
enough, but the thought, now they could be nothing to each other, that her last impressions of
him should be bad, hurt almost as much, and in a way, even more. And further, putting all to
the side, he was really ashamed. He had thought that he could have taken such a
disappointment more manfully, especially since in advance he had not been at all sure of his
So he called upon her, walked with her up to the Barracks, and on the way, with her help,
managed to soften the awkwardness which the morning had left between them. He talked
reasonably and meekly, which she countenanced, and would have apologized roundly had she
not prevented him.
“Not the slightest bit of blame attaches to you,” she said. “Had I been in your place, I
should probably have done the same and behaved much more outrageously. For you were
outrageous, you know.”
“But had you been in my place, and I in yours,” he answered, with a weak attempt at
humor, “there would have been no need.”
She smiled, glad that he was feeling less strongly about it.
“But, unhappily, our social wisdom does not permit such a reversal,” he added, more with
a desire to be saying something.
“Ah!” she laughed. “There’s where my Jesuitism comes in. I can rise above our social
“You don’t mean to say,—that—?”
“There, shocked as usual! No, I could not be so crude as to speak outright, but I might
finesse, as you whist-players say. Accomplish the same end, only with greater delicacy. After
all, a distinction without a difference.”
“Could you?” he asked.
“I know I could,—if the occasion demanded. I am not one to let what I might deem
lifehappiness slip from me without a struggle. That” (judicially) “occurs only in books and among
sentimentalists. As my father always says, I belong to the strugglers and fighters. That which
appeared to me great and sacred, that would I battle for, though I brought heaven tumbling
about my ears.”
“You have made me very happy, Vance,” she said at parting by the Barracks gates. “And
things shall go along in the same old way. And mind, not a bit less of you than formerly; but,
rather, much more.”
But Corliss, after several perfunctory visits, forgot the way which led to Jacob Welse’s
home, and applied himself savagely to his work. He even had the hypocrisy, at times, to
felicitate himself upon his escape, and to draw bleak fireside pictures of the dismal future
which would have been had he and Frona incompatibly mated. But this was only at times. As
a rule, the thought of her made him hungry, in a way akin to physical hunger; and the one
thing he found to overcome it was hard work and plenty of it. But even then, what of trail and
creek, and camp and survey, he could only get away from her in his waking hours. In his
sleep he was ignobly conquered, and Del Bishop, who was with him much, studied his
restlessness and gave a ready ear to his mumbled words.
The pocket-miner put two and two together, and made a correct induction from the
different little things which came under his notice. But this did not require any great
astuteness. The simple fact that he no longer called on Frona was sufficient evidence of anunprospering suit. But Del went a step farther, and drew the corollary that St. Vincent was the
cause of it all. Several times he had seen the correspondent with Frona, going one place and
another, and was duly incensed thereat.
“I’ll fix ‘m yet!” he muttered in camp one evening, over on Gold Bottom.
“Whom?” Corliss queried.
“Who? That newspaper man, that’s who!”
“What for?”
“Aw—general principles. Why’n’t you let me paste ‘m that night at the Opera House?”
Corliss laughed at the recollection. “Why did you strike him, Del?”
“General principles,” Del snapped back and shut up.
But Del Bishop, for all his punitive spirit, did not neglect the main chance, and on the
return trip, when they came to the forks of Eldorado and Bonanza, he called a halt.
“Say, Corliss,” he began at once, “d’you know what a hunch is?” His employer nodded
his comprehension. “Well, I’ve got one. I ain’t never asked favors of you before, but this once
I want you to lay over here till to-morrow. Seems to me my fruit ranch is ‘most in sight. I can
damn near smell the oranges a-ripenin’.”
“Certainly,” Corliss agreed. “But better still, I’ll run on down to Dawson, and you can
come in when you’ve finished hunching.”
“Say!” Del objected. “I said it was a hunch; and I want to ring you in on it, savve? You’re
all right, and you’ve learned a hell of a lot out of books. You’re a regular high-roller when it
comes to the laboratory, and all that; but it takes yours truly to get down and read the face of
nature without spectacles. Now I’ve got a theory—”
Corliss threw up his hands in affected dismay, and the pocket-miner began to grow
“That’s right! Laugh! But it’s built right up on your own pet theory of erosion and changed
riverbeds. And I didn’t pocket among the Mexicans two years for nothin’. Where d’you s’pose
this Eldorado gold came from?—rough, and no signs of washin’? Eh? There’s where you need
your spectacles. Books have made you short-sighted. But never mind how. ‘Tisn’t exactly
pockets, neither, but I know what I’m spelling about. I ain’t been keepin’ tab on traces for my
health. I can tell you mining sharps more about the lay of Eldorado Creek in one minute than
you could figure out in a month of Sundays. But never mind, no offence. You lay over with me
till to-morrow, and you can buy a ranch ‘longside of mine, sure.” “Well, all right. I can rest up
and look over my notes while you’re hunting your ancient river-bed.”
“Didn’t I tell you it was a hunch?” Del reproachfully demanded.
“And haven’t I agreed to stop over? What more do you want?”
“To give you a fruit ranch, that’s what! Just to go with me and nose round a bit, that’s
“I do not want any of your impossible fruit ranches. I’m tired and worried; can’t you leave
me alone? I think I am more than fair when I humor you to the extent of stopping over. You
may waste your time nosing around, but I shall stay in camp. Understand?”
“Burn my body, but you’re grateful! By the Jumpin’ Methuselah, I’ll quit my job in two
minutes if you don’t fire me. Me a-layin’ ‘wake nights and workin’ up my theory, and calculatin’
on lettin’ you in, and you a-snorin’ and Frona-this and Frona-that—”
“That’ll do! Stop it!”
“The hell it will! If I didn’t know more about gold-mining than you do about courtin’—”
Corliss sprang at him, but Del dodged to one side and put up his fists. Then he ducked a
wild right and left swing and side-stepped his way into firmer footing on the hard trail.
“Hold on a moment,” he cried, as Corliss made to come at him again. “Just a second. If I
lick you, will you come up the hillside with me?”
“And if I don’t, you can fire me. That’s fair. Come on.”Vance had no show whatever, as Del well knew, who played with him, feinting, attacking,
retreating, dazzling, and disappearing every now and again out of his field of vision in a most
exasperating way. As Vance speedily discovered, he possessed very little correlation between
mind and body, and the next thing he discovered was that he was lying in the snow and slowly
coming back to his senses.
“How—how did you do it?” he stammered to the pocket-miner, who had his head on his
knee and was rubbing his forehead with snow.
“Oh, you’ll do!” Del laughed, helping him limply to his feet. “You’re the right stuff. I’ll show
you some time. You’ve got lots to learn yet what you won’t find in books. But not now. We’ve
got to wade in and make camp, then you’re comin’ up the hill with me.”
“Hee! hee!” he chuckled later, as they fitted the pipe of the Yukon stove. “Slow sighted
and short. Couldn’t follow me, eh? But I’ll show you some time, oh, I’ll show you all right, all
“Grab an axe an’ come on,” he commanded when the camp was completed.
He led the way up Eldorado, borrowed a pick, shovel, and pan at a cabin, and headed up
among the benches near the mouth of French Creek. Vance, though feeling somewhat sore,
was laughing at himself by this time and enjoying the situation. He exaggerated the humility
with which he walked at the heel of his conqueror, while the extravagant servility which
marked his obedience to his hired man made that individual grin.
“You’ll do. You’ve got the makin’s in you!” Del threw down the tools and scanned the run
of the snow-surface carefully. “Here, take the axe, shinny up the hill, and lug me down some
skookum dry wood.”
By the time Corliss returned with the last load of wood, the pocket-miner had cleared
away the snow and moss in divers spots, and formed, in general design, a rude cross.
“Cuttin’ her both ways,” he explained. “Mebbe I’ll hit her here, or over there, or up above;
but if there’s anything in the hunch, this is the place. Bedrock dips in above, and it’s deep
there and most likely richer, but too much work. This is the rim of the bench. Can’t be more’n
a couple of feet down. All we want is indications; afterwards we can tap in from the side.”
As he talked, he started fires here and there on the uncovered spaces. “But look here,
Corliss, I want you to mind this ain’t pocketin’. This is just plain ordinary ‘prentice work; but
pocketin’”—he straightened up his back and spoke reverently—”but pocketin’ is the deepest
science and the finest art. Delicate to a hair’s-breadth, hand and eye true and steady as steel.
When you’ve got to burn your pan blue-black twice a day, and out of a shovelful of gravel
wash down to the one wee speck of flour gold,—why, that’s washin’, that’s what it is. Tell you
what, I’d sooner follow a pocket than eat.”
“And you would sooner fight than do either.” Bishop stopped to consider. He weighed
himself with care equal to that of retaining the one wee speck of flour gold. “No, I wouldn’t,
neither. I’d take pocketin’ in mine every time. It’s as bad as dope; Corliss, sure. If it once gets
a-hold of you, you’re a goner. You’ll never shake it. Look at me! And talk about pipe-dreams;
they can’t burn a candle ‘longside of it.”
He walked over and kicked one of the fires apart. Then he lifted the pick, and the steel
point drove in and stopped with a metallic clang, as though brought up by solid cement.
“Ain’t thawed two inches,” he muttered, stooping down and groping with his fingers in the
wet muck. The blades of last year’s grass had been burned away, but he managed to gather
up and tear away a handful of the roots.
“What’s the matter?” Corliss asked.
“Hell!” he repeated in a passionless way, knocking the dirt-covered roots against the pan.
Corliss went over and stooped to closer inspection. “Hold on!” he cried, picking up two or
three grimy bits of dirt and rubbing them with his fingers. A bright yellow flashed forth.
“Hell!” the pocket-miner reiterated tonelessly. “First rattle out the box. Begins at thegrass roots and goes all the way down.”
Head turned to the side and up, eyes closed, nostrils distended and quivering, he rose
suddenly to his feet and sniffed the air. Corliss looked up wonderingly.
“Huh!” the pocket-miner grunted. Then he drew a deep breath. “Can’t you smell them
Chapter 16

The stampede to French Hill was on by the beginning of Christmas week. Corliss and
Bishop had been in no hurry to record for they looked the ground over carefully before blazing
their stakes, and let a few close friends into the secret,—Harney, Welse, Trethaway, a Dutch
chechaquo who had forfeited both feet to the frost, a couple of the mounted police, an old pal
with whom Del had prospected through the Black Hills Country, the washerwoman at the
Forks, and last, and notably, Lucile. Corliss was responsible for her getting in on the lay, and
he drove and marked her stakes himself, though it fell to the colonel to deliver the invitation to
her to come and be rich.
In accordance with the custom of the country, those thus benefited offered to sign over
half-interests to the two discoverers. Corliss would not tolerate the proposition. Del was
similarly minded, though swayed by no ethical reasons. He had enough as it stood. “Got my
fruit ranch paid for, double the size I was calculatin’ on,” he explained; “and if I had any more,
I wouldn’t know what to do with it, sure.”
After the strike, Corliss took it upon himself as a matter of course to look about for
another man; but when he brought a keen-eyed Californian into camp, Del was duly wroth.
“Not on your life,” he stormed.
“But you are rich now,” Vance answered, “and have no need to work.”
“Rich, hell!” the pocket-miner rejoined. “Accordin’ to covenant, you can’t fire me; and I’m
goin’ to hold the job down as long as my sweet will’ll let me. Savve?”
On Friday morning, early, all interested parties appeared before the Gold Commissioner
to record their claims. The news went abroad immediately. In five minutes the first
stampeders were hitting the trail. At the end of half an hour the town was afoot. To prevent
mistakes on their property,—jumping, moving of stakes, and mutilation of notices,—Vance
and Del, after promptly recording, started to return. But with the government seal attached to
their holdings, they took it leisurely, the stampeders sliding past them in a steady stream.
Midway, Del chanced to look behind. St. Vincent was in sight, footing it at a lively pace, the
regulation stampeding pack on his shoulders. The trail made a sharp bend at that place, and
with the exception of the three of them no one was in sight.
“Don’t speak to me. Don’t recognize me,” Del cautioned sharply, as he spoke, buttoning
his nose-strap across his face, which served to quite hide his identity. “There’s a water-hole
over there. Get down on your belly and make a blind at gettin’ a drink. Then go on by your
lonely to the claims; I’ve business of my own to handle. And for the love of your bother don’t
say a word to me or to the skunk. Don’t let ‘m see your face.”
Corliss obeyed wonderingly, stepping aside from the beaten path, lying down in the
snow, and dipping into the water-hole with an empty condensed milk-can. Bishop bent on one
knee and stooped as though fastening his moccasin. Just as St. Vincent came up with him he
finished tying the knot, and started forward with the feverish haste of a man trying to make up
for lost time.
“I say, hold on, my man,” the correspondent called out to him.
Bishop shot a hurried glance at him and pressed on. St. Vincent broke into a run till they
were side by side again.
“Is this the way—”
“To the benches of French Hill?” Del snapped him short. “Betcher your life. That’s the
way I’m headin’. So long.”
He ploughed forward at a tremendous rate, and the correspondent, half-running, swung
in behind with the evident intention of taking the pace. Corliss, still in the dark, lifted his headand watched them go; but when he saw the pocket-miner swerve abruptly to the right and
take the trail up Adams Creek, the light dawned upon him and he laughed softly to himself.
Late that night Del arrived in camp on Eldorado exhausted but jubilant.
“Didn’t do a thing to him,” he cried before he was half inside the tent-flaps. “Gimme a bite
to eat” (grabbing at the teapot and running a hot flood down his throat),—”cookin’-fat, slush,
old moccasins, candle-ends, anything!”
Then he collapsed upon the blankets and fell to rubbing his stiff leg-muscles while Corliss
fried bacon and dished up the beans.
“What about ‘m?” he exulted between mouthfuls. “Well, you can stack your chips that he
didn’t get in on the French Hill benches. How far is it, my man?” (in the well-mimicked,
patronizing tones of St. Vincent). “How far is it?” with the patronage left out. “How far to
French Hill?” weakly. “How far do you think it is?” very weakly, with a tremolo which hinted of
repressed tears. “How far—”
The pocket-miner burst into roars of laughter, which were choked by a misdirected flood
of tea, and which left him coughing and speechless.
“Where’d I leave ‘m?” when he had recovered. “Over on the divide to Indian River,
winded, plum-beaten, done for. Just about able to crawl into the nearest camp, and that’s
about all. I’ve covered fifty stiff miles myself, so here’s for bed. Good-night. Don’t call me in
the mornin’.”
He turned into the blankets all-standing, and as he dozed off Vance could hear him
muttering, “How far is it, my man? I say, how far is it?”
Regarding Lucile, Corliss was disappointed. “I confess I cannot understand her,” he said
to Colonel Trethaway. “I thought her bench claim would make her independent of the Opera
“You can’t get a dump out in a day,” the colonel interposed.
“But you can mortgage the dirt in the ground when it prospects as hers does. Yet I took
that into consideration, and offered to advance her a few thousand, non-interest bearing, and
she declined. Said she didn’t need it,—in fact, was really grateful; thanked me, and said that
any time I was short to come and see her.”
Trethaway smiled and played with his watch-chain. “What would you? Life, even here,
certainly means more to you and me than a bit of grub, a piece of blanket, and a Yukon stove.
She is as gregarious as the rest of us, and probably a little more so. Suppose you cut her off
from the Opera House,—what then? May she go up to the Barracks and consort with the
captain’s lady, make social calls on Mrs. Schoville, or chum with Frona? Don’t you see? Will
you escort her, in daylight, down the public street?”
“Will you?” Vance demanded.
“Ay,” the colonel replied, unhesitatingly, “and with pleasure.”
“And so will I; but—” He paused and gazed gloomily into the fire. “But see how she is
going on with St. Vincent. As thick as thieves they are, and always together.”
“Puzzles me,” Trethaway admitted. “I can grasp St. Vincent’s side of it. Many irons in the
fire, and Lucile owns a bench claim on the second tier of French Hill. Mark me, Corliss, we
can tell infallibly the day that Frona consents to go to his bed and board,—if she ever does
“And that will be?”
“The day St. Vincent breaks with Lucile.”
Corliss pondered, and the colonel went on.
“But I can’t grasp Lucile’s side of it. What she can see in St. Vincent—”
“Her taste is no worse than—than that of the rest of the women,” Vance broke in hotly. “I
am sure that—”
“Frona could not display poor taste, eh?” Corliss turned on his heel and walked out, and
left Colonel Trethaway smiling grimly.Vance Corliss never knew how many people, directly and indirectly, had his cause at
heart that Christmas week. Two men strove in particular, one for him and one for the sake of
Frona. Pete Whipple, an old-timer in the land, possessed an Eldorado claim directly beneath
French Hill, also a woman of the country for a wife,—a swarthy breed, not over pretty, whose
Indian mother had mated with a Russian fur-trader some thirty years before at Kutlik on the
Great Delta. Bishop went down one Sunday morning to yarn away an hour or so with Whipple,
but found the wife alone in the cabin. She talked a bastard English gibberish which was an
anguish to hear, so the pocket-miner resolved to smoke a pipe and depart without rudeness.
But he got her tongue wagging, and to such an extent that he stopped and smoked many
pipes, and whenever she lagged, urged her on again. He grunted and chuckled and swore in
undertones while he listened, punctuating her narrative regularly with hells! which adequately
expressed the many shades of interest he felt.
In the midst of it, the woman fished an ancient leather-bound volume, all scarred and
marred, from the bottom of a dilapidated chest, and thereafter it lay on the table between
them. Though it remained unopened, she constantly referred to it by look and gesture, and
each time she did so a greedy light blazed in Bishop’s eyes. At the end, when she could say
no more and had repeated herself from two to half a dozen times, he pulled out his sack. Mrs.
Whipple set up the gold scales and placed the weights, which he counterbalanced with a
hundred dollars’ worth of dust. Then he departed up the hill to the tent, hugging the purchase
closely, and broke in on Corliss, who sat in the blankets mending moccasins.
“I’ll fix ‘m yet,” Del remarked casually, at the same time patting the book and throwing it
down on the bed.
Corliss looked up inquiringly and opened it. The paper was yellow with age and rotten
from the weather-wear of trail, while the text was printed in Russian. “I didn’t know you were a
Russian scholar, Del,” he quizzed. “But I can’t read a line of it.”
“Neither can I, more’s the pity; nor does Whipple’s woman savve the lingo. I got it from
her. But her old man—he was full Russian, you know—he used to read it aloud to her. But
she knows what she knows and what her old man knew, and so do I.”
“And what do the three of you know?”
“Oh, that’s tellin’,” Bishop answered, coyly. “But you wait and watch my smoke, and
when you see it risin’, you’ll know, too.”
Matt McCarthy came in over the ice Christmas week, summed up the situation so far as
Frona and St. Vincent were concerned, and did not like it. Dave Harney furnished him with full
information, to which he added that obtained from Lucile, with whom he was on good terms.
Perhaps it was because he received the full benefit of the sum of their prejudice; but no
matter how, he at any rate answered roll-call with those who looked upon the correspondent
with disfavor. It was impossible for them to tell why they did not approve of the man, but
somehow St. Vincent was never much of a success with men. This, in turn, might have been
due to the fact that he shone so resplendently with women as to cast his fellows in eclipse; for
otherwise, in his intercourse with men, he was all that a man could wish. There was nothing
domineering or over-riding about him, while he manifested a good fellowship at least equal to
their own.
Yet, having withheld his judgment after listening to Lucile and Harney, Matt McCarthy
speedily reached a verdict upon spending an hour with St. Vincent at Jacob Welse’s,—and
this in face of the fact that what Lucile had said had been invalidated by Matt’s learning of her
intimacy with the man in question. Strong of friendship, quick of heart and hand, Matt did not
let the grass grow under his feet. “‘Tis I’ll be takin’ a social fling meself, as befits a mimber iv
the noble Eldorado Dynasty,” he explained, and went up the hill to a whist party in Dave
Harney’s cabin. To himself he added, “An’ belike, if Satan takes his eye off his own, I’ll put it to
that young cub iv his.”
But more than once during the evening he discovered himself challenging his ownjudgment. Probe as he would with his innocent wit, Matt found himself baffled. St. Vincent
certainly rang true. Simple, light-hearted, unaffected, joking and being joked in all good-nature,
thoroughly democratic. Matt failed to catch the faintest echo of insincerity.
“May the dogs walk on me grave,” he communed with himself while studying a hand
which suffered from a plethora of trumps. “Is it the years are tellin’, puttin’ the frost in me
veins and chillin’ the blood? A likely lad, an’ is it for me to misjudge because his is a-takin’ way
with the ladies? Just because the swate creatures smile on the lad an’ flutter warm at the
sight iv him? Bright eyes and brave men! ‘Tis the way they have iv lovin’ valor. They’re
shuddered an’ shocked at the cruel an’ bloody dades iv war, yet who so quick do they lose
their hearts to as the brave butcher-bye iv a sodger? Why not? The lad’s done brave things,
and the girls give him the warm soft smile. Small reason, that, for me to be callin’ him the
devil’s own cub. Out upon ye, Matt McCarthy, for a crusty old sour-dough, with vitals frozen
an’ summer gone from yer heart! ‘Tis an ossification ye’ve become! But bide a wee, Matt, bide
a wee,” he supplemented. “Wait till ye’ve felt the fale iv his flesh.”
The opportunity came shortly, when St. Vincent, with Frona opposite, swept in the full
thirteen tricks.
“A rampse!” Matt cried. “Vincent, me lad, a rampse! Yer hand on it, me brave!”
It was a stout grip, neither warm nor clammy, but Matt shook his head dubiously. “What’s
the good iv botherin’?” he muttered to himself as he shuffled the cards for the next deal. “Ye
old fool! Find out first how Frona darlin’ stands, an’ if it’s pat she is, thin ‘tis time for doin’.”
“Oh, McCarthy’s all hunky,” Dave Harney assured them later on, coming to the rescue of
St. Vincent, who was getting the rough side of the Irishman’s wit. The evening was over and
the company was putting on its wraps and mittens. “Didn’t tell you ‘bout his visit to the
cathedral, did he, when he was on the Outside? Well, it was suthin’ like this, ez he was
explainin’ it to me. He went to the cathedral durin’ service, an’ took in the priests and
choirboys in their surplices,—parkas, he called ‘em,—an’ watched the burnin’ of the holy incense.
‘An’ do ye know, Dave, he sez to me, ‘they got in an’ made a smudge, and there wa’n’t a
darned mosquito in sight.’”
“True, ivery word iv it.” Matt unblushingly fathered Harney’s yarn. “An’ did ye niver hear
tell iv the time Dave an’ me got drunk on condensed milk?”
“Oh! Horrors!” cried Mrs. Schoville. “But how? Do tell us.”
“‘Twas durin’ the time iv the candle famine at Forty Mile. Cold snap on, an’ Dave slides
into me shack to pass the time o’ day, and glues his eyes on me case iv condensed milk.
‘How’d ye like a sip iv Moran’s good whiskey?’ he sez, eyin’ the case iv milk the while. I confiss
me mouth went wet at the naked thought iv it. ‘But what’s the use iv likin’?’ sez I, with me sack
bulgin’ with emptiness.’ ‘Candles worth tin dollars the dozen,’ sez he, ‘a dollar apiece. Will ye
give six cans iv milk for a bottle iv the old stuff?’ ‘How’ll ye do it?’ sez I. ‘Trust me,’ sez he.
‘Give me the cans. ‘Tis cold out iv doors, an’ I’ve a pair iv candle-moulds.’
“An’ it’s the sacred truth I’m tellin’ ye all, an’ if ye run across Bill Moran he’ll back me
word; for what does Dave Harney do but lug off me six cans, freeze the milk into his
candlemoulds, an’ trade them in to bill Moran for a bottle iv tanglefoot!”
As soon as he could be heard through the laughter, Harney raised his voice. “It’s true, as
McCarthy tells, but he’s only told you the half. Can’t you guess the rest, Matt?”
Matt shook his head.
“Bein’ short on milk myself, an’ not over much sugar, I doctored three of your cans with
water, which went to make the candles. An’ by the bye, I had milk in my coffee for a month to
“It’s on me, Dave,” McCarthy admitted. “‘Tis only that yer me host, or I’d be shockin’ the
ladies with yer nortorious disgraces. But I’ll lave ye live this time, Dave. Come, spade the
partin’ guests; we must be movin’.”
“No ye don’t, ye young laddy-buck,” he interposed, as St. Vincent started to take Fronadown the hill, “‘Tis her foster-daddy sees her home this night.”
McCarthy laughed in his silent way and offered his arm to Frona, while St. Vincent joined
in the laugh against himself, dropped back, and joined Miss Mortimer and Baron Courbertin.
“What’s this I’m hearin’ about you an’ Vincent?” Matt bluntly asked as soon as they had
drawn apart from the others.
He looked at her with his keen gray eyes, but she returned the look quite as keenly.
“How should I know what you have been hearing?” she countered.
“Whin the talk goes round iv a maid an’ a man, the one pretty an’ the other not
unhandsome, both young an’ neither married, does it ‘token aught but the one thing?”
“An’ the one thing the greatest thing in all the world.”
“Well?” Frona was the least bit angry, and did not feel inclined to help him.
“Marriage, iv course,” he blurted out. “‘Tis said it looks that way with the pair of ye.”
“But is it said that it is that way?”
“Isn’t the looks iv it enough ?” he demanded.
“No; and you are old enough to know better. Mr. St. Vincent and I—we enjoy each other
as friends, that is all. But suppose it is as you say, what of it?”
“Well,” McCarthy deliberated, “there’s other talk goes round, ‘Tis said Vincent is
overthick with a jade down in the town—Lucile, they speak iv her.”
“All of which signifies?”
She waited, and McCarthy watched her dumbly.
“I know Lucile, and I like her,” Frona continued, filling the gap of his silence, and
ostentatiously manoeuvring to help him on. “Do you know her? Don’t you like her?”
Matt started to speak, cleared his throat, and halted. At last, in desperation, he blurted
out, “For two cents, Frona, I’d lay ye acrost me knee.”
She laughed. “You don’t dare. I’m not running barelegged at Dyea.”
“Now don’t be tasin’,” he blarneyed.
“I’m not teasing. Don’t you like her?—Lucile?”
“An’ what iv it?” he challenged, brazenly.
“Just what I asked,—what of it?”
“Thin I’ll tell ye in plain words from a man old enough to be yer father. ‘Tis undacent,
damnably undacent, for a man to kape company with a good young girl—”
“Thank you,” she laughed, dropping a courtesy. Then she added, half in bitterness,
“There have been others who—”
“Name me the man!” he cried hotly.
“There, there, go on. You were saying?”
“That it’s a crying shame for a man to kape company with—with you, an’ at the same
time be chake by jowl with a woman iv her stamp.”
“And why?”
“To come drippin’ from the muck to dirty yer claneness! An’ ye can ask why?”
“But wait, Matt, wait a moment. Granting your premises—”
“Little I know iv primises,” he growled. “‘Tis facts I’m dalin’ with.”
Frona bit her lip. “Never mind. Have it as you will; but let me go on and I will deal with
facts, too. When did you last see Lucile?”
“An’ why are ye askin’?” he demanded, suspiciously.
“Never mind why. The fact.”
“Well, thin, the fore part iv last night, an’ much good may it do ye.”
“And danced with her?”
“A rollickin’ Virginia reel, an’ not sayin’ a word iv a quadrille or so. Tis at square dances I
excel meself.”
Frona walked on in a simulated brown study, no sound going up from the twain save thecomplaint of the snow from under their moccasins.
“Well, thin?” he questioned, uneasily.
“An’ what iv it?” he insisted after another silence.
“Oh, nothing,” she answered. “I was just wondering which was the muckiest, Mr. St.
Vincent or you—or myself, with whom you have both been cheek by jowl.”
Now, McCarthy was unversed in the virtues of social wisdom, and, though he felt
somehow the error of her position, he could not put it into definite thought; so he steered
wisely, if weakly, out of danger.
“It’s gettin’ mad ye are with yer old Matt,” he insinuated, “who has yer own good at heart,
an’ because iv it makes a fool iv himself.”
“No, I’m not.”
“But ye are.”
“There!” leaning swiftly to him and kissing him. “How could I remember the Dyea days
and be angry?”
“Ah, Frona darlin’, well may ye say it. I’m the dust iv the dirt under yer feet, an’ ye may
walk on me—anything save get mad. I cud die for ye, swing for ye, to make ye happy. I cud
kill the man that gave ye sorrow, were it but a thimbleful, an’ go plump into hell with a smile on
me face an’ joy in me heart.”
They had halted before her door, and she pressed his arm gratefully. “I am not angry,
Matt. But with the exception of my father you are the only person I would have permitted to
talk to me about this—this affair in the way you have. And though I like you, Matt, love you
better than ever, I shall nevertheless be very angry if you mention it again. You have no right.
It is something that concerns me alone. And it is wrong of you—”
“To prevint ye walkin’ blind into danger?”
“If you wish to put it that way, yes.”
He growled deep down in his throat.
“What is it you are saying?” she asked.
“That ye may shut me mouth, but that ye can’t bind me arm.”
“But you mustn’t, Matt, dear, you mustn’t.”
Again he answered with a subterranean murmur.
“And I want you to promise me, now, that you will not interfere in my life that way, by
word or deed.”
“I’ll not promise.”
“But you must.”
“I’ll not. Further, it’s gettin’ cold on the stoop, an’ ye’ll be frostin’ yer toes, the pink little
toes I fished splinters out iv at Dyea. So it’s in with ye, Frona girl, an’ good-night.”
He thrust her inside and departed. When he reached the corner he stopped suddenly
and regarded his shadow on the snow. “Matt McCarthy, yer a damned fool! Who iver heard iv
a Welse not knowin’ their own mind? As though ye’d niver had dalin’s with the stiff-necked
breed, ye calamitous son iv misfortune!”
Then he went his way, still growling deeply, and at every growl the curious wolf-dog at his
heels bristled and bared its fangs.
Chapter 17

Jacob Welse put both hands on Frona’s shoulders, and his eyes spoke the love his stiff
tongue could not compass. The tree and the excitement and the pleasure were over with, a
score or so of children had gone home frostily happy across the snow, the last guest had
departed, and Christmas Eve and Christmas Day were blending into one.
She returned his fondness with glad-eyed interest, and they dropped into huge
comfortable chairs on either side the fireplace, in which the back-log was falling to ruddy ruin.
“And this time next year?” He put the question seemingly to the glowing log, and, as if in
ominous foreshadow, it flared brightly and crumbled away in a burst of sparks.
“It is marvellous,” he went on, dismissing the future in an effort to shake himself into a
wholesomer frame of mind. “It has been one long continuous miracle, the last few months,
since you have been with me. We have seen very little of each other, you know, since your
childhood, and when I think upon it soberly it is hard to realize that you are really mine, sprung
from me, bone of my bone and flesh of my flesh. As the tangle-haired wild young creature of
Dyea,—a healthy, little, natural animal and nothing more,—it required no imagination to accept
you as one of the breed of Welse. But as Frona, the woman, as you were to-night, as you are
now as I look at you, as you have been since you came down the Yukon, it is hard... I cannot
realize... I...” He faltered and threw up his hands helplessly. “I almost wish that I had given
you no education, that I had kept you with me, faring with me, adventuring with me, achieving
with me, and failing with me. I would have known you, now, as we sit by the fire. As it is, I do
not. To that which I did know there has been added, somehow (what shall I call it?), a
subtlety; complexity,—favorite words of yours,—which is beyond me.
“No.” He waved the speech abruptly from her lips. She came over and knelt at his feet,
resting her head on his knee and clasping his hand in firm sympathy. “No, that is not true.
Those are not the words. I cannot find them. I fail to say what I feel. Let me try again.
Underneath all you do carry the stamp of the breed. I knew I risked the loss of that when I
sent you away, but I had faith in the persistence of the blood and I took the chance; doubted
and feared when you were gone; waited and prayed dumbly, and hoped oftentimes
hopelessly; and then the day dawned, the day of days! When they said your boat was coming,
death rose and walked on the one hand of me, and on the other life everlasting. Made or
marred; made or marred,—the words rang through my brain till they maddened me. Would
the Welse remain the Welse? Would the blood persist? Would the young shoot rise straight
and tall and strong, green with sap and fresh and vigorous? Or would it droop limp and
lifeless, withered by the heats of the world other than the little simple, natural Dyea world?
“It was the day of days, and yet it was a lingering, watching, waiting tragedy. You know I
had lived the years lonely, fought the lone fight, and you, away, the only kin. If it had failed...
But your boat shot from the bluffs into the open, and I was half-afraid to look. Men have never
called me coward, but I was nearer the coward then than ever and all before. Ay, that
moment I had faced death easier. And it was foolish, absurd. How could I know whether it was
for good or ill when you drifted a distant speck on the river? Still, I looked, and the miracle
began, for I did know. You stood at the steering-sweep. You were a Welse. It seems so little;
in truth it meant so much. It was not to be expected of a mere woman, but of a Welse, yes.
And when Bishop went over the side, and you gripped the situation as imperatively as the
sweep, and your voice rang out, and the Siwashes bent their backs to your will,—then was it
the day of days.”
“I tried always, and remembered,” Frona whispered. She crept up softly till her arm wasabout his neck and her head against his breast. He rested one arm lightly on her body, and
poured her bright hair again and again from his hand in glistening waves.
“As I said, the stamp of the breed was unmarred, but there was yet a difference. There
is a difference. I have watched it, studied it, tried to make it out. I have sat at table, proud by
the side of you, but dwarfed. When you talked of little things I was large enough to follow;
when of big things, too small. I knew you, had my hand on you, when presto! and you were
away, gone—I was lost. He is a fool who knows not his own ignorance; I was wise enough to
know mine. Art, poetry, music,—what do I know of them? And they were the great things, are
the great things to you, mean more to you than the little things I may comprehend. And I had
hoped, blindly, foolishly, that we might be one in the spirit as well as the one flesh. It has been
bitter, but I have faced it, and understand. But to see my own red blood get away from me,
elude me, rise above me! It stuns. God! I have heard you read from your Browning—no, no;
do not speak—and watched the play of your face, the uplift and the passion of it, and all the
while the words droning in upon me, meaningless, musical, maddening. And Mrs. Schoville
sitting there, nursing an expression of idiotic ecstasy, and understanding no more than I. I
could have strangled her.
“Why, I have stolen away, at night, with your Browning, and locked myself in like a thief
in fear. The text was senseless, I have beaten my head with my fist like a wild man, to try and
knock some comprehension into it. For my life had worked itself out along one set groove,
deep and narrow. I was in the rut. I had done those things which came to my hand and done
them well; but the time was past; I could not turn my hand anew. I, who am strong and
dominant, who have played large with destiny, who could buy body and soul a thousand
painters and versifiers, was baffled by a few paltry cents’ worth of printed paper!”
He spilled her hair for a moment’s silence.
“To come back. I had attempted the impossible, gambled against the inevitable. I had
sent you from me to get that which I had not, dreaming that we would still be one. As though
two could be added to two and still remain two. So, to sum up, the breed still holds, but you
have learned an alien tongue. When you speak it I am deaf. And bitterest of all, I know that
the new tongue is the greater. I do not know why I have said all this, made my confession of
“Oh, father mine, greatest of men!” She raised her head and laughed into his eyes, the
while brushing back the thick iron-gray hair which thatched the dome of his forehead. “You,
who have wrestled more mightily, done greater things than these painters and versifiers. You
who know so well the law of change. Might not the same plaint fall from your father’s lips were
he to sit now beside you and look upon your work and you?”
“Yes, yes. I have said that I understand. Do not let us discuss it... a moment’s weakness.
My father was a great man.”
“And so mine.”
“A struggler to the end of his days. He fought the great lone fight—”
“And so mine.”
“And died fighting.”
“And so shall mine. So shall we all, we Welses.”
He shook her playfully, in token of returning spirits. “But I intend to sell out,—mines,
Company, everything,—and study Browning.”
“Still the fight. You can’t discount the blood, father.”
“Why were you not a boy?” he demanded, abruptly. “You would have been a splendid
one. As it is, a woman, made to be the delight of some man, you must pass from
me—tomorrow, next day, this time next year, who knows how soon? Ah? now I know the direction
my thought has been trending. Just as I know you do, so do I recognize the inevitableness of
it and the justness. But the man, Frona, the man?”
“Don’t,” she demurred. “Tell me of your father’s fight, the last fight, the great lone fight atTreasure City. Ten to one it was, and well fought. Tell me.”
“No, Frona. Do you realize that for the first time in our lives we talk together seriously, as
father and daughter,—for the first time? You have had no mother to advise; no father, for I
trusted the blood, and wisely, and let you go. But there comes a time when the mother’s
counsel is needed, and you, you who never knew one?”
Frona yielded, in instant recognition, and waiting, snuggled more closely to him.
“This man, St. Vincent—how is it between you?”
“I... I do not know. How do you mean?”
“Remember always, Frona, that you have free choice, yours is the last word. Still, I would
like to understand. I could... perhaps... I might be able to suggest. But nothing more. Still, a
There was something inexpressibly sacred about it, yet she found herself tongue-tied.
Instead of the one definite thing to say, a muddle of ideas fluttered in her brain. After all, could
he understand? Was there not a difference which prevented him from comprehending the
motives which, for her, were impelling? For all her harking back to the primitive and stout
defence of its sanity and truth, did his native philosophy give him the same code which she
drew from her acquired philosophy? Then she stood aside and regarded herself and the
queries she put, and drew apart from them, for they breathed of treason.
“There is nothing between us, father,” she spoke up resolutely. “Mr. St. Vincent has said
nothing, nothing. We are good friends, we like each other, we are very good friends. I think
that is all.”
“But you like each other; you like him. Is it in the way a woman must like a man before
she can honestly share her life with him, lose herself in him? Do you feel with Ruth, so that
when the time comes you can say, ‘Thy people are my people, and thy God my God’?”
“N—o. It may be; but I cannot, dare not face it, say it or not say it, think it or not think it
—now. It is the great affirmation. When it comes it must come, no one may know how or why,
in a great white flash, like a revelation, hiding nothing, revealing everything in dazzling, blinding
truth. At least I so imagine.”
Jacob Welse nodded his head with the slow meditation of one who understands, yet
stops to ponder and weigh again.
“But why have you asked, father? Why has Mr. St. Vincent been raised? I have been
friends with other men.”
“But I have not felt about other men as I do of St. Vincent. We may be truthful, you and
I, and forgive the pain we give each other. My opinion counts for no more than another’s.
Fallibility is the commonest of curses. Nor can I explain why I feel as I do—I oppose much in
the way you expect to when your great white flash sears your eyes. But, in a word, I do not
like St. Vincent.”
“A very common judgment of him among the men,” Frona interposed, driven irresistibly
to the defensive.
“Such consensus of opinion only makes my position stronger,” he returned, but not
disputatively. “Yet I must remember that I look upon him as men look. His popularity with
women must proceed from the fact that women look differently than men, just as women do
differ physically and spiritually from men. It is deep, too deep for me to explain. I but follow my
nature and try to be just.”
“But have you nothing more definite?” she asked, groping for better comprehension of
his attitude. “Can you not put into some sort of coherence some one certain thing of the
things you feel?”
“I hardly dare. Intuitions can rarely be expressed in terms of thought. But let me try. We
Welses have never known a coward. And where cowardice is, nothing can endure. It is like
building on sand, or like a vile disease which rots and rots and we know not when it may break
forth.”“But it seems to me that Mr. St. Vincent is the last man in the world with whom
cowardice may be associated. I cannot conceive of him in that light.”
The distress in her face hurt him. “I know nothing against St. Vincent. There is no
evidence to show that he is anything but what he appears. Still, I cannot help feeling it, in my
fallible human way. Yet there is one thing I have heard, a sordid pot-house brawl in the Opera
House. Mind you, Frona, I say nothing against the brawl or the place,—men are men, but it is
said that he did not act as a man ought that night.”
“But as you say, father, men are men. We would like to have them other than they are,
for the world surely would be better; but we must take them as they are. Lucile—”
“No, no; you misunderstand. I did not refer to her, but to the fight. He did not... he was
“But as you say, it is said. He told me about it, not long afterwards, and I do not think he
would have dared had there been anything—”
“But I do not make it as a charge,” Jacob Welse hastily broke in. “Merely hearsay, and
the prejudice of the men would be sufficient to account for the tale. And it has no bearing,
anyway. I should not have brought it up, for I have known good men funk in my time—buck
fever, as it were. And now let us dismiss it all from our minds. I merely wished to suggest, and
I suppose I have bungled. But understand this, Frona,” turning her face up to his, “understand
above all things and in spite of them, first, last, and always, that you are my daughter, and
that I believe your life is sacredly yours, not mine, yours to deal with and to make or mar.
Your life is yours to live, and in so far that I influence it you will not have lived your life, nor
would your life have been yours. Nor would you have been a Welse, for there was never a
Welse yet who suffered dictation. They died first, or went away to pioneer on the edge of
“Why, if you thought the dance house the proper or natural medium for self-expression, I
might be sad, but to-morrow I would sanction your going down to the Opera House. It would
be unwise to stop you, and, further, it is not our way. The Welses have ever stood by, in many
a lost cause and forlorn hope, knee to knee and shoulder to shoulder. Conventions are
worthless for such as we. They are for the swine who without them would wallow deeper. The
weak must obey or be crushed; not so with the strong. The mass is nothing; the individual
everything; and it is the individual, always, that rules the mass and gives the law. A fig for
what the world says! If the Welse should procreate a bastard line this day, it would be the way
of the Welse, and you would be a daughter of the Welse, and in the face of hell and heaven,
of God himself, we would stand together, we of the one blood, Frona, you and I.”
“You are larger than I,” she whispered, kissing his forehead, and the caress of her lips
seemed to him the soft impact of a leaf falling through the still autumn air.
And as the heat of the room ebbed away, he told of her foremother and of his, and of the
sturdy Welse who fought the great lone fight, and died, fighting, at Treasure City.
Chapter 18

The “Doll’s House” was a success. Mrs. Schoville ecstasized over it in terms so
immeasurable, so unqualifiable, that Jacob Welse, standing near, bent a glittering gaze upon
her plump white throat and unconsciously clutched and closed his hand on an invisible
windpipe. Dave Harney proclaimed its excellence effusively, though he questioned the
soundness of Nora’s philosophy and swore by his Puritan gods that Torvald was the
longesteared Jack in two hemispheres. Even Miss Mortimer, antagonistic as she was to the whole
school, conceded that the players had redeemed it; while Matt McCarthy announced that he
didn’t blame Nora darlin’ the least bit, though he told the Gold Commissioner privately that a
song or so and a skirt dance wouldn’t have hurt the performance.
“Iv course the Nora girl was right,” he insisted to Harney, both of whom were walking on
the heels of Frona and St. Vincent. “I’d be seein’—”
“Rubber yer gran’mother!” Matt wrathfully exclaimed.
“Ez I was sayin’,” Harney continued, imperturbably, “rubber boots is goin’ to go sky-high
‘bout the time of wash-up. Three ounces the pair, an’ you kin put your chips on that for a high
card. You kin gather ‘em in now for an ounce a pair and clear two on the deal. A cinch, Matt, a
dead open an’ shut.”
“The devil take you an’ yer cinches! It’s Nora darlin’ I have in me mind the while.”
They bade good-by to Frona and St. Vincent and went off disputing under the stars in the
direction of the Opera House.
Gregory St. Vincent heaved an audible sigh. “At last.”
“At last what?” Frona asked, incuriously.
“At last the first opportunity for me to tell you how well you did. You carried off the final
scene wonderfully; so well that it seemed you were really passing out of my life forever.”
“What a misfortune!”
“It was terrible.”
“But, yes. I took the whole condition upon myself. You were not Nora, you were Frona;
nor I Torvald, but Gregory. When you made your exit, capped and jacketed and travelling-bag
in hand, it seemed I could not possibly stay and finish my lines. And when the door slammed
and you were gone, the only thing that saved me was the curtain. It brought me to myself, or
else I would have rushed after you in the face of the audience.”
“It is strange how a simulated part may react upon one,” Frona speculated.
“Or rather?” St. Vincent suggested.
Frona made no answer, and they walked on without speech. She was still under the spell
of the evening, and the exaltation which had come to her as Nora had not yet departed.
Besides, she read between the lines of St. Vincent’s conversation, and was oppressed by the
timidity which comes over woman when she faces man on the verge of the greater intimacy.
It was a clear, cold night, not over-cold,—not more than forty below,—and the land was
bathed in a soft, diffused flood of light which found its source not in the stars, nor yet in the
moon, which was somewhere over on the other side of the world. From the south-east to the
northwest a pale-greenish glow fringed the rim of the heavens, and it was from this the dim
radiance was exhaled.
Suddenly, like the ray of a search-light, a band of white light ploughed overhead. Night
turned to ghostly day on the instant, then blacker night descended. But to the southeast a
noiseless commotion was apparent. The glowing greenish gauze was in a ferment, bubbling,uprearing, downfalling, and tentatively thrusting huge bodiless hands into the upper ether.
Once more a cyclopean rocket twisted its fiery way across the sky, from horizon to zenith,
and on, and on, in tremendous flight, to horizon again. But the span could not hold, and in its
wake the black night brooded. And yet again, broader, stronger, deeper, lavishly spilling
streamers to right and left, it flaunted the midmost zenith with its gorgeous flare, and passed
on and down to the further edge of the world. Heaven was bridged at last, and the bridge
At this flaming triumph the silence of earth was broken, and ten thousand wolf-dogs, in
long-drawn unisoned howls, sobbed their dismay and grief. Frona shivered, and St. Vincent
passed his arm about her waist. The woman in her was aware of the touch of man, and of a
slight tingling thrill of vague delight; but she made no resistance. And as the wolf-dogs
mourned at her feet and the aurora wantoned overhead, she felt herself drawn against him
“Need I tell my story?” he whispered.
She drooped her head in tired content on his shoulder, and together they watched the
burning vault wherein the stars dimmed and vanished. Ebbing, flowing, pulsing to some
tremendous rhythm, the prism colors hurled themselves in luminous deluge across the
firmament. Then the canopy of heaven became a mighty loom, wherein imperial purple and
deep sea-green blended, wove, and interwove, with blazing woof and flashing warp, till the
most delicate of tulles, fluorescent and bewildering, was daintily and airily shaken in the face
of the astonished night.
Without warning the span was sundered by an arrogant arm of black. The arch dissolved
in blushing confusion. Chasms of blackness yawned, grew, and rushed together. Broken
masses of strayed color and fading fire stole timidly towards the sky-line. Then the dome of
night towered imponderable, immense, and the stars came back one by one, and the
wolfdogs mourned anew.
“I can offer you so little, dear,” the man said with a slightly perceptible bitterness. “The
precarious fortunes of a gypsy wanderer.”
And the woman, placing his hand and pressing it against her heart, said, as a great
woman had said before her, “A tent and a crust of bread with you, Richard.”
Chapter 19

How-ha was only an Indian woman, bred of a long line of fish-eating, meat-rending
carnivores, and her ethics were as crude and simple as her blood. But long contact with the
whites had given her an insight into their way of looking at things, and though she grunted
contemptuously in her secret soul, she none the less understood their way perfectly. Ten
years previous she had cooked for Jacob Welse, and served him in one fashion or another
ever since; and when on a dreary January morning she opened the front door in response to
the deep-tongued knocker, even her stolid presence was shaken as she recognized the
visitor. Not that the average man or woman would have so recognized. But How-ha’s faculties
of observing and remembering details had been developed in a hard school where death dealt
his blow to the lax and life saluted the vigilant.
How-ha looked up and down the woman who stood before her. Through the heavy veil
she could barely distinguish the flash of the eyes, while the hood of the parka effectually
concealed the hair, and the parka proper the particular outlines of the body. But How-ha
paused and looked again. There was something familiar in the vague general outline. She
quested back to the shrouded head again, and knew the unmistakable poise. Then How-ha’s
eyes went blear as she traversed the simple windings of her own brain, inspecting the bare
shelves taciturnly stored with the impressions of a meagre life. No disorder; no confused
mingling of records; no devious and interminable impress of complex emotions, tangled
theories, and bewildering abstractions—nothing but simple facts, neatly classified and
conveniently collated. Unerringly from the stores of the past she picked and chose and put
together in the instant present, till obscurity dropped from the woman before her, and she
knew her, word and deed and look and history.
“Much better you go ‘way quickety-quick,” How-ha informed her.
“Miss Welse. I wish to see her.”
The strange woman spoke in firm, even tones which betokened the will behind, but which
failed to move How-ha.
“Much better you go,” she repeated, stolidly.
“Here, take this to Frona Welse, and—ah! would you!” (thrusting her knee between the
door and jamb) “and leave the door open.”
How-ha scowled, but took the note; for she could not shake off the grip of the ten years
of servitude to the superior race.

May I see you?

So the note ran. Frona glanced up expectantly at the Indian woman.
“Um kick toes outside,” How-ha explained. “Me tell um go ‘way quickety-quick? Eh? You
t’ink yes? Um no good. Um—”
“No. Take her,”—Frona was thinking quickly,—”no; bring her up here.”
“Much better—”
How-ha grunted, and yielded up the obedience she could not withhold; though, as she
went down the stairs to the door, in a tenebrous, glimmering way she wondered that the
accident of white skin or swart made master or servant as the case might be.
In the one sweep of vision, Lucile took in Frona smiling with extended hand in the
foreground, the dainty dressing-table, the simple finery, the thousand girlish evidences; andwith the sweet wholesomeness of it pervading her nostrils, her own girlhood rose up and
smote her. Then she turned a bleak eye and cold ear on outward things.
“I am glad you came,” Frona was saying. “I have so wanted to see you again, and—but
do get that heavy parka off, please. How thick it is, and what splendid fur and workmanship!”
“Yes, from Siberia.” A present from St. Vincent, Lucile felt like adding, but said instead,
“The Siberians have not yet learned to scamp their work, you know.”
She sank down into the low-seated rocker with a native grace which could not escape the
beauty-loving eye of the girl, and with proud-poised head and silent tongue listened to Frona
as the minutes ticked away, and observed with impersonal amusement Frona’s painful toil at
making conversation.
“What has she come for?” Frona asked herself, as she talked on furs and weather and
indifferent things.
“If you do not say something, Lucile, I shall get nervous, soon,” she ventured at last in
desperation. “Has anything happened?”
Lucile went over to the mirror and picked up, from among the trinkets beneath, a tiny
open-work miniature of Frona. “This is you? How old were you?”
“A sylph, but a cold northern one.”
“The blood warms late with us,” Frona reproved; “but is—”
“None the less warm for that,” Lucile laughed. “And how old are you now?”
“Twenty,” Lucile repeated, slowly. “Twenty,” and resumed her seat. “You are twenty. And
I am twenty-four.”
“So little difference as that!”
“But our blood warms early.” Lucile voiced her reproach across the unfathomable gulf
which four years could not plumb.
Frona could hardly hide her vexation. Lucile went over and looked at the miniature again
and returned.
“What do you think of love?” she asked abruptly, her face softening unheralded into a
“Love?” the girl quavered.
“Yes, love. What do you know about it? What do you think of it?”
A flood of definitions, glowing and rosy, sped to her tongue, but Frona swept them aside
and answered, “Love is immolation.”
“Very good—sacrifice. And, now, does it pay?”
“Yes, it pays. Of course it pays. Who can doubt it?”
Lucile’s eyes twinkled amusedly.
“Why do you smile?” Frona asked.
“Look at me, Frona.” Lucile stood up and her face blazed. “I am twenty-four. Not
altogether a fright; not altogether a dunce. I have a heart. I have good red blood and warm.
And I have loved. I do not remember the pay. I know only that I have paid.”
“And in the paying were paid,” Frona took up warmly. “The price was the reward. If love
be fallible, yet you have loved; you have done, you have served. What more would you?”
“The whelpage love,” Lucile sneered.
“Oh! You are unfair.”
“I do you justice,” Lucile insisted firmly. “You would tell me that you know; that you have
gone unveiled and seen clear-eyed; that without placing more than lips to the brim you have
divined the taste of the dregs, and that the taste is good. Bah! The whelpage love! And, oh,
Frona, I know; you are full womanly and broad, and lend no ear to little things, but”—she
tapped a slender finger to forehead—”it is all here. It is a heady brew, and you have smelled
the fumes overmuch. But drain the dregs, turn down the glass, and say that it is good. No,God forbid!” she cried, passionately. “There are good loves. You should find no masquerade,
but one fair and shining.”
Frona was up to her old trick,—their common one,—and her hand slid down Lucile’s arm
till hand clasped in hand. “You say things which I feel are wrong, yet may not answer. I can,
but how dare I? I dare not put mere thoughts against your facts. I, who have lived so little,
cannot in theory give the lie to you who have lived so much—”
“‘For he who lives more lives than one, more lives than one must die.’”
From out of her pain, Lucile spoke the words of her pain, and Frona, throwing arms
about her, sobbed on her breast in understanding. As for Lucile, the slight nervous ingathering
of the brows above her eyes smoothed out, and she pressed the kiss of motherhood, lightly
and secretly, on the other’s hair. For a space,—then the brows ingathered, the lips drew firm,
and she put Frona from her.
“You are going to marry Gregory St. Vincent?”
Frona was startled. It was only a fortnight old, and not a word had been breathed. “How
do you know?”
“You have answered.” Lucile watched Frona’s open face and the bold running
advertisement, and felt as the skilled fencer who fronts a tyro, weak of wrist, each opening
naked to his hand. “How do I know?” She laughed harshly. “When a man leaves one’s arms
suddenly, lips wet with last kisses and mouth areek with last lies!”
“Forgets the way back to those arms.”
“So?” The blood of the Welse pounded up, and like a hot sun dried the mists from her
eyes and left them flashing. “Then that is why you came. I could have guessed it had I given
second thought to Dawson’s gossip.”
“It is not too late.” Lucile’s lip curled. “And it is your way.”
“And I am mindful. What is it? Do you intend telling me what he has done, what he has
been to you. Let me say that it is useless. He is a man, as you and I are women.”
“No,” Lucile lied, swallowing her astonishment.
“I had not thought that any action of his would affect you. I knew you were too great for
that. But—have you considered me?”
Frona caught her breath for a moment. Then she straightened out her arms to hold the
man in challenge to the arms of Lucile.
“Your father over again,” Lucile exclaimed. “Oh, you impossible Welses!”
“But he is not worthy of you, Frona Welse,” she continued; “of me, yes. He is not a nice
man, a great man, nor a good. His love cannot match with yours. Bah! He does not possess
love; passion, of one sort and another, is the best he may lay claim to. That you do not want.
It is all, at the best, he can give you. And you, pray what may you give him? Yourself? A
prodigious waste! But your father’s yellow—”
“Don’t go on, or I shall refuse to listen. It is wrong of you.” So Frona made her cease,
and then, with bold inconsistency, “And what may the woman Lucile give him?”
“Some few wild moments,” was the prompt response; “a burning burst of happiness, and
the regrets of hell—which latter he deserves, as do I. So the balance is maintained, and all is
“For there is a devil in him,” she held on, “a most alluring devil, which delights me, on my
soul it does, and which, pray God, Frona, you may never know. For you have no devil; mine
matches his and mates. I am free to confess that the whole thing is only an attraction. There
is nothing permanent about him, nor about me. And there’s the beauty, the balance is
Frona lay back in her chair and lazily regarded her visitor, Lucile waited for her to speak.
It was very quiet.“Well?” Lucile at last demanded, in a low, curious tone, at the same time rising to slip into
her parka.
“Nothing. I was only waiting.”
“I am done.”
“Then let me say that I do not understand you,” Frona summed up, coldly. “I cannot
somehow just catch your motive. There is a flat ring to what you have said. However, of this I
am sure: for some unaccountable reason you have been untrue to yourself to-day. Do not ask
me, for, as I said before, I do not know where or how; yet I am none the less convinced. This
I do know, you are not the Lucile I met by the wood trail across the river. That was the true
Lucile, little though I saw of her. The woman who is here to-day is a strange woman. I do not
know her. Sometimes it has seemed she was Lucile, but rarely. This woman has lied, lied to
me, and lied to me about herself. As to what she said of the man, at the worst that is merely
an opinion. It may be she has lied about him likewise. The chance is large that she has. What
do you think about it?”
“That you are a very clever girl, Frona. That you speak sometimes more truly than you
know, and that at others you are blinder than you dream.”
“There is something I could love in you, but you have hidden it away so that I cannot find
Lucile’s lips trembled on the verge of speech. But she settled her parka about her and
turned to go.
Frona saw her to the door herself, and How-ha pondered over the white who made the
law and was greater than the law.
When the door had closed, Lucile spat into the street. “Faugh! St. Vincent! I have defiled
my mouth with your name!” And she spat again.
“Come in.”
At the summons Matt McCarthy pulled the latch-string, pushed the door open, and
closed it carefully behind him.
“Oh, it is you!” St. Vincent regarded his visitor with dark abstraction, then, recollecting
himself, held out his hand. “Why, hello, Matt, old man. My mind was a thousand miles away
when you entered. Take a stool and make yourself comfortable. There’s the tobacco by your
hand. Take a try at it and give us your verdict.”
“An’ well may his mind be a thousand miles away,” Matt assured himself; for in the dark
he had passed a woman on the trail who looked suspiciously like Lucile. But aloud, “Sure, an’
it’s day-dramin’ ye mane. An’ small wondher.”
“How’s that?” the correspondent asked, cheerily.
“By the same token that I met Lucile down the trail a piece, an’ the heels iv her
moccasins pointing to yer shack. It’s a bitter tongue the jade slings on occasion,” Matt
“That’s the worst of it.” St. Vincent met him frankly. “A man looks sidewise at them for a
passing moment, and they demand that the moment be eternal.”
Off with the old love’s a stiff proposition, eh?”
“I should say so. And you understand. It’s easy to see, Matt, you’ve had some
experience in your time.”
“In me time? I’ll have ye know I’m not too old to still enjoy a bit iv a fling.”
“Certainly, certainly. One can read it in your eyes. The warm heart and the roving eye,
Matt!” He slapped his visitor on the shoulder with a hearty laugh.
“An’ I’ve none the best iv ye, Vincent. ‘Tis a wicked lad ye are, with a takin’ way with the
ladies—as plain as the nose on yer face. Manny’s the idle kiss ye’ve given, an’ manny’s the
heart ye’ve broke. But, Vincent, bye, did ye iver know the rale thing?”
“How do you mean?”
“The rale thing, the rale thing—that is—well, have ye been iver a father?”St. Vincent shook his head.
“And niver have I. But have ye felt the love iv a father, thin?”
“I hardly know. I don’t think so.”
“Well, I have. An’ it’s the rale thing, I’ll tell ye. If iver a man suckled a child, I did, or the
next door to it. A girl child at that, an’ she’s woman grown, now, an’ if the thing is possible, I
love her more than her own blood-father. Bad luck, exciptin’ her, there was niver but one
woman I loved, an’ that woman had mated beforetime. Not a soul did I brathe a word to, trust
me, nor even herself. But she died. God’s love be with her.”
His chin went down upon his chest and he quested back to a flaxen-haired Saxon
woman, strayed like a bit of sunshine into the log store by the Dyea River. He looked up
suddenly, and caught St. Vincent’s stare bent blankly to the floor as he mused on other
“A truce to foolishness, Vincent.”
The correspondent returned to himself with an effort and found the Irishman’s small blue
eyes boring into him.
“Are ye a brave man, Vincent?”
For a second’s space they searched each other’s souls. And in that space Matt could
have sworn he saw the faintest possible flicker or flutter in the man’s eyes.
He brought his fist down on the table with a triumphant crash. “By God, yer not!”
The correspondent pulled the tobacco jug over to him and rolled a cigarette. He rolled it
carefully, the delicate rice paper crisping in his hand without a tremor; but all the while a red
tide mounting up from beneath the collar of his shirt, deepening in the hollows of the cheeks
and thinning against the cheekbones above, creeping, spreading, till all his face was aflame.
“‘Tis good. An’ likely it saves me fingers a dirty job. Vincent, man, the girl child which is
woman grown slapes in Dawson this night. God help us, you an’ me, but we’ll niver hit again
the pillow as clane an’ pure as she! Vincent, a word to the wise: ye’ll niver lay holy hand or
otherwise upon her.”
The devil, which Lucile had proclaimed, began to quicken,—a fuming, fretting, irrational
“I do not like ye. I kape me raysons to meself. It is sufficient. But take this to heart, an’
take it well: should ye be mad enough to make her yer wife, iv that damned day ye’ll niver see
the inding, nor lay eye upon the bridal bed. Why, man, I cud bate ye to death with me two fists
if need be. But it’s to be hoped I’ll do a nater job. Rest aisy. I promise ye.”
“You Irish pig!”
So the devil burst forth, and all unaware, for McCarthy found himself eye-high with the
muzzle of a Colt’s revolver.
“Is it loaded?” he asked. “I belave ye. But why are ye lingerin’? Lift the hammer, will ye?”
The correspondent’s trigger-finger moved and there was a warning click.
“Now pull it. Pull it, I say. As though ye cud, with that flutter to yer eye.”
St. Vincent attempted to turn his head aside.
“Look at me, man!” McCarthy commanded. “Kape yer eyes on me when ye do it.”
Unwillingly the sideward movement was arrested, and his eyes returned and met the
St. Vincent ground his teeth and pulled the trigger—at least he thought he did, as men
think they do things in dreams. He willed the deed, flashed the order forth; but the flutter of his
soul stopped it.
“‘Tis paralyzed, is it, that shaky little finger?” Matt grinned into the face of the tortured
man. “Now turn it aside, so, an’ drop it, gently... gently... gently.” His voice crooned away in
soothing diminuendo.
When the trigger was safely down, St. Vincent let the revolver fall from his hand, andwith a slight audible sigh sank nervelessly upon a stool. He tried to straighten himself, but
instead dropped down upon the table and buried his face in his palsied hands. Matt drew on
his mittens, looking down upon him pityingly the while, and went out, closing the door softly
behind him.
Chapter 20

Where nature shows the rough hand, the sons of men are apt to respond with kindred
roughness. The amenities of life spring up only in mellow lands, where the sun is warm and
the earth fat. The damp and soggy climate of Britain drives men to strong drink; the rosy
Orient lures to the dream splendors of the lotus. The big-bodied, white-skinned northern
dweller, rude and ferocious, bellows his anger uncouthly and drives a gross fist into the face of
his foe. The supple south-sojourner, silken of smile and lazy of gesture, waits, and does his
work from behind, when no man looketh, gracefully and without offence. Their ends are one;
the difference lies in their ways, and therein the climate, and the cumulative effect thereof, is
the determining factor. Both are sinners, as men born of women have ever been; but the one
does his sin openly, in the clear sight of God; the other—as though God could not see—veils
his iniquity with shimmering fancies, hiding it like it were some splendid mystery.
These be the ways of men, each as the sun shines upon him and the wind blows against
him, according to his kind, and the seed of his father, and the milk of his mother. Each is the
resultant of many forces which go to make a pressure mightier than he, and which moulds
him in the predestined shape. But, with sound legs under him, he may run away, and meet
with a new pressure. He may continue running, each new pressure prodding him as he goes,
until he dies and his final form will be that predestined of the many pressures. An exchange of
cradle-babes, and the base-born slave may wear the purple imperially, and the royal infant
begs an alms as wheedlingly or cringe to the lash as abjectly as his meanest subject. A
Chesterfield, with an empty belly, chancing upon good fare, will gorge as faithfully as the
swine in the next sty. And an Epicurus, in the dirt-igloo of the Eskimos, will wax eloquent over
the whale oil and walrus blubber, or die.
Thus, in the young Northland, frosty and grim and menacing, men stripped off the sloth
of the south and gave battle greatly. And they stripped likewise much of the veneer of
civilization—all of its follies, most of its foibles, and perhaps a few of its virtues. Maybe so; but
they reserved the great traditions and at least lived frankly, laughed honestly, and looked one
another in the eyes.
And so it is not well for women, born south of fifty-three and reared gently, to knock
loosely about the Northland, unless they be great of heart. They may be soft and tender and
sensitive, possessed of eyes which have not lost the lustre and the wonder, and of ears used
only to sweet sounds; but if their philosophy is sane and stable, large enough to understand
and to forgive, they will come to no harm and attain comprehension. If not, they will see things
and hear things which hurt, and they will suffer greatly, and lose faith in man—which is the
greatest evil that may happen them. Such should be sedulously cherished, and it were well to
depute this to their men-folk, the nearer of kin the better. In line, it were good policy to seek
out a cabin on the hill overlooking Dawson, or—best of all—across the Yukon on the western
bank. Let them not move abroad unheralded and unaccompanied; and the hillside back of the
cabin may be recommended as a fit field for stretching muscles and breathing deeply, a place
where their ears may remain undefiled by the harsh words of men who strive to the utmost.
Vance Corliss wiped the last tin dish and filed it away on the shelf, lighted his pipe, and
rolled over on his back on the bunk to contemplate the moss-chinked roof of his French Hill
cabin. This French Hill cabin stood on the last dip of the hill into Eldorado Creek, close to the
main-travelled trail; and its one window blinked cheerily of nights at those who journeyed late.
The door was kicked open, and Del Bishop staggered in with a load of fire-wood. His
breath had so settled on his face in a white rime that he could not speak. Such a condition
was ever a hardship with the man, so he thrust his face forthwith into the quivering heat abovethe stove. In a trice the frost was started and the thawed streamlets dancing madly on the
white-hot surface beneath. Then the ice began to fall from is beard in chunks, rattling on the
lid-tops and simmering spitefully till spurted upward in clouds of steam.
“And so you witness an actual phenomenon, illustrative of the three forms of matter,”
Vance laughed, mimicking the monotonous tones of the demonstrator; “solid, liquid, and
vapor. In another moment you will have the gas.”
“Th—th—that’s all very well,” Bishop spluttered, wrestling with an obstructing piece of ice
until it was wrenched from his upper lip and slammed stoveward with a bang.
“How cold do you make it, Del? Fifty?”
“Fifty?” the pocket-miner demanded with unutterable scorn, wiping his face.
“Quicksilver’s been solid for hours, and it’s been gittin’ colder an’ colder ever since. Fifty? I’ll
bet my new mittens against your old moccasins that it ain’t a notch below seventy.”
“Think so?”
“D’ye want to bet?”
Vance nodded laughingly.
“Centigrade or Fahrenheit?” Bishop asked, suddenly suspicious.
“Oh, well, if you want my old moccasins so badly,” Vance rejoined, feigning to be hurt by
the other’s lack of faith, “why, you can have them without betting.”
Del snorted and flung himself down on the opposite bunk. “Think yer funny, don’t you?”
No answer forthcoming, he deemed the retort conclusive, rolled over, and fell to studying the
moss chinks.
Fifteen minutes of this diversion sufficed. “Play you a rubber of crib before bed,” he
challenged across to the other bunk.
“I’ll go you.” Corliss got up, stretched, and moved the kerosene lamp from the shelf to
the table, “Think it will hold out?” he asked, surveying the oil-level through the cheap glass.
Bishop threw down the crib-board and cards, and measured the contents of the lamp
with his eye. “Forgot to fill it, didn’t I? Too late now. Do it to-morrow. It’ll last the rubber out,
Corliss took up the cards, but paused in the shuffling. “We’ve a big trip before us, Del,
about a month from now, the middle of March as near as I can plan it,—up the Stuart River to
McQuestion; up McQuestion and back again down the Mayo; then across country to Mazy
May, winding up at Henderson Creek—”
“On the Indian River?”
“No,” Corliss replied, as he dealt the hands; “just below where the Stuart taps the Yukon.
And then back to Dawson before the ice breaks.”
The pocket-miner’s eyes sparkled. “Keep us hustlin’; but, say, it’s a trip, isn’t it! Hunch?”
“I’ve received word from the Parker outfit on the Mayo, and McPherson isn’t asleep on
Henderson—you don’t know him. They’re keeping quiet, and of course one can’t tell, but...”
Bishop nodded his head sagely, while Corliss turned the trump he had cut. A sure vision
of a “twenty-four” hand was dazzling him, when there was a sound of voices without and the
door shook to a heavy knock.
“Come in!” he bawled. “An’ don’t make such a row about it! Look at that”—to Corliss, at
the same time facing his hand—”fifteen-eight, fifteen-sixteen, and eight are twenty-four. Just
my luck!”
Corliss started swiftly to his feet. Bishop jerked his head about. Two women and a man
had staggered clumsily in through the door, and were standing just inside, momentarily
blinded by the light.
“By all the Prophets! Cornell!” The pocket-miner wrung the man’s hand and led him
forward. “You recollect Cornell, Corliss? Jake Cornell, Thirty-Seven and a Half Eldorado.”
“How could I forget?” the engineer acknowledged warmly, shaking his hand. “That was a
miserable night you put us up last fall, about as miserable as the moose-steak was good thatyou gave us for breakfast.”
Jake Cornell, hirsute and cadaverous of aspect, nodded his head with emphasis and
deposited a corpulent demijohn on the table. Again he nodded his head, and glared wildly
about him. The stove caught his eye and he strode over to it, lifted a lid, and spat out a
mouthful of amber-colored juice. Another stride and he was back.
“‘Course I recollect the night,” he rumbled, the ice clattering from his hairy jaws. “And I’m
danged glad to see you, that’s a fact.” He seemed suddenly to remember himself, and added
a little sheepishly, “The fact is, we’re all danged glad to see you, ain’t we, girls?” He twisted his
head about and nodded his companions up. “Blanche, my dear, Mr. Corliss—hem—it gives
me... hem... it gives me pleasure to make you acquainted. Cariboo Blanche, sir. Cariboo
“Pleased to meet you.” Cariboo Blanche put out a frank hand and looked him over
keenly. She was a fair-featured, blondish woman, originally not unpleasing of appearance, but
now with lines all deepened and hardened as on the faces of men who have endured much
Congratulating himself upon his social proficiency, Jake Cornell cleared his throat and
marshalled the second woman to the front. “Mr. Corliss, the Virgin; I make you both
acquainted. Hem!” in response to the query in Vance’s eyes—”Yes, the Virgin. That’s all, just
the Virgin.”
She smiled and bowed, but did not shake hands. “A toff” was her secret comment upon
the engineer; and from her limited experience she had been led to understand that it was not
good form among “toffs” to shake hands.
Corliss fumbled his hand, then bowed, and looked at her curiously. She was a pretty,
low-browed creature; darkly pretty, with a well-favored body, and for all that the type was
mean, he could not escape the charm of her over-brimming vitality. She seemed bursting with
it, and every quick, spontaneous movement appeared to spring from very excess of red blood
and superabundant energy.
“Pretty healthy proposition, ain’t she?” Jake Cornell demanded, following his host’s gaze
with approval.
“None o’ your gammon, Jake,” the Virgin snapped back, with lip curled contemptuously
for Vance’s especial benefit. “I fancy it’d be more in keeping if you’d look to pore Blanche,
“Fact is, we’re plum ding dong played out,” Jake said. “An’ Blanche went through the ice
just down the trail, and her feet’s like to freezin’.”
Blanche smiled as Corliss piloted her to a stool by the fire, and her stern mouth gave no
indication of the pain she was suffering. He turned away when the Virgin addressed herself to
removing the wet footgear, while Bishop went rummaging for socks and moccasins.
“Didn’t go in more’n to the ankles,” Cornell explained confidentially; “but that’s plenty a
night like this.”
Corliss agreed with a nod of the head.
“Spotted your light, and—hem—and so we come. Don’t mind, do you?”
“Why, certainly not—”
“No intrudin’?”
Corliss reassured him by laying hand on his shoulder and cordially pressing him to a
seat. Blanche sighed luxuriously. Her wet stockings were stretched up and already steaming,
and her feet basking in the capacious warmth of Bishop’s Siwash socks. Vance shoved the
tobacco canister across, but Cornell pulled out a handful of cigars and passed them around.
“Uncommon bad piece of trail just this side of the turn,” he remarked stentoriously, at the
same time flinging an eloquent glance at the demijohn. “Ice rotten from the springs and no
sign till you’re into it.” Turning to the woman by the stove, “How’re you feeling, Blanche?”
“Tony,” she responded, stretching her body lazily and redisposing her feet; “though mylegs ain’t as limber as when we pulled out.”
Looking to his host for consent, Cornell tilted the demijohn over his arm and partly filled
the four tin mugs and an empty jelly glass.
“Wot’s the matter with a toddy?” the Virgin broke in; “or a punch?”
“Got any lime juice?” she demanded of Corliss.
“You ‘ave? Jolly!” She directed her dark eyes towards Del. “‘Ere, you, cookie! Trot out
your mixing-pan and sling the kettle for ‘ot water. Come on! All hands! Jake’s treat, and I’ll
show you ‘ow! Any sugar, Mr. Corliss? And nutmeg? Cinnamon, then? O.K. It’ll do. Lively
now, cookie!”
“Ain’t she a peach?” Cornell confided to Vance, watching her with mellow eyes as she
stirred the steaming brew.
But the Virgin directed her attentions to the engineer. “Don’t mind ‘im, sir,” she advised.
“‘E’s more’n arf-gorn a’ready, a-’itting the jug every blessed stop.”
“Now, my dear—” Jake protested.
“Don’t you my-dear me,” she sniffed. “I don’t like you.”
“Cos...” She ladled the punch carefully into the mugs and meditated. “Cos you chew
tobacco. Cos you’re whiskery. Wot I take to is smooth-faced young chaps.”
“Don’t take any stock in her nonsense,” the Fraction King warned, “She just does it
apurpose to get me mad.”
“Now then!” she commanded, sharply. “Step up to your licker! ‘Ere’s ‘ow!”
“What’ll it be?” cried Blanche from the stove.
The elevated mugs wavered and halted.
“The Queen, Gawd bless ‘er!” the Virgin toasted promptly.
“And Bill!” Del Bishop interrupted.
Again the mugs wavered.
“Bill ‘oo?” the Virgin asked, suspiciously.
She favored him with a smile. “Thank you, cookie, you’re a trump. Now! ‘Ere’s a go,
gents! Take it standing. The Queen, Gawd bless ‘er, and Bill McKinley!”
“Bottoms up!” thundered Jake Cornell, and the mugs smote the table with clanging rims.
Vance Corliss discovered himself amused and interested. According to Frona, he mused
ironically,—this was learning life, was adding to his sum of human generalizations. The phrase
was hers, and he rolled it over a couple of times. Then, again, her engagement with St.
Vincent crept into his thought, and he charmed the Virgin by asking her to sing. But she was
coy, and only after Bishop had rendered the several score stanzas of “Flying Cloud” did she
comply. Her voice, in a weakly way, probably registered an octave and a half; below that point
it underwent strange metamorphoses, while on the upper levels it was devious and rickety.
Nevertheless she sang “Take Back Your Gold” with touching effect, which brought a fiery
moisture into the eyes of the Fraction King, who listened greedily, for the time being
experiencing unwonted ethical yearnings.
The applause was generous, followed immediately by Bishop, who toasted the singer as
the “Enchantress of Bow Bells,” to the reverberating “bottoms up!” of Jake Cornell.
Two hours later, Frona Welse rapped. It was a sharp, insistent rap, penetrating the din
within and bringing Corliss to the door.
She gave a glad little cry when she saw who it was. “Oh; it is you, Vance! I didn’t know
you lived here.”
He shook hands and blocked the doorway with his body. Behind him the
Virgin was laughing and Jake Cornell roaring:

“Oh, cable this message along the track;The Prod’s out West, but he’s coming back;
Put plenty of veal for one on the rack,
Trolla lala, la la la, la la!”

“What is it?” Vance questioned. “Anything up?”
“I think you might ask me in.” There was a hint of reproach in Frona’s voice, and of
haste. “I blundered through the ice, and my feet are freezing.”
“O Gawd!” in the exuberant tones of the Virgin, came whirling over Vance’s shoulder,
and the voices of Blanche and Bishop joining in a laugh against Cornell, and that worthy’s
vociferous protestations. It seemed to him that all the blood of his body had rushed into his
face. “But you can’t come in, Frona. Don’t you hear them?”
“But I must,” she insisted. “My feet are freezing.”
With a gesture of resignation he stepped aside and closed the door after her. Coming
suddenly in from the darkness, she hesitated a moment, but in that moment recovered her
sight and took in the scene. The air was thick with tobacco smoke, and the odor of it, in the
close room, was sickening to one fresh from the pure outside. On the table a column of steam
was ascending from the big mixing-pan. The Virgin, fleeing before Cornell, was defending
herself with a long mustard spoon. Evading him and watching her chance, she continually
daubed his nose and cheeks with the yellow smear. Blanche had twisted about from the stove
to see the fun, and Del Bishop, with a mug at rest half-way to his lips, was applauding the
successive strokes. The faces of all were flushed.
Vance leaned nervelessly against the door. The whole situation seemed so unthinkably
impossible. An insane desire to laugh came over him, which resolved itself into a coughing fit.
But Frona, realizing her own pressing need by the growing absence of sensation in her feet,
stepped forward.
“Hello, Del!” she called.
The mirth froze on his face at the familiar sound and he slowly and unwilling turned his
head to meet her. She had slipped the hood of her parka back, and her face, outlined against
the dark fur, rosy with the cold and bright, was like a shaft of the sun shot into the murk of a
boozing-ken. They all knew her, for who did not know Jacob Welse’s daughter? The Virgin
dropped the mustard-spoon with a startled shriek, while Cornell, passing a dazed hand across
his yellow markings and consummating the general smear, collapsed on the nearest stool.
Cariboo Blanche alone retained her self-possession, and laughed softly.
Bishop managed to articulate “Hello!” but was unable to stave off the silence which
settled down.
Frona waited a second, and then said, “Good-evening, all.”
“This way.” Vance had recovered himself, and seated her by the stove opposite Blanche.
“Better get your things off quickly, and be careful of the heat. I’ll see what I can find for you.”
“Some cold water, please,” she asked. “It will take the frost out. Del will get it.”
“I hope it is not serious?”
“No.” She shook her head and smiled up to him, at the same time working away at her
ice-coated moccasins. “There hasn’t been time for more than surface-freezing. At the worst
the skin will peel off.”
An unearthly silence brooded in the cabin, broken only by Bishop filling a basin from the
water-bucket, and by Corliss seeking out his smallest and daintiest house-moccasins and his
warmest socks.
Frona, rubbing her feet vigorously, paused and looked up. “Don’t let me chill the
festivities just because I’m cold,” she laughed. “Please go on.”
Jake Cornell straightened up and cleared his throat inanely, and the Virgin looked
overdignified; but Blanche came over and took the towel out of Frona’s hands.
“I wet my feet in the same place,” she said, kneeling down and bringing a glow to thefrosted feet.
“I suppose you can manage some sort of a fit with them. Here!” Vance tossed over the
house-moccasins and woollen wrappings, which the two women, with low laughs and
confidential undertones, proceeded to utilize.
“But what in the world were you doing on trail, alone, at this time of night?” Vance asked.
In his heart he was marvelling at the coolness and pluck with which she was carrying off the
“I know beforehand that you will censure me,” she replied, helping Blanche arrange the
wet gear over the fire. “I was at Mrs. Stanton’s; but first, you must know, Miss Mortimer and I
are staying at the Pently’s for a week. Now, to start fresh again. I intended to leave Mrs.
Stanton’s before dark; but her baby got into the kerosene, her husband had gone down to
Dawson, and—well, we weren’t sure of the baby up to half an hour ago. She wouldn’t hear of
me returning alone; but there was nothing to fear; only I had not expected soft ice in such a
“How’d you fix the kid?” Del asked, intent on keeping the talk going now that it had
“Chewing tobacco.” And when the laughter had subsided, she went on: “There wasn’t
any mustard, and it was the best I could think of. Besides, Matt McCarthy saved my life with it
once, down at Dyea when I had the croup. But you were singing when I came in,” she
suggested. “Do go on.”
Jake Cornell hawed prodigiously. “And I got done.”
“Then you, Del. Sing ‘Flying Cloud’ as you used to coming down the river.”
“Oh, ‘e ‘as!” said the Virgin.
“Then you sing. I am sure you do.”
She smiled into the Virgin’s eyes, and that lady delivered herself of a coster ballad with
more art than she was aware. The chill of Frona’s advent was quickly dissipated, and song
and toast and merriment went round again. Nor was Frona above touching lips to the jelly
glass in fellowship; and she contributed her quota by singing “Annie Laurie” and “Ben Bolt.”
Also, but privily, she watched the drink saturating the besotted souls of Cornell and the Virgin.
It was an experience, and she was glad of it, though sorry in a way for Corliss, who played the
host lamely.
But he had little need of pity. “Any other woman—” he said to himself a score of times,
looking at Frona and trying to picture numerous women he had known by his mother’s teapot,
knocking at the door and coming in as Frona had done. Then, again, it was only yesterday
that it would have hurt him, Blanche’s rubbing her feet; but now he gloried in Frona’s
permitting it, and his heart went out in a more kindly way to Blanche. Perhaps it was the
elevation of the liquor, but he seemed to discover new virtues in her rugged face.
Frona had put on her dried moccasins and risen to her feet, and was listening patiently to
Jake Cornell, who hiccoughed a last incoherent toast.
“To the—hic—man,” he rumbled, cavernously, “the man—hic—that made—that made—”
“The blessed country,” volunteered the Virgin.
“True, my dear—hic. To the man that made the blessed country. To—hic—to Jacob
“And a rider!” Blanche cried. “To Jacob Welse’s daughter!”
“Ay! Standing! And bottoms up!”
“Oh! she’s a jolly good fellow,” Del led off, the drink ruddying his cheek.
“I’d like to shake hands with you, just once,” Blanche said in a low voice, while the rest
were chorusing.
Frona slipped her mitten, which she had already put on, and the pressure was firm
between them.
“No,” she said to Corliss, who had put on his cap and was tying the ear-flaps; “Blanchetells me the Pently’s are only half a mile from here. The trail is straight. I’ll not hear of any one
accompanying me.
“No!” This time she spoke so authoritatively that he tossed his cap into the bunk.
“Goodnight, all!” she called, sweeping the roisterers with a smile.
But Corliss saw her to the door and stepped outside. She glanced up to him. Her hood
was pulled only partly up, and her face shone alluringly under the starlight.
“I—Frona... I wish—”
“Don’t be alarmed,” she whispered. “I’ll not tell on you, Vance.”
He saw the mocking glint in her eyes, but tried to go on. “I wish to explain just how—”
“No need. I understand. But at the same time I must confess I do not particularly admire
your taste—”
“Frona!” The evident pain in his voice reached her.
“Oh, you big foolish!” she laughed. “Don’t I know? Didn’t Blanche tell me she wet her
Corliss bowed his head. “Truly, Frona, you are the most consistent woman I ever met.
Furthermore,” with a straightening of his form and a dominant assertion in his voice, “this is
not the last.”
She tried to stop him, but he continued. “I feel, I know that things will turn out differently.
To fling your own words back at you, all the factors have not been taken into consideration. As
for St. Vincent... I’ll have you yet. For that matter, now could not be too soon!”
He flashed out hungry arms to her, but she read quicker than he moved, and, laughing,
eluded him and ran lightly down the trail.
“Come back, Frona! Come back!” he called, “I am sorry.”
“No, you’re not,” came the answer. “And I’d be sorry if you were. Good-night.”
He watched her merge into the shadows, then entered the cabin. He had utterly
forgotten the scene within, and at the first glance it startled him. Cariboo Blanche was crying
softly to herself. Her eyes were luminous and moist, and, as he looked, a lone tear stole down
her cheek. Bishop’s face had gone serious. The Virgin had sprawled head and shoulders on
the table, amid overturned mugs and dripping lees, and Cornell was tittubating over her,
hiccoughing, and repeating vacuously, “You’re all right, my dear. You’re all right.”
But the Virgin was inconsolable. “O Gawd! Wen I think on wot is, an’ was... an’ no fault of
mine. No fault of mine, I tell you!” she shrieked with quick fierceness. “‘Ow was I born, I ask?
Wot was my old man? A drunk, a chronic. An’ my old woman? Talk of Whitechapel! ‘Oo guv a
cent for me, or ‘ow I was dragged up? ‘Oo cared a rap, I say? ‘Oo cared a rap?”
A sudden revulsion came over Corliss. “Hold your tongue!” he ordered.
The Virgin raised her head, her loosened hair streaming about her like a Fury’s. “Wot is
she?” she sneered. “Sweet’eart?”
Corliss whirled upon her savagely, face white and voice shaking with passion.
The Virgin cowered down and instinctively threw up her hands to protect her face. “Don’t
‘it me, sir!” she whined. “Don’t ‘it me!”
He was frightened at himself, and waited till he could gather control. “Now,” he said,
calmly, “get into your things and go. All of you. Clear out. Vamose.”
“You’re no man, you ain’t,” the Virgin snarled, discovering that physical assault was not
But Corliss herded her particularly to the door, and gave no heed.
“A-turning ladies out!” she sniffed, with a stumble over the threshold;
“No offence,” Jake Cornell muttered, pacifically; “no offence.”
“Good-night. Sorry,” Corliss said to Blanche, with the shadow of a forgiving smile, as she
passed out.
“You’re a toff! That’s wot you are, a bloomin’ toff!” the Virgin howled back as he shut the
door.He looked blankly at Del Bishop and surveyed the sodden confusion on the table. Then
he walked over and threw himself down on his bunk. Bishop leaned an elbow on the table and
pulled at his wheezy pipe. The lamp smoked, flickered, and went out; but still he remained,
filling his pipe again and again and striking endless matches.
“Del! Are you awake?” Corliss called at last.
Del grunted.
“I was a cur to turn them out into the snow. I am ashamed.”
“Sure,” was the affirmation.
A long silence followed. Del knocked the ashes out and raised up.
“‘Sleep?” he called.
There was no reply, and he walked to the bunk softly and pulled the blankets over the
Chapter 21

“Yes; what does it all mean?” Corliss stretched lazily, and cocked up his feet on the
table. He was not especially interested, but Colonel Trethaway persisted in talking seriously.
“That’s it! The very thing—the old and ever young demand which man slaps into the face
of the universe.” The colonel searched among the scraps in his note-book. “See,” holding up a
soiled slip of typed paper, “I copied this out years ago. Listen. ‘What a monstrous spectre is
this man, this disease of the agglutinated dust, lifting alternate feet or lying drugged with
slumber; killing, feeding, growing, bringing forth small copies of himself; grown up with hair like
grass, fitted with eyes that glitter in his face; a thing to set children screaming. Poor soul, here
for so little, cast among so many hardships, filled with desires so incommensurate and so
inconsistent; savagely surrounded, savagely descended, irremediably condemned to prey
upon his fellow-lives. Infinitely childish, often admirably valiant, often touchingly kind; sitting
down to debate of right or wrong and the attributes of the deity; rising up to battle for an egg
or die for an idea!’
“And all to what end?” he demanded, hotly, throwing down the paper, “this disease of the
agglutinated dust?”
Corliss yawned in reply. He had been on trail all day and was yearning for
“Here am I, Colonel Trethaway, modestly along in years, fairly well preserved, a place in
the community, a comfortable bank account, no need to ever exert myself again, yet enduring
life bleakly and working ridiculously with a zest worthy of a man half my years. And to what
end? I can only eat so much, smoke so much, sleep so much, and this tail-dump of earth men
call Alaska is the worst of all possible places in the matter of grub, tobacco, and blankets.”
“But it is the living strenuously which holds you,” Corliss interjected.
“Frona’s philosophy,” the colonel sneered.
“And my philosophy, and yours.”
“And of the agglutinated dust—”
“Which is quickened with a passion you do not take into account,—the passion of duty, of
race, of God!”
“And the compensation?” Trethaway demanded.
“Each breath you draw. The Mayfly lives an hour.”
“I don’t see it.”
“Blood and sweat! Blood and sweat! You cried that after the rough and tumble in the
Opera House, and every word of it was receipt in full.”
“Frona’s philosophy.”
“And yours and mine.”
The colonel threw up his shoulders, and after a pause confessed. “You see, try as I will, I
can’t make a pessimist out of myself. We are all compensated, and I more fully than most
men. What end? I asked, and the answer forthcame: Since the ultimate end is beyond us,
then the immediate. More compensation, here and now!”
“Quite hedonistic.”
“And rational. I shall look to it at once. I can buy grub and blankets for a score; I can eat
and sleep for only one; ergo, why not for two?”
Corliss took his feet down and sat up. “In other words?”
“I shall get married, and—give the community a shock. Communities like shocks. That’s
one of their compensations for being agglutinative.”
“I can’t think of but one woman,” Corliss essayed tentatively, putting out his hand.Trethaway shook it slowly. “It is she.”
Corliss let go, and misgiving shot into his face. “But St. Vincent?”
“Is your problem, not mine.”
“Then Lucile—?”
“Certainly not. She played a quixotic little game of her own and botched it beautifully.”
“I—I do not understand.” Corliss brushed his brows in a dazed sort of way.
Trethaway parted his lips in a superior smile. “It is not necessary that you should. The
question is, Will you stand up with me?”
“Surely. But what a confoundedly long way around you took. It is not your usual method.”
“Nor was it with her,” the colonel declared, twisting his moustache proudly.
A captain of the North-West Mounted Police, by virtue of his magisterial office, may
perform marriages in time of stress as well as execute exemplary justice. So Captain
Alexander received a call from Colonel Trethaway, and after he left jotted down an
engagement for the next morning. Then the impending groom went to see Frona. Lucile did
not make the request, he hastened to explain, but—well, the fact was she did not know any
women, and, furthermore, he (the colonel) knew whom Lucile would like to ask, did she dare.
So he did it upon his own responsibility. And coming as a surprise, he knew it would be a great
joy to her.
Frona was taken aback by the suddenness of it. Only the other day, it was, that Lucile
had made a plea to her for St. Vincent, and now it was Colonel Trethaway! True, there had
been a false quantity somewhere, but now it seemed doubly false. Could it be, after all, that
Lucile was mercenary? These thoughts crowded upon her swiftly, with the colonel anxiously
watching her face the while. She knew she must answer quickly, yet was distracted by an
involuntary admiration for his bravery. So she followed, perforce, the lead of her heart, and
Yet the whole thing was rather strained when the four of them came together, next day,
in Captain Alexander’s private office. There was a gloomy chill about it. Lucile seemed ready
to cry, and showed a repressed perturbation quite unexpected of her; while, try as she would,
Frona could not call upon her usual sympathy to drive away the coldness which obtruded
intangibly between them. This, in turn, had a consequent effect on Vance, and gave a certain
distance to his manner which forced him out of touch even with the colonel.
Colonel Trethaway seemed to have thrown twenty years off his erect shoulders, and the
discrepancy in the match which Frona had felt vanished as she looked at him. “He has lived
the years well,” she thought, and prompted mysteriously, almost with vague apprehension she
turned her eyes to Corliss. But if the groom had thrown off twenty years, Vance was not a
whit behind. Since their last meeting he had sacrificed his brown moustache to the frost, and
his smooth face, smitten with health and vigor, looked uncommonly boyish; and yet, withal,
the naked upper lip advertised a stiffness and resolution hitherto concealed. Furthermore, his
features portrayed a growth, and his eyes, which had been softly firm, were now firm with the
added harshness or hardness which is bred of coping with things and coping quickly,—the
stamp of executiveness which is pressed upon men who do, and upon all men who do,
whether they drive dogs, buck the sea, or dictate the policies of empires.
When the simple ceremony was over, Frona kissed Lucile; but Lucile felt that there was a
subtle something wanting, and her eyes filled with unshed tears. Trethaway, who had felt the
aloofness from the start, caught an opportunity with Frona while Captain Alexander and
Corliss were being pleasant to Mrs. Trethaway.
“What’s the matter, Frona?” the colonel demanded, bluntly. “I hope you did not come
under protest. I am sorry, not for you, because lack of frankness deserves nothing, but for
Lucile. It is not fair to her.”
“There has been a lack of frankness throughout.” Her voice trembled. “I tried my best,—I
thought I could do better,—but I cannot feign what I do not feel. I am sorry, but I... I amdisappointed. No, I cannot explain, and to you least of all.”
“Let’s be above-board, Frona. St. Vincent’s concerned?”
She nodded.
“And I can put my hand right on the spot. First place,” he looked to the side and saw
Lucile stealing an anxious glance to him,—”first place, only the other day she gave you a song
about St. Vincent. Second place, and therefore, you think her heart’s not in this present
proposition; that she doesn’t care a rap for me; in short, that she’s marrying me for
reinstatement and spoils. Isn’t that it?”
“And isn’t it enough? Oh, I am disappointed, Colonel Trethaway, grievously, in her, in
you, in myself.”
“Don’t be a fool! I like you too well to see you make yourself one. The play’s been too
quick, that is all. Your eye lost it. Listen. We’ve kept it quiet, but she’s in with the elect on
French Hill. Her claim’s prospected the richest of the outfit. Present indication half a million at
least. In her own name, no strings attached. Couldn’t she take that and go anywhere in the
world and reinstate herself? And for that matter, you might presume that I am marrying her
for spoils. Frona, she cares for me, and in your ear, she’s too good for me. My hope is that
the future will make up. But never mind that—haven’t got the time now.
“You consider her affection sudden, eh? Let me tell you we’ve been growing into each
other from the time I came into the country, and with our eyes open. St. Vincent? Pshaw! I
knew it all the time. She got it into her head that the whole of him wasn’t worth a little finger of
you, and she tried to break things up. You’ll never know how she worked with him. I told her
she didn’t know the Welse, and she said so, too, after. So there it is; take it or leave it.”
“But what do you think about St. Vincent?”
“What I think is neither here nor there; but I’ll tell you honestly that I back her judgment.
But that’s not the point. What are you going to do about it? about her? now?”
She did not answer, but went back to the waiting group. Lucile saw her coming and
watched her face.
“He’s been telling you—?”
“That I am a fool,” Frona answered. “And I think I am.” And with a smile, “I take it on faith
that I am, anyway. I—I can’t reason it out just now, but...”
Captain Alexander discovered a prenuptial joke just about then, and led the way over to
the stove to crack it upon the colonel, and Vance went along to see fair play.
“It’s the first time,” Lucile was saying, “and it means more to me, so much more, than
to... most women. I am afraid. It is a terrible thing for me to do. But I do love him, I do!” And
when the joke had been duly digested and they came back, she was sobbing, “Dear, dear
It was just the moment, better than he could have chosen; and capped and mittened,
without knocking, Jacob Welse came in.
“The uninvited guest,” was his greeting. “Is it all over? So?” And he swallowed Lucile up
in his huge bearskin. “Colonel, your hand, and your pardon for my intruding, and your regrets
for not giving me the word. Come, out with them! Hello, Corliss! Captain Alexander, a good
“What have I done?” Frona wailed, received the bear-hug, and managed to press his
hand till it almost hurt.
“Had to back the game,” he whispered; and this time his hand did hurt.
“Now, colonel, I don’t know what your plans are, and I don’t care. Call them off. I’ve got a
little spread down to the house, and the only honest case of champagne this side of Circle. Of
course, you’re coming, Corliss, and—” His eye roved past Captain Alexander with hardly a
“Of course,” came the answer like a flash, though the Chief Magistrate of the Northwest
had had time to canvass the possible results of such unofficial action. “Got a hack?”Jacob Welse laughed and held up a moccasined foot. “Walking be—chucked!” The
captain started impulsively towards the door. “I’ll have the sleds up before you’re ready. Three
of them, and bells galore!”
So Trethaway’s forecast was correct, and Dawson vindicated its agglutinativeness by
rubbing its eyes when three sleds, with three scarlet-tuniced policemen swinging the whips,
tore down its main street; and it rubbed its eyes again when it saw the occupants thereof.
“We shall live quietly,” Lucile told Frona. “The Klondike is not all the world, and the best is
yet to come.”
But Jacob Welse said otherwise. “We’ve got to make this thing go,” he said to Captain
Alexander, and Captain Alexander said that he was unaccustomed to backing out.
Mrs. Schoville emitted preliminary thunders, marshalled the other women, and became
chronically seismic and unsafe.
Lucile went nowhere save to Frona’s. But Jacob Welse, who rarely went anywhere, was
often to be found by Colonel Trethaway’s fireside, and not only was he to be found there, but
he usually brought somebody along. “Anything on hand this evening?” he was wont to say on
casual meeting. “No? Then come along with me.” Sometimes he said it with lamb-like
innocence, sometimes with a challenge brooding under his bushy brows, and rarely did he fail
to get his man. These men had wives, and thus were the germs of dissolution sown in the
ranks of the opposition.
Then, again, at Colonel Trethaway’s there was something to be found besides weak tea
and small talk; and the correspondents, engineers, and gentlemen rovers kept the trail well
packed in that direction, though it was the Kings, to a man, who first broke the way. So the
Trethaway cabin became the centre of things, and, backed commercially, financially, and
officially, it could not fail to succeed socially.
The only bad effect of all this was to make the lives of Mrs. Schoville and divers others of
her sex more monotonous, and to cause them to lose faith in certain hoary and inconsequent
maxims. Furthermore, Captain Alexander, as highest official, was a power in the land, and
Jacob Welse was the Company, and there was a superstition extant concerning the unwisdom
of being on indifferent terms with the Company. And the time was not long till probably a bare
half-dozen remained in outer cold, and they were considered a warped lot, anyway.
Chapter 22

Quite an exodus took place in Dawson in the spring. Men, because they had made
stakes, and other men, because they had made none, bought up the available dogs and
rushed out for Dyea over the last ice. Incidentally, it was discovered that Dave Harney
possessed most of these dogs.
“Going out?” Jacob Welse asked him on a day when the meridian sun for the first time
felt faintly warm to the naked skin.
“Well, I calkilate not. I’m clearin’ three dollars a pair on the moccasins I cornered, to say
nothing but saw wood on the boots. Say, Welse, not that my nose is out of joint, but you jest
cinched me everlastin’ on sugar, didn’t you?”
Jacob Welse smiled.
“And by the Jimcracky I’m squared! Got any rubber boots?”
“No; went out of stock early in the winter.” Dave snickered slowly. “And I’m the pertickler
party that hocus-pocused ‘em.”
“Not you. I gave special orders to the clerks. They weren’t sold in lots.”
“No more they wa’n’t. One man to the pair and one pair to the man, and a couple of
hundred of them; but it was my dust they chucked into the scales an nobody else’s. Drink?
Don’t mind. Easy! Put up your sack. Call it rebate, for I kin afford it... Goin’ out? Not this year,
I guess. Wash-up’s comin’.”
A strike on Henderson the middle of April, which promised to be sensational, drew St.
Vincent to Stewart River. And a little later, Jacob Welse, interested on Gallagher Gulch and
with an eye riveted on the copper mines of White River, went up into the same district, and
with him went Frona, for it was more vacation than business. In the mean time, Corliss and
Bishop, who had been on trail for a month or more running over the Mayo and McQuestion
Country, rounded up on the left fork of Henderson, where a block of claims waited to be
But by May, spring was so far advanced that travel on the creeks became perilous, and
on the last of the thawing ice the miners travelled down to the bunch of islands below the
mouth of the Stewart, where they went into temporary quarters or crowded the hospitality of
those who possessed cabins. Corliss and Bishop located on Split-up Island (so called through
the habit parties from the Outside had of dividing there and going several ways), where
Tommy McPherson was comfortably situated. A couple of days later, Jacob Welse and Frona
arrived from a hazardous trip out of White River, and pitched tent on the high ground at the
upper end of Split-up. A few chechaquos, the first of the spring rush, strung in exhausted and
went into camp against the breaking of the river. Also, there were still men going out who,
barred by the rotten ice, came ashore to build poling-boats and await the break-up or to
negotiate with the residents for canoes. Notably among these was the Baron Courbertin.
“Ah! Excruciating! Magnificent! Is it not?”
So Frona first ran across him on the following day. “What?” she asked, giving him her
“You! You!” doffing his cap. “It is a delight!”
“I am sure—” she began.
“No! No!” He shook his curly mop warmly. “It is not you. See!” He turned to a
Peterborough, for which McPherson had just mulcted him of thrice its value. “The canoe! Is it
not—not—what you Yankees call—a bute?”
“Oh, the canoe,” she repeated, with a falling inflection of chagrin.
“No! No! Pardon!” He stamped angrily upon the ground. “It is not so. It is not you. It isnot the canoe. It is—ah! I have it now! It is your promise. One day, do you not remember, at
Madame Schoville’s, we talked of the canoe, and of my ignorance, which was sad, and you
promised, you said—”
“I would give you your first lesson?”
“And is it not delightful? Listen! Do you not hear? The rippling—ah! the rippling!—deep
down at the heart of things! Soon will the water run free. Here is the canoe! Here we meet!
The first lesson! Delightful! Delightful!”
The next island below Split-up was known as Roubeau’s Island, and was separated from
the former by a narrow back-channel. Here, when the bottom had about dropped out of the
trail, and with the dogs swimming as often as not, arrived St. Vincent—the last man to travel
the winter trail. He went into the cabin of John Borg, a taciturn, gloomy individual, prone to
segregate himself from his kind. It was the mischance of St. Vincent’s life that of all cabins he
chose Borg’s for an abiding-place against the break-up.
“All right,” the man said, when questioned by him. “Throw your blankets into the corner.
Bella’ll clear the litter out of the spare bunk.”
Not till evening did he speak again, and then, “You’re big enough to do your own cooking.
When the woman’s done with the stove you can fire away.”
The woman, or Bella, was a comely Indian girl, young, and the prettiest St. Vincent had
run across. Instead of the customary greased swarthiness of the race, her skin was clear and
of a light-bronze tone, and her features less harsh, more felicitously curved, than those
common to the blood.
After supper, Borg, both elbows on table and huge misshapen hands supporting chin and
jaws, sat puffing stinking Siwash tobacco and staring straight before him. It would have
seemed ruminative, the stare, had his eyes been softer or had he blinked; as it was, his face
was set and trance-like.
“Have you been in the country long?” St. Vincent asked, endeavoring to make
Borg turned his sullen-black eyes upon him, and seemed to look into him and through
him and beyond him, and, still regarding him, to have forgotten all about him. It was as though
he pondered some great and weighty matter—probably his sins, the correspondent mused
nervously, rolling himself a cigarette. When the yellow cube had dissipated itself in curling
fragrance, and he was deliberating about rolling a second, Borg suddenly spoke.
“Fifteen years,” he said, and returned to his tremendous cogitation.
Thereat, and for half an hour thereafter, St. Vincent, fascinated, studied his inscrutable
countenance. To begin with, it was a massive head, abnormal and top-heavy, and its only
excuse for being was the huge bull-throat which supported it. It had been cast in a mould of
elemental generousness, and everything about it partook of the asymmetrical crudeness of
the elemental. The hair, rank of growth, thick and unkempt, matted itself here and there into
curious splotches of gray; and again, grinning at age, twisted itself into curling locks of
lustreless black—locks of unusual thickness, like crooked fingers, heavy and solid. The
shaggy whiskers, almost bare in places, and in others massing into bunchgrass-like clumps,
were plentifully splashed with gray. They rioted monstrously over his face and fell raggedly to
his chest, but failed to hide the great hollowed cheeks or the twisted mouth. The latter was
thin-lipped and cruel, but cruel only in a passionless sort of way. But the forehead was the
anomaly,—the anomaly required to complete the irregularity of the face. For it was a perfect
forehead, full and broad, and rising superbly strong to its high dome. It was as the seat and
bulwark of some vast intelligence; omniscience might have brooded there.
Bella, washing the dishes and placing them away on the shelf behind Borg’s back,
dropped a heavy tin cup. The cabin was very still, and the sharp rattle came without warning.
On the instant, with a brute roar, the chair was overturned and Borg was on his feet, eyes
blazing and face convulsed. Bella gave an inarticulate, animal-like cry of fear and cowered athis feet. St. Vincent felt his hair bristling, and an uncanny chill, like a jet of cold air, played up
and down his spine. Then Borg righted the chair and sank back into his old position, chin on
hands and brooding ponderously. Not a word was spoken, and Bella went on unconcernedly
with the dishes, while St. Vincent rolled, a shaky cigarette and wondered if it had been a
Jacob Welse laughed when the correspondent told him. “Just his way,” he said; “for his
ways are like his looks,—unusual. He’s an unsociable beast. Been in the country more years
than he can number acquaintances. Truth to say, I don’t think he has a friend in all Alaska, not
even among the Indians, and he’s chummed thick with them off and on. ‘Johnny Sorehead,’
they call him, but it might as well be ‘Johnny Break-um-head,’ for he’s got a quick temper and
a rough hand. Temper! Some little misunderstanding popped up between him and the agent
at Arctic City. He was in the right, too,—agent’s mistake,—but he tabooed the Company on
the spot and lived on straight meat for a year. Then I happened to run across him at Tanana
Station, and after due explanations he consented to buy from us again.”
“Got the girl from up the head-waters of the White,” Bill Brown told St. Vincent. “Welse
thinks he’s pioneering in that direction, but Borg could give him cards and spades on it and
then win out. He’s been over the ground years ago. Yes, strange sort of a chap. Wouldn’t
hanker to be bunk-mates with him.”
But St. Vincent did not mind the eccentricities of the man, for he spent most of his time
on Split-up Island with Frona and the Baron. One day, however, and innocently, he ran foul of
him. Two Swedes, hunting tree-squirrels from the other end of Roubeau Island, had stopped
to ask for matches and to yarn a while in the warm sunshine of the clearing. St. Vincent and
Borg were accommodating them, the latter for the most part in meditative monosyllables. Just
to the rear, by the cabin-door, Bella was washing clothes. The tub was a cumbersome
homemade affair, and half-full of water, was more than a fair match for an ordinary woman. The
correspondent noticed her struggling with it, and stepped back quickly to her aid.
With the tub between them, they proceeded to carry it to one side in order to dump it
where the ground drained from the cabin. St. Vincent slipped in the thawing snow and the
soapy water splashed up. Then Bella slipped, and then they both slipped. Bella giggled and
laughed, and St. Vincent laughed back. The spring was in the air and in their blood, and it was
very good to be alive. Only a wintry heart could deny a smile on such a day. Bella slipped
again, tried to recover, slipped with the other foot, and sat down abruptly. Laughing gleefully,
both of them, the correspondent caught her hands to pull her to her feet. With a bound and a
bellow, Borg was upon them. Their hands were torn apart and St. Vincent thrust heavily
backward. He staggered for a couple of yards and almost fell. Then the scene of the cabin
was repeated. Bella cowered and grovelled in the muck, and her lord towered wrathfully over
“Look you,” he said in stifled gutturals, turning to St. Vincent. “You sleep in my cabin and
you cook. That is enough. Let my woman alone.”
Things went on after that as though nothing had happened; St. Vincent gave Bella a wide
berth and seemed to have forgotten her existence. But the Swedes went back to their end of
the island, laughing at the trivial happening which was destined to be significant.
Chapter 23

Spring, smiting with soft, warm hands, had come like a miracle, and now lingered for a
dreamy spell before bursting into full-blown summer. The snow had left the bottoms and
valleys and nestled only on the north slopes of the ice-scarred ridges. The glacial drip was
already in evidence, and every creek in roaring spate. Each day the sun rose earlier and
stayed later. It was now chill day by three o’clock and mellow twilight at nine. Soon a golden
circle would be drawn around the sky, and deep midnight become bright as high noon. The
willows and aspens had long since budded, and were now decking themselves in liveries of
fresh young green, and the sap was rising in the pines.
Mother nature had heaved her waking sigh and gone about her brief business. Crickets
sang of nights in the stilly cabins, and in the sunshine mosquitoes crept from out hollow logs
and snug crevices among the rocks,—big, noisy, harmless fellows, that had procreated the
year gone, lain frozen through the winter, and were now rejuvenated to buzz through swift
senility to second death. All sorts of creeping, crawling, fluttering life came forth from the
warming earth and hastened to mature, reproduce, and cease. Just a breath of balmy air, and
then the long cold frost again—ah! they knew it well and lost no time. Sand martins were
driving their ancient tunnels into the soft clay banks, and robins singing on the spruce-garbed
islands. Overhead the woodpecker knocked insistently, and in the forest depths the partridge
boom-boomed and strutted in virile glory.
But in all this nervous haste the Yukon took no part. For many a thousand miles it lay
cold, unsmiling, dead. Wild fowl, driving up from the south in wind-jamming wedges, halted,
looked vainly for open water, and quested dauntlessly on into the north. From bank to bank
stretched the savage ice. Here and there the water burst through and flooded over, but in the
chill nights froze solidly as ever. Tradition has it that of old time the Yukon lay unbroken
through three long summers, and on the face of it there be traditions less easy of belief.
So summer waited for open water, and the tardy Yukon took to stretching of days and
cracking its stiff joints. Now an air-hole ate into the ice, and ate and ate; or a fissure formed,
and grew, and failed to freeze again. Then the ice ripped from the shore and uprose bodily a
yard. But still the river was loth to loose its grip. It was a slow travail, and man, used to
nursing nature with pigmy skill, able to burst waterspouts and harness waterfalls, could avail
nothing against the billions of frigid tons which refused to run down the hill to Bering Sea.
On Split-up Island all were ready for the break-up. Waterways have ever been first
highways, and the Yukon was the sole highway in all the land. So those bound up-river pitched
their poling-boats and shod their poles with iron, and those bound down caulked their scows
and barges and shaped spare sweeps with axe and drawing-knife. Jacob Welse loafed and
joyed in the utter cessation from work, and Frona joyed with him in that it was good. But
Baron Courbertin was in a fever at the delay. His hot blood grew riotous after the long
hibernation, and the warm sunshine dazzled him with warmer fancies.
“Oh! Oh! It will never break! Never!” And he stood gazing at the surly ice and raining
politely phrased anathema upon it. “It is a conspiracy, poor La Bijou, a conspiracy!” He
caressed La Bijou like it were a horse, for so he had christened the glistening Peterborough
Frona and St. Vincent laughed and preached him the gospel of patience, which he
proceeded to tuck away into the deepest abysses of perdition till interrupted by Jacob Welse.
“Look, Courbertin! Over there, south of the bluff. Do you make out anything? Moving?”
“Yes; a dog.”
“It moves too slowly for a dog. Frona, get the glasses.”Courbertin and St. Vincent sprang after them, but the latter knew their abiding-place and
returned triumphant. Jacob Welse put the binoculars to his eyes and gazed steadily across
the river. It was a sheer mile from the island to the farther bank, and the sunglare on the ice
was a sore task to the vision.
“It is a man.” He passed the glasses to the Baron and strained absently with his naked
eyes. “And something is up.”
“He creeps!” the baron exclaimed. “The man creeps, he crawls, on hand and knee! Look!
See!” He thrust the glasses tremblingly into Frona’s hands.
Looking across the void of shimmering white, it was difficult to discern a dark object of
such size when dimly outlined against an equally dark background of brush and earth. But
Frona could make the man out with fair distinctness; and as she grew accustomed to the
strain she could distinguish each movement, and especially so when he came to a
windthrown pine. Sue watched painfully. Twice, after tortuous effort, squirming and twisting, he
failed in breasting the big trunk, and on the third attempt, after infinite exertion, he cleared it
only to topple helplessly forward and fall on his face in the tangled undergrowth.
“It is a man.” She turned the glasses over to St. Vincent. “And he is crawling feebly. He
fell just then this side of the log.”
“Does he move?” Jacob Welse asked, and, on a shake of St. Vincent’s head, brought his
rifle from the tent.
He fired six shots skyward in rapid succession. “He moves!” The correspondent followed
him closely. “He is crawling to the bank. Ah!... No; one moment... Yes! He lies on the ground
and raises his hat, or something, on a stick. He is waving it.” (Jacob Welse fired six more
shots.) “He waves again. Now he has dropped it and lies quite still.”
All three looked inquiringly to Jacob Welse.
He shrugged his shoulders. “How should I know? A white man or an Indian; starvation
most likely, or else he is injured.”
“But he may be dying,” Frona pleaded, as though her father, who had done most things,
could do all things.
“We can do nothing.”
“Ah! Terrible! terrible!” The baron wrung his hands. “Before our very eyes, and we can do
nothing! No!” he exclaimed, with swift resolution, “it shall not be! I will cross the ice!”
He would have started precipitately down the bank had not Jacob Welse caught his arm.
“Not such a rush, baron. Keep your head.”
“But nothing. Does the man want food, or medicine, or what? Wait a moment. We will try
it together.”
“Count me in,” St. Vincent volunteered promptly, and Frona’s eyes sparkled.
While she made up a bundle of food in the tent, the men provided and rigged themselves
with sixty or seventy feet of light rope. Jacob Welse and St. Vincent made themselves fast to
it at either end, and the baron in the middle. He claimed the food as his portion, and strapped
it to his broad shoulders. Frona watched their progress from the bank. The first hundred yards
were easy going, but she noticed at once the change when they had passed the limit of the
fairly solid shore-ice. Her father led sturdily, feeling ahead and to the side with his staff and
changing direction continually.
St. Vincent, at the rear of the extended line, was the first to go through, but he fell with
the pole thrust deftly across the opening and resting on the ice. His head did not go under,
though the current sucked powerfully, and the two men dragged him out after a sharp pull.
Frona saw them consult together for a minute, with much pointing and gesticulating on the
part of the baron, and then St. Vincent detach himself and turn shoreward.
“Br-r-r-r,” he shivered, coming up the bank to her. “It’s impossible.”
“But why didn’t they come in?” she asked, a slight note of displeasure manifest in hervoice.
“Said they were going to make one more try, first. That Courbertin is hot-headed, you
“And my father just as bull-headed,” she smiled. “But hadn’t you better change? There
are spare things in the tent.”
“Oh, no.” He threw himself down beside her. “It’s warm in the sun.”
For an hour they watched the two men, who had become mere specks of black in the
distance; for they had managed to gain the middle of the river and at the same time had
worked nearly a mile up-stream. Frona followed them closely with the glasses, though often
they were lost to sight behind the ice-ridges.
“It was unfair of them,” she heard St. Vincent complain, “to say they were only going to
have one more try. Otherwise I should not have turned back. Yet they can’t make it—
absolutely impossible.”
“Yes... No... Yes! They’re turning back,” she announced. “But listen! What is that?”
A hoarse rumble, like distant thunder, rose from the midst of the ice. She sprang to her
feet. “Gregory, the river can’t be breaking!”
“No, no; surely not. See, it is gone.” The noise which had come from above had died
away downstream.
“But there! There!”
Another rumble, hoarser and more ominous than before, lifted itself and hushed the
robins and the squirrels. When abreast of them, it sounded like a railroad train on a distant
trestle. A third rumble, which approached a roar and was of greater duration, began from
above and passed by.
“Oh, why don’t they hurry!”
The two specks had stopped, evidently in conversation. She ran the glasses hastily up
and down the river. Though another roar had risen, she could make out no commotion. The
ice lay still and motionless. The robins resumed their singing, and the squirrels were chattering
with spiteful glee.
“Don’t fear, Frona.” St. Vincent put his arm about her protectingly. “If there is any
danger, they know it better than we, and they are taking their time.”
“I never saw a big river break up,” she confessed, and resigned herself to the waiting.
The roars rose and fell sporadically, but there were no other signs of disruption, and
gradually the two men, with frequent duckings, worked inshore. The water was streaming from
them and they were shivering severely as they came up the bank.
“At last!” Frona had both her father’s hands in hers. “I thought you would never come
“There, there. Run and get dinner,” Jacob Welse laughed. “There was no danger.”
“But what was it?”
“Stewart River’s broken and sending its ice down under the Yukon ice. We could hear the
grinding plainly out there.”
“Ah! And it was terrible! terrible!” cried the baron. “And that poor, poor man, we cannot
save him!”
“Yes, we can. We’ll have a try with the dogs after dinner. Hurry, Frona.”
But the dogs were a failure. Jacob Welse picked out the leaders as the more intelligent,
and with grub-packs on them drove them out from the bank. They could not grasp what was
demanded of them. Whenever they tried to return they were driven back with sticks and clods
and imprecations. This only bewildered them, and they retreated out of range, whence they
raised their wet, cold paws and whined pitifully to the shore.
“If they could only make it once, they would understand, and then it would go like
clockwork. Ah! Would you? Go on! Chook, Miriam! Chook! The thing is to get the first one across.”
Jacob Welse finally succeeded in getting Miriam, lead-dog to Frona’s team, to take thetrail left by him and the baron. The dog went on bravely, scrambling over, floundering through,
and sometimes swimming; but when she had gained the farthest point reached by them, she
sat down helplessly. Later on, she cut back to the shore at a tangent, landing on the deserted
island above; and an hour afterwards trotted into camp minus the grub-pack. Then the two
dogs, hovering just out of range, compromised matters by devouring each other’s burdens;
after which the attempt was given over and they were called in.
During the afternoon the noise increased in frequency, and by nightfall was continuous,
but by morning it had ceased utterly. The river had risen eight feet, and in many places was
running over its crust. Much crackling and splitting were going on, and fissures leaping into life
and multiplying in all directions.
“The under-tow ice has jammed below among the islands,” Jacob Welse explained.
“That’s what caused the rise. Then, again, it has jammed at the mouth of the Stewart and is
backing up. When that breaks through, it will go down underneath and stick on the lower jam.”
“And then? and then?” The baron exulted.
“La Bijou will swim again.”
As the light grew stronger, they searched for the man across the river. He had not
moved, but in response to their rifle-shots waved feebly.
“Nothing for it till the river breaks, baron, and then a dash with La Bijou. St. Vincent, you
had better bring your blankets up and sleep here to-night. We’ll need three paddles, and I
think we can get McPherson.”
“No need,” the correspondent hastened to reply. “The back-channel is like adamant, and
I’ll be up by daybreak.”
“But I? Why not?” Baron Courbertin demanded. Frona laughed. “Remember, we haven’t
given you your first lessons yet.”
“And there’ll hardly be time to-morrow,” Jacob Welse added. “When she goes, she goes
with a rush. St. Vincent, McPherson, and I will have to make the crew, I’m afraid. Sorry,
baron. Stay with us another year and you’ll be fit.”
But Baron Courbertin was inconsolable, and sulked for a full half-hour.
Chapter 24

“Awake! You dreamers, wake!”
Frona was out of her sleeping-furs at Del Bishop’s first call; but ere she had slipped a
skirt on and bare feet into moccasins, her father, beyond the blanket-curtain, had thrown back
the flaps of the tent and stumbled out.
The river was up. In the chill gray light she could see the ice rubbing softly against the
very crest of the bank; it even topped it in places, and the huge cakes worked inshore many
feet. A hundred yards out the white field merged into the dim dawn and the gray sky. Subdued
splits and splutters whispered from out the obscureness, and a gentle grinding could be
“When will it go?” she asked of Del.
“Not a bit too lively for us. See there!” He pointed with his toe to the water lapping out
from under the ice and creeping greedily towards them. “A foot rise every ten minutes.”
“Danger?” he scoffed. “Not on your life. It’s got to go. Them islands”—waving his hand
indefinitely down river—”can’t hold up under more pressure. If they don’t let go the ice, the
ice’ll scour them clean out of the bed of the Yukon. Sure! But I’ve got to be chasin’ back.
Lower ground down our way. Fifteen inches on the cabin floor, and McPherson and Corliss
hustlin’ perishables into the bunks.”
“Tell McPherson to be ready for a call,” Jacob Welse shouted after him. And then to
Frona, “Now’s the time for St. Vincent to cross the back-channel.”
The baron, shivering barefooted, pulled out his watch. “Ten minutes to three,” he
“Hadn’t you better go back and get your moccasins?” Frona asked. “There will be time.”
“And miss the magnificence? Hark!”
From nowhere in particular a brisk crackling arose, then died away. The ice was in
motion. Slowly, very slowly, it proceeded down stream. There was no commotion, no
earsplitting thunder, no splendid display of force; simply a silent flood of white, an orderly
procession of tight-packed ice—packed so closely that not a drop of water was in evidence. It
was there, somewhere, down underneath; but it had to be taken on faith. There was a dull
hum or muffled grating, but so low in pitch that the ear strained to catch it.
“Ah! Where is the magnificence? It is a fake!”
The baron shook his fists angrily at the river, and Jacob Welse’s thick brows seemed to
draw down in order to hide the grim smile in his eyes.
“Ha! ha! I laugh! I snap my fingers! See! I defy!”
As the challenge left his lips. Baron Courbertin stepped upon a cake which rubbed lightly
past at his feet. So unexpected was it, that when Jacob Welse reached after him he was
The ice was picking up in momentum, and the hum growing louder and more threatening.
Balancing gracefully, like a circus-rider, the Frenchman whirled away along the rim of the
bank. Fifty precarious feet he rode, his mount becoming more unstable every instant, and he
leaped neatly to the shore. He came back laughing, and received for his pains two or three of
the choicest phrases Jacob Welse could select from the essentially masculine portion of his
“And for why?” Courbertin demanded, stung to the quick.
“For why?” Jacob Welse mimicked wrathfully, pointing into the sleek stream sliding by.
A great cake had driven its nose into the bed of the river thirty feet below and was
struggling to up-end. All the frigid flood behind crinkled and bent back like so much paper.Then the stalled cake turned completely over and thrust its muddy nose skyward. But the
squeeze caught it, while cake mounted cake at its back, and its fifty feet of muck and gouge
were hurled into the air. It crashed upon the moving mass beneath, and flying fragments
landed at the feet of those that watched. Caught broadside in a chaos of pressures, it
crumbled into scattered pieces and disappeared.
“God!” The baron spoke the word reverently and with awe.
Frona caught his hand on the one side and her father’s on the other. The ice was now
leaping past in feverish haste. Somewhere below a heavy cake butted into the bank, and the
ground swayed under their feet. Another followed it, nearer the surface, and as they sprang
back, upreared mightily, and, with a ton or so of soil on its broad back, bowled insolently
onward. And yet another, reaching inshore like a huge hand, ripped three careless pines out
by the roots and bore them away.
Day had broken, and the driving white gorged the Yukon from shore to shore. What of
the pressure of pent water behind, the speed of the flood had become dizzying. Down all its
length the bank was being gashed and gouged, and the island was jarring and shaking to its
“Oh, great! Great!” Frona sprang up and down between the men. “Where is your fake,
“Ah!” He shook his head. “Ah! I was wrong. I am miserable. But the magnificence! Look!”
He pointed down to the bunch of islands which obstructed the bend. There the mile-wide
stream divided and subdivided again,—which was well for water, but not so well for packed
ice. The islands drove their wedged heads into the frozen flood and tossed the cakes high into
the air. But cake pressed upon cake and shelved out of the water, out and up, sliding and
grinding and climbing, and still more cakes from behind, till hillocks and mountains of ice
upreared and crashed among the trees.
“A likely place for a jam,” Jacob Welse said. “Get the glasses, Frona.” He gazed through
them long and steadily. “It’s growing, spreading out. A cake at the right time and the right
“But the river is falling!” Frona cried.
The ice had dropped six feet below the top of the bank, and the Baron Courbertin
marked it with a stick.
“Our man’s still there, but he doesn’t move.”
It was clear day, and the sun was breaking forth in the north-east. They took turn about
with the glasses in gazing across the river.
“Look! Is it not marvellous?” Courbertin pointed to the mark he had made. The water had
dropped another foot. “Ah! Too bad! too bad! The jam; there will be none!”
Jacob Welse regarded him gravely.
“Ah! There will be?” he asked, picking up hope.
Frona looked inquiringly at her father.
“Jams are not always nice,” he said, with a short laugh. “It all depends where they take
place and where you happen to be.”
“But the river! Look! It falls; I can see it before my eyes.”
“It is not too late.” He swept the island-studded bend and saw the ice-mountains larger
and reaching out one to the other. “Go into the tent, Courbertin, and put on the pair of
moccasins you’ll find by the stove. Go on. You won’t miss anything. And you, Frona, start the
fire and get the coffee under way.”
Half an hour after, though the river had fallen twenty feet, they found the ice still
pounding along.
“Now the fun begins. Here, take a squint, you hot-headed Gaul. The left-hand channel,
man. Now she takes it!”
Courbertin saw the left-hand channel close, and then a great white barrier heave up andtravel from island to island. The ice before them slowed down and came to rest. Then followed
the instant rise of the river. Up it came in a swift rush, as though nothing short of the sky
could stop it. As when they were first awakened, the cakes rubbed and slid inshore over the
crest of the bank, the muddy water creeping in advance and marking the way.
“Mon Dieu! But this is not nice!”
“But magnificent, baron,” Frona teased. “In the meanwhile you are getting your feet wet.”
He retreated out of the water, and in time, for a small avalanche of cakes rattled down
upon the place he had just left. The rising water had forced the ice up till it stood breast-high
above the island like a wall.
“But it will go down soon when the jam breaks. See, even now it comes up not so swift. It
has broken.”
Frona was watching the barrier. “No, it hasn’t,” she denied.
“But the water no longer rises like a race-horse.”
“Nor does it stop rising.”
He was puzzled for the nonce. Then his face brightened. “Ah! I have it! Above,
somewhere, there is another jam. Most excellent, is it not?”
She caught his excited hand in hers and detained him. “But, listen. Suppose the upper
jam breaks and the lower jam holds?”
He looked at her steadily till he grasped the full import. His face flushed, and with a quick
intake of the breath he straightened up and threw back his head. He made a sweeping
gesture as though to include the island. “Then you, and I, the tent, the boats, cabins, trees,
everything, and La Bijou! Pouf! and all are gone, to the devil!”
Frona shook her head. “It is too bad.”
“Bad? Pardon. Magnificent!”
“No, no, baron; not that. But that you are not an Anglo-Saxon. The race could well be
proud of you.”
“And you, Frona, would you not glorify the French!”
“At it again, eh? Throwing bouquets at yourselves.” Del Bishop grinned at them, and
made to depart as quickly as he had come. “But twist yourselves. Some sick men in a cabin
down here. Got to get ‘em out. You’re needed. And don’t be all day about it,” he shouted over
his shoulder as he disappeared among the trees.
The river was still rising, though more slowly, and as soon as they left the high ground
they were splashing along ankle-deep in the water. Winding in and out among the trees, they
came upon a boat which had been hauled out the previous fall. And three chechaquos, who
had managed to get into the country thus far over the ice, had piled themselves into it, also
their tent, sleds, and dogs. But the boat was perilously near the ice-gorge, which growled and
wrestled and over-topped it a bare dozen feet away.
“Come! Get out of this, you fools!” Jacob Welse shouted as he went past.
Del Bishop had told them to “get the hell out of there” when he ran by, and they could not
understand. One of them turned up an unheeding, terrified face. Another lay prone and
listless across the thwarts as though bereft of strength; while the third, with the face of a clerk,
rocked back and forth and moaned monotonously, “My God! My God!”
The baron stopped long enough to shake him. “Damn!” he cried. “Your legs, man!—not
God, but your legs! Ah! ah!—hump yourself! Yes, hump! Get a move on! Twist! Get back
from the bank! The woods, the trees, anywhere!”
He tried to drag him out, but the man struck at him savagely and held back.
“How one collects the vernacular,” he confided proudly to Frona as they hurried on.
“Twist! It is a strong word, and suitable.”
“You should travel with Del,” she laughed. “He’d increase your stock in no time.”
“You don’t say so.”
“Yes, but I do.”“Ah! Your idioms. I shall never learn.” And he shook his head despairingly with both his
They came out in a clearing, where a cabin stood close to the river. On its flat earth-roof
two sick men, swathed in blankets, were lying, while Bishop, Corliss, and Jacob Welse were
splashing about inside the cabin after the clothes-bags and general outfit. The mean depth of
the flood was a couple of feet, but the floor of the cabin had been dug out for purposes of
warmth, and there the water was to the waist.
“Keep the tobacco dry,” one of the sick men said feebly from the roof.
“Tobacco, hell!” his companion advised. “Look out for the flour. And the sugar,” he
added, as an afterthought.
“That’s ‘cause Bill he don’t smoke, miss,” the first man explained. “But keep an eye on it,
won’t you?” he pleaded.
“Here. Now shut up.” Del tossed the canister beside him, and the man clutched it as
though it were a sack of nuggets.
“Can I be of any use?” she asked, looking up at them.
“Nope. Scurvy. Nothing’ll do ‘em any good but God’s country and raw potatoes.” The
pocket-miner regarded her for a moment. “What are you doing here, anyway? Go on back to
high ground.”
But with a groan and a crash, the ice-wall bulged in. A fifty-ton cake ended over,
splashing them with muddy water, and settled down before the door. A smaller cake drove
against the out-jutting corner-logs and the cabin reeled. Courbertin and Jacob Welse were
“After you,” Frona heard the baron, and then her father’s short amused laugh; and the
gallant Frenchman came out last, squeezing his way between the cake and the logs.
“Say, Bill, if that there lower jam holds, we’re goners;” the man with the canister called to
his partner.
“Ay, that it will,” came the answer. “Below Nulato I saw Bixbie Island swept clean as my
old mother’s kitchen floor.”
The men came hastily together about Frona.
“This won’t do. We’ve got to carry them over to your shack, Corliss.” As he spoke, Jacob
Welse clambered nimbly up the cabin and gazed down at the big barrier. “Where’s
McPherson?” he asked.
“Petrified astride the ridge-pole this last hour.”
Jacob Welse waved his arm. “It’s breaking! There she goes!”
“No kitchen floor this time. Bill, with my respects to your old woman,” called he of the
“Ay,” answered the imperturbable Bill.
The whole river seemed to pick itself up and start down the stream. With the increasing
motion the ice-wall broke in a hundred places, and from up and down the shore came the
rending and crashing of uprooted trees.
Corliss and Bishop laid hold of Bill and started off to McPherson’s, and Jacob Welse and
the baron were just sliding his mate over the eaves, when a huge block of ice rammed in and
smote the cabin squarely. Frona saw it, and cried a warning, but the tiered logs were
overthrown like a house of cards. She saw Courbertin and the sick man hurled clear of the
wreckage, and her father go down with it. She sprang to the spot, but he did not rise. She
pulled at him to get his mouth above water, but at full stretch his head, barely showed. Then
she let go and felt about with her hands till she found his right arm jammed between the logs.
These she could not move, but she thrust between them one of the roof-poles which had
underlaid the dirt and moss. It was a rude handspike and hardly equal to the work, for when
she threw her weight upon the free end it bent and crackled. Heedful of the warning, she
came in a couple of feet and swung upon it tentatively and carefully till something gave andJacob Welse shoved his muddy face into the air.
He drew half a dozen great breaths, and burst out, “But that tastes good!” And then,
throwing a quick glance about him, Frona, Del Bishop is a most veracious man.”
“Why?” she asked, perplexedly.
“Because he said you’d do, you know.”
He kissed her, and they both spat the mud from their lips, laughing. Courbertin
floundered round a corner of the wreckage.
“Never was there such a man!” he cried, gleefully. “He is mad, crazy! There is no
appeasement. His skull is cracked by the fall, and his tobacco is gone. It is chiefly the tobacco
which is lamentable.”
But his skull was not cracked, for it was merely a slit of the scalp of five inches or so.
“You’ll have to wait till the others come back. I can’t carry.” Jacob Welse pointed to his
right arm, which hung dead. “Only wrenched,” he explained. “No bones broken.”
The baron struck an extravagant attitude and pointed down at Frona’s foot. “Ah! the
water, it is gone, and there, a jewel of the flood, a pearl of price!”
Her well-worn moccasins had gone rotten from the soaking, and a little white toe peeped
out at the world of slime.
“Then I am indeed wealthy, baron; for I have nine others.”
“And who shall deny? who shall deny?” he cried, fervently.
“What a ridiculous, foolish, lovable fellow it is!”
“I kiss your hand.” And he knelt gallantly in the muck.
She jerked her hand away, and, burying it with its mate in his curly mop, shook his head
back and forth. “What shall I do with him, father?”
Jacob Welse shrugged his shoulders and laughed; and she turned Courbertin’s face up
and kissed him on the lips. And Jacob Welse knew that his was the larger share in that
manifest joy.
The river, fallen to its winter level, was pounding its ice-glut steadily along. But in falling it
had rimmed the shore with a twenty-foot wall of stranded floes. The great blocks were spilled
inland among the thrown and standing trees and the slime-coated flowers and grasses like the
titanic vomit of some Northland monster. The sun was not idle, and the steaming thaw
washed the mud and foulness from the bergs till they blazed like heaped diamonds in the
brightness, or shimmered opalescent-blue. Yet they were reared hazardously one on another,
and ever and anon flashing towers and rainbow minarets crumbled thunderously into the
flood. By one of the gaps so made lay La Bijou, and about it, saving chechaquos and sick
men, were grouped the denizens of Split-up.
“Na, na, lad; twa men’ll be a plenty.” Tommy McPherson sought about him with his eyes
for corroboration. “Gin ye gat three i’ the canoe ‘twill be ower comfortable.”
“It must be a dash or nothing,” Corliss spoke up. “We need three men, Tommy, and you
know it.”
“Na, na; twa’s a plenty, I’m tellin’ ye.”
“But I’m afraid we’ll have to do with two.”
The Scotch-Canadian evinced his satisfaction openly. “Mair’d be a bother; an’ I doot not
ye’ll mak’ it all richt, lad.”
“And you’ll make one of those two, Tommy,” Corliss went on, inexorably.
“Na; there’s ithers a plenty wi’oot coontin’ me.”
“No, there’s not. Courbertin doesn’t know the first thing. St. Vincent evidently cannot
cross the slough. Mr. Welse’s arm puts him out of it. So it’s only you and I, Tommy.”
“I’ll not be inqueesitive, but yon son of Anak’s a likely mon. He maun pit oop a guid
stroke.” While the Scot did not lose much love for the truculent pocket-miner, he was well
aware of his grit, and seized the chance to save himself by shoving the other into the breach.
Del Bishop stepped into the centre of the little circle, paused, and looked every man inthe eyes before he spoke.
“Is there a man here’ll say I’m a coward?” he demanded without preface. Again he
looked each one in the eyes. “Or is there a man who’ll even hint that I ever did a curlike act?”
And yet again he searched the circle. “Well and good. I hate the water, but I’ve never been
afraid of it. I don’t know how to swim, yet I’ve been over the side more times than it’s good to
remember. I can’t pull an oar without batting my back on the bottom of the boat. As for
steering—well, authorities say there’s thirty-two points to the compass, but there’s at least
thirty more when I get started. And as sure as God made little apples, I don’t know my elbow
from my knee about a paddle. I’ve capsized damn near every canoe I ever set foot in. I’ve
gone right through the bottom of two. I’ve turned turtle in the Canyon and been pulled out
below the White Horse. I can only keep stroke with one man, and that man’s yours truly. But,
gentlemen, if the call comes, I’ll take my place in La Bijou and take her to hell if she don’t turn
over on the way.”
Baron Courbertin threw his arms about him, crying, “As sure as God made little apples,
thou art a man!”
Tommy’s face was white, and he sought refuge in speech from the silence which settled
down. “I’ll deny I lift a guid paddle, nor that my wind is fair; but gin ye gang a tithe the way the
next jam’ll be on us. For my pairt I conseeder it ay rash. Bide a wee till the river’s clear, say I.”
“It’s no go, Tommy,” Jacob Welse admonished. “You can’t cash excuses here.”
“But, mon! It doesna need discreemeenation—”
“That’ll do!” from Corliss. “You’re coming.”
“I’ll naething o’ the sort. I’ll—”
“Shut up!” Del had come into the world with lungs of leather and larynx of brass, and
when he thus jerked out the stops the Scotsman quailed and shrank down.
“Oyez! Oyez!” In contrast to Del’s siren tones, Frona’s were purest silver as they rippled
down-island through the trees. “Oyez! Oyez! Open water! Open water! And wait a minute. I’ll
be with you.”
Three miles up-stream, where the Yukon curved grandly in from the west, a bit of water
appeared. It seemed too marvellous for belief, after the granite winter; but McPherson,
untouched of imagination, began a crafty retreat.
“Bide a wee, bide a wee,” he protested, when collared by the pocket-miner. “A’ve forgot
my pipe.”
“Then you’ll bide with us, Tommy,” Del sneered. “And I’d let you have a draw of mine if
your own wasn’t sticking out of your pocket.”
“‘Twas the baccy I’d in mind.”
“Then dig into this.” He shoved his pouch into McPherson’s shaking hands. “You’d better
shed your coat. Here! I’ll help you. And private, Tommy, if you don’t act the man, I won’t do a
thing to you. Sure.”
Corliss had stripped his heavy flannel shirt for freedom; and it was plain, when Frona
joined them, that she also had been shedding. Jacket and skirt were gone, and her underskirt
of dark cloth ceased midway below the knee.
“You’ll do,” Del commended.
Jacob Welse looked at her anxiously, and went over to where she was testing the grips
of the several paddles. “You’re not—?” he began.
She nodded.
“You’re a guid girl,” McPherson broke in. “Now, a’ve a wumman to home, to say naething
o’ three bairns—”
“All ready!” Corliss lifted the bow of La Bijou and looked back.
The turbid water lashed by on the heels of the ice-run. Courbertin took the stern in the
steep descent, and Del marshalled Tommy’s reluctant rear. A flat floe, dipping into the water
at a slight incline, served as the embarking-stage.“Into the bow with you, Tommy!”
The Scotsman groaned, felt Bishop breathe heavily at his back, and obeyed; Frona
meeting his weight by slipping into the stern.
“I can steer,” she assured Corliss, who for the first time was aware that she was coming.
He glanced up to Jacob Welse, as though for consent, and received it.
“Hit ‘er up! Hit ‘er up!” Del urged impatiently. “You’re burnin’ daylight!”
Chapter 25

La Bijou was a perfect expression of all that was dainty and delicate in the boat-builder’s
soul. Light as an egg-shell, and as fragile, her three-eighths-inch skin offered no protection
from a driving chunk of ice as small as a man’s head. Nor, though the water was open, did
she find a clear way, for the river was full of scattered floes which had crumbled down from
the rim-ice. And here, at once, through skilful handling, Corliss took to himself confidence in
It was a great picture: the river rushing blackly between its crystalline walls; beyond, the
green woods stretching upward to touch the cloud-flecked summer sky; and over all, like a
furnace blast, the hot sun beating down. A great picture, but somehow Corliss’s mind turned
to his mother and her perennial tea, the soft carpets, the prim New England maid-servants,
the canaries singing in the wide windows, and he wondered if she could understand. And
when he thought of the woman behind him, and felt the dip and lift, dip and lift, of her paddle,
his mother’s women came back to him, one by one, and passed in long review,—pale,
glimmering ghosts, he thought, caricatures of the stock which had replenished the earth, and
which would continue to replenish the earth.
La Bijou skirted a pivoting floe, darted into a nipping channel, and shot out into the open
with the walls grinding together behind. Tommy groaned.
“Well done!” Corliss encouraged.
“The fule wumman!” came the backward snarl. “Why couldna she bide a bit?”
Frona caught his words and flung a laugh defiantly. Vance darted a glance over his
shoulder to her, and her smile was witchery. Her cap, perched precariously, was sliding off,
while her flying hair, aglint in the sunshine, framed her face as he had seen it framed on the
Dyea Trail.
“How I should like to sing, if it weren’t for saving one’s breath. Say the ‘Song of the
Sword,’ or the ‘Anchor Chanty.’”
“Or the ‘First Chanty,’” Corliss answered. “‘Mine was the woman, darkling I found her,’”
he hummed, significantly.
She flashed her paddle into the water on the opposite side in order to go wide of a
jagged cake, and seemed not to hear. “I could go on this way forever.”
“And I,” Corliss affirmed, warmly.
But she refused to take notice, saying, instead, “Vance, do you know
I’m glad we’re friends?”
“No fault of mine we’re not more.”
“You’re losing your stroke, sir,” she reprimanded; and he bent silently to the work.
La Bijou was driving against the current at an angle of forty-five degrees, and her
resultant course was a line at right angles to the river. Thus, she would tap the western bank
directly opposite the starting-point, where she could work up-stream in the slacker flood. But a
mile of indented shore, and then a hundred yards of bluffs rising precipitously from out a stiff
current would still lie between them and the man to be rescued.
“Now let us ease up,” Corliss advised, as they slipped into an eddy and drifted with the
back-tide under the great wall of rim-ice.
“Who would think it mid-May?” She glanced up at the carelessly poised cakes. “Does it
seem real to you, Vance?”
He shook his head.
“Nor to me. I know that I, Frona, in the flesh, am here, in a Peterborough, paddling for
dear life with two men; year of our Lord eighteen hundred and ninety-eight, Alaska, YukonRiver; this is water, that is ice; my arms are tired, my heart up a few beats, and I am
sweating,—and yet it seems all a dream. Just think! A year ago I was in Paris!” She drew a
deep breath and looked out over the water to the further shore, where Jacob Welse’s tent, like
a snowy handkerchief, sprawled against the deep green of the forest. “I do not believe there is
such a place,” she added. “There is no Paris.”
“And I was in London a twelvemonth past,” Corliss meditated. “But I have undergone a
new incarnation. London? There is no London now. It is impossible. How could there be so
many people in the world? This is the world, and we know of fact that there are very few
people in it, else there could not be so much ice and sea and sky. Tommy, here, I know,
thinks fondly of a place he calls Toronto. He mistakes. It exists only in his mind,—a memory of
a former life he knew. Of course, he does not think so. That is but natural; for he is no
philosopher, nor does he bother—”
“Wheest, will ye!” Tommy fiercely whispered. “Your gabble’ll bring it doon aboot oor
Life is brief in the Northland, and fulfilment ever clutters the heels of prophecy. A
premonitory tremor sighed down the air, and the rainbow wall swayed above them. The three
paddles gripped the water with common accord. La Bijou leaped out from under. Broadside
after broadside flared and crashed, and a thousand frigid tons thundered down behind them.
The displaced water surged outward in a foamy, upstanding circle, and La Bijou, striving wildly
to rise, ducked through the stiff overhang of the crest and wallowed, half-full, in the trough.
“Dinna I tell ye, ye gabbling fules!”
“Sit still, and bail!” Corliss checked him sharply. “Or you’ll not have the comfort of telling
us anything.”
He shook his head at Frona, and she winked back; then they both chuckled, much like
children over an escapade which looks disastrous but turns out well.
Creeping timidly under the shadow of the impending avalanches, La Bijou slipped
noiselessly up the last eddy. A corner of the bluff rose savagely from the river—a monstrous
mass of naked rock, scarred and battered of the centuries; hating the river that gnawed it
ever; hating the rain that graved its grim face with unsightly seams; hating the sun that
refused to mate with it, whereof green life might come forth and hide its hideousness. The
whole force of the river hurled in against it, waged furious war along its battlements, and
caromed off into mid-stream again. Down all its length the stiff waves stood in serried rows,
and its crevices and water-worn caverns were a-bellow with unseen strife.
“Now! Bend to it! Your best!”
It was the last order Corliss could give, for in the din they were about to enter a man’s
voice were like a cricket’s chirp amid the growling of an earthquake. La Bijou sprang forward,
cleared the eddy with a bound, and plunged into the thick. Dip and lift, dip and lift, the paddles
worked with rhythmic strength. The water rippled and tore, and pulled all ways at once; and
the fragile shell, unable to go all ways at once, shook and quivered with the shock of
resistance. It veered nervously to the right and left, but Frona held it with a hand of steel. A
yard away a fissure in the rock grinned at them. La Bijou leaped and shot ahead, and the
water, slipping away underneath, kept her always in one place. Now they surged out from the
fissure, now in; ahead for half a yard, then back again; and the fissure mocked their toil.
Five minutes, each of which sounded a separate eternity, and the fissure was past. Ten
minutes, and it was a hundred feet astern. Dip and lift, dip and lift, till sky and earth and river
were blotted out, and consciousness dwindled to a thin line,—a streak of foam, fringed on the
one hand with sneering rock, on the other with snarling water. That thin line summed up all.
Somewhere below was the beginning of things; somewhere above, beyond the roar and
traffic, was the end of things; and for that end they strove.
And still Frona held the egg-shell with a hand of steel. What they gained they held, and
fought for more, inch by inch, dip and lift; and all would have been well but for the flutter ofTommy’s soul. A cake of ice, sucked beneath by the current, rose under his paddle with a
flurry of foam, turned over its toothed edge, and was dragged back into the depths. And in
that sight he saw himself, hair streaming upward and drowned hands clutching emptiness,
going feet first, down and down. He stared, wide-eyed, at the portent, and his poised paddle
refused to strike. On the instant the fissure grinned in their faces, and the next they were
below the bluffs, drifting gently in the eddy.
Frona lay, head thrown back, sobbing at the sun; amidships Corliss sprawled panting;
and forward, choking and gasping and nerveless, the Scotsman drooped his head upon his
knees. La Bijou rubbed softly against the rim-ice and came to rest. The rainbow-wall hung
above like a fairy pile; the sun, flung backward from innumerable facets, clothed it in jewelled
splendor. Silvery streams tinkled down its crystal slopes; and in its clear depths seemed to
unfold, veil on veil, the secrets of life and death and mortal striving,—vistas of
paleshimmering azure opening like dream-visions, and promising, down there in the great cool
heart, infinite rest, infinite cessation and rest.
The topmost tower, delicately massive, a score of feet above them, swayed to and fro,
gently, like the ripple of wheat in light summer airs. But Corliss gazed at it unheeding. Just to
lie there, on the marge of the mystery, just to lie there and drink the air in great gulps, and do
nothing!—he asked no more. A dervish, whirling on heel till all things blur, may grasp the
essence of the universe and prove the Godhead indivisible; and so a man, plying a paddle,
and plying and plying, may shake off his limitations and rise above time and space. And so
But gradually his blood ceased its mad pounding, and the air was no longer
nectarsweet, and a sense of things real and pressing came back to him.
“We’ve got to get out of this,” he said. His voice sounded like a man’s whose throat has
been scorched by many and long potations. It frightened him, but he limply lifted a shaking
paddle and shoved off.
“Yes; let us start, by all means,” Frona said in a dim voice, which seemed to come to him
from a far distance.
Tommy lifted his head and gazed about. “A doot we’ll juist hae to gie it oop.”
“Bend to it!”
“Ye’ll no try it anither?”
“Bend to it!” Corliss repeated.
“Till your heart bursts, Tommy,” Frona added.
Once again they fought up the thin line, and all the world vanished, save the streak of
foam, and the snarling water, and the grinning fissure. But they passed it, inch by inch, and
the broad bend welcomed them from above, and only a rocky buttress of implacable hate,
around whose base howled the tides of an equal hate, stood between. Then La Bijou leaped
and throbbed and shook again, and the current slid out from under, and they remained ever in
one place. Dip and lift, dip and lift, through an infinity of time and torture and travail, till even
the line dimmed and faded and the struggle lost its meaning. Their souls became merged in
the rhythm of the toil. Ever lifting, ever falling, they seemed to have become great pendulums
of time. And before and behind glimmered the eternities, and between the eternities, ever
lifting, ever falling, they pulsed in vast rhythmical movement. They were no longer humans,
but rhythms. They surged in till their paddles touched the bitter rock, but they did not know;
surged out, where chance piloted them unscathed through the lashing ice, but they did not
see. Nor did they feel the shock of the smitten waves, nor the driving spray that cooled their
La Bijou veered out into the stream, and their paddles, flashing mechanically in the
sunshine, held her to the return angle across the river. As time and matter came back to
them, and Split-up Island dawned upon their eyes like the foreshore of a new world, they
settled down to the long easy stroke wherein breath and strength may be recovered.“A third attempt would have been useless,” Corliss said, in a dry, cracked whisper.
And Frona answered, “Yes; our hearts would have surely broken.”
Life, and the pleasant camp-fire, and the quiet rest in the noonday shade, came back to
Tommy as the shore drew near, and more than all, blessed Toronto, its houses that never
moved, and its jostling streets. Each time his head sank forward and he reached out and
clutched the water with his paddle, the streets enlarged, as though gazing through a telescope
and adjusting to a nearer focus. And each time the paddle drove clear and his head was
raised, the island bounded forward. His head sank, and the streets were of the size of life; it
raised, and Jacob Welse and the two men stood on the bank three lengths away.
“Dinna I tell ye!” he shouted to them, triumphantly.
But Frona jerked the canoe parallel with the bank, and he found himself gazing at the
long up-stream stretch. He arrested a stroke midway, and his paddle clattered in the bottom.
“Pick it up!” Corliss’s voice was sharp and relentless.
“I’ll do naething o’ the kind.” He turned a rebellious face on his tormentor, and ground his
teeth in anger and disappointment.
The canoe was drifting down with the current, and Frona merely held it in place. Corliss
crawled forward on his knees.
“I don’t want to hurt you, Tommy,” he said in a low, tense voice, “so... well, just pick it up,
that’s a good fellow.”
“I’ll no.”
“Then I shall kill you,” Corliss went on, in the same calm, passionless way, at the same
time drawing his hunting-knife from its sheath.
“And if I dinna?” the Scotsman queried stoutly, though cowering away.
Corliss pressed gently with the knife. The point of the steel entered Tommy’s back just
where the heart should be, passed slowly through the shirt, and bit into the skin. Nor did it
stop there; neither did it quicken, but just as slowly held on its way. He shrank back, quivering.
“There! there! man! Pit it oop!” he shrieked. “I maun gie in!”
Frona’s face was quite pale, but her eyes were hard, brilliantly hard, and she nodded
“We’re going to try this side, and shoot across from above,” she called to her father.
“What? I can’t hear. Tommy? Oh, his heart’s weak. Nothing serious.” She saluted with her
paddle. “We’ll be back in no time, father mine. In no time.”
Stewart River was wide open, and they ascended it a quarter of a mile before they shot
its mouth and continued up the Yukon. But when they were well abreast of the man on the
opposite bank a new obstacle faced them. A mile above, a wreck of an island clung
desperately to the river bed. Its tail dwindled to a sand-spit which bisected the river as far
down as the impassable bluffs. Further, a few hundred thousand tons of ice had grounded
upon the spit and upreared a glittering ridge.
“We’ll have to portage,” Corliss said, as Frona turned the canoe from the bank.
La Bijou darted across the narrower channel to the sand-spit and slipped up a little ice
ravine, where the walls were less precipitous. They landed on an out-jutting cake, which,
without support, overhung the water for sheer thirty feet. How far its other end could be buried
in the mass was matter for conjecture. They climbed to the summit, dragging the canoe after
them, and looked out over the dazzle. Floe was piled on floe in titanic confusion. Huge blocks
topped and overtopped one another, only to serve as pedestals for great white masses, which
blazed and scintillated in the sun like monstrous jewels.
“A bonny place for a bit walk,” Tommy sneered, “wi’ the next jam fair to come ony time.”
He sat down resolutely. “No, thank ye kindly, I’ll no try it.”
Frona and Corliss clambered on, the canoe between them.
“The Persians lashed their slaves into battle,” she remarked, looking back. “I never
understood before. Hadn’t you better go back after him?”Corliss kicked him up, whimpering, and forced him to go on in advance. The canoe was
an affair of little weight, but its bulk, on the steep rises and sharp turns, taxed their strength.
The sun burned down upon them. Its white glare hurt their eyes, the sweat oozed out from
every pore, and they panted for breath.
“Oh, Vance, do you know...”
“What?” He swept the perspiration from his forehead and flung it from him with a quick
flirt of the hand.
“I wish I had eaten more breakfast.”
He grunted sympathetically. They had reached the midmost ridge and could see the
open river, and beyond, quite clearly, the man and his signal of distress. Below, pastoral in its
green quiet, lay Split-up Island. They looked up to the broad bend of the Yukon, smiling lazily,
as though it were not capable at any moment of spewing forth a flood of death. At their feet
the ice sloped down into a miniature gorge, across which the sun cast a broad shadow.
“Go on, Tommy,” Frona bade. “We’re half-way over, and there’s water down there.”
“It’s water ye’d be thinkin’ on, is it?” he snarled, “and you a-leadin’ a buddie to his death!”
“I fear you have done some great sin, Tommy,” she said, with a reproving shake of the
head, “or else you would not be so afraid of death.” She sighed and picked up her end of the
canoe. “Well, I suppose it is natural. You do not know how to die—”
“No more do I want to die,” he broke in fiercely.
“But there come times for all men to die,—times when to die is the only thing to do.
Perhaps this is such a time.”
Tommy slid carefully over a glistening ledge and dropped his height to a broad foothold.
“It’s a’ vera guid,” he grinned up; “but dinna ye think a’ve suffeecient discreemeenation to
judge for mysel’? Why should I no sing my ain sang?”
“Because you do not know how. The strong have ever pitched the key for such as you. It
is they that have taught your kind when and how to die, and led you to die, and lashed you to
“Ye pit it fair,” he rejoined. “And ye do it weel. It doesna behoove me to complain, sic a
michty fine job ye’re makin’ on it.”
“You are doing well,” Corliss chuckled, as Tommy dropped out of sight and landed into
the bed of the gorge. “The cantankerous brute! he’d argue on the trail to Judgment.”
“Where did you learn to paddle?” she asked.
“College—exercise,” he answered, shortly. “But isn’t that fine? Look!”
The melting ice had formed a pool in the bottom of the gorge. Frona stretched out full
length, and dipped her hot mouth in its coolness. And lying as she did, the soles of her
dilapidated moccasins, or rather the soles of her feet (for moccasins and stockings had gone
in shreds), were turned upward. They were very white, and from contact with the ice were
bruised and cut. Here and there the blood oozed out, and from one of the toes it streamed
“So wee, and pretty, and salt-like,” Tommy gibed. “One wouldna think they could lead a
strong man to hell.”
“By the way you grumble, they’re leading you fast enough,” Corliss answered angrily.
“Forty mile an hour,” Tommy retorted, as he walked away, gloating over having the last
“One moment. You’ve two shirts. Lend me one.”
The Scotsman’s face lighted inquisitively, till he comprehended. Then he shook his head
and started on again.
Frona scrambled to her feet. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing. Sit down.”
“But what is the matter?”
Corliss put his hands on her shoulders and pressed her back. “Your feet. You can’t go onin such shape. They’re in ribbons. See!” He brushed the sole of one of them and held up a
blood-dripping palm. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Oh, they didn’t bother—much.”
“Give me one of your skirts,” he demanded.
“I...” She faltered. “I only have one.”
He looked about him. Tommy had disappeared among the ice-floes.
“We must be getting on,” Frona said, attempting to rise.
But he held her back. “Not another step till I fix you. Here goes, so shut your eyes.”
She obeyed, and when she opened them he was naked to the waist, and his undershirt,
torn in strips, was being bound about her feet.
“You were in the rear, and I did not know—”
“Don’t apologize, pray,” she interrupted. “I could have spoken.”
“I’m not; I’m reproaching you. Now, the other one. Put it up!”
The nearness to her bred a madness, and he touched his lips lightly to the same white
little toe that had won the Baron Courbertin a kiss.
Though she did not draw back, her face flushed, and she thrilled as she had thrilled once
before in her life. “You take advantage of your own goodness,” she rebuked him.
“Then I will doubly advantage myself.”
“Please don’t,” she begged.
“And why not? It is a custom of the sea to broach the spirits as the ship prepares to sink.
And since this is a sort of a forlorn hope, you know, why not?”
“But what, Miss Prim?”
“Oh! Of all things, you know I do not deserve that! If there were nobody else to be
considered, why, under the circumstances...”
He drew the last knot tight and dropped her foot. “Damn St. Vincent, anyway! Come on!”
“So would I, were I you,” she laughed, taking up her end of the canoe. “But how you
have changed, Vance. You are not the same man I met on the Dyea Trail. You hadn’t learned
to swear, then, among other things.”
“No, I’m not the same; for which I thank God and you. Only I think I am honester than
you. I always live up to my philosophy.”
“Now confess that’s unfair. You ask too much under the circumstances—”
“Only a little toe.”
“Or else, I suppose, you just care for me in a kind, big-brotherly way. In which case, if
you really wish it, you may—”
“Do keep quiet,” he broke in, roughly, “or I’ll be making a gorgeous fool of myself.”
“Kiss all my toes,” she finished.
He grunted, but did not deign a reply. The work quickly took their breath, and they went
on in silence till they descended the last steep to where McPherson waited by the open river.
“Del hates St. Vincent,” she said boldly. “Why?”
“Yes, it seems that way.” He glanced back at her curiously. “And wherever he goes, Del
lugs an old Russian book, which he can’t read but which he nevertheless regards, in some
sort of way, as St. Vincent’s Nemesis. And do you know, Frona, he has such faith in it that I
can’t help catching a little myself. I don’t know whether you’ll come to me, or whether I’ll go to
you, but—”
She dropped her end of the canoe and broke out in laughter. He was annoyed, and a
hurt spread of blood ruddied his face.
“If I have—” he began.
“Stupid!” she laughed. “Don’t be silly! And above all don’t be dignified. It doesn’t exactly
become you at the present moment,—your hair all tangled, a murderous knife in your belt,
and naked to the waist like a pirate stripped for battle. Be fierce, frown, swear, anything, butplease don’t be dignified. I do wish I had my camera. In after years I could say: ‘This, my
friends, is Corliss, the great Arctic explorer, just as he looked at the conclusion of his
worldfamous trip Through Darkest Alaska.’”
He pointed an ominous finger at her and said sternly, “Where is your skirt?”
She involuntarily looked down. But its tatterdemalion presence relieved her, and her face
jerked up scarlet.
“You should be ashamed!”
“Please, please do not be dignified,” he laughed. “Very true, it doesn’t exactly become
you at the present moment. Now, if I had my camera—”
“Do be quiet and go on,” she said. “Tommy is waiting. I hope the sun takes the skin all
off your back,” she panted vindictively, as they slid the canoe down the last shelf and dropped
it into the water.
Ten minutes later they climbed the ice-wall, and on and up the bank, which was partly a
hillside, to where the signal of distress still fluttered. Beneath it, on the ground, lay stretched
the man. He lay very quietly, and the fear that they were too late was upon them, when he
moved his head slightly and moaned. His rough clothes were in rags, and the black, bruised
flesh of his feet showed through the remnants of his moccasins. His body was thin and gaunt,
without flesh-pads or muscles, while the bones seemed ready to break through the
tightstretched skin. As Corliss felt his pulse, his eyes fluttered open and stared glassily. Frona
“Man, it’s fair gruesome,” McPherson muttered, running his hand up a shrunken arm.
“You go on to the canoe, Frona,” Corliss said. “Tommy and I will carry him down.”
But her lips set firmly. Though the descent was made easier by her aid, the man was well
shaken by the time they laid him in the bottom of the canoe,—so well shaken that some last
shreds of consciousness were aroused. He opened his eyes and whispered hoarsely, “Jacob
Welse... despatches... from the Outside.” He plucked feebly at his open shirt, and across his
emaciated chest they saw the leather strap, to which, doubtless, the despatch-pouch was
At either end of the canoe there was room to spare, but amidships Corliss was forced to
paddle with the man between his knees. La Bijou swung out blithely from the bank. It was
down-stream at last, and there was little need for exertion.
Vance’s arms and shoulders and back, a bright scarlet, caught Frona’s attention. “My
hopes are realized,” she exulted, reaching out and softly stroking a burning arm. “We shall
have to put cold cream on it when we get back.”
“Go ahead,” he encouraged. “That feels awfully good.”
She splashed his hot back with a handful of the ice-cold water from over-side. He caught
his breath with a gasp, and shivered. Tommy turned about to look at them.
“It’s a guid deed we’ll ‘a doon this day,” he remarked, pleasantly. “To gie a hand in
distress is guid i’ the sight of God.”
“Who’s afeared ?” Frona laughed.
“Weel,” he deliberated, “I was a bit fashed, no doot, but—”
His utterance ceased, and he seemed suddenly to petrify. His eyes fixed themselves in a
terrible stare over Frona’s shoulder. And then, slowly and dreamily, with the solemnity fitting
an invocation of Deity, murmured, “Guid Gawd Almichty!”
They whirled their heads about. A wall of ice was sweeping round the bend, and even as
they looked the right-hand flank, unable to compass the curve, struck the further shore and
flung up a ridge of heaving mountains.
“Guid Gawd! Guid Gawd! Like rats i’ the trap!” Tommy jabbed his paddle futilely in the
“Get the stroke!” Corliss hissed in his ear, and La Bijou sprang away.
Frona steered straight across the current, at almost right angles, for Split-up; but whenthe sandspit, over which they had portaged, crashed at the impact of a million tons, Corliss
glanced at her anxiously. She smiled and shook her head, at the same time slacking off the
“We can’t make it,” she whispered, looking back at the ice a couple of hundred feet
away. “Our only chance is to run before it and work in slowly.”
She cherished every inward inch jealously, holding the canoe up as sharply as she dared
and at the same time maintaining a constant distance ahead of the ice-rim.
“I canna stand the pace,” Tommy whimpered once; but the silence of Corliss and Frona
seemed ominous, and he kept his paddle going.
At the very fore of the ice was a floe five or six feet thick and a couple of acres in extent.
Reaching out in advance of the pack, it clove through the water till on either side there formed
a bore like that of a quick flood-tide in an inland passage. Tommy caught sight of it, and would
have collapsed had not Corliss prodded him, between strokes, with the point of his paddle.
“We can keep ahead,” Frona panted; “but we must get time to make the landing?”
“When the chance comes, drive her in, bow on,” Corliss counselled; “and when she
strikes, jump and run for it.”
“Climb, rather. I’m glad my skirt is short.”
Repulsed by the bluffs of the left bank, the ice was forced towards the right. The big floe,
in advance, drove in upon the precise point of Split-up Island.
“If you look back, I’ll brain you with the paddle,” Corliss threatened.
“Ay,” Tommy groaned.
But Corliss looked back, and so did Frona. The great berg struck the land with an
earthquake shock. For fifty feet the soft island was demolished. A score of pines swayed
frantically and went down, and where they went down rose up a mountain of ice, which rose,
and fell, and rose again. Below, and but a few feet away, Del Bishop ran out to the bank, and
above the roar they could hear faintly his “Hit ‘er up! Hit ‘er up!” Then the ice-rim wrinkled up
and he sprang back to escape it.
“The first opening,” Corliss gasped.
Frona’s lips spread apart; she tried to speak but failed, then nodded her head that she
had heard. They swung along in rapid rhythm under the rainbow-wall, looking for a place
where it might be quickly cleared. And down all the length of Split-up Island they raced vainly,
the shore crashing behind them as they fled.
As they darted across the mouth of the back-channel to Roubeau Island they found
themselves heading directly for an opening in the rim-ice. La Bijou drove into it full tilt, and
went half her length out of water on a shelving cake. The three leaped together, but while the
two of them gripped the canoe to run it up, Tommy, in the lead, strove only to save himself.
And he would have succeeded had he not slipped and fallen midway in the climb. He half
arose, slipped, and fell again. Corliss, hauling on the bow of the canoe, trampled over him. He
reached up and clutched the gunwale. They did not have the strength, and this clog brought
them at once to a standstill. Corliss looked back and yelled for him to leave go, but he only
turned upward a piteous face, like that of a drowning man, and clutched more tightly. Behind
them the ice was thundering. The first flurry of coming destruction was upon them. They
endeavored desperately to drag up the canoe, but the added burden was too much, and they
fell on their knees. The sick man sat up suddenly and laughed wildly. “Blood of my soul!” he
ejaculated, and laughed again.
Roubeau Island swayed to the first shock, and the ice was rocking under their feet.
Frona seized a paddle and smashed the Scotsman’s knuckles; and the instant he loosed his
grip, Corliss carried the canoe up in a mad rush, Frona clinging on and helping from behind.
The rainbow-wall curled up like a scroll, and in the convolutions of the scroll, like a bee in the
many folds of a magnificent orchid, Tommy disappeared.
They fell, breathless, on the earth. But a monstrous cake shoved up from the jam andbalanced above them. Frona tried to struggle to her feet, but sank on her knees; and it
remained for Corliss to snatch her and the canoe out from underneath. Again they fell, this
time under the trees, the sun sifting down upon them through the green pine needles, the
robins singing overhead, and a colony of crickets chirping in the warmth.
Chapter 26

Frona woke, slowly, as though from a long dream. She was lying where she had fallen,
across Corliss’s legs, while he, on his back, faced the hot sun without concern. She crawled
up to him. He was breathing regularly, with closed eyes, which opened to meet hers. He
smiled, and she sank down again. Then he rolled over on his side, and they looked at each
She reached out her hand; his closed upon it, and their eyelids fluttered and drooped
down. The river still rumbled en, somewhere in the infinite distance, but it came to them like
the murmur of a world forgotten. A soft languor encompassed them. The golden sunshine
dripped down upon them through the living green, and all the life of the warm earth seemed
singing. And quiet was very good. Fifteen long minutes they drowsed, and woke again.
Frona sat up. “I—I was afraid,” she said.
“Not you.”
“Afraid that I might be afraid,” she amended, fumbling with her hair.
“Leave it down. The day merits it.”
She complied, with a toss of the head which circled it with a nimbus of rippling yellow.
“Tommy’s gone,” Corliss mused, the race with the ice coming slowly back.
“Yes,” she answered. “I rapped him on the knuckles. It was terrible. But the chance is
we’ve a better man in the canoe, and we must care for him at once. Hello! Look there!”
Through the trees, not a score of feet away, she saw the wall of a large cabin. “Nobody in
sight. It must be deserted, or else they’re visiting, whoever they are. You look to our man,
Vance,—I’m more presentable,—and I’ll go and see.”
She skirted the cabin, which was a large one for the Yukon country, and came around to
where it fronted on the river. The door stood open, and, as she paused to knock, the whole
interior flashed upon her in an astounding picture,—a cumulative picture, or series of pictures,
as it were. For first she was aware of a crowd of men, and of some great common purpose
upon which all were seriously bent. At her knock they instinctively divided, so that a lane
opened up, flanked by their pressed bodies, to the far end of the room. And there, in the long
bunks on either side, sat two grave rows of men. And midway between, against the wall, was
a table. This table seemed the centre of interest. Fresh from the sun-dazzle, the light within
was dim and murky, but she managed to make out a bearded American sitting by the table
and hammering it with a heavy caulking-mallet. And on the opposite side sat St. Vincent. She
had time to note his worn and haggard face, before a man of Scandinavian appearance
slouched up to the table.
The man with the mallet raised his right hand and said glibly, “You do most solemnly
swear that what you are about to give before the court—” He abruptly stopped and glowered
at the man before him. “Take off your hat!” he roared, and a snicker went up from the crowd
as the man obeyed.
Then he of the mallet began again. “You do most solemnly swear that what you are
about to give before the court shall be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so
help you God?”
The Scandinavian nodded and dropped his hand.
“One moment, gentlemen.” Frona advanced up the lane, which closed behind her.
St. Vincent sprang to his feet and stretched out his arms to her. “Frona,” he cried, “oh,
Frona, I am innocent!”It struck her like a blow, the unexpectedness of it, and for the instant, in the sickly light,
she was conscious only of the ring of white faces, each face set with eyes that burned.
Innocent of what? she thought, and as she looked at St. Vincent, arms still extended, she was
aware, in a vague, troubled way, of something distasteful. Innocent of what? He might have
had more reserve. He might have waited till he was charged. She did not know that he was
charged with anything.
“Friend of the prisoner,” the man with the mallet said authoritatively. “Bring a stool
for’ard, some of you.”
“One moment...” She staggered against the table and rested a hand on it. “I do not
understand. This is all new...” But her eyes happened to come to rest on her feet, wrapped in
dirty rags, and she knew that she was clad in a short and tattered skirt, that her arm peeped
forth through a rent in her sleeve, and that her hair was down and flying. Her cheek and neck
on one side seemed coated with some curious substance. She brushed it with her hand, and
caked mud rattled to the floor.
“That will do,” the man said, not unkindly. “Sit down. We’re in the same box. We do not
understand. But take my word for it, we’re here to find out. So sit down.”
She raised her hand. “One moment—”
“Sit down!” he thundered. “The court cannot be disturbed.”
A hum went up from the crowd, words of dissent, and the man pounded the table for
silence. But Frona resolutely kept her feet.
When the noise had subsided, she addressed the man in the chair. “Mr. Chairman: I take
it that this is a miners’ meeting.” (The man nodded.) “Then, having an equal voice in the
managing of this community’s affairs, I demand to be heard. It is important that I should be
“But you are out of order. Miss—er—”
“Welse!” half a dozen voices prompted.
“Miss Welse,” he went on, an added respect marking his demeanor, “it grieves me to
inform you that you are out of order. You had best sit down.”
“I will not,” she answered. “I rise to a question of privilege, and if I am not heard, I shall
appeal to the meeting.”
She swept the crowd with her eyes, and cries went up that she be given a fair show. The
chairman yielded and motioned her to go on.
“Mr. Chairman and men: I do not know the business you have at present before you, but
I do know that I have more important business to place before you. Just outside this cabin is a
man probably dying from starvation. We have brought him from across the river. We should
not have bothered you, but we were unable to make our own island. This man I speak of
needs immediate attention.”
“A couple of you nearest the door go out and look after him,” the chairman ordered. “And
you, Doc Holiday, go along and see what you can do.”
“Ask for a recess,” St. Vincent whispered.
Frona nodded her head. “And, Mr. Chairman, I make a motion for a recess until the man
is cared for.”
Cries of “No recess!” and “Go on with the business!” greeted the putting of it, and the
motion was lost.
“Now, Gregory,” with a smile and salutation as she took the stool beside him, “what is it?”
He gripped her hand tightly. “Don’t believe them, Frona. They are trying to”—with a
gulping swallow—”to kill me.”
“Why? Do be calm. Tell me.”
“Why, last night,” he began hurriedly, but broke off to listen to the Scandinavian
previously sworn, who was speaking with ponderous slowness.
“I wake wide open quick,” he was saying. “I coom to the door. I there hear one shotmore.”
He was interrupted by a warm-complexioned man, clad in faded mackinaws. “What did
you think?” he asked.
“Eh?” the witness queried, his face dark and troubled with perplexity.
“When you came to the door, what was your first thought?”
“A-w-w,” the man sighed, his face clearing and infinite comprehension sounding in his
voice. “I have no moccasins. I t’ink pretty damn cold.” His satisfied expression changed to
naive surprise when an outburst of laughter greeted his statement, but he went on stolidly.
“One more shot I hear, and I run down the trail.”
Then Corliss pressed in through the crowd to Frona, and she lost what the man was
“What’s up?” the engineer was asking. “Anything serious? Can I be of any use?”
“Yes, yes.” She caught his hand gratefully. “Get over the back-channel somehow and tell
my father to come. Tell him that Gregory St. Vincent is in trouble; that he is charged with—
What are you charged with, Gregory?” she asked, turning to him.
“Murder?” from Corliss.
“Yes, yes. Say that he is charged with murder; that I am here; and that I need him. And
tell him to bring me some clothes. And, Vance,”—with a pressure of the hand and swift
upward look,—”don’t take any... any big chances, but do try to make it.”
“Oh, I’ll make it all right.” He tossed his head confidently and proceeded to elbow his way
towards the door.
“Who is helping you in your defence?” she asked St. Vincent.
He shook his head. “No. They wanted to appoint some one,—a renegade lawyer from
the States, Bill Brown,—but I declined him. He’s taken the other side, now. It’s lynch law, you
know, and their minds are made up. They’re bound to get me.”
“I wish there were time to hear your side.”
“But, Frona, I am innocent. I—”
“S-sh!” She laid her hand on his arm to hush him, and turned her attention to the
“So the noospaper feller, he fight like anything; but Pierre and me, we pull him into the
shack. He cry and stand in one place—”
“Who cried?” interrupted the prosecuting lawyer.
“Him. That feller there.” The Scandinavian pointed directly at St. Vincent. “And I make a
light. The slush-lamp I find spilt over most everything, but I have a candle in my pocket. It is
good practice to carry a candle in the pocket,” he affirmed gravely. “And Borg he lay on the
floor dead. And the squaw say he did it, and then she die, too.”
“Said who did it?”
Again his accusing finger singled out St. Vincent. “Him. That feller there.”
“Did she?” Frona whispered.
“Yes,” St. Vincent whispered back, “she did. But I cannot imagine what prompted her.
She must have been out of her head.”
The warm-faced man in the faded mackinaws then put the witness through a searching
examination, which Frona followed closely, but which elicited little new.
“You have the right to cross-examine the witness,” the chairman informed St. Vincent.
“Any questions you want to ask?”
The correspondent shook his head.
“Go on,” Frona urged.
“What’s the use?” he asked, hopelessly. “I’m fore-doomed. The verdict was reached
before the trial began.”
“One moment, please.” Frona’s sharp command arrested the retiring witness. “You donot know of your own knowledge who committed this murder?”
The Scandinavian gazed at her with a bovine expression on his leaden features, as
though waiting for her question to percolate to his understanding.
“You did not see who did it?” she asked again.
“Aw, yes. That feller there,” accusative finger to the fore. “She say he did.”
There was a general smile at this.
“But you did not see it?”
“I hear some shooting.”
“But you did not see who did the shooting?”
“Aw, no; but she said—”
“That will do, thank you,” she said sweetly, and the man retired.
The prosecution consulted its notes. “Pierre La Flitche!” was called out.
A slender, swart-skinned man, lithe of figure and graceful, stepped forward to the open
space before the table. He was darkly handsome, with a quick, eloquent eye which roved
frankly everywhere. It rested for a moment on Frona, open and honest in its admiration, and
she smiled and half-nodded, for she liked him at first glance, and it seemed as though they
had met of old time. He smiled pleasantly back, the smooth upper lip curling brightly and
showing beautiful teeth, immaculately white.
In answer to the stereotyped preliminaries he stated that his name was that of his
father’s, a descendant of the coureurs du bois. His mother—with a shrug of the shoulders and
flash of teeth—was a breed. He was born somewhere in the Barrens, on a hunting trip, he did
not know where. Ah, oui, men called him an old-timer. He had come into the country in the
days of Jack McQuestion, across the Rockies from the Great Slave.
On being told to go ahead with what he knew of the matter in hand, he deliberated a
moment, as though casting about for the best departure.
“In the spring it is good to sleep with the open door,” he began, his words sounding clear
and flute-like and marked by haunting memories of the accents his forbears put into the
tongue. “And so I sleep last night. But I sleep like the cat. The fall of the leaf, the breath of the
wind, and my ears whisper to me, whisper, whisper, all the night long. So, the first shot,” with
a quick snap of the fingers, “and I am awake, just like that, and I am at the door.”
St. Vincent leaned forward to Frona. “It was not the first shot.”
She nodded, with her eyes still bent on La Flitche, who gallantly waited.
“Then two more shot,” he went on, “quick, together, boom-boom, just like that. ‘Borg’s
shack,’ I say to myself, and run down the trail. I think Borg kill Bella, which was bad. Bella very
fine girl,” he confided with one of his irresistible smiles. “I like Bella. So I run. And John he run
from his cabin like a fat cow, with great noise. ‘What the matter?’ he say; and I say, ‘I don’t
know.’ And then something come, wheugh! out of the dark, just like that, and knock John
down, and knock me down. We grab everywhere all at once. It is a man. He is in undress. He
fight. He cry, ‘Oh! Oh! Oh!’ just like that. We hold him tight, and bime-by pretty quick, he stop.
Then we get up, and I say, ‘Come along back.’”
“Who was the man?”
La Flitche turned partly, and rested his eyes on St. Vincent.
“Go on.”
“So? The man he will not go back; but John and I say yes, and he go.”
“Did he say anything?”
“I ask him what the matter; but he cry, he... he sob, huh-tsch, huh-tsch, just like that.”
“Did you see anything peculiar about him?”
La Flitche’s brows drew up interrogatively.
“Anything uncommon, out of the ordinary?”
“Ah, oui; blood on the hands.” Disregarding the murmur in the room, he went on, his
facile play of feature and gesture giving dramatic value to the recital. “John make a light, andBella groan, like the hair-seal when you shoot him in the body, just like that when you shoot
him in the body under the flipper. And Borg lay over in the corner. I look. He no breathe ‘tall.
“Then Bella open her eyes, and I look in her eyes, and I know she know me, La Flitche.
‘Who did it, Bella?’ I ask. And she roll her head on the floor and whisper, so low, so slow, ‘Him
dead?’ I know she mean Borg, and I say yes. Then she lift up on one elbow, and look about
quick, in big hurry, and when she see Vincent she look no more, only she look at Vincent all
the time. Then she point at him, just like that.” Suiting the action to the word, La Flitche turned
and thrust a wavering finger at the prisoner. “And she say, ‘Him, him, him.’ And I say, ‘Bella,
who did it?’ And she say, ‘Him, him, him. St. Vincha, him do it.’ And then”—La Flitche’s head
felt limply forward on his chest, and came back naturally erect, as he finished, with a flash of
teeth, “Dead.”
The warm-faced man, Bill Brown, put the quarter-breed through the customary direct
examination, which served to strengthen his testimony and to bring out the fact that a terrible
struggle must have taken place in the killing of Borg. The heavy table was smashed, the stool
and the bunk-board splintered, and the stove over-thrown. “Never did I see anything like it,”
La Flitche concluded his description of the wreck. “No, never.”
Brown turned him over to Frona with a bow, which a smile of hers paid for in full. She did
not deem it unwise to cultivate cordiality with the lawyer. What she was working for was time
—time for her father to come, time to be closeted with St. Vincent and learn all the details of
what really had occurred. So she put questions, questions, interminable questions, to La
Flitche. Twice only did anything of moment crop up.
“You spoke of the first shot, Mr. La Flitche. Now, the walls of a log cabin are quite thick.
Had your door been closed, do you think you could have heard that first shot?”
He shook his head, though his dark eyes told her he divined the point she was
endeavoring to establish.
“And had the door of Borg’s cabin been closed, would you have heard?”
Again he shook his head.
“Then, Mr. La Flitche, when you say the first shot, you do not mean necessarily the first
shot fired, but rather the first shot you heard fired?”
He nodded, and though she had scored her point she could not see that it had any
material bearing after all.
Again she worked up craftily to another and stronger climax, though she felt all the time
that La Flitche fathomed her.
“You say it was very dark, Mr. La Flitche?”
“Ah, oui; quite dark.”
“How dark? How did you know it was John you met?”
“John make much noise when he run. I know that kind of noise.”
“Could you see him so as to know that it was he?”
“Ah, no.”
“Then, Mr. La Flitche,” she demanded, triumphantly, “will you please state how you knew
there was blood on the hands of Mr. St. Vincent?”
His lip lifted in a dazzling smile, and he paused a moment. “How? I feel it warm on his
hands. And my nose—ah, the smoke of the hunter camp long way off, the hole where the
rabbit hide, the track of the moose which has gone before, does not my nose tell me?” He
flung his head back, and with tense face, eyes closed, nostrils quivering and dilated, he
simulated the quiescence of all the senses save one and the concentration of his whole being
upon that one. Then his eyes fluttered partly open and he regarded her dreamily. “I smell the
blood on his hands, the warm blood, the hot blood on his hands.”
“And by gad he can do it!” some man exclaimed.
And so convinced was Frona that she glanced involuntarily at St. Vincent’s hands, and
saw there the rusty-brown stains on the cuffs of his flannel shirt.As La Flitche left the stand, Bill Brown came over to her and shook hands. “No more
than proper I should know the lawyer for the defence,” he said, good-naturedly, running over
his notes for the next witness.
“But don’t you think it is rather unfair to me?” she asked, brightly. “I have not had time to
prepare my case. I know nothing about it except what I have gleaned from your two
witnesses. Don’t you think, Mr. Brown,” her voice rippling along in persuasive little notes,
“don’t you think it would be advisable to adjourn the meeting until to-morrow?”
“Hum,” he deliberated, looking at his watch.
“Wouldn’t be a bad idea. It’s five o’clock, anyway, and the men ought to be cooking their
She thanked him, as some women can, without speech; yet, as he looked down into her
face and eyes, he experienced a subtler and greater satisfaction than if she had spoken.
He stepped to his old position and addressed the room. “On consultation of the defence
and the prosecution, and upon consideration of the lateness of the hour and the impossibility
of finishing the trial within a reasonable limit, I—hum—I take the liberty of moving an
adjournment until eight o’clock to-morrow morning.”
“The ayes have it,” the chairman proclaimed, coming down from his place and
proceeding to build the fire, for he was a part-owner of the cabin and cook for his crowd.
Chapter 27

Frona turned to St. Vincent as the last of the crowd filed out. He clutched her hands
spasmodically, like a drowning man.
“Do believe me, Frona. Promise me.”
Her face flushed. “You are excited,” she said, “or you would not say such things. Not that
I blame you,” she relented. “I hardly imagine the situation can be anything else but exciting.”
“Yes, and well I know it,” he answered, bitterly. “I am acting like a fool, and I can’t help it.
The strain has been terrible. And as though the horror of Borg’s end were not enough, to be
considered the murderer, and haled up for mob justice! Forgive me, Frona. I am beside
myself. Of course, I know that you will believe me.”
“Then tell me, Gregory.”
“In the first place, the woman, Bella, lied. She must have been crazed to make that dying
statement when I fought as I did for her and Borg. That is the only explanation—”
“Begin at the beginning,” she interrupted. “Remember, I know nothing.”
He settled himself more comfortably on the stool, and rolled a cigarette as he took up the
history of the previous night.
“It must have been about one in the morning when I was awakened by the lighting of the
slush-lamp. I thought it was Borg; wondered what he was prowling about for, and was on the
verge of dropping off to sleep, when, though I do not know what prompted me, I opened my
eyes. Two strange men were in the cabin. Both wore masks and fur caps with the flaps pulled
down, so that I could see nothing of their faces save the glistening of the eyes through the
“I had no first thought, unless it was that danger threatened. I lay quietly for a second
and deliberated. Borg had borrowed my pistol, and I was actually unarmed. My rifle was by
the door. I decided to make a rush for it. But no sooner had I struck the floor than one of the
men turned on me, at the same time firing his revolver. That was the first shot, and the one
La Flitche did not hear. It was in the struggle afterwards that the door was burst open, which
enabled him to hear the last three.
“Well; I was so close to the man, and my leap out of the bunk was so unexpected, that
he missed me. The next moment we grappled and rolled on the floor. Of course, Borg was
aroused, and the second man turned his attention to him and Bella. It was this second man
who did the killing, for my man, naturally, had his hands full. You heard the testimony. From
the way the cabin was wrecked, you can picture the struggle. We rolled and tossed about and
fought till stools, table, shelves—everything was smashed.
“Oh, Frona, it was terrible! Borg fighting for life, Bella helping him, though wounded and
groaning, and I unable to aid. But finally, in a very short while, I began to conquer the man
with whom I was struggling. I had got him down on his back, pinioned his arms with my knees,
and was slowly throttling him, when the other man finished his work and turned on me also.
What could I do? Two to one, and winded! So I was thrown into the corner, and they made
their escape. I confess that I must have been badly rattled by that time, for as soon as I
caught my breath I took out after them, and without a weapon. Then I collided with La Flitche
and John, and—and you know the rest. Only,” he knit his brows in puzzlement, “only, I cannot
understand why Bella should accuse me.”
He looked at her appealingly, and, though she pressed his hand sympathetically, she
remained silent, weighing pro and con what she had heard.
She shook her head slowly. “It’s a bad case, and the thing is to convince them—”
“But, my God, Frona, I am innocent! I have not been a saint, perhaps, but my hands areclean from blood.”
“But remember, Gregory,” she said, gently, “I am not to judge you. Unhappily, it rests
with the men of this miners’ meeting, and the problem is: how are they to be convinced of
your innocence? The two main points are against you,—Bella’s dying words and the blood on
your sleeve.”
“The place was areek with blood,” St. Vincent cried passionately, springing to his feet. “I
tell you it was areek! How could I avoid floundering in it, fighting as I was for life? Can you not
take my word—”
“There, there, Gregory. Sit down. You are truly beside yourself. If your case rested with
me, you know you would go free and clean. But these men,—you know what mob rule is,—
how are we to persuade them to let you go? Don’t you see? You have no witnesses. A dying
woman’s words are more sacred than a living man’s. Can you show cause for the woman to
die with a lie on her lips? Had she any reason to hate you? Had you done her or her husband
an injury?”
He shook his head.
“Certainly, to us the thing is inexplicable; but the miners need no explanation. To them it
is obvious. It rests with us to disprove the obvious. Can we do it?”
The correspondent sank down despondently, with a collapsing of the chest and a
drooping forward of the shoulders. “Then am I indeed lost.”
“No, it’s not so bad as that. You shall not be hanged. Trust me for that.”
“But what can you do?” he asked, despairingly. “They have usurped the law, have made
themselves the law.”
“In the first place, the river has broken. That means everything. The Governor and the
territorial judges may be expected in at any moment with a detachment of police at their
backs. And they’re certain to stop here. And, furthermore, we may be able to do something
ourselves. The river is open, and if it comes to the worst, escape would be another way out;
and escape is the last thing they would dream of.”
“No, no; impossible. What are you and I against the many?”
“But there’s my father and Baron Courbertin. Four determined people, acting together,
may perform miracles, Gregory, dear. Trust me, it shall come out well.”
She kissed him and ran her hand through his hair, but the worried look did not depart.
Jacob Welse crossed over the back-channel long before dark, and with him came Del,
the baron, and Corliss. While Frona retired to change her clothes in one of the smaller cabins,
which the masculine owners readily turned over to her, her father saw to the welfare of the
mail-carrier. The despatches were of serious import, so serious that long after Jacob Welse
had read and re-read them his face was dark and clouded; but he put the anxiety from him
when he returned to Frona. St. Vincent, who was confined in an adjoining cabin, was
permitted to see them.
“It looks bad,” Jacob Welse said, on parting for the night. “But rest assured, St. Vincent,
bad or not, you’ll not be stretched up so long as I’ve a hand to play in the rumpus. I am
certain you did not kill Borg, and there’s my fist on it.”
“A long day,” Corliss remarked, as he walked back with Frona to her cabin.
“And a longer to-morrow,” she answered, wearily. “And I’m so sleepy.”
“You’re a brave little woman, and I’m proud of you.” It was ten o’clock, and he looked out
through the dim twilight to the ghostly ice drifting steadily by. “And in this trouble,” he went on,
“depend upon me in any way.”
“In any way?” she queried, with a catch in her voice.
“If I were a hero of the melodrama I’d say; ‘To the death!’ but as I’m not; I’ll just repeat,
in any way.”
“You are good to me, Vance. I can never repay—”
“Tut! tut! I do not put myself on sale. Love is service, I believe.”She looked at him for a long time, but while her face betrayed soft wonder, at heart she
was troubled, she knew not why, and the events of the day, and of all the days since she had
known him, came fluttering through her mind.
“Do you believe in a white friendship?” she asked at last. “For I do hope that such a bond
may hold us always. A bright, white friendship, a comradeship, as it were?” And as she asked,
she was aware that the phrase did not quite express what she felt and would desire. And
when he shook his head, she experienced a glad little inexplicable thrill.
“A comradeship?” he questioned. “When you know I love you?”
“Yes,” she affirmed in a low voice.
“I am afraid, after all, that your knowledge of man is very limited. Believe me, we are not
made of such clay. A comradeship? A coming in out of the cold to sit by your fire? Good. But
a coming in when another man sits with you by your fire? No. Comradeship would demand
that I delight in your delights, and yet, do you think for a moment that I could see you with
another man’s child in your arms, a child which might have been mine; with that other man
looking out at me through the child’s eyes, laughing at me through its mouth? I say, do you
think I could delight in your delights? No, no; love cannot shackle itself with white friendships.”
She put her hand on his arm.
“Do you think I am wrong?” he asked, bewildered by the strange look in her face.
She was sobbing quietly.
“You are tired and overwrought. So there, good-night. You must get to bed.”
“No, don’t go, not yet.” And she arrested him. “No, no; I am foolish. As you say, I am
tired. But listen, Vance. There is much to be done. We must plan to-morrow’s work. Come
inside. Father and Baron Courbertin are together, and if the worst comes, we four must do big
“Spectacular,” Jacob Welse commented, when Frona had briefly outlined the course of
action and assigned them their parts. “But its very unexpectedness ought to carry it through.”
“ A coup d’etat!” was the Baron’s verdict. “Magnificent! Ah! I feel warm all over at the
thought. ‘Hands up!’ I cry, thus, and very fierce.
“And if they do not hold up their hands?” he appealed to Jacob Welse.
“Then shoot. Never bluff when you’re behind a gun, Courbertin. It’s held by good
authorities to be unhealthy.”
“And you are to take charge of La Bijou, Vance,” Frona said. “Father thinks there will be
little ice to-morrow if it doesn’t jam to-night. All you’ve to do is to have the canoe by the bank
just before the door. Of course, you won’t know what is happening until St. Vincent comes
running. Then in with him, and away you go—Dawson! So I’ll say good-night and good-by
now, for I may not have the opportunity in the morning.”
“And keep the left-hand channel till you’re past the bend,” Jacob Welse counselled him;
“then take the cut-offs to the right and follow the swiftest water. Now off with you and into your
blankets. It’s seventy miles to Dawson, and you’ll have to make it at one clip.”
Chapter 28

Jacob Welse was given due respect when he arose at the convening of the miners’
meeting and denounced the proceedings. While such meetings had performed a legitimate
function in the past, he contended, when there was no law in the land, that time was now
beyond recall; for law was now established, and it was just law. The Queen’s government had
shown itself fit to cope with the situation, and for them to usurp its powers was to step
backward into the night out of which they had come. Further, no lighter word than “criminal”
could characterize such conduct. And yet further, he promised them, in set, sober terms, if
anything serious were the outcome, to take an active part in the prosecution of every one of
them. At the conclusion of his speech he made a motion to hold the prisoner for the territorial
court and to adjourn, but was voted down without discussion.
“Don’t you see,” St. Vincent said to Frona, “there is no hope?”
“But there is. Listen!” And she swiftly outlined the plot of the night before.
He followed her in a half-hearted way, too crushed to partake of her enthusiasm. “It’s
madness to attempt it,” he objected, when she had done.
“And it looks very much like hanging not to attempt it,” she answered a little spiritedly.
“Surely you will make a fight?”
“Surely,” he replied, hollowly.
The first witnesses were two Swedes, who told of the wash-tub incident, when Borg had
given way to one of his fits of anger. Trivial as the incident was, in the light of subsequent
events it at once became serious. It opened the way for the imagination into a vast familiar
field. It was not so much what was said as what was left unsaid. Men born of women, the
rudest of them, knew life well enough to be aware of its significance,—a vulgar common
happening, capable of but one interpretation. Heads were wagged knowingly in the course of
the testimony, and whispered comments went the rounds.
Half a dozen witnesses followed in rapid succession, all of whom had closely examined
the scene of the crime and gone over the island carefully, and all of whom were agreed that
there was not the slightest trace to be found of the two men mentioned by the prisoner in his
preliminary statement.
To Frona’s surprise, Del Bishop went upon the stand. She knew he disliked St. Vincent,
but could not imagine any evidence he could possess which would bear upon the case.
Being sworn, and age and nationality ascertained, Bill Brown asked him his business.
“Pocket-miner,” he challenged back, sweeping the assemblage with an aggressive
Now, it happens that a very small class of men follow pocketing, and that a very large
class of men, miners, too, disbelieve utterly in any such method or obtaining gold.
“Pocket-miner!” sneered a red-shirted, patriarchal-looking man, a man who had washed
his first pan in the Californian diggings in the early fifties.
“Yep,” Del affirmed.
“Now, look here, young feller,” his interlocutor continued, “d’ye mean to tell me you ever
struck it in such-fangled way?”
“Don’t believe it,” with a contemptuous shrug.
Del swallowed fast and raised his head with a jerk. “Mr. Chairman, I rise to make a
statement. I won’t interfere with the dignity of the court, but I just wish to simply and distinctly
state that after the meeting’s over I’m going to punch the head of every man that gets gay.
Understand?”“You’re out of order,” the chairman replied, rapping the table with the caulking-mallet.
“And your head, too,” Del cried, turning upon him. “Damn poor order you preserve.
Pocketing’s got nothing to do with this here trial, and why don’t you shut such fool questions
out? I’ll take care of you afterwards, you potwolloper!”
“You will, will you?” The chairman grew red in the face, dropped the mallet, and sprang to
his feet.
Del stepped forward to meet him, but Bill Brown sprang in between and held them apart.
“Order, gentlemen, order,” he begged. “This is no time for unseemly exhibitions. And
remember there are ladies present.”
The two men grunted and subsided, and Bill Brown asked, “Mr. Bishop, we understand
that you are well acquainted with the prisoner. Will you please tell the court what you know of
his general character?”
Del broadened into a smile. “Well, in the first place, he’s an extremely quarrelsome
“Hold! I won’t have it!” The prisoner was on his feet, trembling with anger. “You shall not
swear my life away in such fashion! To bring a madman, whom I have only met once in my
life, to testify as to my character!”
The pocket-miner turned to him. “So you don’t know me, eh, Gregory St. Vincent?”
“No,” St. Vincent replied, coldly, “I do not know you, my man.”
“Don’t you man me!” Del shouted, hotly.
But St. Vincent ignored him, turning to the crowd.
“I never saw the fellow but once before, and then for a few brief moments in Dawson.”
“You’ll remember before I’m done,” Del sneered; “so hold your hush and let me say my
little say. I come into the country with him way back in ‘84.”
St. Vincent regarded him with sudden interest.
“Yep, Mr. Gregory St. Vincent. I see you begin to recollect. I sported whiskers and my
name was Brown, Joe Brown, in them days.”
He grinned vindictively, and the correspondent seemed to lose all interest.
“Is it true, Gregory?” Frona whispered.
“I begin to recognize,” he muttered, slowly. “I don’t know... no, folly! The man must have
“You say in ‘84, Mr. Bishop?” Bill Brown prompted.
“Yep, in ‘84. He was a newspaper-man, bound round the world by way of Alaska and
Siberia. I’d run away from a whaler at Sitka,—that squares it with Brown,—and I engaged with
him for forty a month and found. Well, he quarrelled with me—”
A snicker, beginning from nowhere in particular, but passing on from man to man and
swelling in volume, greeted this statement. Even Frona and Del himself were forced to smile,
and the only sober face was the prisoner’s.
“But he quarrelled with Old Andy at Dyea, and with Chief George of the Chilcoots, and
the Factor at Pelly, and so on down the line. He got us into no end of trouble, and ‘specially
woman-trouble. He was always monkeying around—”
“Mr. Chairman, I object.” Frona stood up, her face quite calm and blood under control.
“There is no necessity for bringing in the amours of Mr. St. Vincent. They have no bearing
whatsoever upon the case; and, further, none of the men of this meeting are clean enough to
be prompted by the right motive in conducting such an inquiry. So I demand that the
prosecution at least confine itself to relevant testimony.”
Bill Brown came up smugly complacent and smiling. “Mr. Chairman, we willingly accede
to the request made by the defence. Whatever we have brought out has been relevant and
material. Whatever we intend to bring out shall be relevant and material. Mr. Bishop is our star
witness, and his testimony is to the point. It must be taken into consideration that we nave no
direct evidence as to the murder of John Borg. We can bring no eye-witnesses into court.Whatever we have is circumstantial. It is incumbent upon us to show cause. To show cause it
is necessary to go into the character of the accused. This we intend to do. We intend to show
his adulterous and lustful nature, which has culminated in a dastardly deed and jeopardized
his neck. We intend to show that the truth is not in him; that he is a liar beyond price; that no
word he may speak upon the stand need be accepted by a jury of his peers. We intend to
show all this, and to weave it together, thread by thread, till we have a rope long enough and
strong enough to hang him with before the day is done. So I respectfully submit, Mr.
Chairman, that the witness be allowed to proceed.”
The chairman decided against Frona, and her appeal to the meeting was voted down. Bill
Brown nodded to Del to resume.
“As I was saying, he got us into no end of trouble. Now, I’ve been mixed up with water all
my life,—never can get away from it, it seems,—and the more I’m mixed the less I know
about it. St. Vincent knew this, too, and him a clever hand at the paddle; yet he left me to run
the Box Canyon alone while he walked around. Result: I was turned over, lost half the outfit
and all the tobacco, and then he put the blame on me besides. Right after that he got tangled
up with the Lake Le Barge Sticks, and both of us came near croaking.”
“And why was that?” Bill Brown interjected.
“All along of a pretty squaw that looked too kindly at him. After we got clear, I lectured
him on women in general and squaws in particular, and he promised to behave. Then we had
a hot time with the Little Salmons. He was cuter this time, and I didn’t know for keeps, but I
guessed. He said it was the medicine man who got horstile; but nothing’ll stir up a medicine
man quicker’n women, and the facts pointed that way. When I talked it over with him in a
fatherly way he got wrathy, and I had to take him out on the bank and give him a threshing.
Then he got sulky, and didn’t brighten up till we ran into the mouth of the Reindeer River,
where a camp of Siwashes were fishing salmon. But he had it in for me all the time, only I
didn’t know it,—was ready any time to give me the double cross.
“Now, there’s no denying he’s got a taking way with women. All he has to do is to whistle
‘em up like dogs. Most remarkable faculty, that. There was the wickedest, prettiest squaw
among the Reindeers. Never saw her beat, excepting Bella. Well, I guess he whistled her up,
for he delayed in the camp longer than was necessary. Being partial to women—”
“That will do, Mr. Bishop,” interrupted the chairman, who, from profitless watching of
Frona’s immobile face, had turned to her hand, the nervous twitching and clinching of which
revealed what her face had hidden. “That will do, Mr. Bishop. I think we have had enough of
“Pray do not temper the testimony,” Frona chirruped, sweetly. “It seems very important.”
“Do you know what I am going to say next?” Del demanded hotly of the chairman. “You
don’t, eh? Then shut up. I’m running this particular sideshow.”
Bill Brown sprang in to avert hostilities, but the chairman restrained himself, and Bishop
went on.
“I’d been done with the whole shooting-match, squaws and all, if you hadn’t broke me off.
Well, as I said, he had it in for me, and the first thing I didn’t know, he’d hit me on the head
with a rifle-stock, bundled the squaw into the canoe, and pulled out. You all know what the
Yukon country was in ‘84. And there I was, without an outfit, left alone, a thousand miles from
anywhere. I got out all right, though there’s no need of telling how, and so did he. You’ve all
heard of his adventures in Siberia. Well,” with an impressive pause, “I happen to know a thing
or two myself.”
He shoved a hand into the big pocket of his mackinaw jacket and pulled out a dingy
leather-bound volume of venerable appearance.
“I got this from Pete Whipple’s old woman,—Whipple of Eldorado. It concerns her
granduncle or great-grand-uncle, I don’t know which; and if there’s anybody here can read Russian,
why, it’ll go into the details of that Siberian trip. But as there’s no one here that can—”“Courbertin! He can read it!” some one called in the crowd.
A way was made for the Frenchman forthwith, and he was pushed and shoved,
protestingly, to the front.
“Savve the lingo?” Del demanded.
“Yes; but so poorly, so miserable,” Courbertin demurred. “It is a long time. I forget.”
“Go ahead. We won’t criticise.”
“No, but—”
“Go ahead!” the chairman commanded.
Del thrust the book into his hands, opened at the yellow title-page. “I’ve been itching to
get my paws on some buck like you for months and months,” he assured him, gleefully. “And
now I’ve got you, you can’t shake me, Charley. So fire away.”
Courbertin began hesitatingly: “‘The Journal of Father Yakontsk, Comprising an Account
in Brief of his Life in the Benedictine Monastery at Obidorsky, and in Full of his Marvellous
Adventures in East Siberia among the Deer Men.’”
The baron looked up for instructions.
“Tell us when it was printed,” Del ordered him.
“In Warsaw, 1807.”
The pocket-miner turned triumphantly to the room. “Did you hear that? Just keep track of
it. 1807, remember!”
The baron took up the opening paragraph. “‘It was because of Tamerlane,’” he
commenced, unconsciously putting his translation into a construction with which he was
already familiar.
At his first words Frona turned white, and she remained white throughout the reading.
Once she stole a glance at her father, and was glad that he was looking straight before him,
for she did not feel able to meet his gaze just them. On the other hand, though she knew St.
Vincent was eying her narrowly, she took no notice of him, and all he could see was a white
face devoid of expression.
“‘When Tamerlane swept with fire and sword over Eastern Asia,’” Courbertin read slowly,
“‘states were disrupted, cities overthrown, and tribes scattered like—like star-dust. A vast
people was hurled broadcast over the land. Fleeing before the conquerors,’—no, no,—’before
the mad lust of the conquerors, these refugees swung far into Siberia, circling, circling to the
north and east and fringing the rim of the polar basin with a spray of Mongol tribes.’”
“Skip a few pages,” Bill Brown advised, “and read here and there. We haven’t got all
Courbertin complied. “‘The coast people are Eskimo stock, merry of nature and not
offensive. They call themselves the Oukilion, or the Sea Men. From them I bought dogs and
food. But they are subject to the Chow Chuen, who live in the interior and are known as the
Deer Men. The Chow Chuen are a fierce and savage race. When I left the coast they fell upon
me, took from me my goods, and made me a slave.’” He ran over a few pages. “‘I worked my
way to a seat among the head men, but I was no nearer my freedom. My wisdom was of too
great value to them for me to depart... Old Pi-Une was a great chief, and it was decreed that I
should marry his daughter Ilswunga. Ilswunga was a filthy creature. She would not bathe, and
her ways were not good... I did marry Ilswunga, but she was a wife to me only in name. Then
did she complain to her father, the old Pi-Une, and he was very wroth. And dissension was
sown among the tribes; but in the end I became mightier than ever, what of my cunning and
resource; and Ilswunga made no more complaint, for I taught her games with cards which she
might play by herself, and other things.’”
“Is that enough?” Courbertin asked.
“Yes, that will do,” Bill Brown answered. “But one moment. Please state again the date of
“1807, in Warsaw.”“Hold on, baron,” Del Bishop spoke up. “Now that you’re on the stand, I’ve got a question
or so to slap into you.” He turned to the court-room. “Gentlemen, you’ve all heard somewhat
of the prisoner’s experiences in Siberia. You’ve caught on to the remarkable sameness
between them and those published by Father Yakontsk nearly a hundred years ago. And you
have concluded that there’s been some wholesale cribbing somewhere. I propose to show you
that it’s more than cribbing. The prisoner gave me the shake on the Reindeer River in ‘88. Fall
of ‘88 he was at St. Michael’s on his way to Siberia. ‘89 and ‘90 he was, by his talk, cutting up
antics in Siberia. ‘91 he come back to the world, working the conquering-hero graft in ‘Frisco.
Now let’s see if the Frenchman can make us wise.
“You were in Japan?” he asked.
Courbertin, who had followed the dates, made a quick calculation, and could but illy
conceal his surprise. He looked appealingly to Frona, but she did not help him. “Yes,” he said,
“And you met the prisoner there?”
“What year was it?”
There was a general craning forward to catch the answer.
“1889,” and it came unwillingly.
“Now, how can that be, baron?” Del asked in a wheedling tone. “The prisoner was in
Siberia at that time.”
Courbertin shrugged his shoulders that it was no concern of his, and came off the stand.
An impromptu recess was taken by the court-room for several minutes, wherein there was
much whispering and shaking of heads.
“It is all a lie.” St. Vincent leaned close to Frona’s ear, but she did not hear.
“Appearances are against me, but I can explain it all.”
But she did not move a muscle, and he was called to the stand by the chairman. She
turned to her father, and the tears rushed up into her eyes when he rested his hand on hers.
“Do you care to pull out?” he asked after a momentary hesitation.
She shook her head, and St. Vincent began to speak. It was the same story he had told
her, though told now a little more fully, and in nowise did it conflict with the evidence of La
Flitche and John. He acknowledged the wash-tub incident, caused, he explained, by an act of
simple courtesy on his part and by John Borg’s unreasoning anger. He acknowledged that
Bella had been killed by his own pistol, but stated that the pistol had been borrowed by Borg
several days previously and not returned. Concerning Bella’s accusation he could say nothing.
He could not see why she should die with a lie on her lips. He had never in the slightest way
incurred her displeasure, so even revenge could not be advanced. It was inexplicable. As for
the testimony of Bishop, he did not care to discuss it. It was a tissue of falsehood cunningly
interwoven with truth. It was true the man had gone into Alaska with him in 1888, but his
version of the things which happened there was maliciously untrue. Regarding the baron,
there was a slight mistake in the dates, that was all.
In questioning him. Bill Brown brought out one little surprise. From the prisoner’s story,
he had made a hard fight against the two mysterious men. “If,” Brown asked, “such were the
case, how can you explain away the fact that you came out of the struggle unmarked? On
examination of the body of John Borg, many bruises and contusions were noticeable. How is
it, if you put up such a stiff fight, that you escaped being battered?”
St. Vincent did not know, though he confessed to feeling stiff and sore all over. And it did
not matter, anyway. He had killed neither Borg nor his wife, that much he did know.
Frona prefaced her argument to the meeting with a pithy discourse on the sacredness of
human life, the weaknesses and dangers of circumstantial evidence, and the rights of the
accused wherever doubt arose. Then she plunged into the evidence, stripping off the
superfluous and striving to confine herself to facts. In the first place, she denied that a motivefor the deed had been shown. As it was, the introduction of such evidence was an insult to
their intelligence, and she had sufficient faith in their manhood and perspicacity to know that
such puerility would not sway them in the verdict they were to give.
And, on the other hand, in dealing with the particular points at issue, she denied that any
intimacy had been shown to have existed between Bella and St. Vincent; and she denied,
further, that it had been shown that any intimacy had been attempted on the part of St.
Vincent. Viewed honestly, the wash-tub incident—the only evidence brought forward—was a
laughable little affair, portraying how the simple courtesy of a gentleman might be
misunderstood by a mad boor of a husband. She left it to their common sense; they were not
They had striven to prove the prisoner bad-tempered. She did not need to prove
anything of the sort concerning John Borg. They all knew his terrible fits of anger; they all
knew that his temper was proverbial in the community; that it had prevented him having
friends and had made him many enemies. Was it not very probable, therefore, that the
masked men were two such enemies? As to what particular motive actuated these two men,
she could not say; but it rested with them, the judges, to know whether in all Alaska there
were or were not two men whom John Borg could have given cause sufficient for them to take
his life.
Witness had testified that no traces had been found of these two men; but the witness
had not testified that no traces had been found of St. Vincent, Pierre La Flitche, or John the
Swede. And there was no need for them so to testify. Everybody knew that no foot-marks
were left when St. Vincent ran up the trail, and when he came back with La Flitche and the
other man. Everybody knew the condition of the trail, that it was a hard-packed groove in the
ground, on which a soft moccasin could leave no impression; and that had the ice not gone
down the river, no traces would have been left by the murderers in passing from and to the
At this juncture La Flitche nodded his head in approbation, and she went on.
Capital had been made out of the blood on St. Vincent’s hands. If they chose to examine
the moccasins at that moment on the feet of Mr. La Flitche, they would also find blood. That
did not argue that Mr. La Flitche had been a party to the shedding of the blood.
Mr. Brown had drawn attention to the fact that the prisoner had not been bruised or
marked in the savage encounter which had taken place. She thanked him for having done so.
John Borg’s body showed that it had been roughly used. He was a larger, stronger, heavier
man than St. Vincent. If, as charged, St. Vincent had committed the murder, and necessarily,
therefore, engaged in a struggle severe enough to bruise John Borg, how was it that he had
come out unharmed? That was a point worthy of consideration.
Another one was, why did he run down the trail? It was inconceivable, if he had
committed the murder, that he should, without dressing or preparation for escape, run
towards the other cabins. It was, however, easily conceivable that he should take up the
pursuit of the real murderers, and in the darkness—exhausted, breathless, and certainly
somewhat excited—run blindly down the trail.
Her summing up was a strong piece of synthesis; and when she had done, the meeting
applauded her roundly. But she was angry and hurt, for she knew the demonstration was for
her sex rather than for her cause and the work she had done.
Bill Brown, somewhat of a shyster, and his ear ever cocked to the crowd, was not above
taking advantage when opportunity offered, and when it did not offer, to dogmatize artfully. In
this his native humor was a strong factor, and when he had finished with the mysterious
masked men they were as exploded sun-myths,—which phrase he promptly applied to them.
They could not have got off the island. The condition of the ice for the three or four hours
preceding the break-up would not have permitted it. The prisoner had implicated none of the
residents of the island, while every one of them, with the exception of the prisoner, had beenaccounted for elsewhere. Possibly the prisoner was excited when he ran down the trail into
the arms of La Flitche and John the Swede. One should have thought, however, that he had
grown used to such things in Siberia. But that was immaterial; the facts were that he was
undoubtedly in an abnormal state of excitement, that he was hysterically excited, and that a
murderer under such circumstances would take little account of where he ran. Such things
had happened before. Many a man had butted into his own retribution.
In the matter of the relations of Borg, Bella, and St. Vincent, he made a strong appeal to
the instinctive prejudices of his listeners, and for the time being abandoned matter-of-fact
reasoning for all-potent sentimental platitudes. He granted that circumstantial evidence never
proved anything absolutely. It was not necessary it should. Beyond the shadow of a
reasonable doubt was all that was required. That this had been done, he went on to review
the testimony.
“And, finally,” he said, “you can’t get around Bella’s last words. We know nothing of our
own direct knowledge. We’ve been feeling around in the dark, clutching at little things, and
trying to figure it all out. But, gentlemen,” he paused to search the faces of his listeners, “Bella
knew the truth. Hers is no circumstantial evidence. With quick, anguished breath, and
lifeblood ebbing from her, and eyeballs glazing, she spoke the truth. With dark night coming on,
and the death-rattle in her throat, she raised herself weakly and pointed a shaking finger at
the accused, thus, and she said, ‘Him, him, him. St. Vincha, him do it.’”
With Bill Brown’s finger still boring into him, St. Vincent struggled to his feet. His face
looked old and gray, and he looked about him speechlessly. “Funk! Funk!” was whispered
back and forth, and not so softly but what he heard. He moistened his lips repeatedly, and his
tongue fought for articulation. “It is as I have said,” he succeeded, finally. “I did not do it.
Before God, I did not do it!” He stared fixedly at John the Swede, waiting the while on his
laggard thought. “I... I did not do it... I did not... I... I did not.”
He seemed to have become lost in some supreme meditation wherein John the Swede
figured largely, and as Frona caught him by the hand and pulled him gently down, some man
cried out, “Secret ballot!”
But Bill Brown was on his feet at once. “No! I say no! An open ballot! We are men, and
as men are not afraid to put ourselves on record.”
A chorus of approval greeted him, and the open ballot began. Man after man, called
upon by name, spoke the one word, “Guilty.”
Baron Courbertin came forward and whispered to Frona. She nodded her head and
smiled, and he edged his way back, taking up a position by the door. He voted “Not guilty”
when his turn came, as did Frona and Jacob Welse. Pierre La Flitche wavered a moment,
looking keenly at Frona and St. Vincent, then spoke up, clear and flute-like, “Guilty.”
As the chairman arose, Jacob Welse casually walked over to the opposite side of the
table and stood with his back to the stove. Courbertin, who had missed nothing, pulled a
pickle-keg out from the wall and stepped upon it.
The chairman cleared his throat and rapped for order. “Gentlemen,” he announced, “the
“Hands up!” Jacob Welse commanded peremptorily, and a fraction of a second after him
came the shrill “Hands up, gentlemen!” of Courbertin.
Front and rear they commanded the crowd with their revolvers. Every hand was in the
air, the chairman’s having gone up still grasping the mallet. There was no disturbance. Each
stood or sat in the same posture as when the command went forth. Their eyes, playing here
and there among the central figures, always returned to Jacob Welse.
St. Vincent sat as one dumfounded. Frona thrust a revolver into his hand, but his limp
fingers refused to close on it.
“Come, Gregory,” she entreated. “Quick! Corliss is waiting with the canoe. Come!”
She shook him, and he managed to grip the weapon. Then she pulled and tugged, aswhen awakening a heavy sleeper, till he was on his feet. But his face was livid, his eyes like a
somnambulist’s, and he was afflicted as with a palsy. Still holding him, she took a step
backward for him to come on. He ventured it with a shaking knee. There was no sound save
the heavy breathing of many men. A man coughed slightly and cleared his throat. It was
disquieting, and all eyes centred upon him rebukingly. The man became embarrassed, and
shifted his weight uneasily to the other leg. Then the heavy breathing settled down again.
St. Vincent took another step, but his fingers relaxed and the revolver fell with a loud
noise to the floor. He made no effort to recover it. Frona stooped hurriedly, but Pierre La
Flitche had set his foot upon it. She looked up and saw his hands above his head and his eyes
fixed absently on Jacob Welse. She pushed at his leg, and the muscles were tense and hard,
giving the lie to the indifference on his face. St. Vincent looked down helplessly, as though he
could not understand.
But this delay drew the attention of Jacob Welse, and, as he tried to make out the cause,
the chairman found his chance. Without crooking, his right arm swept out and down, the
heavy caulking-mallet leaping from his hand. It spanned the short distance and smote Jacob
Welse below the ear. His revolver went off as he fell, and John the Swede grunted and
clapped a hand to his thigh.
Simultaneous with this the baron was overcome. Del Bishop, with hands still above his
head and eyes fixed innocently before him, had simply kicked the pickle-keg out from under
the Frenchman and brought him to the floor. His bullet, however, sped harmlessly through the
roof. La Flitche seized Frona in his arms. St. Vincent, suddenly awakening, sprang for the
door, but was tripped up by the breed’s ready foot.
The chairman pounded the table with his fist and concluded his broken sentence,
“Gentlemen, the prisoner is found guilty as charged.”
Chapter 29

Frona had gone at once to her father’s side, but he was already recovering. Courbertin
was brought forward with a scratched face, sprained wrist, and an insubordinate tongue. To
prevent discussion and to save time, Bill Brown claimed the floor.
“Mr. Chairman, while we condemn the attempt on the part of Jacob Welse, Frona Welse,
and Baron Courbertin to rescue the prisoner and thwart justice, we cannot, under the
circumstances, but sympathize with them. There is no need that I should go further into this
matter. You all know, and doubtless, under a like situation, would have done the same. And
so, in order that we may expeditiously finish the business, I make a motion to disarm the three
prisoners and let them go.”
The motion was carried, and the two men searched for weapons. Frona was saved this
by giving her word that she was no longer armed. The meeting then resolved itself into a
hanging committee, and began to file out of the cabin.
“Sorry I had to do it,” the chairman said, half-apologetically, half-defiantly.
Jacob Welse smiled. “You took your chance,” he answered, “and I can’t blame you. I
only wish I’d got you, though.”
Excited voices arose from across the cabin. “Here, you! Leggo!” “Step on his fingers,
Tim!” “Break that grip!” “Ouch! Ow!” “Pry his mouth open!”
Frona saw a knot of struggling men about St. Vincent, and ran over. He had thrown
himself down on the floor and, tooth and nail, was fighting like a madman. Tim Dugan, a
stalwart Celt, had come to close quarters with him, and St. Vincent’s teeth were sunk in the
man’s arm.
“Smash ‘m, Tim! Smash ‘m!”
“How can I, ye fule? Get a pry on his mouth, will ye?”
“One moment, please.” The men made way for her, drawing back and leaving St.
Vincent and Tim.
Frona knelt down by him. “Leave go, Gregory. Do leave go.”
He looked up at her, and his eyes did not seem human. He breathed stertorously, and in
his throat were the queer little gasping noises of one overwrought.
“It is I, Gregory.” She brushed her hand soothingly across his brow. “Don’t you
understand? It is I, Frona. Do leave go.”
His whole body slowly relaxed, and a peaceful expression grew upon his face. His jaw
dropped, and the man’s arm was withdrawn.
“Now listen, Gregory. Though you are to die—”
“But I cannot! I cannot!” he groaned. “You said that I could trust to you, that all would
come well.”
She thought of the chance which had been given, but said nothing.
“Oh, Frona! Frona!” He sobbed and buried his face in her lap.
“At least you can be a man. It is all that remains.”
“Come on!” Tim Dugan commanded. “Sorry to bother ye, miss, but we’ve got to fetch ‘m
along. Drag ‘m out, you fellys! Catch ‘m by the legs, Blackey, and you, too, Johnson.”
St. Vincent’s body stiffened at the words, the rational gleam went out of his eyes, and his
fingers closed spasmodically on Frona’s. She looked entreaty at the men, and they hesitated.
“Give me a minute with him,” she begged, “just a minute.”
“He ain’t worth it,” Dugan sneered, after they had drawn apart. “Look at ‘m.”
“It’s a damned shame,” corroborated Blackey, squinting sidewise at Frona whispering in
St. Vincent’s ear, the while her hand wandered caressingly through his hair.What she said they did not hear, but she got him on his feet and led him forward. He
walked as a dead man might walk, and when he entered the open air gazed forth wonderingly
upon the muddy sweep of the Yukon. The crowd had formed by the bank, about a pine tree. A
boy, engaged in running a rope over one of the branches, finished his task and slid down the
trunk to the ground. He looked quickly at the palms of his hands and blew upon them, and a
laugh went up. A couple of wolf-dogs, on the outskirts, bristled up to each other and bared
their fangs. Men encouraged them. They closed in and rolled over, but were kicked aside to
make room for St. Vincent.
Corliss came up the bank to Frona. “What’s up?” he whispered. “Is it off?”
She tried to speak, but swallowed and nodded her head.
“This way, Gregory.” She touched his arm and guided him to the box beneath the rope.
Corliss, keeping step with them, looked over the crowd speculatively and felt into his
jacket-pocket. “Can I do anything?” he asked, gnawing his under lip impatiently. “Whatever
you say goes, Frona. I can stand them off.”
She looked at him, aware of pleasure in the sight. She knew he would dare it, but she
knew also that it would be unfair. St. Vincent had had his chance, and it was not right that
further sacrifice should be made. “No, Vance. It is too late. Nothing can be done.”
“At least let me try,” he persisted.
“No; it is not our fault that our plan failed, and... and...” Her eyes filled. “Please do not
ask it of me.”
“Then let me take you away. You cannot remain here.”
“I must,” she answered, simply, and turned to St. Vincent, who seemed dreaming.
Blackey was tying the hangman’s knot in the rope’s end, preparatory to slipping the
noose over St. Vincent’s head.
“Kiss me, Gregory,” she said, her hand on his arm.
He started at the touch, and saw all eager eyes centred upon him, and the yellow noose,
just shaped, in the hands of the hangman. He threw up his arms, as though to ward it off, and
cried loudly, “No! no! Let me confess! Let me tell the truth, then you’ll believe me!”
Bill Brown and the chairman shoved Blackey back, and the crowd gathered in. Cries and
protestations rose from its midst. “No, you don’t,” a boy’s shrill voice made itself heard. “I’m
not going to go. I climbed the tree and made the rope fast, and I’ve got a right to stay.”
“You’re only a kid,” replied a man’s voice, “and it ain’t good for you.” “I don’t care, and I’m not
a kid. I’m—I’m used to such things. And, anyway, I climbed the tree. Look at my hands.” “Of
course he can stay,” other voices took up the trouble. “Leave him alone, Curley.” “You ain’t
the whole thing.” A laugh greeted this, and things quieted down.
“Silence!” the chairman called, and then to St. Vincent, “Go ahead, you, and don’t take
all day about it.”
“Give us a chance to hear!” the crowd broke out again. “Put ‘m on the box! Put ‘m on the
St. Vincent was helped up, and began with eager volubility.
“I didn’t do it, but I saw it done. There weren’t two men—only one. He did it, and Bella
helped him.”
A wave of laughter drowned him out.
“Not so fast,” Bill Brown cautioned him. “Kindly explain how Bella helped this man kill
herself. Begin at the beginning.”
“That night, before he turned in, Borg set his burglar alarm—”
“Burglar alarm?”
“That’s what I called it,—a tin bread-pan attached to the latch so the door couldn’t open
without tumbling it down. He set it every night, as though he were afraid of what might
happen,—the very thing which did happen, for that matter. On the night of the murder I awoke
with the feeling that some one was moving around. The slush-lamp was burning low, and Isaw Bella at the door. Borg was snoring; I could hear him plainly. Bella was taking down the
bread-pan, and she exercised great care about it. Then she opened the door, and an Indian
came in softly. He had no mask, and I should know him if ever I see him again, for a scar ran
along the forehead and down over one eye.”
“I suppose you sprang out of bed and gave the alarm?”
“No, I didn’t,” St. Vincent answered, with a defiant toss of the head, as though he might
as well get the worst over with. “I just lay there and waited.”
“What did you think?”
“That Bella was in collusion with the Indian, and that Borg was to be murdered. It came
to me at once.”
“And you did nothing?”
“Nothing.” His voice sank, and his eyes dropped to Frona, leaning against the box
beneath him and steadying it. She did not seem to be affected. “Bella came over to me, but I
closed my eyes and breathed regularly. She held the slush-lamp to me, but I played sleep
naturally enough to fool her. Then I heard a snort of sudden awakening and alarm, and a cry,
and I looked out. The Indian was hacking at Borg with a knife, and Borg was warding off with
his arms and trying to grapple him. When they did grapple, Bella crept up from behind and
threw her arm in a strangle-hold about her husband’s neck. She put her knee into the small of
his back, and bent him backward and, with the Indian helping, threw him to the floor.”
“And what did you do?”
“I watched.”
“Had you a revolver?”
“The one you previously said John Borg had borrowed?”
“Yes; but I watched.”
“Did John Borg call for help?”
“Can you give his words?”
“He called, ‘St. Vincent! Oh, St. Vincent! Oh, my God! Oh, St. Vincent, help me!’” He
shuddered at the recollection, and added, “It was terrible.”
“I should say so,” Brown grunted. “And you?”
“I watched,” was the dogged reply, while a groan went up from the crowd. “Borg shook
clear of them, however, and got on his legs. He hurled Bella across the cabin with a
backsweep of the arm and turned upon the Indian. Then they fought. The Indian had dropped the
knife, and the sound of Borg’s blows was sickening. I thought he would surely beat the Indian
to death. That was when the furniture was smashed. They rolled and snarled and struggled
like wild beasts. I wondered the Indian’s chest did not cave in under some of Borg’s blows. But
Bella got the knife and stabbed her husband repeatedly about the body. The Indian had
clinched with him, and his arms were not free; so he kicked out at her sideways. He must
have broken her legs, for she cried out and fell down, and though she tried, she never stood
up again. Then he went down, with the Indian under him, across the stove.”
“Did he call any more for help?”
“He begged me to come to him.”
“I watched. He managed to get clear of the Indian and staggered over to me. He was
streaming blood, and I could see he was very weak. ‘Give me your gun,’ he said; ‘quick, give
me it.’ He felt around blindly. Then his mind seemed to clear a bit, and he reached across me
to the holster hanging on the wall and took the pistol. The Indian came at him with the knife
again, but he did not try to defend himself. Instead, he went on towards Bella, with the Indian
still hanging to him and hacking at him. The Indian seemed to bother and irritate him, and he
shoved him away. He knelt down and turned Bella’s face up to the light; but his own face wascovered with blood and he could not see. So he stopped long enough to brush the blood from
his eyes. He appeared to look in order to make sure. Then he put the revolver to her breast
and fired.
“The Indian went wild at this, and rushed at him with the knife, at the same time knocking
the pistol out of his hand. It was then the shelf with the slush-lamp was knocked down. They
continued to fight in the darkness, and there were more shots fired, though I do not know by
whom. I crawled out of the bunk, but they struck against me in their struggles, and I fell over
Bella. That’s when the blood got on my hands. As I ran out the door, more shots were fired.
Then I met La Flitche and John, and... and you know the rest. This is the truth I have told you,
I swear it!”
He looked down at Frona. She was steadying the box, and her face was composed. He
looked out over the crowd and saw unbelief. Many were laughing.
“Why did you not tell this story at first?” Bill Brown demanded.
“Because... because...”
“Because I might have helped.”
There was more laughter at this, and Bill Brown turned away from him. “Gentlemen, you
have heard this pipe dream. It is a wilder fairy story than his first. At the beginning of the trial
we promised to show that the truth was not in him. That we succeeded, your verdict is ample
testimony. But that he should likewise succeed, and more brilliantly, we did not expect. That
he has, you cannot doubt. What do you think of him? Lie upon lie he has given us; he has
been proven a chronic liar; are you to believe this last and fearfully impossible lie? Gentlemen,
I can only ask that you reaffirm your judgment. And to those who may doubt his mendacity,—
surely there are but few,—let me state, that if his story is true; if he broke salt with this man,
John Borg, and lay in his blankets while murder was done; if he did hear, unmoved, the voice
of the man calling to him for help; if he did lie there and watch that carnival of butchery without
his manhood prompting him,—let me state, gentlemen, I say, let me state that he is none the
less deserveful of hanging. We cannot make a mistake. What shall it be?”
“Death!” “String him up!” “Stretch ‘m!” were the cries.
But the crowd suddenly turned its attention to the river, and even Blackey refrained from
his official task. A large raft, worked by a sweep at either end, was slipping past the tail of
Split-up Island, close to the shore. When it was at their feet, its nose was slewed into the
bank, and while its free end swung into the stream to make the consequent circle, a
snubbingrope was flung ashore and several turns taken about the tree under which St. Vincent stood.
A cargo of moose-meat, red and raw, cut into quarters, peeped from beneath a cool covering
of spruce boughs. And because of this, the two men on the raft looked up to those on the
bank with pride in their eyes.
“Tryin’ to make Dawson with it,” one of them explained, “and the sun’s all-fired hot.”
“Nope,” said his comrade, in reply to a query, “don’t care to stop and trade. It’s worth a
dollar and a half a pound down below, and we’re hustlin’ to get there. But we’ve got some
pieces of a man we want to leave with you.” He turned and pointed to a loose heap of
blankets which slightly disclosed the form of a man beneath. “We gathered him in this mornin’,
‘bout thirty mile up the Stewart, I should judge.”
“Stands in need of doctorin’,” the other man spoke up, “and the meat’s spoilin’, and we
ain’t got time for nothin’.” “Beggar don’t have anythin’ to say. Don’t savve the burro.” “Looks
as he might have been mixin’ things with a grizzly or somethin’,—all battered and gouged.
Injured internally, from the looks of it. Where’ll you have him?”
Frona, standing by St. Vincent, saw the injured man borne over the crest of the bank and
through the crowd. A bronzed hand drooped down and a bronzed face showed from out the
blankets. The bearers halted near them while a decision could be reached as to where he
should be carried. Frona felt a sudden fierce grip on her arm.“Look! look!” St. Vincent was leaning forward and pointing wildly at the injured man.
“Look! That scar!”
The Indian opened his eyes and a grin of recognition distorted his face.
“It is he! It is he!” St. Vincent, trembling with eagerness, turned upon the crowd. “I call
you all to witness! That is the man who killed John Borg!”
No laughter greeted this, for there was a terrible earnestness in his manner. Bill Brown
and the chairman tried to make the Indian talk, but could not. A miner from British Columbia
was pressed into service, but his Chinook made no impression. Then La Flitche was called.
The handsome breed bent over the man and talked in gutturals which only his mother’s
heredity made possible. It sounded all one, yet it was apparent that he was trying many
tongues. But no response did he draw, and he paused disheartened. As though with sudden
recollection, he made another attempt. At once a gleam of intelligence shot across the
Indian’s face, and his larynx vibrated to similar sounds.
“It is the Stick talk of the Upper White,” La Flitche stopped long enough to explain.
Then, with knit brows and stumbling moments when he sought dim-remembered words,
he plied the man with questions. To the rest it was like a pantomime,—the meaningless grunts
and waving arms and facial expressions of puzzlement, surprise, and understanding. At times
a passion wrote itself on the face of the Indian, and a sympathy on the face of La Flitche.
Again, by look and gesture, St. Vincent was referred to, and once a sober, mirthless laugh
shaped the mouths of them.
“So? It is good,” La Flitche said, when the Indian’s head dropped back. “This man make
true talk. He come from White River, way up. He cannot understand. He surprised very much,
so many white men. He never think so many white men in the world. He die soon. His name
“Long time ago, three year, this man John Borg go to this man Gow’s country. He hunt,
he bring plenty meat to the camp, wherefore White River Sticks like him. Gow have one
squaw, Pisk-ku. Bime-by John Borg make preparation to go ‘way. He go to Gow, and he say,
‘Give me your squaw. We trade. For her I give you many things.’ But Gow say no. Pisk-ku
good squaw. No woman sew moccasin like she. She tan moose-skin the best, and make the
softest leather. He like Pisk-ku. Then John Borg say he don’t care; he want Pisk-ku. Then they
have a skookum big fight, and Pisk-ku go ‘way with John Borg. She no want to go ‘way, but
she go anyway. Borg call her ‘Bella,’ and give her plenty good things, but she like Gow all the
time.” La Flitche pointed to the scar which ran down the forehead and past the eye of the
Indian. “John Borg he do that.”
“Long time Gow pretty near die. Then he get well, but his head sick. He don’t know
nobody. Don’t know his father, his mother, or anything. Just like a little baby. Just like that.
Then one day, quick, click! something snap, and his head get well all at once. He know his
father and mother, he remember Pisk-ku, he remember everything. His father say John Borg
go down river. Then Gow go down river. Spring-time, ice very bad. He very much afraid, so
many white men, and when he come to this place he travel by night. Nobody see him ‘tall, but
he see everybody. He like a cat, see in the dark. Somehow, he come straight to John Borg’s
cabin. He do not know how this was, except that the work he had to do was good work.”
St. Vincent pressed Frona’s hand, but she shook her fingers clear and withdrew a step.
“He see Pisk-ku feed the dogs, and he have talk with her. That night he come and she
open the door. Then you know that which was done. St. Vincent do nothing, Borg kill Bella.
Gow kill Borg. Borg kill Gow, for Gow die pretty quick. Borg have strong arm. Gow sick inside,
all smashed up. Gow no care; Pisk-ku dead.
“After that he go ‘cross ice to the land. I tell him all you people say it cannot be; no man
can cross the ice at that time. He laugh, and say that it is, and what is, must be. Anyway, he
have very hard time, but he get ‘cross all right. He very sick inside. Bime-by he cannot walk;
he crawl. Long time he come to Stewart River. Can go no more, so he lay down to die. Twowhite men find him and bring him to this place. He don’t care. He die anyway.”
La Flitche finished abruptly, but nobody spoke. Then he added, “I think Gow damn good
Frona came up to Jacob Welse. “Take me away, father,” she said. “I am so tired.”
Chapter 30

Next morning, Jacob Welse, for all of the Company and his millions in mines, chopped up
the day’s supply of firewood, lighted a cigar, and went down the island in search of Baron
Courbertin. Frona finished the breakfast dishes, hung out the robes to air, and fed the dogs.
Then she took a worn Wordsworth from her clothes-bag, and, out by the bank, settled herself
comfortably in a seat formed by two uprooted pines. But she did no more than open the book;
for her eyes strayed out and over the Yukon to the eddy below the bluffs, and the bend
above, and the tail of the spit which lay in the midst of the river. The rescue and the race were
still fresh with her, though there were strange lapses, here and there, of which she
remembered little. The struggle by the fissure was immeasurable; she knew not how long it
lasted; and the race down Split-up to Roubeau Island was a thing of which her reason
convinced her, but of which she recollected nothing.
The whim seized her, and she followed Corliss through the three days’ events, but she
tacitly avoided the figure of another man whom she would not name. Something terrible was
connected therewith, she knew, which must be faced sooner or later; but she preferred to put
that moment away from her. She was stiff and sore of mind as well as of body, and will and
action were for the time being distasteful. It was more pleasant, even, to dwell on Tommy, on
Tommy of the bitter tongue and craven heart; and she made a note that the wife and children
in Toronto should not be forgotten when the Northland paid its dividends to the Welse.
The crackle of a foot on a dead willow-twig roused her, and her eyes met St. Vincent’s.
“You have not congratulated me upon my escape,” he began, breezily. “But you must
have been dead-tired last night. I know I was. And you had that hard pull on the river
He watched her furtively, trying to catch some cue as to her attitude and mood.
“You’re a heroine, that’s what you are, Frona,” he began again, with exuberance. “And
not only did you save the mail-man, but by the delay you wrought in the trial you saved me. If
one more witness had gone on the stand that first day, I should have been duly hanged
before Gow put in an appearance. Fine chap, Gow. Too bad he’s going to die.”
“I am glad that I could be of help,” she replied, wondering the while what she could say.
“And of course I am to be congratulated—”
“Your trial is hardly a thing for congratulation,” she spoke up quickly, looking him straight
in the eyes for the moment. “I am glad that it came out as it did, but surely you cannot expect
me to congratulate you.”
“O-o-o,” with long-drawn inflection. “So that’s where it pinches.” He smiled
goodhumoredly, and moved as though to sit down, but she made no room for him, and he
remained standing. “I can certainly explain. If there have been women—”
Frona had been clinching her hand nervously, but at the word burst out in laughter.
“Women?” she queried. “Women?” she repeated. “Do not be ridiculous, Gregory.”
“After the way you stood by me through the trial,” he began, reproachfully, “I thought—”
“Oh, you do not understand,” she said, hopelessly. “You do not understand. Look at me,
Gregory, and see if I can make you understand. Your presence is painful to me. Your kisses
hurt me. The memory of them still burns my cheek, and my lips feel unclean. And why?
Because of women, which you may explain away? How little do you understand! But shall I tell
Voices of men came to her from down the river-bank, and the splashing of water. She
glanced quickly and saw Del Bishop guiding a poling-boat against the current, and Corliss on
the bank, bending to the tow-rope.“Shall I tell you why, Gregory St. Vincent?” she said again. “Tell you why your kisses
have cheapened me? Because you broke the faith of food and blanket. Because you broke
salt with a man, and then watched that man fight unequally for life without lifting your hand.
Why, I had rather you had died in defending him; the memory of you would have been good.
Yes, I had rather you had killed him yourself. At least, it would have shown there was blood in
your body.”
“So this is what you would call love?” he began, scornfully, his fretting, fuming devil
beginning to rouse. “A fair-weather love, truly. But, Lord, how we men learn!”
“I had thought you were well lessoned,” she retorted; “what of the other women?”
“But what do you intend to do?” he demanded, taking no notice. “I am not an easy man
to cross. You cannot throw me over with impunity. I shall not stand for it, I warn you. You
have dared do things in this country which would blacken you were they known. I have ears. I
have not been asleep. You will find it no child’s play to explain away things which you may
declare most innocent.”
She looked at him with a smile which carried pity in its cold mirth, and it goaded him.
“I am down, a thing to make a jest upon, a thing to pity, but I promise you that I can drag
you with me. My kisses have cheapened you, eh? Then how must you have felt at Happy
Camp on the Dyea Trail?”
As though in answer, Corliss swung down upon them with the tow-rope.
Frona beckoned a greeting to him. “Vance,” she said, “the mail-carrier has brought
important news to father, so important that he must go outside. He starts this afternoon with
Baron Courbertin in La Bijou. Will you take me down to Dawson? I should like to go at once,
“He... he suggested you,” she added shyly, indicating St. Vincent.
The Call of the Wild
First published : 1903

Chapter 1 — Into the Primitive

“Old longings nomadic leap,
Chafing at custom’s chain;
Again from its brumal sleep
Wakens the ferine strain.”

Buck did not read the newspapers, or he would have known that trouble was brewing,
not alone for himself, but for every tide-water dog, strong of muscle and with warm, long hair,
from Puget Sound to San Diego. Because men, groping in the Arctic darkness, had found a
yellow metal, and because steamship and transportation companies were booming the find,
thousands of men were rushing into the Northland. These men wanted dogs, and the dogs
they wanted were heavy dogs, with strong muscles by which to toil, and furry coats to protect
them from the frost.
Buck lived at a big house in the sun-kissed Santa Clara Valley. Judge Miller’s place, it
was called. It stood back from the road, half hidden among the trees, through which glimpses
could be caught of the wide cool veranda that ran around its four sides. The house was
approached by gravelled driveways which wound about through wide-spreading lawns and
under the interlacing boughs of tall poplars. At the rear things were on even a more spacious
scale than at the front. There were great stables, where a dozen grooms and boys held forth,
rows of vine-clad servants’ cottages, an endless and orderly array of outhouses, long grape
arbors, green pastures, orchards, and berry patches. Then there was the pumping plant for
the artesian well, and the big cement tank where Judge Miller’s boys took their morning
plunge and kept cool in the hot afternoon.
And over this great demesne Buck ruled. Here he was born, and here he had lived the
four years of his life. It was true, there were other dogs, There could not but be other dogs on
so vast a place, but they did not count. They came and went, resided in the populous kennels,
or lived obscurely in the recesses of the house after the fashion of Toots, the Japanese pug,
or Ysabel, the Mexican hairless,— strange creatures that rarely put nose out of doors or set
foot to ground. On the other hand, there were the fox terriers, a score of them at least, who
yelped fearful promises at Toots and Ysabel looking out of the windows at them and protected
by a legion of housemaids armed with brooms and mops.
But Buck was neither house-dog nor kennel-dog. The whole realm was his. He plunged
into the swimming tank or went hunting with the Judge’s sons; he escorted Mollie and Alice,
the Judge’s daughters, on long twilight or early morning rambles; on wintry nights he lay at the
Judge’s feet before the roaring library fire; he carried the Judge’s grandsons on his back, or
rolled them in the grass, and guarded their footsteps through wild adventures down to the
fountain in the stable yard, and even beyond, where the paddocks were, and the berry
patches. Among the terriers he stalked imperiously, and Toots and Ysabel he utterly ignored,
for he was king,— king over all creeping, crawling, flying things of Judge Miller’s place,
humans included.
His father, Elmo, a huge St. Bernard, had been the Judge’s inseparable companion, and
Buck bid fair to follow in the way of his father. He was not so large,— he weighed only one
hundred and forty pounds,— for his mother, Shep, had been a Scotch shepherd dog.
Nevertheless, one hundred and forty pounds, to which was added the dignity that comes of
good living and universal respect, enabled him to carry himself in right royal fashion. During
the four years since his puppyhood he had lived the life of a sated aristocrat; he had a fine
pride in himself, was even a trifle egotistical, as country gentlemen sometimes become
because of their insular situation. But he had saved himself by not becoming a merepampered house-dog. Hunting and kindred outdoor delights had kept down the fat and
hardened his muscles; and to him, as to the cold-tubbing races, the love of water had been a
tonic and a health preserver.
And this was the manner of dog Buck was in the fall of 1897, when the Klondike strike
dragged men from all the world into the frozen North. But Buck did not read the newspapers,
and he did not know that Manuel, one of the gardener’s helpers, was an undesirable
acquaintance. Manuel had one besetting sin. He loved to play Chinese lottery. Also, in his
gambling, he had one besetting weakness — faith in a system; and this made his damnation
certain. For to play a system requires money, while the wages of a gardener’s helper do not
lap over the needs of a wife and numerous progeny.
The Judge was at a meeting of the Raisin Growers’ Association, and the boys were busy
organizing an athletic club, on the memorable night of Manuel’s treachery. No one saw him
and Buck go off through the orchard on what Buck imagined was merely a stroll. And with the
exception of a solitary man, no one saw them arrive at the little flag station known as College
Park. This man talked with Manuel, and money chinked between them.
“You might wrap up the goods before you deliver ‘m,” the stranger said gruffly, and
Manuel doubled a piece of stout rope around Buck’s neck under the collar.
“Twist it, an’ you’ll choke ‘m plentee,” said Manuel, and the stranger grunted a ready
Buck had accepted the rope with quiet dignity. To be sure, it was an unwonted
performance: but he had learned to trust in men he knew, and to give them credit for a
wisdom that outreached his own. But when the ends of the rope were placed in the stranger’s
hands, he growled menacingly. He had merely intimated his displeasure, in his pride believing
that to intimate was to command. But to his surprise the rope tightened around his neck,
shutting off his breath. In quick rage he sprang at the man, who met him halfway, grappled
him close by the throat, and with a deft twist threw him over on his back. Then the rope
tightened mercilessly, while Buck struggled in a fury, his tongue lolling out of his mouth and his
great chest panting futilely. Never in all his life had he been so vilely treated, and never in all
his life had he been so angry. But his strength ebbed, his eyes glazed, and he knew nothing
when the train was flagged and the two men threw him into the baggage car.
The next he knew, he was dimly aware that his tongue was hurting and that he was
being jolted along in some kind of a conveyance. The hoarse shriek of a locomotive whistling a
crossing told him where he was. He had travelled too often with the Judge not to know the
sensation of riding in a baggage car. He opened his eyes, and into them came the unbridled
anger of a kidnapped king. The man sprang for his throat, but Buck was too quick for him. His
jaws closed on the hand, nor did they relax till his senses were choked out of him once more.
“Yep, has fits,” the man said, hiding his mangled hand from the baggageman, who had
been attracted by the sounds of struggle. “I’m takin’ ‘m up for the boss to ‘Frisco. A crack
dogdoctor there thinks that he can cure ‘m.”
Concerning that night’s ride, the man spoke most eloquently for himself, in a little shed
back of a saloon on the San Francisco water front.
“All I get is fifty for it,” he grumbled; “an’ I wouldn’t do it over for a thousand, cold cash.”
His hand was wrapped in a bloody handkerchief, and the right trouser leg was ripped
from knee to ankle.
“How much did the other mug get?” the saloon-keeper demanded.
“A hundred,” was the reply. “Wouldn’t take a sou less, so help me.”
“That makes a hundred and fifty,” the saloon-keeper calculated; “and he’s worth it, or I’m
a squarehead.”
The kidnapper undid the bloody wrappings and looked at his lacerated hand. “If I don’t
get the hydrophoby —”
“It’ll be because you was born to hang,” laughed the saloon-keeper. “Here, lend me ahand before you pull your freight,” he added.
Dazed, suffering intolerable pain from throat and tongue, with the life half throttled out of
him, Buck attempted to face his tormentors. But he was thrown down and choked repeatedly,
till they succeeded in filing the heavy brass collar from off his neck. Then the rope was
removed, and he was flung into a cagelike crate.
There he lay for the remainder of the weary night, nursing his wrath and wounded pride.
He could not understand what it all meant. What did they want with him, these strange men?
Why were they keeping him pent up in this narrow crate? He did not know why, but he felt
oppressed by the vague sense of impending calamity. Several times during the night he
sprang to his feet when the shed door rattled open, expecting to see the Judge, or the boys at
least. But each time it was the bulging face of the saloon-keeper that peered in at him by the
sickly light of a tallow candle. And each time the joyful bark that trembled in Buck’s throat was
twisted into a savage growl.
But the saloon-keeper let him alone, and in the morning four men entered and picked up
the crate. More tormentors, Buck decided, for they were evil-looking creatures, ragged and
unkempt; and he stormed and raged at them through the bars. They only laughed and poked
sticks at him, which he promptly assailed with his teeth till he realized that that was what they
wanted. Whereupon he lay down sullenly and allowed the crate to be lifted into a wagon. Then
he, and the crate in which he was imprisoned, began a passage through many hands. Clerks
in the express office took charge of him; he was carted about in another wagon; a truck
carried him, with an assortment of boxes and parcels, upon a ferry steamer; he was trucked
off the steamer into a great railway depot, and finally he was deposited in an express car.
For two days and nights this express car was dragged along at the tail of shrieking
locomotives; and for two days and nights Buck neither ate nor drank. In his anger he had met
the first advances of the express messengers with growls, and they had retaliated by teasing
him. When he flung himself against the bars, quivering and frothing, they laughed at him and
taunted him. They growled and barked like detestable dogs, mewed, and flapped their arms
and crowed. It was all very silly, he knew; but therefore the more outrage to his dignity, and
his anger waxed and waxed. He did not mind the hunger so much, but the lack of water
caused him severe suffering and fanned his wrath to fever-pitch. For that matter, high-strung
and finely sensitive, the ill treatment had flung him into a fever, which was fed by the
inflammation of his parched and swollen throat and tongue.
He was glad for one thing: the rope was off his neck. That had given them an unfair
advantage; but now that it was off, he would show them. They would never get another rope
around his neck. Upon that he was resolved. For two days and nights he neither ate nor
drank, and during those two days and nights of torment, he accumulated a fund of wrath that
boded ill for whoever first fell foul of him. His eyes turned blood-shot, and he was
metamorphosed into a raging fiend. So changed was he that the Judge himself would not
have recognized him; and the express messengers breathed with relief when they bundled
him off the train at Seattle.
Four men gingerly carried the crate from the wagon into a small, high-walled back yard.
A stout man, with a red sweater that sagged generously at the neck, came out and signed the
book for the driver. That was the man, Buck divined, the next tormentor, and he hurled
himself savagely against the bars. The man smiled grimly, and brought a hatchet and a club.
“You ain’t going to take him out now?” the driver asked.
“Sure,” the man replied, driving the hatchet into the crate for a pry.
There was an instantaneous scattering of the four men who had carried it in, and from
safe perches on top the wall they prepared to watch the performance.
Buck rushed at the splintering wood, sinking his teeth into it, surging and wrestling with it.
Wherever the hatchet fell on the outside, he was there on the inside, snarling and growling, as
furiously anxious to get out as the man in the red sweater was calmly intent on getting himout.
“Now, you red-eyed devil,” he said, when he had made an opening sufficient for the
passage of Buck’s body. At the same time he dropped the hatchet and shifted the club to his
right hand.
And Buck was truly a red-eyed devil, as he drew himself together for the spring, hair
bristling, mouth foaming, a mad glitter in his blood-shot eyes. Straight at the man he launched
his one hundred and forty pounds of fury, surcharged with the pent passion of two days and
nights. In mid air, just as his jaws were about to close on the man, he received a shock that
checked his body and brought his teeth together with an agonizing clip. He whirled over,
fetching the ground on his back and side. He had never been struck by a club in his life, and
did not understand. With a snarl that was part bark and more scream he was again on his feet
and launched into the air. And again the shock came and he was brought crushingly to the
ground. This time he was aware that it was the club, but his madness knew no caution. A
dozen times he charged, and as often the club broke the charge and smashed him down.
After a particularly fierce blow, he crawled to his feet, too dazed to rush. He staggered
limply about, the blood flowing from nose and mouth and ears, his beautiful coat sprayed and
flecked with bloody slaver. Then the man advanced and deliberately dealt him a frightful blow
on the nose. All the pain he had endured was as nothing compared with the exquisite agony of
this. With a roar that was almost lionlike in its ferocity, he again hurled himself at the man. But
the man, shifting the club from right to left, coolly caught him by the under jaw, at the same
time wrenching downward and backward. Buck described a complete circle in the air, and half
of another, then crashed to the ground on his head and chest.
For the last time he rushed. The man struck the shrewd blow he had purposely withheld
for so long, and Buck crumpled up and went down, knocked utterly senseless.
“He’s no slouch at dog-breakin’, that’s wot I say,” one of the men on the wall cried
“Druther break cayuses any day, and twice on Sundays,” was the reply of the driver, as
he climbed on the wagon and started the horses.
Buck’s senses came back to him, but not his strength. He lay where he had fallen, and
from there he watched the man in the red sweater.
“‘Answers to the name of Buck,’” the man soliloquized, quoting from the saloon-keeper’s
letter which had announced the consignment of the crate and contents. “Well, Buck, my boy,”
he went on in a genial voice, “we’ve had our little ruction, and the best thing we can do is to let
it go at that. You’ve learned your place, and I know mine. Be a good dog and all ‘ll go well and
the goose hang high. Be a bad dog, and I’ll whale the stuffin’ outa you. Understand?”
As he spoke he fearlessly patted the head he had so mercilessly pounded, and though
Buck’s hair involuntarily bristled at touch of the hand, he endured it without protest. When the
man brought him water he drank eagerly, and later bolted a generous meal of raw meat,
chunk by chunk, from the man’s hand.
He was beaten (he knew that); but he was not broken. He saw, once for all, that he
stood no chance against a man with a club. He had learned the lesson, and in all his after life
he never forgot it. That club was a revelation. It was his introduction to the reign of primitive
law, and he met the introduction halfway. The facts of life took on a fiercer aspect; and while
he faced that aspect uncowed, he faced it with all the latent cunning of his nature aroused. As
the days went by, other dogs came, in crates and at the ends of ropes, some docilely, and
some raging and roaring as he had come; and, one and all, he watched them pass under the
dominion of the man in the red sweater. Again and again, as he looked at each brutal
performance, the lesson was driven home to Buck: a man with a club was a lawgiver, a
master to be obeyed, though not necessarily conciliated. Of this last Buck was never guilty,
though he did see beaten dogs that fawned upon the man, and wagged their tails, and licked
his hand. Also he saw one dog, that would neither conciliate nor obey, finally killed in thestruggle for mastery.
Now and again men came, strangers, who talked excitedly, wheedlingly, and in all kinds
of fashions to the man in the red sweater. And at such times that money passed between
them the strangers took one or more of the dogs away with them. Buck wondered where they
went, for they never came back; but the fear of the future was strong upon him, and he was
glad each time when he was not selected.
Yet his time came, in the end, in the form of a little weazened man who spat broken
English and many strange and uncouth exclamations which Buck could not understand.
“Sacredam!” he cried, when his eyes lit upon Buck. “Dat one dam bully dog! Eh? How
“Three hundred, and a present at that,” was the prompt reply of the man in the red
sweater. “And seem’ it’s government money, you ain’t got no kick coming, eh, Perrault?”
Perrault grinned. Considering that the price of dogs had been boomed skyward by the
unwonted demand, it was not an unfair sum for so fine an animal. The Canadian Government
would be no loser, nor would its despatches travel the slower. Perrault knew dogs, and when
he looked at Buck he knew that he was one in a thousand —”One in ten t’ousand,” he
commented mentally.
Buck saw money pass between them, and was not surprised when Curly, a good-natured
Newfoundland, and he were led away by the little weazened man. That was the last he saw of
the man in the red sweater, and as Curly and he looked at receding Seattle from the deck of
the Narwhal, it was the last he saw of the warm Southland. Curly and he were taken below by
Perrault and turned over to a black-faced giant called Francois. Perrault was a French–
Canadian, and swarthy; but Francois was a French–Canadian half-breed, and twice as
swarthy. They were a new kind of men to Buck (of which he was destined to see many more),
and while he developed no affection for them, he none the less grew honestly to respect
them. He speedily learned that Perrault and Francois were fair men, calm and impartial in
administering justice, and too wise in the way of dogs to be fooled by dogs.
In the ‘tween-decks of the Narwhal, Buck and Curly joined two other dogs. One of them
was a big, snow-white fellow from Spitzbergen who had been brought away by a whaling
captain, and who had later accompanied a Geological Survey into the Barrens. He was
friendly, in a treacherous sort of way, smiling into one’s face the while he meditated some
underhand trick, as, for instance, when he stole from Buck’s food at the first meal. As Buck
sprang to punish him, the lash of Francois’s whip sang through the air, reaching the culprit
first; and nothing remained to Buck but to recover the bone. That was fair of Francois, he
decided, and the half-breed began his rise in Buck’s estimation.
The other dog made no advances, nor received any; also, he did not attempt to steal
from the newcomers. He was a gloomy, morose fellow, and he showed Curly plainly that all he
desired was to be left alone, and further, that there would be trouble if he were not left alone.
“Dave” he was called, and he ate and slept, or yawned between times, and took interest in
nothing, not even when the Narwhal crossed Queen Charlotte Sound and rolled and pitched
and bucked like a thing possessed. When Buck and Curly grew excited, half wild with fear, he
raised his head as though annoyed, favored them with an incurious glance, yawned, and went
to sleep again.
Day and night the ship throbbed to the tireless pulse of the propeller, and though one day
was very like another, it was apparent to Buck that the weather was steadily growing colder.
At last, one morning, the propeller was quiet, and the Narwhal was pervaded with an
atmosphere of excitement. He felt it, as did the other dogs, and knew that a change was at
hand. Francois leashed them and brought them on deck. At the first step upon the cold
surface, Buck’s feet sank into a white mushy something very like mud. He sprang back with a
snort. More of this white stuff was falling through the air. He shook himself, but more of it fell
upon him. He sniffed it curiously, then licked some up on his tongue. It bit like fire, and thenext instant was gone. This puzzled him. He tried it again, with the same result. The onlookers
laughed uproariously, and he felt ashamed, he knew not why, for it was his first snow.Chapter 2 — The Law of Club and Fang

Buck’s first day on the Dyea beach was like a nightmare. Every hour was filled with shock
and surprise. He had been suddenly jerked from the heart of civilization and flung into the
heart of things primordial. No lazy, sun-kissed life was this, with nothing to do but loaf and be
bored. Here was neither peace, nor rest, nor a moment’s safety. All was confusion and action,
and every moment life and limb were in peril. There was imperative need to be constantly
alert; for these dogs and men were not town dogs and men. They were savages, all of them,
who knew no law but the law of club and fang.
He had never seen dogs fight as these wolfish creatures fought, and his first experience
taught him an unforgetable lesson. It is true, it was a vicarious experience, else he would not
have lived to profit by it. Curly was the victim. They were camped near the log store, where
she, in her friendly way, made advances to a husky dog the size of a full-grown wolf, though
not half so large as she. There was no warning, only a leap in like a flash, a metallic clip of
teeth, a leap out equally swift, and Curly’s face was ripped open from eye to jaw.
It was the wolf manner of fighting, to strike and leap away; but there was more to it than
this. Thirty or forty huskies ran to the spot and surrounded the combatants in an intent and
silent circle. Buck did not comprehend that silent intentness, nor the eager way with which
they were licking their chops. Curly rushed her antagonist, who struck again and leaped aside.
He met her next rush with his chest, in a peculiar fashion that tumbled her off her feet. She
never regained them, This was what the onlooking huskies had waited for. They closed in
upon her, snarling and yelping, and she was buried, screaming with agony, beneath the
bristling mass of bodies.
So sudden was it, and so unexpected, that Buck was taken aback. He saw Spitz run out
his scarlet tongue in a way he had of laughing; and he saw Francois, swinging an axe, spring
into the mess of dogs. Three men with clubs were helping him to scatter them. It did not take
long. Two minutes from the time Curly went down, the last of her assailants were clubbed off.
But she lay there limp and lifeless in the bloody, trampled snow, almost literally torn to pieces,
the swart half-breed standing over her and cursing horribly. The scene often came back to
Buck to trouble him in his sleep. So that was the way. No fair play. Once down, that was the
end of you. Well, he would see to it that he never went down. Spitz ran out his tongue and
laughed again, and from that moment Buck hated him with a bitter and deathless hatred.
Before he had recovered from the shock caused by the tragic passing of Curly, he
received another shock. Francois fastened upon him an arrangement of straps and buckles. It
was a harness, such as he had seen the grooms put on the horses at home. And as he had
seen horses work, so he was set to work, hauling Francois on a sled to the forest that fringed
the valley, and returning with a load of firewood. Though his dignity was sorely hurt by thus
being made a draught animal, he was too wise to rebel. He buckled down with a will and did
his best, though it was all new and strange. Francois was stern, demanding instant obedience,
and by virtue of his whip receiving instant obedience; while Dave, who was an experienced
wheeler, nipped Buck’s hind quarters whenever he was in error. Spitz was the leader, likewise
experienced, and while he could not always get at Buck, he growled sharp reproof now and
again, or cunningly threw his weight in the traces to jerk Buck into the way he should go. Buck
learned easily, and under the combined tuition of his two mates and Francois made
remarkable progress. Ere they returned to camp he knew enough to stop at “ho,” to go ahead
at “mush,” to swing wide on the bends, and to keep clear of the wheeler when the loaded sled
shot downhill at their heels.
“T’ree vair’ good dogs,” Francois told Perrault. “Dat Buck, heem pool lak hell. I tich heemqueek as anyt’ing.”
By afternoon, Perrault, who was in a hurry to be on the trail with his despatches,
returned with two more dogs. “Billee” and “Joe” he called them, two brothers, and true huskies
both. Sons of the one mother though they were, they were as different as day and night.
Billee’s one fault was his excessive good nature, while Joe was the very opposite, sour and
introspective, with a perpetual snarl and a malignant eye. Buck received them in comradely
fashion, Dave ignored them, while Spitz proceeded to thrash first one and then the other.
Billee wagged his tail appeasingly, turned to run when he saw that appeasement was of no
avail, and cried (still appeasingly) when Spitz’s sharp teeth scored his flank. But no matter
how Spitz circled, Joe whirled around on his heels to face him, mane bristling, ears laid back,
lips writhing and snarling, jaws clipping together as fast as he could snap, and eyes diabolically
gleaming — the incarnation of belligerent fear. So terrible was his appearance that Spitz was
forced to forego disciplining him; but to cover his own discomfiture he turned upon the
inoffensive and wailing Billee and drove him to the confines of the camp.
By evening Perrault secured another dog, an old husky, long and lean and gaunt, with a
battle-scarred face and a single eye which flashed a warning of prowess that commanded
respect. He was called Sol-leks, which means the Angry One. Like Dave, he asked nothing,
gave nothing, expected nothing; and when he marched slowly and deliberately into their midst,
even Spitz left him alone. He had one peculiarity which Buck was unlucky enough to discover.
He did not like to be approached on his blind side. Of this offence Buck was unwittingly guilty,
and the first knowledge he had of his indiscretion was when Sol-leks whirled upon him and
slashed his shoulder to the bone for three inches up and down. Forever after Buck avoided his
blind side, and to the last of their comradeship had no more trouble. His only apparent
ambition, like Dave’s, was to be left alone; though, as Buck was afterward to learn, each of
them possessed one other and even more vital ambition.
That night Buck faced the great problem of sleeping. The tent, illumined by a candle,
glowed warmly in the midst of the white plain; and when he, as a matter of course, entered it,
both Perrault and Francois bombarded him with curses and cooking utensils, till he recovered
from his consternation and fled ignominiously into the outer cold. A chill wind was blowing that
nipped him sharply and bit with especial venom into his wounded shoulder. He lay down on
the snow and attempted to sleep, but the frost soon drove him shivering to his feet. Miserable
and disconsolate, he wandered about among the many tents, only to find that one place was
as cold as another. Here and there savage dogs rushed upon him, but he bristled his
neckhair and snarled (for he was learning fast), and they let him go his way unmolested.
Finally an idea came to him. He would return and see how his own team-mates were
making out. To his astonishment, they had disappeared. Again he wandered about through
the great camp, looking for them, and again he returned. Were they in the tent? No, that
could not be, else he would not have been driven out. Then where could they possibly be?
With drooping tail and shivering body, very forlorn indeed, he aimlessly circled the tent.
Suddenly the snow gave way beneath his fore legs and he sank down. Something wriggled
under his feet. He sprang back, bristling and snarling, fearful of the unseen and unknown. But
a friendly little yelp reassured him, and he went back to investigate. A whiff of warm air
ascended to his nostrils, and there, curled up under the snow in a snug ball, lay Billee. He
whined placatingly, squirmed and wriggled to show his good will and intentions, and even
ventured, as a bribe for peace, to lick Buck’s face with his warm wet tongue.
Another lesson. So that was the way they did it, eh? Buck confidently selected a spot,
and with much fuss and waste effort proceeded to dig a hole for himself. In a trice the heat
from his body filled the confined space and he was asleep. The day had been long and
arduous, and he slept soundly and comfortably, though he growled and barked and wrestled
with bad dreams.
Nor did he open his eyes till roused by the noises of the waking camp. At first he did notknow where he was. It had snowed during the night and he was completely buried. The snow
walls pressed him on every side, and a great surge of fear swept through him — the fear of
the wild thing for the trap. It was a token that he was harking back through his own life to the
lives of his forebears; for he was a civilized dog, an unduly civilized dog, and of his own
experience knew no trap and so could not of himself fear it. The muscles of his whole body
contracted spasmodically and instinctively, the hair on his neck and shoulders stood on end,
and with a ferocious snarl he bounded straight up into the blinding day, the snow flying about
him in a flashing cloud. Ere he landed on his feet, he saw the white camp spread out before
him and knew where he was and remembered all that had passed from the time he went for a
stroll with Manuel to the hole he had dug for himself the night before.
A shout from Francois hailed his appearance. “Wot I say?” the dog-driver cried to
Perrault. “Dat Buck for sure learn queek as anyt’ing.”
Perrault nodded gravely. As courier for the Canadian Government, bearing important
despatches, he was anxious to secure the best dogs, and he was particularly gladdened by
the possession of Buck.
Three more huskies were added to the team inside an hour, making a total of nine, and
before another quarter of an hour had passed they were in harness and swinging up the trail
toward the Dyea Canon. Buck was glad to be gone, and though the work was hard he found
he did not particularly despise it. He was surprised at the eagerness which animated the whole
team and which was communicated to him; but still more surprising was the change wrought
in Dave and Sol-leks. They were new dogs, utterly transformed by the harness. All
passiveness and unconcern had dropped from them. They were alert and active, anxious that
the work should go well, and fiercely irritable with whatever, by delay or confusion, retarded
that work. The toil of the traces seemed the supreme expression of their being, and all that
they lived for and the only thing in which they took delight.
Dave was wheeler or sled dog, pulling in front of him was Buck, then came Sol-leks; the
rest of the team was strung out ahead, single file, to the leader, which position was filled by
Buck had been purposely placed between Dave and Sol-leks so that he might receive
instruction. Apt scholar that he was, they were equally apt teachers, never allowing him to
linger long in error, and enforcing their teaching with their sharp teeth. Dave was fair and very
wise. He never nipped Buck without cause, and he never failed to nip him when he stood in
need of it. As Francois’s whip backed him up, Buck found it to be cheaper to mend his ways
than to retaliate. Once, during a brief halt, when he got tangled in the traces and delayed the
start, both Dave and Solleks flew at him and administered a sound trouncing. The resulting
tangle was even worse, but Buck took good care to keep the traces clear thereafter; and ere
the day was done, so well had he mastered his work, his mates about ceased nagging him.
Francois’s whip snapped less frequently, and Perrault even honored Buck by lifting up his feet
and carefully examining them.
It was a hard day’s run, up the Canon, through Sheep Camp, past the Scales and the
timber line, across glaciers and snowdrifts hundreds of feet deep, and over the great Chilcoot
Divide, which stands between the salt water and the fresh and guards forbiddingly the sad and
lonely North. They made good time down the chain of lakes which fills the craters of extinct
volcanoes, and late that night pulled into the huge camp at the head of Lake Bennett, where
thousands of goldseekers were building boats against the break-up of the ice in the spring.
Buck made his hole in the snow and slept the sleep of the exhausted just, but all too early was
routed out in the cold darkness and harnessed with his mates to the sled.
That day they made forty miles, the trail being packed; but the next day, and for many
days to follow, they broke their own trail, worked harder, and made poorer time. As a rule,
Perrault travelled ahead of the team, packing the snow with webbed shoes to make it easier
for them. Francois, guiding the sled at the gee-pole, sometimes exchanged places with him,but not often. Perrault was in a hurry, and he prided himself on his knowledge of ice, which
knowledge was indispensable, for the fall ice was very thin, and where there was swift water,
there was no ice at all.
Day after day, for days unending, Buck toiled in the traces. Always, they broke camp in
the dark, and the first gray of dawn found them hitting the trail with fresh miles reeled off
behind them. And always they pitched camp after dark, eating their bit of fish, and crawling to
sleep into the snow. Buck was ravenous. The pound and a half of sun-dried salmon, which
was his ration for each day, seemed to go nowhere. He never had enough, and suffered from
perpetual hunger pangs. Yet the other dogs, because they weighed less and were born to the
life, received a pound only of the fish and managed to keep in good condition.
He swiftly lost the fastidiousness which had characterized his old life. A dainty eater, he
found that his mates, finishing first, robbed him of his unfinished ration. There was no
defending it. While he was fighting off two or three, it was disappearing down the throats of
the others. To remedy this, he ate as fast as they; and, so greatly did hunger compel him, he
was not above taking what did not belong to him. He watched and learned. When he saw
Pike, one of the new dogs, a clever malingerer and thief, slyly steal a slice of bacon when
Perrault’s back was turned, he duplicated the performance the following day, getting away
with the whole chunk. A great uproar was raised, but he was unsuspected; while Dub, an
awkward blunderer who was always getting caught, was punished for Buck’s misdeed.
This first theft marked Buck as fit to survive in the hostile Northland environment. It
marked his adaptability, his capacity to adjust himself to changing conditions, the lack of which
would have meant swift and terrible death. It marked, further, the decay or going to pieces of
his moral nature, a vain thing and a handicap in the ruthless struggle for existence. It was all
well enough in the Southland, under the law of love and fellowship, to respect private property
and personal feelings; but in the Northland, under the law of club and fang, whoso took such
things into account was a fool, and in so far as he observed them he would fail to prosper.
Not that Buck reasoned it out. He was fit, that was all, and unconsciously he
accommodated himself to the new mode of life. All his days, no matter what the odds, he had
never run from a fight. But the club of the man in the red sweater had beaten into him a more
fundamental and primitive code. Civilized, he could have died for a moral consideration, say
the defence of Judge Miller’s riding-whip; but the completeness of his decivilization was now
evidenced by his ability to flee from the defence of a moral consideration and so save his hide.
He did not steal for joy of it, but because of the clamor of his stomach. He did not rob openly,
but stole secretly and cunningly, out of respect for club and fang. In short, the things he did
were done because it was easier to do them than not to do them.
His development (or retrogression) was rapid. His muscles became hard as iron, and he
grew callous to all ordinary pain. He achieved an internal as well as external economy. He
could eat anything, no matter how loathsome or indigestible; and, once eaten, the juices of his
stomach extracted the last least particle of nutriment; and his blood carried it to the farthest
reaches of his body, building it into the toughest and stoutest of tissues. Sight and scent
became remarkably keen, while his hearing developed such acuteness that in his sleep he
heard the faintest sound and knew whether it heralded peace or peril. He learned to bite the
ice out with his teeth when it collected between his toes; and when he was thirsty and there
was a thick scum of ice over the water hole, he would break it by rearing and striking it with
stiff fore legs. His most conspicuous trait was an ability to scent the wind and forecast it a
night in advance. No matter how breathless the air when he dug his nest by tree or bank, the
wind that later blew inevitably found him to leeward, sheltered and snug.
And not only did he learn by experience, but instincts long dead became alive again. The
domesticated generations fell from him. In vague ways he remembered back to the youth of
the breed, to the time the wild dogs ranged in packs through the primeval forest and killed
their meat as they ran it down. It was no task for him to learn to fight with cut and slash andthe quick wolf snap. In this manner had fought forgotten ancestors. They quickened the old
life within him, and the old tricks which they had stamped into the heredity of the breed were
his tricks. They came to him without effort or discovery, as though they had been his always.
And when, on the still cold nights, he pointed his nose at a star and howled long and wolflike, it
was his ancestors, dead and dust, pointing nose at star and howling down through the
centuries and through him. And his cadences were their cadences, the cadences which voiced
their woe and what to them was the meaning of the stiffness, and the cold, and dark.
Thus, as token of what a puppet thing life is, the ancient song surged through him and he
came into his own again; and he came because men had found a yellow metal in the North,
and because Manuel was a gardener’s helper whose wages did not lap over the needs of his
wife and divers small copies of himself.Chapter 3 — The Dominant Primordial Beast

The dominant primordial beast was strong in Buck, and under the fierce conditions of trail
life it grew and grew. Yet it was a secret growth. His newborn cunning gave him poise and
control. He was too busy adjusting himself to the new life to feel at ease, and not only did he
not pick fights, but he avoided them whenever possible. A certain deliberateness
characterized his attitude. He was not prone to rashness and precipitate action; and in the
bitter hatred between him and Spitz he betrayed no impatience, shunned all offensive acts.
On the other hand, possibly because he divined in Buck a dangerous rival, Spitz never
lost an opportunity of showing his teeth. He even went out of his way to bully Buck, striving
constantly to start the fight which could end only in the death of one or the other. Early in the
trip this might have taken place had it not been for an unwonted accident. At the end of this
day they made a bleak and miserable camp on the shore of Lake Le Barge. Driving snow, a
wind that cut like a white-hot knife, and darkness had forced them to grope for a camping
place. They could hardly have fared worse. At their backs rose a perpendicular wall of rock,
and Perrault and Francois were compelled to make their fire and spread their sleeping robes
on the ice of the lake itself. The tent they had discarded at Dyea in order to travel light. A few
sticks of driftwood furnished them with a fire that thawed down through the ice and left them
to eat supper in the dark.
Close in under the sheltering rock Buck made his nest. So snug and warm was it, that he
was loath to leave it when Francois distributed the fish which he had first thawed over the fire.
But when Buck finished his ration and returned, he found his nest occupied. A warning snarl
told him that the trespasser was Spitz. Till now Buck had avoided trouble with his enemy, but
this was too much. The beast in him roared. He sprang upon Spitz with a fury which surprised
them both, and Spitz particularly, for his whole experience with Buck had gone to teach him
that his rival was an unusually timid dog, who managed to hold his own only because of his
great weight and size.
Francois was surprised, too, when they shot out in a tangle from the disrupted nest and
he divined the cause of the trouble. “A-a-ah!” he cried to Buck. “Gif it to heem, by Gar! Gif it
to heem, the dirty t’eef!”
Spitz was equally willing. He was crying with sheer rage and eagerness as he circled
back and forth for a chance to spring in. Buck was no less eager, and no less cautious, as he
likewise circled back and forth for the advantage. But it was then that the unexpected
happened, the thing which projected their struggle for supremacy far into the future, past
many a weary mile of trail and toil.
An oath from Perrault, the resounding impact of a club upon a bony frame, and a shrill
yelp of pain, heralded the breaking forth of pandemonium. The camp was suddenly
discovered to be alive with skulking furry forms,— starving huskies, four or five score of them,
who had scented the camp from some Indian village. They had crept in while Buck and Spitz
were fighting, and when the two men sprang among them with stout clubs they showed their
teeth and fought back. They were crazed by the smell of the food. Perrault found one with
head buried in the grub-box. His club landed heavily on the gaunt ribs, and the grub-box was
capsized on the ground. On the instant a score of the famished brutes were scrambling for
the bread and bacon. The clubs fell upon them unheeded. They yelped and howled under the
rain of blows, but struggled none the less madly till the last crumb had been devoured.
In the meantime the astonished team-dogs had burst out of their nests only to be set
upon by the fierce invaders. Never had Buck seen such dogs. It seemed as though their
bones would burst through their skins. They were mere skeletons, draped loosely in draggledhides, with blazing eyes and slavered fangs. But the hunger-madness made them terrifying,
irresistible. There was no opposing them. The team-dogs were swept back against the cliff at
the first onset. Buck was beset by three huskies, and in a trice his head and shoulders were
ripped and slashed. The din was frightful. Billee was crying as usual. Dave and Sol-leks,
dripping blood from a score of wounds, were fighting bravely side by side. Joe was snapping
like a demon. Once, his teeth closed on the fore leg of a husky, and he crunched down
through the bone. Pike, the malingerer, leaped upon the crippled animal, breaking its neck
with a quick flash of teeth and a jerk, Buck got a frothing adversary by the throat, and was
sprayed with blood when his teeth sank through the jugular. The warm taste of it in his mouth
goaded him to greater fierceness. He flung himself upon another, and at the same time felt
teeth sink into his own throat. It was Spitz, treacherously attacking from the side.
Perrault and Francois, having cleaned out their part of the camp, hurried to save their
sled-dogs. The wild wave of famished beasts rolled back before them, and Buck shook himself
free. But it was only for a moment. The two men were compelled to run back to save the
grub, upon which the huskies returned to the attack on the team. Billee, terrified into bravery,
sprang through the savage circle and fled away over the ice. Pike and Dub followed on his
heels, with the rest of the team behind. As Buck drew himself together to spring after them,
out of the tail of his eye he saw Spitz rush upon him with the evident intention of overthrowing
him. Once off his feet and under that mass of huskies, there was no hope for him. But he
braced himself to the shock of Spitz’s charge, then joined the flight out on the lake.
Later, the nine team-dogs gathered together and sought shelter in the forest. Though
unpursued, they were in a sorry plight. There was not one who was not wounded in four or
five places, while some were wounded grievously. Dub was badly injured in a hind leg; Dolly,
the last husky added to the team at Dyea, had a badly torn throat; Joe had lost an eye; while
Billee, the good-natured, with an ear chewed and rent to ribbons, cried and whimpered
throughout the night. At daybreak they limped warily back to camp, to find the marauders
gone and the two men in bad tempers. Fully half their grub supply was gone. The huskies had
chewed through the sled lashings and canvas coverings. In fact, nothing, no matter how
remotely eatable, had escaped them. They had eaten a pair of Perrault’s moose-hide
moccasins, chunks out of the leather traces, and even two feet of lash from the end of
Francois’s whip. He broke from a mournful contemplation of it to look over his wounded dogs.
“Ah, my frien’s,” he said softly, “mebbe it mek you mad dog, dose many bites. Mebbe all
mad dog, sacredam! Wot you t’ink, eh, Perrault?”
The courier shook his head dubiously. With four hundred miles of trail still between him
and Dawson, he could ill afford to have madness break out among his dogs. Two hours of
cursing and exertion got the harnesses into shape, and the wound-stiffened team was under
way, struggling painfully over the hardest part of the trail they had yet encountered, and for
that matter, the hardest between them and Dawson.
The Thirty Mile River was wide open. Its wild water defied the frost, and it was in the
eddies only and in the quiet places that the ice held at all. Six days of exhausting toil were
required to cover those thirty terrible miles. And terrible they were, for every foot of them was
accomplished at the risk of life to dog and man. A dozen times, Perrault, nosing the way broke
through the ice bridges, being saved by the long pole he carried, which he so held that it fell
each time across the hole made by his body. But a cold snap was on, the thermometer
registering fifty below zero, and each time he broke through he was compelled for very life to
build a fire and dry his garments.
Nothing daunted him. It was because nothing daunted him that he had been chosen for
government courier. He took all manner of risks, resolutely thrusting his little weazened face
into the frost and struggling on from dim dawn to dark. He skirted the frowning shores on rim
ice that bent and crackled under foot and upon which they dared not halt. Once, the sled
broke through, with Dave and Buck, and they were half-frozen and all but drowned by the timethey were dragged out. The usual fire was necessary to save them. They were coated solidly
with ice, and the two men kept them on the run around the fire, sweating and thawing, so
close that they were singed by the flames.
At another time Spitz went through, dragging the whole team after him up to Buck, who
strained backward with all his strength, his fore paws on the slippery edge and the ice
quivering and snapping all around. But behind him was Dave, likewise straining backward, and
behind the sled was Francois, pulling till his tendons cracked.
Again, the rim ice broke away before and behind, and there was no escape except up
the cliff. Perrault scaled it by a miracle, while Francois prayed for just that miracle; and with
every thong and sled lashing and the last bit of harness rove into a long rope, the dogs were
hoisted, one by one, to the cliff crest. Francois came up last, after the sled and load. Then
came the search for a place to descend, which descent was ultimately made by the aid of the
rope, and night found them back on the river with a quarter of a mile to the day’s credit.
By the time they made the Hootalinqua and good ice, Buck was played out. The rest of
the dogs were in like condition; but Perrault, to make up lost time, pushed them late and early.
The first day they covered thirty-five miles to the Big Salmon; the next day thirty-five more to
the Little Salmon; the third day forty miles, which brought them well up toward the Five
Buck’s feet were not so compact and hard as the feet of the huskies. His had softened
during the many generations since the day his last wild ancestor was tamed by a cave-dweller
or river man. All day long he limped in agony, and camp once made, lay down like a dead dog.
Hungry as he was, he would not move to receive his ration of fish, which Francois had to bring
to him. Also, the dog-driver rubbed Buck’s feet for half an hour each night after supper, and
sacrificed the tops of his own moccasins to make four moccasins for Buck. This was a great
relief, and Buck caused even the weazened face of Perrault to twist itself into a grin one
morning, when Francois forgot the moccasins and Buck lay on his back, his four feet waving
appealingly in the air, and refused to budge without them. Later his feet grew hard to the trail,
and the worn-out foot-gear was thrown away.
At the Pelly one morning, as they were harnessing up, Dolly, who had never been
conspicuous for anything, went suddenly mad. She announced her condition by a long,
heartbreaking wolf howl that sent every dog bristling with fear, then sprang straight for Buck.
He had never seen a dog go mad, nor did he have any reason to fear madness; yet he knew
that here was horror, and fled away from it in a panic. Straight away he raced, with Dolly,
panting and frothing, one leap behind; nor could she gain on him, so great was his terror, nor
could he leave her, so great was her madness. He plunged through the wooded breast of the
island, flew down to the lower end, crossed a back channel filled with rough ice to another
island, gained a third island, curved back to the main river, and in desperation started to cross
it. And all the time, though he did not look, he could hear her snarling just one leap behind.
Francois called to him a quarter of a mile away and he doubled back, still one leap ahead,
gasping painfully for air and putting all his faith in that Francois would save him. The
dogdriver held the axe poised in his hand, and as Buck shot past him the axe crashed down upon
mad Dolly’s head.
Buck staggered over against the sled, exhausted, sobbing for breath, helpless. This was
Spitz’s opportunity. He sprang upon Buck, and twice his teeth sank into his unresisting foe and
ripped and tore the flesh to the bone. Then Francois’s lash descended, and Buck had the
satisfaction of watching Spitz receive the worst whipping as yet administered to any of the
“One devil, dat Spitz,” remarked Perrault. “Some dam day heem keel dat Buck.”
“Dat Buck two devils,” was Francois’s rejoinder. “All de tam I watch dat Buck I know for
sure. Lissen: some dam fine day heem get mad lak hell an’ den heem chew dat Spitz all up
an’ spit heem out on de snow. Sure. I know.”From then on it was war between them. Spitz, as lead-dog and acknowledged master of
the team, felt his supremacy threatened by this strange Southland dog. And strange Buck was
to him, for of the many Southland dogs he had known, not one had shown up worthily in camp
and on trail. They were all too soft, dying under the toil, the frost, and starvation. Buck was
the exception. He alone endured and prospered, matching the husky in strength, savagery,
and cunning. Then he was a masterful dog, and what made him dangerous was the fact that
the club of the man in the red sweater had knocked all blind pluck and rashness out of his
desire for mastery. He was preeminently cunning, and could bide his time with a patience that
was nothing less than primitive.
It was inevitable that the clash for leadership should come. Buck wanted it. He wanted it
because it was his nature, because he had been gripped tight by that nameless,
incomprehensible pride of the trail and trace — that pride which holds dogs in the toil to the
last gasp, which lures them to die joyfully in the harness, and breaks their hearts if they are
cut out of the harness. This was the pride of Dave as wheel-dog, of Sol-leks as he pulled with
all his strength; the pride that laid hold of them at break of camp, transforming them from sour
and sullen brutes into straining, eager, ambitious creatures; the pride that spurred them on all
day and dropped them at pitch of camp at night, letting them fall back into gloomy unrest and
uncontent. This was the pride that bore up Spitz and made him thrash the sled-dogs who
blundered and shirked in the traces or hid away at harness-up time in the morning. Likewise it
was this pride that made him fear Buck as a possible lead-dog. And this was Buck’s pride, too.
He openly threatened the other’s leadership. He came between him and the shirks he
should have punished. And he did it deliberately. One night there was a heavy snowfall, and in
the morning Pike, the malingerer, did not appear. He was securely hidden in his nest under a
foot of snow. Francois called him and sought him in vain. Spitz was wild with wrath. He raged
through the camp, smelling and digging in every likely place, snarling so frightfully that Pike
heard and shivered in his hiding-place.
But when he was at last unearthed, and Spitz flew at him to punish him, Buck flew, with
equal rage, in between. So unexpected was it, and so shrewdly managed, that Spitz was
hurled backward and off his feet. Pike, who had been trembling abjectly, took heart at this
open mutiny, and sprang upon his overthrown leader. Buck, to whom fair play was a forgotten
code, likewise sprang upon Spitz. But Francois, chuckling at the incident while unswerving in
the administration of justice, brought his lash down upon Buck with all his might. This failed to
drive Buck from his prostrate rival, and the butt of the whip was brought into play.
Halfstunned by the blow, Buck was knocked backward and the lash laid upon him again and
again, while Spitz soundly punished the many times offending Pike.
In the days that followed, as Dawson grew closer and closer, Buck still continued to
interfere between Spitz and the culprits; but he did it craftily, when Francois was not around,
With the covert mutiny of Buck, a general insubordination sprang up and increased. Dave and
Sol-leks were unaffected, but the rest of the team went from bad to worse. Things no longer
went right. There was continual bickering and jangling. Trouble was always afoot, and at the
bottom of it was Buck. He kept Francois busy, for the dog-driver was in constant
apprehension of the life-and-death struggle between the two which he knew must take place
sooner or later; and on more than one night the sounds of quarrelling and strife among the
other dogs turned him out of his sleeping robe, fearful that Buck and Spitz were at it.
But the opportunity did not present itself, and they pulled into Dawson one dreary
afternoon with the great fight still to come. Here were many men, and countless dogs, and
Buck found them all at work. It seemed the ordained order of things that dogs should work. All
day they swung up and down the main street in long teams, and in the night their jingling bells
still went by. They hauled cabin logs and firewood, freighted up to the mines, and did all
manner of work that horses did in the Santa Clara Valley. Here and there Buck met Southland
dogs, but in the main they were the wild wolf husky breed. Every night, regularly, at nine, attwelve, at three, they lifted a nocturnal song, a weird and eerie chant, in which it was Buck’s
delight to join.
With the aurora borealis flaming coldly overhead, or the stars leaping in the frost dance,
and the land numb and frozen under its pall of snow, this song of the huskies might have been
the defiance of life, only it was pitched in minor key, with long-drawn wailings and half-sobs,
and was more the pleading of life, the articulate travail of existence. It was an old song, old as
the breed itself — one of the first songs of the younger world in a day when songs were sad.
It was invested with the woe of unnumbered generations, this plaint by which Buck was so
strangely stirred. When he moaned and sobbed, it was with the pain of living that was of old
the pain of his wild fathers, and the fear and mystery of the cold and dark that was to them
fear and mystery. And that he should be stirred by it marked the completeness with which he
harked back through the ages of fire and roof to the raw beginnings of life in the howling ages.
Seven days from the time they pulled into Dawson, they dropped down the steep bank
by the Barracks to the Yukon Trail, and pulled for Dyea and Salt Water. Perrault was carrying
despatches if anything more urgent than those he had brought in; also, the travel pride had
gripped him, and he purposed to make the record trip of the year. Several things favored him
in this. The week’s rest had recuperated the dogs and put them in thorough trim. The trail they
had broken into the country was packed hard by later journeyers. And further, the police had
arranged in two or three places deposits of grub for dog and man, and he was travelling light.
They made Sixty Mile, which is a fifty-mile run, on the first day; and the second day saw
them booming up the Yukon well on their way to Pelly. But such splendid running was
achieved not without great trouble and vexation on the part of Francois. The insidious revolt
led by Buck had destroyed the solidarity of the team. It no longer was as one dog leaping in
the traces. The encouragement Buck gave the rebels led them into all kinds of petty
misdemeanors. No more was Spitz a leader greatly to be feared. The old awe departed, and
they grew equal to challenging his authority. Pike robbed him of half a fish one night, and
gulped it down under the protection of Buck. Another night Dub and Joe fought Spitz and
made him forego the punishment they deserved. And even Billee, the good-natured, was less
good-natured, and whined not half so placatingly as in former days. Buck never came near
Spitz without snarling and bristling menacingly. In fact, his conduct approached that of a bully,
and he was given to swaggering up and down before Spitz’s very nose.
The breaking down of discipline likewise affected the dogs in their relations with one
another. They quarrelled and bickered more than ever among themselves, till at times the
camp was a howling bedlam. Dave and Sol-leks alone were unaltered, though they were made
irritable by the unending squabbling. Francois swore strange barbarous oaths, and stamped
the snow in futile rage, and tore his hair. His lash was always singing among the dogs, but it
was of small avail. Directly his back was turned they were at it again. He backed up Spitz with
his whip, while Buck backed up the remainder of the team. Francois knew he was behind all
the trouble, and Buck knew he knew; but Buck was too clever ever again to be caught
redhanded. He worked faithfully in the harness, for the toil had become a delight to him; yet it
was a greater delight slyly to precipitate a fight amongst his mates and tangle the traces.
At the mouth of the Tahkeena, one night after supper, Dub turned up a snowshoe rabbit,
blundered it, and missed. In a second the whole team was in full cry. A hundred yards away
was a camp of the Northwest Police, with fifty dogs, huskies all, who joined the chase. The
rabbit sped down the river, turned off into a small creek, up the frozen bed of which it held
steadily. It ran lightly on the surface of the snow, while the dogs ploughed through by main
strength. Buck led the pack, sixty strong, around bend after bend, but he could not gain. He
lay down low to the race, whining eagerly, his splendid body flashing forward, leap by leap, in
the wan white moonlight. And leap by leap, like some pale frost wraith, the snowshoe rabbit
flashed on ahead.
All that stirring of old instincts which at stated periods drives men out from the soundingcities to forest and plain to kill things by chemically propelled leaden pellets, the blood lust, the
joy to kill — all this was Buck’s, only it was infinitely more intimate. He was ranging at the head
of the pack, running the wild thing down, the living meat, to kill with his own teeth and wash his
muzzle to the eyes in warm blood.
There is an ecstasy that marks the summit of life, and beyond which life cannot rise. And
such is the paradox of living, this ecstasy comes when one is most alive, and it comes as a
complete forgetfulness that one is alive. This ecstasy, this forgetfulness of living, comes to the
artist, caught up and out of himself in a sheet of flame; it comes to the soldier, war-mad on a
stricken field and refusing quarter; and it came to Buck, leading the pack, sounding the old
wolf-cry, straining after the food that was alive and that fled swiftly before him through the
moonlight. He was sounding the deeps of his nature, and of the parts of his nature that were
deeper than he, going back into the womb of Time. He was mastered by the sheer surging of
life, the tidal wave of being, the perfect joy of each separate muscle, joint, and sinew in that it
was everything that was not death, that it was aglow and rampant, expressing itself in
movement, flying exultantly under the stars and over the face of dead matter that did not
But Spitz, cold and calculating even in his supreme moods, left the pack and cut across a
narrow neck of land where the creek made a long bend around. Buck did not know of this, and
as he rounded the bend, the frost wraith of a rabbit still flitting before him, he saw another and
larger frost wraith leap from the overhanging bank into the immediate path of the rabbit. It was
Spitz. The rabbit could not turn, and as the white teeth broke its back in mid air it shrieked as
loudly as a stricken man may shriek. At sound of this, the cry of Life plunging down from Life’s
apex in the grip of Death, the fall pack at Buck’s heels raised a hell’s chorus of delight.
Buck did not cry out. He did not check himself, but drove in upon Spitz, shoulder to
shoulder, so hard that he missed the throat. They rolled over and over in the powdery snow.
Spitz gained his feet almost as though he had not been overthrown, slashing Buck down the
shoulder and leaping clear. Twice his teeth clipped together, like the steel jaws of a trap, as he
backed away for better footing, with lean and lifting lips that writhed and snarled.
In a flash Buck knew it. The time had come. It was to the death. As they circled about,
snarling, ears laid back, keenly watchful for the advantage, the scene came to Buck with a
sense of familiarity. He seemed to remember it all,— the white woods, and earth, and
moonlight, and the thrill of battle. Over the whiteness and silence brooded a ghostly calm.
There was not the faintest whisper of air — nothing moved, not a leaf quivered, the visible
breaths of the dogs rising slowly and lingering in the frosty air. They had made short work of
the snowshoe rabbit, these dogs that were ill-tamed wolves; and they were now drawn up in
an expectant circle. They, too, were silent, their eyes only gleaming and their breaths drifting
slowly upward. To Buck it was nothing new or strange, this scene of old time. It was as though
it had always been, the wonted way of things.
Spitz was a practised fighter. From Spitzbergen through the Arctic, and across Canada
and the Barrens, he had held his own with all manner of dogs and achieved to mastery over
them. Bitter rage was his, but never blind rage. In passion to rend and destroy, he never
forgot that his enemy was in like passion to rend and destroy. He never rushed till he was
prepared to receive a rush; never attacked till he had first defended that attack.
In vain Buck strove to sink his teeth in the neck of the big white dog. Wherever his fangs
struck for the softer flesh, they were countered by the fangs of Spitz. Fang clashed fang, and
lips were cut and bleeding, but Buck could not penetrate his enemy’s guard. Then he warmed
up and enveloped Spitz in a whirlwind of rushes. Time and time again he tried for the
snowwhite throat, where life bubbled near to the surface, and each time and every time Spitz
slashed him and got away. Then Buck took to rushing, as though for the throat, when,
suddenly drawing back his head and curving in from the side, he would drive his shoulder at
the shoulder of Spitz, as a ram by which to overthrow him. But instead, Buck’s shoulder wasslashed down each time as Spitz leaped lightly away.
Spitz was untouched, while Buck was streaming with blood and panting hard. The fight
was growing desperate. And all the while the silent and wolfish circle waited to finish off
whichever dog went down. As Buck grew winded, Spitz took to rushing, and he kept him
staggering for footing. Once Buck went over, and the whole circle of sixty dogs started up; but
he recovered himself, almost in mid air, and the circle sank down again and waited.
But Buck possessed a quality that made for greatness — imagination. He fought by
instinct, but he could fight by head as well. He rushed, as though attempting the old shoulder
trick, but at the last instant swept low to the snow and in. His teeth closed on Spitz’s left fore
leg. There was a crunch of breaking bone, and the white dog faced him on three legs. Thrice
he tried to knock him over, then repeated the trick and broke the right fore leg. Despite the
pain and helplessness, Spitz struggled madly to keep up. He saw the silent circle, with
gleaming eyes, lolling tongues, and silvery breaths drifting upward, closing in upon him as he
had seen similar circles close in upon beaten antagonists in the past. Only this time he was
the one who was beaten.
There was no hope for him. Buck was inexorable. Mercy was a thing reserved for gentler
climes. He manoeuvred for the final rush. The circle had tightened till he could feel the breaths
of the huskies on his flanks. He could see them, beyond Spitz and to either side, half
crouching for the spring, their eyes fixed upon him. A pause seemed to fall. Every animal was
motionless as though turned to stone. Only Spitz quivered and bristled as he staggered back
and forth, snarling with horrible menace, as though to frighten off impending death. Then Buck
sprang in and out; but while he was in, shoulder had at last squarely met shoulder. The dark
circle became a dot on the moon-flooded snow as Spitz disappeared from view. Buck stood
and looked on, the successful champion, the dominant primordial beast who had made his kill
and found it good.Chapter 4 — Who Has Won to Mastership

“Eh? Wot I say? I spik true w’en I say dat Buck two devils.” This was Francois’s speech
next morning when he discovered Spitz missing and Buck covered with wounds. He drew him
to the fire and by its light pointed them out.
“Dat Spitz fight lak hell,” said Perrault, as he surveyed the gaping rips and cuts.
“An’ dat Buck fight lak two hells,” was Francois’s answer. “An’ now we make good time.
No more Spitz, no more trouble, sure.”
While Perrault packed the camp outfit and loaded the sled, the dog-driver proceeded to
harness the dogs. Buck trotted up to the place Spitz would have occupied as leader; but
Francois, not noticing him, brought Sol-leks to the coveted position. In his judgment, Sol-leks
was the best lead-dog left. Buck sprang upon Sol-leks in a fury, driving him back and standing
in his place.
“Eh? eh?” Francois cried, slapping his thighs gleefully. “Look at dat Buck. Heem keel dat
Spitz, heem t’ink to take de job.”
“Go ‘way, Chook!” he cried, but Buck refused to budge.
He took Buck by the scruff of the neck, and though the dog growled threateningly,
dragged him to one side and replaced Sol-leks. The old dog did not like it, and showed plainly
that he was afraid of Buck. Francois was obdurate, but when he turned his back Buck again
displaced Sol-leks, who was not at all unwilling to go.
Francois was angry. “Now, by Gar, I feex you!” he cried, coming back with a heavy club
in his hand.
Buck remembered the man in the red sweater, and retreated slowly; nor did he attempt
to charge in when Sol-leks was once more brought forward. But he circled just beyond the
range of the club, snarling with bitterness and rage; and while he circled he watched the club
so as to dodge it if thrown by Francois, for he was become wise in the way of clubs. The
driver went about his work, and he called to Buck when he was ready to put him in his old
place in front of Dave. Buck retreated two or three steps. Francois followed him up,
whereupon he again retreated. After some time of this, Francois threw down the club, thinking
that Buck feared a thrashing. But Buck was in open revolt. He wanted, not to escape a
clubbing, but to have the leadership. It was his by right. He had earned it, and he would not be
content with less.
Perrault took a hand. Between them they ran him about for the better part of an hour.
They threw clubs at him. He dodged. They cursed him, and his fathers and mothers before
him, and all his seed to come after him down to the remotest generation, and every hair on
his body and drop of blood in his veins; and he answered curse with snarl and kept out of their
reach. He did not try to run away, but retreated around and around the camp, advertising
plainly that when his desire was met, he would come in and be good.
Francois sat down and scratched his head. Perrault looked at his watch and swore. Time
was flying, and they should have been on the trail an hour gone. Francois scratched his head
again. He shook it and grinned sheepishly at the courier, who shrugged his shoulders in sign
that they were beaten. Then Francois went up to where Sol-leks stood and called to Buck.
Buck laughed, as dogs laugh, yet kept his distance. Francois unfastened Sol-leks’s traces and
put him back in his old place. The team stood harnessed to the sled in an unbroken line, ready
for the trail. There was no place for Buck save at the front. Once more Francois called, and
once more Buck laughed and kept away.
“T’row down de club,” Perrault commanded.
Francois complied, whereupon Buck trotted in, laughing triumphantly, and swung aroundinto position at the head of the team. His traces were fastened, the sled broken out, and with
both men running they dashed out on to the river trail.
Highly as the dog-driver had forevalued Buck, with his two devils, he found, while the day
was yet young, that he had undervalued. At a bound Buck took up the duties of leadership;
and where judgment was required, and quick thinking and quick acting, he showed himself the
superior even of Spitz, of whom Francois had never seen an equal.
But it was in giving the law and making his mates live up to it, that Buck excelled. Dave
and Sol-leks did not mind the change in leadership. It was none of their business. Their
business was to toil, and toil mightily, in the traces. So long as that were not interfered with,
they did not care what happened. Billee, the good-natured, could lead for all they cared, so
long as he kept order. The rest of the team, however, had grown unruly during the last days
of Spitz, and their surprise was great now that Buck proceeded to lick them into shape.
Pike, who pulled at Buck’s heels, and who never put an ounce more of his weight against
the breast-band than he was compelled to do, was swiftly and repeatedly shaken for loafing;
and ere the first day was done he was pulling more than ever before in his life. The first night
in camp, Joe, the sour one, was punished roundly — a thing that Spitz had never succeeded
in doing. Buck simply smothered him by virtue of superior weight, and cut him up till he
ceased snapping and began to whine for mercy.
The general tone of the team picked up immediately. It recovered its old-time solidarity,
and once more the dogs leaped as one dog in the traces. At the Rink Rapids two native
huskies, Teek and Koona, were added; and the celerity with which Buck broke them in took
away Francois’s breath.
“Nevaire such a dog as dat Buck!” he cried. “No, nevaire! Heem worth one t’ousan’
dollair, by Gar! Eh? Wot you say, Perrault?”
And Perrault nodded. He was ahead of the record then, and gaining day by day. The trail
was in excellent condition, well packed and hard, and there was no new-fallen snow with which
to contend. It was not too cold. The temperature dropped to fifty below zero and remained
there the whole trip. The men rode and ran by turn, and the dogs were kept on the jump, with
but infrequent stoppages.
The Thirty Mile River was comparatively coated with ice, and they covered in one day
going out what had taken them ten days coming in. In one run they made a sixty-mile dash
from the foot of Lake Le Barge to the White Horse Rapids. Across Marsh, Tagish, and
Bennett (seventy miles of lakes), they flew so fast that the man whose turn it was to run
towed behind the sled at the end of a rope. And on the last night of the second week they
topped White Pass and dropped down the sea slope with the lights of Skaguay and of the
shipping at their feet.
It was a record run. Each day for fourteen days they had averaged forty miles. For three
days Perrault and Francois threw chests up and down the main street of Skaguay and were
deluged with invitations to drink, while the team was the constant centre of a worshipful crowd
of dog-busters and mushers. Then three or four western bad men aspired to clean out the
town, were riddled like pepper-boxes for their pains, and public interest turned to other idols.
Next came official orders. Francois called Buck to him, threw his arms around him, wept over
him. And that was the last of Francois and Perrault. Like other men, they passed out of Buck’s
life for good.
A Scotch half-breed took charge of him and his mates, and in company with a dozen
other dog-teams he started back over the weary trail to Dawson. It was no light running now,
nor record time, but heavy toil each day, with a heavy load behind; for this was the mail train,
carrying word from the world to the men who sought gold under the shadow of the Pole.
Buck did not like it, but he bore up well to the work, taking pride in it after the manner of
Dave and Sol-leks, and seeing that his mates, whether they prided in it or not, did their fair
share. It was a monotonous life, operating with machine-like regularity. One day was very likeanother. At a certain time each morning the cooks turned out, fires were built, and breakfast
was eaten. Then, while some broke camp, others harnessed the dogs, and they were under
way an hour or so before the darkness fell which gave warning of dawn. At night, camp was
made. Some pitched the flies, others cut firewood and pine boughs for the beds, and still
others carried water or ice for the cooks. Also, the dogs were fed. To them, this was the one
feature of the day, though it was good to loaf around, after the fish was eaten, for an hour or
so with the other dogs, of which there were fivescore and odd. There were fierce fighters
among them, but three battles with the fiercest brought Buck to mastery, so that when he
bristled and showed his teeth they got out of his way.
Best of all, perhaps, he loved to lie near the fire, hind legs crouched under him, fore legs
stretched out in front, head raised, and eyes blinking dreamily at the flames. Sometimes he
thought of Judge Miller’s big house in the sun-kissed Santa Clara Valley, and of the cement
swimming-tank, and Ysabel, the Mexican hairless, and Toots, the Japanese pug; but oftener
he remembered the man in the red sweater, the death of Curly, the great fight with Spitz, and
the good things he had eaten or would like to eat. He was not homesick. The Sunland was
very dim and distant, and such memories had no power over him. Far more potent were the
memories of his heredity that gave things he had never seen before a seeming familiarity; the
instincts (which were but the memories of his ancestors become habits) which had lapsed in
later days, and still later, in him, quickened and become alive again.
Sometimes as he crouched there, blinking dreamily at the flames, it seemed that the
flames were of another fire, and that as he crouched by this other fire he saw another and
different man from the half-breed cook before him. This other man was shorter of leg and
longer of arm, with muscles that were stringy and knotty rather than rounded and swelling.
The hair of this man was long and matted, and his head slanted back under it from the eyes.
He uttered strange sounds, and seemed very much afraid of the darkness, into which he
peered continually, clutching in his hand, which hung midway between knee and foot, a stick
with a heavy stone made fast to the end. He was all but naked, a ragged and fire-scorched
skin hanging part way down his back, but on his body there was much hair. In some places,
across the chest and shoulders and down the outside of the arms and thighs, it was matted
into almost a thick fur. He did not stand erect, but with trunk inclined forward from the hips, on
legs that bent at the knees. About his body there was a peculiar springiness, or resiliency,
almost catlike, and a quick alertness as of one who lived in perpetual fear of things seen and
At other times this hairy man squatted by the fire with head between his legs and slept.
On such occasions his elbows were on his knees, his hands clasped above his head as
though to shed rain by the hairy arms. And beyond that fire, in the circling darkness, Buck
could see many gleaming coals, two by two, always two by two, which he knew to be the eyes
of great beasts of prey. And he could hear the crashing of their bodies through the
undergrowth, and the noises they made in the night. And dreaming there by the Yukon bank,
with lazy eyes blinking at the fire, these sounds and sights of another world would make the
hair to rise along his back and stand on end across his shoulders and up his neck, till he
whimpered low and suppressedly, or growled softly, and the half-breed cook shouted at him,
“Hey, you Buck, wake up!” Whereupon the other world would vanish and the real world come
into his eyes, and he would get up and yawn and stretch as though he had been asleep.
It was a hard trip, with the mail behind them, and the heavy work wore them down. They
were short of weight and in poor condition when they made Dawson, and should have had a
ten days’ or a week’s rest at least. But in two days’ time they dropped down the Yukon bank
from the Barracks, loaded with letters for the outside. The dogs were tired, the drivers
grumbling, and to make matters worse, it snowed every day. This meant a soft trail, greater
friction on the runners, and heavier pulling for the dogs; yet the drivers were fair through it all,
and did their best for the animals.Each night the dogs were attended to first. They ate before the drivers ate, and no man
sought his sleeping-robe till he had seen to the feet of the dogs he drove. Still, their strength
went down. Since the beginning of the winter they had travelled eighteen hundred miles,
dragging sleds the whole weary distance; and eighteen hundred miles will tell upon life of the
toughest. Buck stood it, keeping his mates up to their work and maintaining discipline, though
he, too, was very tired. Billee cried and whimpered regularly in his sleep each night. Joe was
sourer than ever, and Sol-leks was unapproachable, blind side or other side.
But it was Dave who suffered most of all. Something had gone wrong with him. He
became more morose and irritable, and when camp was pitched at once made his nest,
where his driver fed him. Once out of the harness and down, he did not get on his feet again
till harness-up time in the morning. Sometimes, in the traces, when jerked by a sudden
stoppage of the sled, or by straining to start it, he would cry out with pain. The driver
examined him, but could find nothing. All the drivers became interested in his case. They
talked it over at meal-time, and over their last pipes before going to bed, and one night they
held a consultation. He was brought from his nest to the fire and was pressed and prodded till
he cried out many times. Something was wrong inside, but they could locate no broken bones,
could not make it out.
By the time Cassiar Bar was reached, he was so weak that he was falling repeatedly in
the traces. The Scotch half-breed called a halt and took him out of the team, making the next
dog, Sol-leks, fast to the sled. His intention was to rest Dave, letting him run free behind the
sled. Sick as he was, Dave resented being taken out, grunting and growling while the traces
were unfastened, and whimpering broken-heartedly when he saw Sol-leks in the position he
had held and served so long. For the pride of trace and trail was his, and, sick unto death, he
could not bear that another dog should do his work.
When the sled started, he floundered in the soft snow alongside the beaten trail,
attacking Sol-leks with his teeth, rushing against him and trying to thrust him off into the soft
snow on the other side, striving to leap inside his traces and get between him and the sled,
and all the while whining and yelping and crying with grief and pain. The half-breed tried to
drive him away with the whip; but he paid no heed to the stinging lash, and the man had not
the heart to strike harder. Dave refused to run quietly on the trail behind the sled, where the
going was easy, but continued to flounder alongside in the soft snow, where the going was
most difficult, till exhausted. Then he fell, and lay where he fell, howling lugubriously as the
long train of sleds churned by.
With the last remnant of his strength he managed to stagger along behind till the train
made another stop, when he floundered past the sleds to his own, where he stood alongside
Sol-leks. His driver lingered a moment to get a light for his pipe from the man behind. Then he
returned and started his dogs. They swung out on the trail with remarkable lack of exertion,
turned their heads uneasily, and stopped in surprise. The driver was surprised, too; the sled
had not moved. He called his comrades to witness the sight. Dave had bitten through both of
Sol-leks’s traces, and was standing directly in front of the sled in his proper place.
He pleaded with his eyes to remain there. The driver was perplexed. His comrades talked
of how a dog could break its heart through being denied the work that killed it, and recalled
instances they had known, where dogs, too old for the toil, or injured, had died because they
were cut out of the traces. Also, they held it a mercy, since Dave was to die anyway, that he
should die in the traces, heart-easy and content. So he was harnessed in again, and proudly
he pulled as of old, though more than once he cried out involuntarily from the bite of his
inward hurt. Several times he fell down and was dragged in the traces, and once the sled ran
upon him so that he limped thereafter in one of his hind legs.
But he held out till camp was reached, when his driver made a place for him by the fire.
Morning found him too weak to travel. At harness-up time he tried to crawl to his driver. By
convulsive efforts he got on his feet, staggered, and fell. Then he wormed his way forwardslowly toward where the harnesses were being put on his mates. He would advance his fore
legs and drag up his body with a sort of hitching movement, when he would advance his fore
legs and hitch ahead again for a few more inches. His strength left him, and the last his mates
saw of him he lay gasping in the snow and yearning toward them. But they could hear him
mournfully howling till they passed out of sight behind a belt of river timber.
Here the train was halted. The Scotch half-breed slowly retraced his steps to the camp
they had left. The men ceased talking. A revolver-shot rang out. The man came back
hurriedly. The whips snapped, the bells tinkled merrily, the sleds churned along the trail; but
Buck knew, and every dog knew, what had taken place behind the belt of river trees.Chapter 5 — The Toil of Trace and Trail

Thirty days from the time it left Dawson, the Salt Water Mail, with Buck and his mates at
the fore, arrived at Skaguay. They were in a wretched state, worn out and worn down. Buck’s
one hundred and forty pounds had dwindled to one hundred and fifteen. The rest of his
mates, though lighter dogs, had relatively lost more weight than he. Pike, the malingerer, who,
in his lifetime of deceit, had often successfully feigned a hurt leg, was now limping in earnest.
Sol-leks was limping, and Dub was suffering from a wrenched shoulder-blade.
They were all terribly footsore. No spring or rebound was left in them. Their feet fell
heavily on the trail, jarring their bodies and doubling the fatigue of a day’s travel. There was
nothing the matter with them except that they were dead tired. It was not the dead-tiredness
that comes through brief and excessive effort, from which recovery is a matter of hours; but it
was the dead-tiredness that comes through the slow and prolonged strength drainage of
months of toil. There was no power of recuperation left, no reserve strength to call upon. It
had been all used, the last least bit of it. Every muscle, every fibre, every cell, was tired, dead
tired. And there was reason for it. In less than five months they had travelled twenty-five
hundred miles, during the last eighteen hundred of which they had had but five days’ rest.
When they arrived at Skaguay they were apparently on their last legs. They could barely keep
the traces taut, and on the down grades just managed to keep out of the way of the sled.
“Mush on, poor sore feets,” the driver encouraged them as they tottered down the main
street of Skaguay. “Dis is de las’. Den we get one long res’. Eh? For sure. One bully long
The drivers confidently expected a long stopover. Themselves, they had covered twelve
hundred miles with two days’ rest, and in the nature of reason and common justice they
deserved an interval of loafing. But so many were the men who had rushed into the Klondike,
and so many were the sweethearts, wives, and kin that had not rushed in, that the congested
mail was taking on Alpine proportions; also, there were official orders. Fresh batches of
Hudson Bay dogs were to take the places of those worthless for the trail. The worthless ones
were to be got rid of, and, since dogs count for little against dollars, they were to be sold.
Three days passed, by which time Buck and his mates found how really tired and weak
they were. Then, on the morning of the fourth day, two men from the States came along and
bought them, harness and all, for a song. The men addressed each other as “Hal” and
“Charles.” Charles was a middle-aged, lightish-colored man, with weak and watery eyes and a
mustache that twisted fiercely and vigorously up, giving the lie to the limply drooping lip it
concealed. Hal was a youngster of nineteen or twenty, with a big Colt’s revolver and a
hunting-knife strapped about him on a belt that fairly bristled with cartridges. This belt was the
most salient thing about him. It advertised his callowness — a callowness sheer and
unutterable. Both men were manifestly out of place, and why such as they should adventure
the North is part of the mystery of things that passes understanding.
Buck heard the chaffering, saw the money pass between the man and the Government
agent, and knew that the Scotch half-breed and the mail-train drivers were passing out of his
life on the heels of Perrault and Francois and the others who had gone before. When driven
with his mates to the new owners’ camp, Buck saw a slipshod and slovenly affair, tent half
stretched, dishes unwashed, everything in disorder; also, he saw a woman. “Mercedes” the
men called her. She was Charles’s wife and Hal’s sister — a nice family party.
Buck watched them apprehensively as they proceeded to take down the tent and load
the sled. There was a great deal of effort about their manner, but no businesslike method.
The tent was rolled into an awkward bundle three times as large as it should have been. Thetin dishes were packed away unwashed. Mercedes continually fluttered in the way of her men
and kept up an unbroken chattering of remonstrance and advice. When they put a
clothessack on the front of the sled, she suggested it should go on the back; and when they had put
it on the back, and covered it over with a couple of other bundles, she discovered overlooked
articles which could abide nowhere else but in that very sack, and they unloaded again.
Three men from a neighboring tent came out and looked on, grinning and winking at one
“You’ve got a right smart load as it is,” said one of them; “and it’s not me should tell you
your business, but I wouldn’t tote that tent along if I was you.”
“Undreamed of!” cried Mercedes, throwing up her hands in dainty dismay. “However in
the world could I manage without a tent?”
“It’s springtime, and you won’t get any more cold weather,” the man replied.
She shook her head decidedly, and Charles and Hal put the last odds and ends on top
the mountainous load.
“Think it’ll ride?” one of the men asked.
“Why shouldn’t it?” Charles demanded rather shortly.
“Oh, that’s all right, that’s all right,” the man hastened meekly to say. “I was just
awonderin’, that is all. It seemed a mite top-heavy.”
Charles turned his back and drew the lashings down as well as he could, which was not
in the least well.
“An’ of course the dogs can hike along all day with that contraption behind them,”
affirmed a second of the men.
“Certainly,” said Hal, with freezing politeness, taking hold of the gee-pole with one hand
and swinging his whip from the other. “Mush!” he shouted. “Mush on there!”
The dogs sprang against the breast-bands, strained hard for a few moments, then
relaxed. They were unable to move the sled.
“The lazy brutes, I’ll show them,” he cried, preparing to lash out at them with the whip.
But Mercedes interfered, crying, “Oh, Hal, you mustn’t,” as she caught hold of the whip
and wrenched it from him. “The poor dears! Now you must promise you won’t be harsh with
them for the rest of the trip, or I won’t go a step.”
“Precious lot you know about dogs,” her brother sneered; “and I wish you’d leave me
alone. They’re lazy, I tell you, and you’ve got to whip them to get anything out of them. That’s
their way. You ask any one. Ask one of those men.”
Mercedes looked at them imploringly, untold repugnance at sight of pain written in her
pretty face.
“They’re weak as water, if you want to know,” came the reply from one of the men.
“Plum tuckered out, that’s what’s the matter. They need a rest.”
“Rest be blanked,” said Hal, with his beardless lips; and Mercedes said, “Oh!” in pain and
sorrow at the oath.
But she was a clannish creature, and rushed at once to the defence of her brother.
“Never mind that man,” she said pointedly. “You’re driving our dogs, and you do what you
think best with them.”
Again Hal’s whip fell upon the dogs. They threw themselves against the breast-bands,
dug their feet into the packed snow, got down low to it, and put forth all their strength. The
sled held as though it were an anchor. After two efforts, they stood still, panting. The whip was
whistling savagely, when once more Mercedes interfered. She dropped on her knees before
Buck, with tears in her eyes, and put her arms around his neck.
“You poor, poor dears,” she cried sympathetically, “why don’t you pull hard?— then you
wouldn’t be whipped.” Buck did not like her, but he was feeling too miserable to resist her,
taking it as part of the day’s miserable work.
One of the onlookers, who had been clenching his teeth to suppress hot speech, nowspoke up:—
“It’s not that I care a whoop what becomes of you, but for the dogs’ sakes I just want to
tell you, you can help them a mighty lot by breaking out that sled. The runners are froze fast.
Throw your weight against the gee-pole, right and left, and break it out.”
A third time the attempt was made, but this time, following the advice, Hal broke out the
runners which had been frozen to the snow. The overloaded and unwieldy sled forged ahead,
Buck and his mates struggling frantically under the rain of blows. A hundred yards ahead the
path turned and sloped steeply into the main street. It would have required an experienced
man to keep the top-heavy sled upright, and Hal was not such a man. As they swung on the
turn the sled went over, spilling half its load through the loose lashings. The dogs never
stopped. The lightened sled bounded on its side behind them. They were angry because of
the ill treatment they had received and the unjust load. Buck was raging. He broke into a run,
the team following his lead. Hal cried “Whoa! whoa!” but they gave no heed. He tripped and
was pulled off his feet. The capsized sled ground over him, and the dogs dashed on up the
street, adding to the gayety of Skaguay as they scattered the remainder of the outfit along its
chief thoroughfare.
Kind-hearted citizens caught the dogs and gathered up the scattered belongings. Also,
they gave advice. Half the load and twice the dogs, if they ever expected to reach Dawson,
was what was said. Hal and his sister and brother-in-law listened unwillingly, pitched tent, and
overhauled the outfit. Canned goods were turned out that made men laugh, for canned goods
on the Long Trail is a thing to dream about. “Blankets for a hotel” quoth one of the men who
laughed and helped. “Half as many is too much; get rid of them. Throw away that tent, and all
those dishes,— who’s going to wash them, anyway? Good Lord, do you think you’re travelling
on a Pullman?”
And so it went, the inexorable elimination of the superfluous. Mercedes cried when her
clothes-bags were dumped on the ground and article after article was thrown out. She cried in
general, and she cried in particular over each discarded thing. She clasped hands about
knees, rocking back and forth broken-heartedly. She averred she would not go an inch, not for
a dozen Charleses. She appealed to everybody and to everything, finally wiping her eyes and
proceeding to cast out even articles of apparel that were imperative necessaries. And in her
zeal, when she had finished with her own, she attacked the belongings of her men and went
through them like a tornado.
This accomplished, the outfit, though cut in half, was still a formidable bulk. Charles and
Hal went out in the evening and bought six Outside dogs. These, added to the six of the
original team, and Teek and Koona, the huskies obtained at the Rink Rapids on the record
trip, brought the team up to fourteen. But the Outside dogs, though practically broken in since
their landing, did not amount to much. Three were short-haired pointers, one was a
Newfoundland, and the other two were mongrels of indeterminate breed. They did not seem
to know anything, these newcomers. Buck and his comrades looked upon them with disgust,
and though he speedily taught them their places and what not to do, he could not teach them
what to do. They did not take kindly to trace and trail. With the exception of the two mongrels,
they were bewildered and spirit-broken by the strange savage environment in which they
found themselves and by the ill treatment they had received. The two mongrels were without
spirit at all; bones were the only things breakable about them.
With the newcomers hopeless and forlorn, and the old team worn out by twenty-five
hundred miles of continuous trail, the outlook was anything but bright. The two men, however,
were quite cheerful. And they were proud, too. They were doing the thing in style, with
fourteen dogs. They had seen other sleds depart over the Pass for Dawson, or come in from
Dawson, but never had they seen a sled with so many as fourteen dogs. In the nature of
Arctic travel there was a reason why fourteen dogs should not drag one sled, and that was
that one sled could not carry the food for fourteen dogs. But Charles and Hal did not knowthis. They had worked the trip out with a pencil, so much to a dog, so many dogs, so many
days, Q.E.D. Mercedes looked over their shoulders and nodded comprehensively, it was all so
very simple.
Late next morning Buck led the long team up the street. There was nothing lively about
it, no snap or go in him and his fellows. They were starting dead weary. Four times he had
covered the distance between Salt Water and Dawson, and the knowledge that, jaded and
tired, he was facing the same trail once more, made him bitter. His heart was not in the work,
nor was the heart of any dog. The Outsides were timid and frightened, the Insides without
confidence in their masters.
Buck felt vaguely that there was no depending upon these two men and the woman.
They did not know how to do anything, and as the days went by it became apparent that they
could not learn. They were slack in all things, without order or discipline. It took them half the
night to pitch a slovenly camp, and half the morning to break that camp and get the sled
loaded in fashion so slovenly that for the rest of the day they were occupied in stopping and
rearranging the load. Some days they did not make ten miles. On other days they were
unable to get started at all. And on no day did they succeed in making more than half the
distance used by the men as a basis in their dog-food computation.
It was inevitable that they should go short on dog-food. But they hastened it by
overfeeding, bringing the day nearer when underfeeding would commence. The Outside dogs,
whose digestions had not been trained by chronic famine to make the most of little, had
voracious appetites. And when, in addition to this, the worn-out huskies pulled weakly, Hal
decided that the orthodox ration was too small. He doubled it. And to cap it all, when
Mercedes, with tears in her pretty eyes and a quaver in her throat, could not cajole him into
giving the dogs still more, she stole from the fish-sacks and fed them slyly. But it was not food
that Buck and the huskies needed, but rest. And though they were making poor time, the
heavy load they dragged sapped their strength severely.
Then came the underfeeding. Hal awoke one day to the fact that his dog-food was half
gone and the distance only quarter covered; further, that for love or money no additional
dogfood was to be obtained. So he cut down even the orthodox ration and tried to increase the
day’s travel. His sister and brother-in-law seconded him; but they were frustrated by their
heavy outfit and their own incompetence. It was a simple matter to give the dogs less food;
but it was impossible to make the dogs travel faster, while their own inability to get under way
earlier in the morning prevented them from travelling longer hours. Not only did they not know
how to work dogs, but they did not know how to work themselves.
The first to go was Dub. Poor blundering thief that he was, always getting caught and
punished, he had none the less been a faithful worker. His wrenched shoulder-blade,
untreated and unrested, went from bad to worse, till finally Hal shot him with the big Colt’s
revolver. It is a saying of the country that an Outside dog starves to death on the ration of the
husky, so the six Outside dogs under Buck could do no less than die on half the ration of the
husky. The Newfoundland went first, followed by the three short-haired pointers, the two
mongrels hanging more grittily on to life, but going in the end.
By this time all the amenities and gentlenesses of the Southland had fallen away from
the three people. Shorn of its glamour and romance, Arctic travel became to them a reality
too harsh for their manhood and womanhood. Mercedes ceased weeping over the dogs,
being too occupied with weeping over herself and with quarrelling with her husband and
brother. To quarrel was the one thing they were never too weary to do. Their irritability arose
out of their misery, increased with it, doubled upon it, outdistanced it. The wonderful patience
of the trail which comes to men who toil hard and suffer sore, and remain sweet of speech
and kindly, did not come to these two men and the woman. They had no inkling of such a
patience. They were stiff and in pain; their muscles ached, their bones ached, their very
hearts ached; and because of this they became sharp of speech, and hard words were firston their lips in the morning and last at night.
Charles and Hal wrangled whenever Mercedes gave them a chance. It was the cherished
belief of each that he did more than his share of the work, and neither forbore to speak this
belief at every opportunity. Sometimes Mercedes sided with her husband, sometimes with her
brother. The result was a beautiful and unending family quarrel. Starting from a dispute as to
which should chop a few sticks for the fire (a dispute which concerned only Charles and Hal),
presently would be lugged in the rest of the family, fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins, people
thousands of miles away, and some of them dead. That Hal’s views on art, or the sort of
society plays his mother’s brother wrote, should have anything to do with the chopping of a
few sticks of firewood, passes comprehension; nevertheless the quarrel was as likely to tend
in that direction as in the direction of Charles’s political prejudices. And that Charles’s sister’s
tale-bearing tongue should be relevant to the building of a Yukon fire, was apparent only to
Mercedes, who disburdened herself of copious opinions upon that topic, and incidentally upon
a few other traits unpleasantly peculiar to her husband’s family. In the meantime the fire
remained unbuilt, the camp half pitched, and the dogs unfed.
Mercedes nursed a special grievance — the grievance of sex. She was pretty and soft,
and had been chivalrously treated all her days. But the present treatment by her husband and
brother was everything save chivalrous. It was her custom to be helpless. They complained.
Upon which impeachment of what to her was her most essential sex-prerogative, she made
their lives unendurable. She no longer considered the dogs, and because she was sore and
tired, she persisted in riding on the sled. She was pretty and soft, but she weighed one
hundred and twenty pounds — a lusty last straw to the load dragged by the weak and starving
animals. She rode for days, till they fell in the traces and the sled stood still. Charles and Hal
begged her to get off and walk, pleaded with her, entreated, the while she wept and
importuned Heaven with a recital of their brutality.
On one occasion they took her off the sled by main strength. They never did it again.
She let her legs go limp like a spoiled child, and sat down on the trail. They went on their way,
but she did not move. After they had travelled three miles they unloaded the sled, came back
for her, and by main strength put her on the sled again.
In the excess of their own misery they were callous to the suffering of their animals. Hal’s
theory, which he practised on others, was that one must get hardened. He had started out
preaching it to his sister and brother-in-law. Failing there, he hammered it into the dogs with a
club. At the Five Fingers the dog-food gave out, and a toothless old squaw offered to trade
them a few pounds of frozen horse-hide for the Colt’s revolver that kept the big hunting-knife
company at Hal’s hip. A poor substitute for food was this hide, just as it had been stripped
from the starved horses of the cattlemen six months back. In its frozen state it was more like
strips of galvanized iron, and when a dog wrestled it into his stomach it thawed into thin and
innutritious leathery strings and into a mass of short hair, irritating and indigestible.
And through it all Buck staggered along at the head of the team as in a nightmare. He
pulled when he could; when he could no longer pull, he fell down and remained down till blows
from whip or club drove him to his feet again. All the stiffness and gloss had gone out of his
beautiful furry coat. The hair hung down, limp and draggled, or matted with dried blood where
Hal’s club had bruised him. His muscles had wasted away to knotty strings, and the flesh pads
had disappeared, so that each rib and every bone in his frame were outlined cleanly through
the loose hide that was wrinkled in folds of emptiness. It was heartbreaking, only Buck’s heart
was unbreakable. The man in the red sweater had proved that.
As it was with Buck, so was it with his mates. They were perambulating skeletons. There
were seven all together, including him. In their very great misery they had become insensible
to the bite of the lash or the bruise of the club. The pain of the beating was dull and distant,
just as the things their eyes saw and their ears heard seemed dull and distant. They were not
half living, or quarter living. They were simply so many bags of bones in which sparks of lifefluttered faintly. When a halt was made, they dropped down in the traces like dead dogs, and
the spark dimmed and paled and seemed to go out. And when the club or whip fell upon
them, the spark fluttered feebly up, and they tottered to their feet and staggered on.
There came a day when Billee, the good-natured, fell and could not rise. Hal had traded
off his revolver, so he took the axe and knocked Billee on the head as he lay in the traces,
then cut the carcass out of the harness and dragged it to one side. Buck saw, and his mates
saw, and they knew that this thing was very close to them. On the next day Koona went, and
but five of them remained: Joe, too far gone to be malignant; Pike, crippled and limping, only
half conscious and not conscious enough longer to malinger; Sol-leks, the one-eyed, still
faithful to the toil of trace and trail, and mournful in that he had so little strength with which to
pull; Teek, who had not travelled so far that winter and who was now beaten more than the
others because he was fresher; and Buck, still at the head of the team, but no longer
enforcing discipline or striving to enforce it, blind with weakness half the time and keeping the
trail by the loom of it and by the dim feel of his feet.
It was beautiful spring weather, but neither dogs nor humans were aware of it. Each day
the sun rose earlier and set later. It was dawn by three in the morning, and twilight lingered till
nine at night. The whole long day was a blaze of sunshine. The ghostly winter silence had
given way to the great spring murmur of awakening life. This murmur arose from all the land,
fraught with the joy of living. It came from the things that lived and moved again, things which
had been as dead and which had not moved during the long months of frost. The sap was
rising in the pines. The willows and aspens were bursting out in young buds. Shrubs and vines
were putting on fresh garbs of green. Crickets sang in the nights, and in the days all manner
of creeping, crawling things rustled forth into the sun. Partridges and woodpeckers were
booming and knocking in the forest. Squirrels were chattering, birds singing, and overhead
honked the wild-fowl driving up from the south in cunning wedges that split the air.
From every hill slope came the trickle of running water, the music of unseen fountains.
All things were thawing, bending, snapping. The Yukon was straining to break loose the ice
that bound it down. It ate away from beneath; the sun ate from above. Air-holes formed,
fissures sprang and spread apart, while thin sections of ice fell through bodily into the river.
And amid all this bursting, rending, throbbing of awakening life, under the blazing sun and
through the soft-sighing breezes, like wayfarers to death, staggered the two men, the woman,
and the huskies.
With the dogs falling, Mercedes weeping and riding, Hal swearing innocuously, and
Charles’s eyes wistfully watering, they staggered into John Thornton’s camp at the mouth of
White River. When they halted, the dogs dropped down as though they had all been struck
dead. Mercedes dried her eyes and looked at John Thornton. Charles sat down on a log to
rest. He sat down very slowly and painstakingly what of his great stiffness. Hal did the talking.
John Thornton was whittling the last touches on an axe-handle he had made from a stick of
birch. He whittled and listened, gave monosyllabic replies, and, when it was asked, terse
advice. He knew the breed, and he gave his advice in the certainty that it would not be
“They told us up above that the bottom was dropping out of the trail and that the best
thing for us to do was to lay over,” Hal said in response to Thornton’s warning to take no more
chances on the rotten ice. “They told us we couldn’t make White River, and here we are.” This
last with a sneering ring of triumph in it.
“And they told you true,” John Thornton answered. “The bottom’s likely to drop out at any
moment. Only fools, with the blind luck of fools, could have made it. I tell you straight, I
wouldn’t risk my carcass on that ice for all the gold in Alaska.”
“That’s because you’re not a fool, I suppose,” said Hal. “All the same, we’ll go on to
Dawson.” He uncoiled his whip. “Get up there, Buck! Hi! Get up there! Mush on!”
Thornton went on whittling. It was idle, he knew, to get between a fool and his folly; whiletwo or three fools more or less would not alter the scheme of things.
But the team did not get up at the command. It had long since passed into the stage
where blows were required to rouse it. The whip flashed out, here and there, on its merciless
errands. John Thornton compressed his lips. Sol-leks was the first to crawl to his feet. Teek
followed. Joe came next, yelping with pain. Pike made painful efforts. Twice he fell over, when
half up, and on the third attempt managed to rise. Buck made no effort. He lay quietly where
he had fallen. The lash bit into him again and again, but he neither whined nor struggled.
Several times Thornton started, as though to speak, but changed his mind. A moisture came
into his eyes, and, as the whipping continued, he arose and walked irresolutely up and down.
This was the first time Buck had failed, in itself a sufficient reason to drive Hal into a
rage. He exchanged the whip for the customary club. Buck refused to move under the rain of
heavier blows which now fell upon him. Like his mates, he was barely able to get up, but,
unlike them, he had made up his mind not to get up. He had a vague feeling of impending
doom. This had been strong upon him when he pulled in to the bank, and it had not departed
from him. What of the thin and rotten ice he had felt under his feet all day, it seemed that he
sensed disaster close at hand, out there ahead on the ice where his master was trying to
drive him. He refused to stir. So greatly had he suffered, and so far gone was he, that the
blows did not hurt much. And as they continued to fall upon him, the spark of life within
flickered and went down. It was nearly out. He felt strangely numb. As though from a great
distance, he was aware that he was being beaten. The last sensations of pain left him. He no
longer felt anything, though very faintly he could hear the impact of the club upon his body.
But it was no longer his body, it seemed so far away.
And then, suddenly, without warning, uttering a cry that was inarticulate and more like
the cry of an animal, John Thornton sprang upon the man who wielded the club. Hal was
hurled backward, as though struck by a falling tree. Mercedes screamed. Charles looked on
wistfully, wiped his watery eyes, but did not get up because of his stiffness.
John Thornton stood over Buck, struggling to control himself, too convulsed with rage to
“If you strike that dog again, I’ll kill you,” he at last managed to say in a choking voice.
“It’s my dog,” Hal replied, wiping the blood from his mouth as he came back. “Get out of
my way, or I’ll fix you. I’m going to Dawson.”
Thornton stood between him and Buck, and evinced no intention of getting out of the
way. Hal drew his long hunting-knife. Mercedes screamed, cried, laughed, and manifested the
chaotic abandonment of hysteria. Thornton rapped Hal’s knuckles with the axe-handle,
knocking the knife to the ground. He rapped his knuckles again as he tried to pick it up. Then
he stooped, picked it up himself, and with two strokes cut Buck’s traces.
Hal had no fight left in him. Besides, his hands were full with his sister, or his arms,
rather; while Buck was too near dead to be of further use in hauling the sled. A few minutes
later they pulled out from the bank and down the river. Buck heard them go and raised his
head to see, Pike was leading, Sol-leks was at the wheel, and between were Joe and Teek.
They were limping and staggering. Mercedes was riding the loaded sled. Hal guided at the
gee-pole, and Charles stumbled along in the rear.
As Buck watched them, Thornton knelt beside him and with rough, kindly hands
searched for broken bones. By the time his search had disclosed nothing more than many
bruises and a state of terrible starvation, the sled was a quarter of a mile away. Dog and man
watched it crawling along over the ice. Suddenly, they saw its back end drop down, as into a
rut, and the gee-pole, with Hal clinging to it, jerk into the air. Mercedes’s scream came to their
ears. They saw Charles turn and make one step to run back, and then a whole section of ice
give way and dogs and humans disappear. A yawning hole was all that was to be seen. The
bottom had dropped out of the trail.
John Thornton and Buck looked at each other.“You poor devil,” said John Thornton, and Buck licked his hand.Chapter 6 — For the Love of a Man

When John Thornton froze his feet in the previous December his partners had made him
comfortable and left him to get well, going on themselves up the river to get out a raft of
sawlogs for Dawson. He was still limping slightly at the time he rescued Buck, but with the
continued warm weather even the slight limp left him. And here, lying by the river bank
through the long spring days, watching the running water, listening lazily to the songs of birds
and the hum of nature, Buck slowly won back his strength.
A rest comes very good after one has travelled three thousand miles, and it must be
confessed that Buck waxed lazy as his wounds healed, his muscles swelled out, and the flesh
came back to cover his bones. For that matter, they were all loafing,— Buck, John Thornton,
and Skeet and Nig,— waiting for the raft to come that was to carry them down to Dawson.
Skeet was a little Irish setter who early made friends with Buck, who, in a dying condition, was
unable to resent her first advances. She had the doctor trait which some dogs possess; and
as a mother cat washes her kittens, so she washed and cleansed Buck’s wounds. Regularly,
each morning after he had finished his breakfast, she performed her self-appointed task, till
he came to look for her ministrations as much as he did for Thornton’s. Nig, equally friendly,
though less demonstrative, was a huge black dog, half bloodhound and half deerhound, with
eyes that laughed and a boundless good nature.
To Buck’s surprise these dogs manifested no jealousy toward him. They seemed to
share the kindliness and largeness of John Thornton. As Buck grew stronger they enticed him
into all sorts of ridiculous games, in which Thornton himself could not forbear to join; and in
this fashion Buck romped through his convalescence and into a new existence. Love, genuine
passionate love, was his for the first time. This he had never experienced at Judge Miller’s
down in the sun-kissed Santa Clara Valley. With the Judge’s sons, hunting and tramping, it
had been a working partnership; with the Judge’s grandsons, a sort of pompous guardianship;
and with the Judge himself, a stately and dignified friendship. But love that was feverish and
burning, that was adoration, that was madness, it had taken John Thornton to arouse.
This man had saved his life, which was something; but, further, he was the ideal master.
Other men saw to the welfare of their dogs from a sense of duty and business expediency; he
saw to the welfare of his as if they were his own children, because he could not help it. And he
saw further. He never forgot a kindly greeting or a cheering word, and to sit down for a long
talk with them (“gas” he called it) was as much his delight as theirs. He had a way of taking
Buck’s head roughly between his hands, and resting his own head upon Buck’s, of shaking
him back and forth, the while calling him ill names that to Buck were love names. Buck knew
no greater joy than that rough embrace and the sound of murmured oaths, and at each jerk
back and forth it seemed that his heart would be shaken out of his body so great was its
ecstasy. And when, released, he sprang to his feet, his mouth laughing, his eyes eloquent, his
throat vibrant with unuttered sound, and in that fashion remained without movement, John
Thornton would reverently exclaim, “God! you can all but speak!”
Buck had a trick of love expression that was akin to hurt. He would often seize
Thornton’s hand in his mouth and close so fiercely that the flesh bore the impress of his teeth
for some time afterward. And as Buck understood the oaths to be love words, so the man
understood this feigned bite for a caress.
For the most part, however, Buck’s love was expressed in adoration. While he went wild
with happiness when Thornton touched him or spoke to him, he did not seek these tokens.
Unlike Skeet, who was wont to shove her nose under Thornton’s hand and nudge and nudge
till petted, or Nig, who would stalk up and rest his great head on Thornton’s knee, Buck wascontent to adore at a distance. He would lie by the hour, eager, alert, at Thornton’s feet,
looking up into his face, dwelling upon it, studying it, following with keenest interest each
fleeting expression, every movement or change of feature. Or, as chance might have it, he
would lie farther away, to the side or rear, watching the outlines of the man and the occasional
movements of his body. And often, such was the communion in which they lived, the strength
of Buck’s gaze would draw John Thornton’s head around, and he would return the gaze,
without speech, his heart shining out of his eyes as Buck’s heart shone out.
For a long time after his rescue, Buck did not like Thornton to get out of his sight. From
the moment he left the tent to when he entered it again, Buck would follow at his heels. His
transient masters since he had come into the Northland had bred in him a fear that no master
could be permanent. He was afraid that Thornton would pass out of his life as Perrault and
Francois and the Scotch half-breed had passed out. Even in the night, in his dreams, he was
haunted by this fear. At such times he would shake off sleep and creep through the chill to the
flap of the tent, where he would stand and listen to the sound of his master’s breathing.
But in spite of this great love he bore John Thornton, which seemed to bespeak the soft
civilizing influence, the strain of the primitive, which the Northland had aroused in him,
remained alive and active. Faithfulness and devotion, things born of fire and roof, were his;
yet he retained his wildness and wiliness. He was a thing of the wild, come in from the wild to
sit by John Thornton’s fire, rather than a dog of the soft Southland stamped with the marks of
generations of civilization. Because of his very great love, he could not steal from this man,
but from any other man, in any other camp, he did not hesitate an instant; while the cunning
with which he stole enabled him to escape detection.
His face and body were scored by the teeth of many dogs, and he fought as fiercely as
ever and more shrewdly. Skeet and Nig were too good-natured for quarrelling,— besides, they
belonged to John Thornton; but the strange dog, no matter what the breed or valor, swiftly
acknowledged Buck’s supremacy or found himself struggling for life with a terrible antagonist.
And Buck was merciless. He had learned well the law of club and fang, and he never forewent
an advantage or drew back from a foe he had started on the way to Death. He had lessoned
from Spitz, and from the chief fighting dogs of the police and mail, and knew there was no
middle course. He must master or be mastered; while to show mercy was a weakness. Mercy
did not exist in the primordial life. It was misunderstood for fear, and such misunderstandings
made for death. Kill or be killed, eat or be eaten, was the law; and this mandate, down out of
the depths of Time, he obeyed.
He was older than the days he had seen and the breaths he had drawn. He linked the
past with the present, and the eternity behind him throbbed through him in a mighty rhythm to
which he swayed as the tides and seasons swayed. He sat by John Thornton’s fire, a
broadbreasted dog, white-fanged and long-furred; but behind him were the shades of all manner of
dogs, half-wolves and wild wolves, urgent and prompting, tasting the savor of the meat he ate,
thirsting for the water he drank, scenting the wind with him, listening with him and telling him
the sounds made by the wild life in the forest, dictating his moods, directing his actions, lying
down to sleep with him when he lay down, and dreaming with him and beyond him and
becoming themselves the stuff of his dreams.
So peremptorily did these shades beckon him, that each day mankind and the claims of
mankind slipped farther from him. Deep in the forest a call was sounding, and as often as he
heard this call, mysteriously thrilling and luring, he felt compelled to turn his back upon the fire
and the beaten earth around it, and to plunge into the forest, and on and on, he knew not
where or why; nor did he wonder where or why, the call sounding imperiously, deep in the
forest. But as often as he gained the soft unbroken earth and the green shade, the love for
John Thornton drew him back to the fire again.
Thornton alone held him. The rest of mankind was as nothing. Chance travellers might
praise or pet him; but he was cold under it all, and from a too demonstrative man he wouldget up and walk away. When Thornton’s partners, Hans and Pete, arrived on the
longexpected raft, Buck refused to notice them till he learned they were close to Thornton; after
that he tolerated them in a passive sort of way, accepting favors from them as though he
favored them by accepting. They were of the same large type as Thornton, living close to the
earth, thinking simply and seeing clearly; and ere they swung the raft into the big eddy by the
saw-mill at Dawson, they understood Buck and his ways, and did not insist upon an intimacy
such as obtained with Skeet and Nig.
For Thornton, however, his love seemed to grow and grow. He, alone among men, could
put a pack upon Buck’s back in the summer travelling. Nothing was too great for Buck to do,
when Thornton commanded. One day (they had grub-staked themselves from the proceeds
of the raft and left Dawson for the head-waters of the Tanana) the men and dogs were sitting
on the crest of a cliff which fell away, straight down, to naked bed-rock three hundred feet
below. John Thornton was sitting near the edge, Buck at his shoulder. A thoughtless whim
seized Thornton, and he drew the attention of Hans and Pete to the experiment he had in
mind. “Jump, Buck!” he commanded, sweeping his arm out and over the chasm. The next
instant he was grappling with Buck on the extreme edge, while Hans and Pete were dragging
them back into safety.
“It’s uncanny,” Pete said, after it was over and they had caught their speech.
Thornton shook his head. “No, it is splendid, and it is terrible, too. Do you know, it
sometimes makes me afraid.”
“I’m not hankering to be the man that lays hands on you while he’s around,” Pete
announced conclusively, nodding his head toward Buck.
“Py Jingo!” was Hans’s contribution. “Not mineself either.”
It was at Circle City, ere the year was out, that Pete’s apprehensions were realized.
“Black” Burton, a man evil-tempered and malicious, had been picking a quarrel with a
tenderfoot at the bar, when Thornton stepped good-naturedly between. Buck, as was his
custom, was lying in a corner, head on paws, watching his master’s every action. Burton
struck out, without warning, straight from the shoulder. Thornton was sent spinning, and
saved himself from falling only by clutching the rail of the bar.
Those who were looking on heard what was neither bark nor yelp, but a something which
is best described as a roar, and they saw Buck’s body rise up in the air as he left the floor for
Burton’s throat. The man saved his life by instinctively throwing out his arm, but was hurled
backward to the floor with Buck on top of him. Buck loosed his teeth from the flesh of the arm
and drove in again for the throat. This time the man succeeded only in partly blocking, and his
throat was torn open. Then the crowd was upon Buck, and he was driven off; but while a
surgeon checked the bleeding, he prowled up and down, growling furiously, attempting to rush
in, and being forced back by an array of hostile clubs. A “miners’ meeting,” called on the spot,
decided that the dog had sufficient provocation, and Buck was discharged. But his reputation
was made, and from that day his name spread through every camp in Alaska.
Later on, in the fall of the year, he saved John Thornton’s life in quite another fashion.
The three partners were lining a long and narrow poling-boat down a bad stretch of rapids on
the Forty–Mile Creek. Hans and Pete moved along the bank, snubbing with a thin Manila rope
from tree to tree, while Thornton remained in the boat, helping its descent by means of a pole,
and shouting directions to the shore. Buck, on the bank, worried and anxious, kept abreast of
the boat, his eyes never off his master.
At a particularly bad spot, where a ledge of barely submerged rocks jutted out into the
river, Hans cast off the rope, and, while Thornton poled the boat out into the stream, ran down
the bank with the end in his hand to snub the boat when it had cleared the ledge. This it did,
and was flying down-stream in a current as swift as a mill-race, when Hans checked it with the
rope and checked too suddenly. The boat flirted over and snubbed in to the bank bottom up,
while Thornton, flung sheer out of it, was carried down-stream toward the worst part of therapids, a stretch of wild water in which no swimmer could live.
Buck had sprung in on the instant; and at the end of three hundred yards, amid a mad
swirl of water, he overhauled Thornton. When he felt him grasp his tail, Buck headed for the
bank, swimming with all his splendid strength. But the progress shoreward was slow; the
progress down-stream amazingly rapid. From below came the fatal roaring where the wild
current went wilder and was rent in shreds and spray by the rocks which thrust through like
the teeth of an enormous comb. The suck of the water as it took the beginning of the last
steep pitch was frightful, and Thornton knew that the shore was impossible. He scraped
furiously over a rock, bruised across a second, and struck a third with crushing force. He
clutched its slippery top with both hands, releasing Buck, and above the roar of the churning
water shouted: “Go, Buck! Go!”
Buck could not hold his own, and swept on down-stream, struggling desperately, but
unable to win back. When he heard Thornton’s command repeated, he partly reared out of the
water, throwing his head high, as though for a last look, then turned obediently toward the
bank. He swam powerfully and was dragged ashore by Pete and Hans at the very point where
swimming ceased to be possible and destruction began.
They knew that the time a man could cling to a slippery rock in the face of that driving
current was a matter of minutes, and they ran as fast as they could up the bank to a point far
above where Thornton was hanging on. They attached the line with which they had been
snubbing the boat to Buck’s neck and shoulders, being careful that it should neither strangle
him nor impede his swimming, and launched him into the stream. He struck out boldly, but not
straight enough into the stream. He discovered the mistake too late, when Thornton was
abreast of him and a bare half-dozen strokes away while he was being carried helplessly past.
Hans promptly snubbed with the rope, as though Buck were a boat. The rope thus
tightening on him in the sweep of the current, he was jerked under the surface, and under the
surface he remained till his body struck against the bank and he was hauled out. He was half
drowned, and Hans and Pete threw themselves upon him, pounding the breath into him and
the water out of him. He staggered to his feet and fell down. The faint sound of Thornton’s
voice came to them, and though they could not make out the words of it, they knew that he
was in his extremity. His master’s voice acted on Buck like an electric shock, He sprang to his
feet and ran up the bank ahead of the men to the point of his previous departure.
Again the rope was attached and he was launched, and again he struck out, but this time
straight into the stream. He had miscalculated once, but he would not be guilty of it a second
time. Hans paid out the rope, permitting no slack, while Pete kept it clear of coils. Buck held
on till he was on a line straight above Thornton; then he turned, and with the speed of an
express train headed down upon him. Thornton saw him coming, and, as Buck struck him like
a battering ram, with the whole force of the current behind him, he reached up and closed with
both arms around the shaggy neck. Hans snubbed the rope around the tree, and Buck and
Thornton were jerked under the water. Strangling, suffocating, sometimes one uppermost and
sometimes the other, dragging over the jagged bottom, smashing against rocks and snags,
they veered in to the bank.
Thornton came to, belly downward and being violently propelled back and forth across a
drift log by Hans and Pete. His first glance was for Buck, over whose limp and apparently
lifeless body Nig was setting up a howl, while Skeet was licking the wet face and closed eyes.
Thornton was himself bruised and battered, and he went carefully over Buck’s body, when he
had been brought around, finding three broken ribs.
“That settles it,” he announced. “We camp right here.” And camp they did, till Buck’s ribs
knitted and he was able to travel.
That winter, at Dawson, Buck performed another exploit, not so heroic, perhaps, but one
that put his name many notches higher on the totem-pole of Alaskan fame. This exploit was
particularly gratifying to the three men; for they stood in need of the outfit which it furnished,and were enabled to make a long-desired trip into the virgin East, where miners had not yet
appeared. It was brought about by a conversation in the Eldorado Saloon, in which men
waxed boastful of their favorite dogs. Buck, because of his record, was the target for these
men, and Thornton was driven stoutly to defend him. At the end of half an hour one man
stated that his dog could start a sled with five hundred pounds and walk off with it; a second
bragged six hundred for his dog; and a third, seven hundred.
“Pooh! pooh!” said John Thornton; “Buck can start a thousand pounds.”
“And break it out? and walk off with it for a hundred yards?” demanded Matthewson, a
Bonanza King, he of the seven hundred vaunt.
“And break it out, and walk off with it for a hundred yards,” John Thornton said coolly.
“Well,” Matthewson said, slowly and deliberately, so that all could hear, “I’ve got a
thousand dollars that says he can’t. And there it is.” So saying, he slammed a sack of gold
dust of the size of a bologna sausage down upon the bar.
Nobody spoke. Thornton’s bluff, if bluff it was, had been called. He could feel a flush of
warm blood creeping up his face. His tongue had tricked him. He did not know whether Buck
could start a thousand pounds. Half a ton! The enormousness of it appalled him. He had great
faith in Buck’s strength and had often thought him capable of starting such a load; but never,
as now, had he faced the possibility of it, the eyes of a dozen men fixed upon him, silent and
waiting. Further, he had no thousand dollars; nor had Hans or Pete.
“I’ve got a sled standing outside now, with twenty fiftypound sacks of flour on it,”
Matthewson went on with brutal directness; “so don’t let that hinder you.”
Thornton did not reply. He did not know what to say. He glanced from face to face in the
absent way of a man who has lost the power of thought and is seeking somewhere to find the
thing that will start it going again. The face of Jim O’Brien, a Mastodon King and old-time
comrade, caught his eyes. It was as a cue to him, seeming to rouse him to do what he would
never have dreamed of doing.
“Can you lend me a thousand?” he asked, almost in a whisper.
“Sure,” answered O’Brien, thumping down a plethoric sack by the side of Matthewson’s.
“Though it’s little faith I’m having, John, that the beast can do the trick.”
The Eldorado emptied its occupants into the street to see the test. The tables were
deserted, and the dealers and gamekeepers came forth to see the outcome of the wager and
to lay odds. Several hundred men, furred and mittened, banked around the sled within easy
distance. Matthewson’s sled, loaded with a thousand pounds of flour, had been standing for a
couple of hours, and in the intense cold (it was sixty below zero) the runners had frozen fast
to the hard-packed snow. Men offered odds of two to one that Buck could not budge the sled.
A quibble arose concerning the phrase “break out.” O’Brien contended it was Thornton’s
privilege to knock the runners loose, leaving Buck to “break it out” from a dead standstill.
Matthewson insisted that the phrase included breaking the runners from the frozen grip of the
snow. A majority of the men who had witnessed the making of the bet decided in his favor,
whereat the odds went up to three to one against Buck.
There were no takers. Not a man believed him capable of the feat. Thornton had been
hurried into the wager, heavy with doubt; and now that he looked at the sled itself, the
concrete fact, with the regular team of ten dogs curled up in the snow before it, the more
impossible the task appeared. Matthewson waxed jubilant.
“Three to one!” he proclaimed. “I’ll lay you another thousand at that figure, Thornton.
What d’ye say?”
Thornton’s doubt was strong in his face, but his fighting spirit was aroused — the fighting
spirit that soars above odds, fails to recognize the impossible, and is deaf to all save the
clamor for battle. He called Hans and Pete to him. Their sacks were slim, and with his own the
three partners could rake together only two hundred dollars. In the ebb of their fortunes, this
sum was their total capital; yet they laid it unhesitatingly against Matthewson’s six hundred.The team of ten dogs was unhitched, and Buck, with his own harness, was put into the
sled. He had caught the contagion of the excitement, and he felt that in some way he must do
a great thing for John Thornton. Murmurs of admiration at his splendid appearance went up.
He was in perfect condition, without an ounce of superfluous flesh, and the one hundred and
fifty pounds that he weighed were so many pounds of grit and virility. His furry coat shone with
the sheen of silk. Down the neck and across the shoulders, his mane, in repose as it was, half
bristled and seemed to lift with every movement, as though excess of vigor made each
particular hair alive and active. The great breast and heavy fore legs were no more than in
proportion with the rest of the body, where the muscles showed in tight rolls underneath the
skin. Men felt these muscles and proclaimed them hard as iron, and the odds went down to
two to one.
“Gad, sir! Gad, sir!” stuttered a member of the latest dynasty, a king of the Skookum
Benches. “I offer you eight hundred for him, sir, before the test, sir; eight hundred just as he
Thornton shook his head and stepped to Buck’s side.
“You must stand off from him,” Matthewson protested. “Free play and plenty of room.”
The crowd fell silent; only could be heard the voices of the gamblers vainly offering two to
one. Everybody acknowledged Buck a magnificent animal, but twenty fifty-pound sacks of
flour bulked too large in their eyes for them to loosen their pouch-strings.
Thornton knelt down by Buck’s side. He took his head in his two hands and rested cheek
on cheek. He did not playfully shake him, as was his wont, or murmur soft love curses; but he
whispered in his ear. “As you love me, Buck. As you love me,” was what he whispered. Buck
whined with suppressed eagerness.
The crowd was watching curiously. The affair was growing mysterious. It seemed like a
conjuration. As Thornton got to his feet, Buck seized his mittened hand between his jaws,
pressing in with his teeth and releasing slowly, half-reluctantly. It was the answer, in terms,
not of speech, but of love. Thornton stepped well back.
“Now, Buck,” he said.
Buck tightened the traces, then slacked them for a matter of several inches. It was the
way he had learned.
“Gee!” Thornton’s voice rang out, sharp in the tense silence.
Buck swung to the right, ending the movement in a plunge that took up the slack and
with a sudden jerk arrested his one hundred and fifty pounds. The load quivered, and from
under the runners arose a crisp crackling.
“Haw!” Thornton commanded.
Buck duplicated the manoeuvre, this time to the left. The crackling turned into a
snapping, the sled pivoting and the runners slipping and grating several inches to the side.
The sled was broken out. Men were holding their breaths, intensely unconscious of the fact.
“Now, MUSH!”
Thornton’s command cracked out like a pistol-shot. Buck threw himself forward,
tightening the traces with a jarring lunge. His whole body was gathered compactly together in
the tremendous effort, the muscles writhing and knotting like live things under the silky fur. His
great chest was low to the ground, his head forward and down, while his feet were flying like
mad, the claws scarring the hard-packed snow in parallel grooves. The sled swayed and
trembled, half-started forward. One of his feet slipped, and one man groaned aloud. Then the
sled lurched ahead in what appeared a rapid succession of jerks, though it never really came
to a dead stop again... half an inch... an inch... two inches... The jerks perceptibly diminished;
as the sled gained momentum, he caught them up, till it was moving steadily along.
Men gasped and began to breathe again, unaware that for a moment they had ceased to
breathe. Thornton was running behind, encouraging Buck with short, cheery words. The
distance had been measured off, and as he neared the pile of firewood which marked the endof the hundred yards, a cheer began to grow and grow, which burst into a roar as he passed
the firewood and halted at command. Every man was tearing himself loose, even
Matthewson. Hats and mittens were flying in the air. Men were shaking hands, it did not
matter with whom, and bubbling over in a general incoherent babel.
But Thornton fell on his knees beside Buck. Head was against head, and he was shaking
him back and forth. Those who hurried up heard him cursing Buck, and he cursed him long
and fervently, and softly and lovingly.
“Gad, sir! Gad, sir!” spluttered the Skookum Bench king. “I’ll give you a thousand for him,
sir, a thousand, sir — twelve hundred, sir.”
Thornton rose to his feet. His eyes were wet. The tears were streaming frankly down his
cheeks. “Sir,” he said to the Skookum Bench king, “no, sir. You can go to hell, sir. It’s the best
I can do for you, sir.”
Buck seized Thornton’s hand in his teeth. Thornton shook him back and forth. As though
animated by a common impulse, the onlookers drew back to a respectful distance; nor were
they again indiscreet enough to interrupt.Chapter 7 — The Sounding of the Call

When Buck earned sixteen hundred dollars in five minutes for John Thornton, he made it
possible for his master to pay off certain debts and to journey with his partners into the East
after a fabled lost mine, the history of which was as old as the history of the country. Many
men had sought it; few had found it; and more than a few there were who had never returned
from the quest. This lost mine was steeped in tragedy and shrouded in mystery. No one knew
of the first man. The oldest tradition stopped before it got back to him. From the beginning
there had been an ancient and ramshackle cabin. Dying men had sworn to it, and to the mine
the site of which it marked, clinching their testimony with nuggets that were unlike any known
grade of gold in the Northland.
But no living man had looted this treasure house, and the dead were dead; wherefore
John Thornton and Pete and Hans, with Buck and half a dozen other dogs, faced into the East
on an unknown trail to achieve where men and dogs as good as themselves had failed. They
sledded seventy miles up the Yukon, swung to the left into the Stewart River, passed the
Mayo and the McQuestion, and held on until the Stewart itself became a streamlet, threading
the upstanding peaks which marked the backbone of the continent.
John Thornton asked little of man or nature. He was unafraid of the wild. With a handful
of salt and a rifle he could plunge into the wilderness and fare wherever he pleased and as
long as he pleased. Being in no haste, Indian fashion, he hunted his dinner in the course of
the day’s travel; and if he failed to find it, like the Indian, he kept on travelling, secure in the
knowledge that sooner or later he would come to it. So, on this great journey into the East,
straight meat was the bill of fare, ammunition and tools principally made up the load on the
sled, and the time-card was drawn upon the limitless future.
To Buck it was boundless delight, this hunting, fishing, and indefinite wandering through
strange places. For weeks at a time they would hold on steadily, day after day; and for weeks
upon end they would camp, here and there, the dogs loafing and the men burning holes
through frozen muck and gravel and washing countless pans of dirt by the heat of the fire.
Sometimes they went hungry, sometimes they feasted riotously, all according to the
abundance of game and the fortune of hunting. Summer arrived, and dogs and men packed
on their backs, rafted across blue mountain lakes, and descended or ascended unknown
rivers in slender boats whipsawed from the standing forest.
The months came and went, and back and forth they twisted through the uncharted
vastness, where no men were and yet where men had been if the Lost Cabin were true. They
went across divides in summer blizzards, shivered under the midnight sun on naked
mountains between the timber line and the eternal snows, dropped into summer valleys amid
swarming gnats and flies, and in the shadows of glaciers picked strawberries and flowers as
ripe and fair as any the Southland could boast. In the fall of the year they penetrated a weird
lake country, sad and silent, where wildfowl had been, but where then there was no life nor
sign of life — only the blowing of chill winds, the forming of ice in sheltered places, and the
melancholy rippling of waves on lonely beaches.
And through another winter they wandered on the obliterated trails of men who had gone
before. Once, they came upon a path blazed through the forest, an ancient path, and the Lost
Cabin seemed very near. But the path began nowhere and ended nowhere, and it remained
mystery, as the man who made it and the reason he made it remained mystery. Another time
they chanced upon the time-graven wreckage of a hunting lodge, and amid the shreds of
rotted blankets John Thornton found a long-barrelled flint-lock. He knew it for a Hudson Bay
Company gun of the young days in the Northwest, when such a gun was worth its height inbeaver skins packed flat, And that was all — no hint as to the man who in an early day had
reared the lodge and left the gun among the blankets.
Spring came on once more, and at the end of all their wandering they found, not the Lost
Cabin, but a shallow placer in a broad valley where the gold showed like yellow butter across
the bottom of the washing-pan. They sought no farther. Each day they worked earned them
thousands of dollars in clean dust and nuggets, and they worked every day. The gold was
sacked in moose-hide bags, fifty pounds to the bag, and piled like so much firewood outside
the spruce-bough lodge. Like giants they toiled, days flashing on the heels of days like dreams
as they heaped the treasure up.
There was nothing for the dogs to do, save the hauling in of meat now and again that
Thornton killed, and Buck spent long hours musing by the fire. The vision of the short-legged
hairy man came to him more frequently, now that there was little work to be done; and often,
blinking by the fire, Buck wandered with him in that other world which he remembered.
The salient thing of this other world seemed fear. When he watched the hairy man
sleeping by the fire, head between his knees and hands clasped above, Buck saw that he
slept restlessly, with many starts and awakenings, at which times he would peer fearfully into
the darkness and fling more wood upon the fire. Did they walk by the beach of a sea, where
the hairy man gathered shellfish and ate them as he gathered, it was with eyes that roved
everywhere for hidden danger and with legs prepared to run like the wind at its first
appearance. Through the forest they crept noiselessly, Buck at the hairy man’s heels; and
they were alert and vigilant, the pair of them, ears twitching and moving and nostrils quivering,
for the man heard and smelled as keenly as Buck. The hairy man could spring up into the
trees and travel ahead as fast as on the ground, swinging by the arms from limb to limb,
sometimes a dozen feet apart, letting go and catching, never falling, never missing his grip. In
fact, he seemed as much at home among the trees as on the ground; and Buck had
memories of nights of vigil spent beneath trees wherein the hairy man roosted, holding on
tightly as he slept.
And closely akin to the visions of the hairy man was the call still sounding in the depths of
the forest. It filled him with a great unrest and strange desires. It caused him to feel a vague,
sweet gladness, and he was aware of wild yearnings and stirrings for he knew not what.
Sometimes he pursued the call into the forest, looking for it as though it were a tangible thing,
barking softly or defiantly, as the mood might dictate. He would thrust his nose into the cool
wood moss, or into the black soil where long grasses grew, and snort with joy at the fat earth
smells; or he would crouch for hours, as if in concealment, behind fungus-covered trunks of
fallen trees, wide-eyed and wide-eared to all that moved and sounded about him. It might be,
lying thus, that he hoped to surprise this call he could not understand. But he did not know
why he did these various things. He was impelled to do them, and did not reason about them
at all.
Irresistible impulses seized him. He would be lying in camp, dozing lazily in the heat of
the day, when suddenly his head would lift and his ears cock up, intent and listening, and he
would spring to his feet and dash away, and on and on, for hours, through the forest aisles
and across the open spaces where the niggerheads bunched. He loved to run down dry
watercourses, and to creep and spy upon the bird life in the woods. For a day at a time he
would lie in the underbrush where he could watch the partridges drumming and strutting up
and down. But especially he loved to run in the dim twilight of the summer midnights, listening
to the subdued and sleepy murmurs of the forest, reading signs and sounds as man may read
a book, and seeking for the mysterious something that called — called, waking or sleeping, at
all times, for him to come.
One night he sprang from sleep with a start, eager-eyed, nostrils quivering and scenting,
his mane bristling in recurrent waves. From the forest came the call (or one note of it, for the
call was many noted), distinct and definite as never before,— a long-drawn howl, like, yetunlike, any noise made by husky dog. And he knew it, in the old familiar way, as a sound
heard before. He sprang through the sleeping camp and in swift silence dashed through the
woods. As he drew closer to the cry he went more slowly, with caution in every movement, till
he came to an open place among the trees, and looking out saw, erect on haunches, with
nose pointed to the sky, a long, lean, timber wolf.
He had made no noise, yet it ceased from its howling and tried to sense his presence.
Buck stalked into the open, half crouching, body gathered compactly together, tail straight and
stiff, feet falling with unwonted care. Every movement advertised commingled threatening and
overture of friendliness. It was the menacing truce that marks the meeting of wild beasts that
prey. But the wolf fled at sight of him. He followed, with wild leapings, in a frenzy to overtake.
He ran him into a blind channel, in the bed of the creek where a timber jam barred the way.
The wolf whirled about, pivoting on his hind legs after the fashion of Joe and of all cornered
husky dogs, snarling and bristling, clipping his teeth together in a continuous and rapid
succession of snaps.
Buck did not attack, but circled him about and hedged him in with friendly advances. The
wolf was suspicious and afraid; for Buck made three of him in weight, while his head barely
reached Buck’s shoulder. Watching his chance, he darted away, and the chase was resumed.
Time and again he was cornered, and the thing repeated, though he was in poor condition, or
Buck could not so easily have overtaken him. He would run till Buck’s head was even with his
flank, when he would whirl around at bay, only to dash away again at the first opportunity.
But in the end Buck’s pertinacity was rewarded; for the wolf, finding that no harm was
intended, finally sniffed noses with him. Then they became friendly, and played about in the
nervous, half-coy way with which fierce beasts belie their fierceness. After some time of this
the wolf started off at an easy lope in a manner that plainly showed he was going somewhere.
He made it clear to Buck that he was to come, and they ran side by side through the sombre
twilight, straight up the creek bed, into the gorge from which it issued, and across the bleak
divide where it took its rise.
On the opposite slope of the watershed they came down into a level country where were
great stretches of forest and many streams, and through these great stretches they ran
steadily, hour after hour, the sun rising higher and the day growing warmer. Buck was wildly
glad. He knew he was at last answering the call, running by the side of his wood brother
toward the place from where the call surely came. Old memories were coming upon him fast,
and he was stirring to them as of old he stirred to the realities of which they were the
shadows. He had done this thing before, somewhere in that other and dimly remembered
world, and he was doing it again, now, running free in the open, the unpacked earth
underfoot, the wide sky overhead.
They stopped by a running stream to drink, and, stopping, Buck remembered John
Thornton. He sat down. The wolf started on toward the place from where the call surely came,
then returned to him, sniffing noses and making actions as though to encourage him. But
Buck turned about and started slowly on the back track. For the better part of an hour the wild
brother ran by his side, whining softly. Then he sat down, pointed his nose upward, and
howled. It was a mournful howl, and as Buck held steadily on his way he heard it grow faint
and fainter until it was lost in the distance.
John Thornton was eating dinner when Buck dashed into camp and sprang upon him in a
frenzy of affection, overturning him, scrambling upon him, licking his face, biting his hand
—”playing the general tom-fool,” as John Thornton characterized it, the while he shook Buck
back and forth and cursed him lovingly.
For two days and nights Buck never left camp, never let Thornton out of his sight. He
followed him about at his work, watched him while he ate, saw him into his blankets at night
and out of them in the morning. But after two days the call in the forest began to sound more
imperiously than ever. Buck’s restlessness came back on him, and he was haunted byrecollections of the wild brother, and of the smiling land beyond the divide and the run side by
side through the wide forest stretches. Once again he took to wandering in the woods, but the
wild brother came no more; and though he listened through long vigils, the mournful howl was
never raised.
He began to sleep out at night, staying away from camp for days at a time; and once he
crossed the divide at the head of the creek and went down into the land of timber and
streams. There he wandered for a week, seeking vainly for fresh sign of the wild brother,
killing his meat as he travelled and travelling with the long, easy lope that seems never to tire.
He fished for salmon in a broad stream that emptied somewhere into the sea, and by this
stream he killed a large black bear, blinded by the mosquitoes while likewise fishing, and
raging through the forest helpless and terrible. Even so, it was a hard fight, and it aroused the
last latent remnants of Buck’s ferocity. And two days later, when he returned to his kill and
found a dozen wolverenes quarrelling over the spoil, he scattered them like chaff; and those
that fled left two behind who would quarrel no more.
The blood-longing became stronger than ever before. He was a killer, a thing that
preyed, living on the things that lived, unaided, alone, by virtue of his own strength and
prowess, surviving triumphantly in a hostile environment where only the strong survived.
Because of all this he became possessed of a great pride in himself, which communicated
itself like a contagion to his physical being. It advertised itself in all his movements, was
apparent in the play of every muscle, spoke plainly as speech in the way he carried himself,
and made his glorious furry coat if anything more glorious. But for the stray brown on his
muzzle and above his eyes, and for the splash of white hair that ran midmost down his chest,
he might well have been mistaken for a gigantic wolf, larger than the largest of the breed.
From his St. Bernard father he had inherited size and weight, but it was his shepherd mother
who had given shape to that size and weight. His muzzle was the long wolf muzzle, save that
it was larger than the muzzle of any wolf; and his head, somewhat broader, was the wolf head
on a massive scale.
His cunning was wolf cunning, and wild cunning; his intelligence, shepherd intelligence
and St. Bernard intelligence; and all this, plus an experience gained in the fiercest of schools,
made him as formidable a creature as any that roamed the wild. A carnivorous animal living
on a straight meat diet, he was in full flower, at the high tide of his life, overspilling with vigor
and virility. When Thornton passed a caressing hand along his back, a snapping and crackling
followed the hand, each hair discharging its pent magnetism at the contact. Every part, brain
and body, nerve tissue and fibre, was keyed to the most exquisite pitch; and between all the
parts there was a perfect equilibrium or adjustment. To sights and sounds and events which
required action, he responded with lightning-like rapidity. Quickly as a husky dog could leap to
defend from attack or to attack, he could leap twice as quickly. He saw the movement, or
heard sound, and responded in less time than another dog required to compass the mere
seeing or hearing. He perceived and determined and responded in the same instant. In point
of fact the three actions of perceiving, determining, and responding were sequential; but so
infinitesimal were the intervals of time between them that they appeared simultaneous. His
muscles were surcharged with vitality, and snapped into play sharply, like steel springs. Life
streamed through him in splendid flood, glad and rampant, until it seemed that it would burst
him asunder in sheer ecstasy and pour forth generously over the world.
“Never was there such a dog,” said John Thornton one day, as the partners watched
Buck marching out of camp.
“When he was made, the mould was broke,” said Pete.
“Py jingo! I t’ink so mineself,” Hans affirmed.
They saw him marching out of camp, but they did not see the instant and terrible
transformation which took place as soon as he was within the secrecy of the forest. He no
longer marched. At once he became a thing of the wild, stealing along softly, cat-footed, apassing shadow that appeared and disappeared among the shadows. He knew how to take
advantage of every cover, to crawl on his belly like a snake, and like a snake to leap and
strike. He could take a ptarmigan from its nest, kill a rabbit as it slept, and snap in mid air the
little chipmunks fleeing a second too late for the trees. Fish, in open pools, were not too quick
for him; nor were beaver, mending their dams, too wary. He killed to eat, not from
wantonness; but he preferred to eat what he killed himself. So a lurking humor ran through his
deeds, and it was his delight to steal upon the squirrels, and, when he all but had them, to let
them go, chattering in mortal fear to the treetops.
As the fall of the year came on, the moose appeared in greater abundance, moving
slowly down to meet the winter in the lower and less rigorous valleys. Buck had already
dragged down a stray part-grown calf; but he wished strongly for larger and more formidable
quarry, and he came upon it one day on the divide at the head of the creek. A band of twenty
moose had crossed over from the land of streams and timber, and chief among them was a
great bull. He was in a savage temper, and, standing over six feet from the ground, was as
formidable an antagonist as even Buck could desire. Back and forth the bull tossed his great
palmated antlers, branching to fourteen points and embracing seven feet within the tips. His
small eyes burned with a vicious and bitter light, while he roared with fury at sight of Buck.
From the bull’s side, just forward of the flank, protruded a feathered arrow-end, which
accounted for his savageness. Guided by that instinct which came from the old hunting days
of the primordial world, Buck proceeded to cut the bull out from the herd. It was no slight task.
He would bark and dance about in front of the bull, just out of reach of the great antlers and of
the terrible splay hoofs which could have stamped his life out with a single blow. Unable to
turn his back on the fanged danger and go on, the bull would be driven into paroxysms of
rage. At such moments he charged Buck, who retreated craftily, luring him on by a simulated
inability to escape. But when he was thus separated from his fellows, two or three of the
younger bulls would charge back upon Buck and enable the wounded bull to rejoin the herd.
There is a patience of the wild — dogged, tireless, persistent as life itself — that holds
motionless for endless hours the spider in its web, the snake in its coils, the panther in its
ambuscade; this patience belongs peculiarly to life when it hunts its living food; and it
belonged to Buck as he clung to the flank of the herd, retarding its march, irritating the young
bulls, worrying the cows with their half-grown calves, and driving the wounded bull mad with
helpless rage. For half a day this continued. Buck multiplied himself, attacking from all sides,
enveloping the herd in a whirlwind of menace, cutting out his victim as fast as it could rejoin its
mates, wearing out the patience of creatures preyed upon, which is a lesser patience than
that of creatures preying.
As the day wore along and the sun dropped to its bed in the northwest (the darkness had
come back and the fall nights were six hours long), the young bulls retraced their steps more
and more reluctantly to the aid of their beset leader. The down-coming winter was harrying
them on to the lower levels, and it seemed they could never shake off this tireless creature
that held them back. Besides, it was not the life of the herd, or of the young bulls, that was
threatened. The life of only one member was demanded, which was a remoter interest than
their lives, and in the end they were content to pay the toll.
As twilight fell the old bull stood with lowered head, watching his mates — the cows he
had known, the calves he had fathered, the bulls he had mastered — as they shambled on at
a rapid pace through the fading light. He could not follow, for before his nose leaped the
merciless fanged terror that would not let him go. Three hundredweight more than half a ton
he weighed; he had lived a long, strong life, full of fight and struggle, and at the end he faced
death at the teeth of a creature whose head did not reach beyond his great knuckled knees.
From then on, night and day, Buck never left his prey, never gave it a moment’s rest,
never permitted it to browse the leaves of trees or the shoots of young birch and willow. Nor
did he give the wounded bull opportunity to slake his burning thirst in the slender tricklingstreams they crossed. Often, in desperation, he burst into long stretches of flight. At such
times Buck did not attempt to stay him, but loped easily at his heels, satisfied with the way the
game was played, lying down when the moose stood still, attacking him fiercely when he
strove to eat or drink.
The great head drooped more and more under its tree of horns, and the shambling trot
grew weak and weaker. He took to standing for long periods, with nose to the ground and
dejected ears dropped limply; and Buck found more time in which to get water for himself and
in which to rest. At such moments, panting with red lolling tongue and with eyes fixed upon the
big bull, it appeared to Buck that a change was coming over the face of things. He could feel a
new stir in the land. As the moose were coming into the land, other kinds of life were coming
in. Forest and stream and air seemed palpitant with their presence. The news of it was borne
in upon him, not by sight, or sound, or smell, but by some other and subtler sense. He heard
nothing, saw nothing, yet knew that the land was somehow different; that through it strange
things were afoot and ranging; and he resolved to investigate after he had finished the
business in hand.
At last, at the end of the fourth day, he pulled the great moose down. For a day and a
night he remained by the kill, eating and sleeping, turn and turn about. Then, rested,
refreshed and strong, he turned his face toward camp and John Thornton. He broke into the
long easy lope, and went on, hour after hour, never at loss for the tangled way, heading
straight home through strange country with a certitude of direction that put man and his
magnetic needle to shame.
As he held on he became more and more conscious of the new stir in the land. There
was life abroad in it different from the life which had been there throughout the summer. No
longer was this fact borne in upon him in some subtle, mysterious way. The birds talked of it,
the squirrels chattered about it, the very breeze whispered of it. Several times he stopped and
drew in the fresh morning air in great sniffs, reading a message which made him leap on with
greater speed. He was oppressed with a sense of calamity happening, if it were not calamity
already happened; and as he crossed the last watershed and dropped down into the valley
toward camp, he proceeded with greater caution.
Three miles away he came upon a fresh trail that sent his neck hair rippling and bristling,
It led straight toward camp and John Thornton. Buck hurried on, swiftly and stealthily, every
nerve straining and tense, alert to the multitudinous details which told a story — all but the
end. His nose gave him a varying description of the passage of the life on the heels of which
he was travelling. He remarked the pregnant silence of the forest. The bird life had flitted. The
squirrels were in hiding. One only he saw,— a sleek gray fellow, flattened against a gray dead
limb so that he seemed a part of it, a woody excrescence upon the wood itself.
As Buck slid along with the obscureness of a gliding shadow, his nose was jerked
suddenly to the side as though a positive force had gripped and pulled it. He followed the new
scent into a thicket and found Nig. He was lying on his side, dead where he had dragged
himself, an arrow protruding, head and feathers, from either side of his body.
A hundred yards farther on, Buck came upon one of the sled-dogs Thornton had bought
in Dawson. This dog was thrashing about in a death-struggle, directly on the trail, and Buck
passed around him without stopping. From the camp came the faint sound of many voices,
rising and falling in a sing-song chant. Bellying forward to the edge of the clearing, he found
Hans, lying on his face, feathered with arrows like a porcupine. At the same instant Buck
peered out where the spruce-bough lodge had been and saw what made his hair leap straight
up on his neck and shoulders. A gust of overpowering rage swept over him. He did not know
that he growled, but he growled aloud with a terrible ferocity. For the last time in his life he
allowed passion to usurp cunning and reason, and it was because of his great love for John
Thornton that he lost his head.
The Yeehats were dancing about the wreckage of the spruce-bough lodge when theyheard a fearful roaring and saw rushing upon them an animal the like of which they had never
seen before. It was Buck, a live hurricane of fury, hurling himself upon them in a frenzy to
destroy. He sprang at the foremost man (it was the chief of the Yeehats), ripping the throat
wide open till the rent jugular spouted a fountain of blood. He did not pause to worry the
victim, but ripped in passing, with the next bound tearing wide the throat of a second man.
There was no withstanding him. He plunged about in their very midst, tearing, rending,
destroying, in constant and terrific motion which defied the arrows they discharged at him. In
fact, so inconceivably rapid were his movements, and so closely were the Indians tangled
together, that they shot one another with the arrows; and one young hunter, hurling a spear at
Buck in mid air, drove it through the chest of another hunter with such force that the point
broke through the skin of the back and stood out beyond. Then a panic seized the Yeehats,
and they fled in terror to the woods, proclaiming as they fled the advent of the Evil Spirit.
And truly Buck was the Fiend incarnate, raging at their heels and dragging them down
like deer as they raced through the trees. It was a fateful day for the Yeehats. They scattered
far and wide over the country, and it was not till a week later that the last of the survivors
gathered together in a lower valley and counted their losses. As for Buck, wearying of the
pursuit, he returned to the desolated camp. He found Pete where he had been killed in his
blankets in the first moment of surprise. Thornton’s desperate struggle was fresh-written on
the earth, and Buck scented every detail of it down to the edge of a deep pool. By the edge,
head and fore feet in the water, lay Skeet, faithful to the last. The pool itself, muddy and
discolored from the sluice boxes, effectually hid what it contained, and it contained John
Thornton; for Buck followed his trace into the water, from which no trace led away.
All day Buck brooded by the pool or roamed restlessly about the camp. Death, as a
cessation of movement, as a passing out and away from the lives of the living, he knew, and
he knew John Thornton was dead. It left a great void in him, somewhat akin to hunger, but a
void which ached and ached, and which food could not fill, At times, when he paused to
contemplate the carcasses of the Yeehats, he forgot the pain of it; and at such times he was
aware of a great pride in himself,— a pride greater than any he had yet experienced. He had
killed man, the noblest game of all, and he had killed in the face of the law of club and fang.
He sniffed the bodies curiously. They had died so easily. It was harder to kill a husky dog than
them. They were no match at all, were it not for their arrows and spears and clubs.
Thenceforward he would be unafraid of them except when they bore in their hands their
arrows, spears, and clubs.
Night came on, and a full moon rose high over the trees into the sky, lighting the land till
it lay bathed in ghostly day. And with the coming of the night, brooding and mourning by the
pool, Buck became alive to a stirring of the new life in the forest other than that which the
Yeehats had made, He stood up, listening and scenting. From far away drifted a faint, sharp
yelp, followed by a chorus of similar sharp yelps. As the moments passed the yelps grew
closer and louder. Again Buck knew them as things heard in that other world which persisted
in his memory. He walked to the centre of the open space and listened. It was the call, the
many-noted call, sounding more luringly and compellingly than ever before. And as never
before, he was ready to obey. John Thornton was dead. The last tie was broken. Man and the
claims of man no longer bound him.
Hunting their living meat, as the Yeehats were hunting it, on the flanks of the migrating
moose, the wolf pack had at last crossed over from the land of streams and timber and
invaded Buck’s valley. Into the clearing where the moonlight streamed, they poured in a
silvery flood; and in the centre of the clearing stood Buck, motionless as a statue, waiting their
coming. They were awed, so still and large he stood, and a moment’s pause fell, till the
boldest one leaped straight for him. Like a flash Buck struck, breaking the neck. Then he
stood, without movement, as before, the stricken wolf rolling in agony behind him. Three
others tried it in sharp succession; and one after the other they drew back, streaming bloodfrom slashed throats or shoulders.
This was sufficient to fling the whole pack forward, pell-mell, crowded together, blocked
and confused by its eagerness to pull down the prey. Buck’s marvellous quickness and agility
stood him in good stead. Pivoting on his hind legs, and snapping and gashing, he was
everywhere at once, presenting a front which was apparently unbroken so swiftly did he whirl
and guard from side to side. But to prevent them from getting behind him, he was forced
back, down past the pool and into the creek bed, till he brought up against a high gravel bank.
He worked along to a right angle in the bank which the men had made in the course of mining,
and in this angle he came to bay, protected on three sides and with nothing to do but face the
And so well did he face it, that at the end of half an hour the wolves drew back
discomfited. The tongues of all were out and lolling, the white fangs showing cruelly white in
the moonlight. Some were lying down with heads raised and ears pricked forward; others
stood on their feet, watching him; and still others were lapping water from the pool. One wolf,
long and lean and gray, advanced cautiously, in a friendly manner, and Buck recognized the
wild brother with whom he had run for a night and a day. He was whining softly, and, as Buck
whined, they touched noses.
Then an old wolf, gaunt and battle-scarred, came forward. Buck writhed his lips into the
preliminary of a snarl, but sniffed noses with him, Whereupon the old wolf sat down, pointed
nose at the moon, and broke out the long wolf howl. The others sat down and howled. And
now the call came to Buck in unmistakable accents. He, too, sat down and howled. This over,
he came out of his angle and the pack crowded around him, sniffing in half-friendly,
halfsavage manner. The leaders lifted the yelp of the pack and sprang away into the woods. The
wolves swung in behind, yelping in chorus. And Buck ran with them, side by side with the wild
brother, yelping as he ran.


And here may well end the story of Buck. The years were not many when the Yeehats
noted a change in the breed of timber wolves; for some were seen with splashes of brown on
head and muzzle, and with a rift of white centring down the chest. But more remarkable than
this, the Yeehats tell of a Ghost Dog that runs at the head of the pack. They are afraid of this
Ghost Dog, for it has cunning greater than they, stealing from their camps in fierce winters,
robbing their traps, slaying their dogs, and defying their bravest hunters.
Nay, the tale grows worse. Hunters there are who fail to return to the camp, and hunters
there have been whom their tribesmen found with throats slashed cruelly open and with wolf
prints about them in the snow greater than the prints of any wolf. Each fall, when the Yeehats
follow the movement of the moose, there is a certain valley which they never enter. And
women there are who become sad when the word goes over the fire of how the Evil Spirit
came to select that valley for an abiding-place.
In the summers there is one visitor, however, to that valley, of which the Yeehats do not
know. It is a great, gloriously coated wolf, like, and yet unlike, all other wolves. He crosses
alone from the smiling timber land and comes down into an open space among the trees.
Here a yellow stream flows from rotted moose-hide sacks and sinks into the ground, with long
grasses growing through it and vegetable mould overrunning it and hiding its yellow from the
sun; and here he muses for a time, howling once, long and mournfully, ere he departs.
But he is not always alone. When the long winter nights come on and the wolves follow
their meat into the lower valleys, he may be seen running at the head of the pack through the
pale moonlight or glimmering borealis, leaping gigantic above his fellows, his great throat
abellow as he sings a song of the younger world, which is the song of the pack. The Kempton-Wace Letters
First published : 1903

Chapter 1 — From Dane Kempton to Herbert Wace

3 a Queen’s Road, Chelsea, S.W.
August 14, 19—.

Yesterday I wrote formally, rising to the occasion like the conventional happy father
rather than the man who believes in the miracle and lives for it. Yesterday I stinted myself. I
took you in my arms, glad of what is and stately with respect for the fulness of your manhood.
It is to-day that I let myself leap into yours in a passion of joy. I dwell on what has come to
pass and inflate myself with pride in your fulfilment, more as a mother would, I think, and she
your mother.
But why did you not write before? After all, the great event was not when you found your
offer of marriage accepted, but when you found you had fallen in love. Then was your hour.
Then was the time for congratulation, when the call was first sounded and the reveille of Time
and About fell upon your soul and the march to another’s destiny was begun. It is always
more important to love than to be loved. I wish it had been vouchsafed me to be by when your
spirit of a sudden grew willing to bestow itself without question or let or hope of return, when
the self broke up and you grew fain to beat out your strength in praise and service for the
woman who was soaring high in the blue wastes. You have known her long, and you must
have been hers long, yet no word of her and of your love reached me. It was not kind to be
Barbara spoke yesterday of your fastidiousness, and we told each other that you had
gained a triumph of happiness in your love, for you are not of those who cheat themselves.
You choose rigorously, straining for the heart of the end as do all rigorists who are also
hedonists. Because we are in possession of this bit of data as to your temperamental cosmos
we can congratulate you with the more abandon. Oh, Herbert, do you know that this is a
rampant spring, and that on leaving Barbara I tramped out of the confines into the green,
happier, it almost seems, than I have ever been? Do you know that because you love a
woman and she loves you, and that because you are swept along by certain forces, that I am
happy and feel myself in sight of my portion of immortality on earth, far more than because of
my books, dear lad, far more?
I wish I could fly England and get to you. Should I have a shade less of you than
formerly, if we were together now? From your too much green of wealth, a barrenness of
friendship? It does not matter; what is her gain cannot be my loss. One power is mine,—
without hindrance, in freedom and in right, to say to Ellen’s son, “Godspeed!” to place Hester
Stebbins’s hand in his, and bid them forth to the sunrise, into the glory of day!
Ever your devoted father,
Dane Kempton.
Chapter 2 — From Herbert Wace to Dane Kempton

The Ridge,
Berkeley, California.
September 3, 19—.

Here I am, back in the old quarters once more, with the old afternoon climb across the
campus and up into the sky, up to the old rooms, the old books, and the old view. You poor
fog-begirt Dane Kempton, could you but have lounged with me on the window couch, an hour
past, and watched the light pass out of the day through the Golden Gate and the night creep
over the Berkeley Hills and down out of the east! Why should you linger on there in London
town! We grow away from each other, it seems—you with your wonder-singing, I with my
joyful science.
Poesy and economics! Alack! alack! How did I escape you, Dane, when mind and mood
you mastered me? The auguries were fair. I, too, should have been a singer, and lo, I strive
for science. All my boyhood was singing, what of you; and my father was a singer, too, in his
own fine way. Dear to me is your likening of him to Waring.—”What’s become of Waring?” He
was Waring. I can think of him only as one who went away, “chose land travel or seafaring.”
Gwynne says I am sometimes almost a poet—Gwynne, you know, Arthur Gwynne, who
has come to live with me at The Ridge. “If it were not for your dismal science,” he is sure to
add; and to fire him I lay it to the defects of early training. I know he thinks that I never half
appreciated you, and that I do not appreciate you now. If you will recollect, you praised his
verses once. He cherishes that praise amongst his sweetest treasures. Poor dear good old
Gwynne, tender, sensitive, shrinking, with the face of a seraph and the heart of a maid. Never
were two men more incongruously companioned. I love him for himself. He tolerates me, I do
secretly believe, because of you. He longs to meet you,—he knew you well through my father,
—and we often talk you over. Be sure at every opportunity I tear off your halo and trundle it
about. Trust me, you receive scant courtesy.
How I wander on. My pen is unruly after the long vacation; my thought yet wayward,
what of the fever of successful wooing. And besides,... how shall I say?... such was the
gracious warmth of your letter, of both your letters, that I am at a loss. I feel weak,
inadequate. It almost seems as though you had made a demand upon something that is not in
me. Ah, you poets! It would seem your delight in my marriage were greater than mine. In my
present mood, it is you who are young, you who love; I who have lived and am old.
Yes, I am going to be married. At this present moment, I doubt not, a million men and
women are saying the same thing. Hewers of wood and drawers of water, princes and
potentates, shy-shrinking maidens and brazen-faced hussies, all saying, “I am going to be
married.” And all looking forward to it as a crisis in their lives? No. After all, marriage is the
way of the world. Considered biologically, it is an institution necessary for the perpetuation of
the species. Why should it be a crisis? These million men and women will marry, and the work
of the world go on just as it did before. Shuffle them about, and the work of the world would
yet go on.
True, a month ago it did seem a crisis. I wrote you as much. It did seem a disturbing
element in my life-work. One cannot view with equanimity that which appears to be totally
disruptive of one’s dear little system of living. But it only appeared so; I lacked perspective,
that was all. As I look upon it now, everything fits well and all will run smoothly I am sure.
You know I had two years yet to work for my Doctorate. I still have them. As you see, I
am back to the old quarters, settled down in the old groove, hammering away at the old grind.Nothing is changed. And besides my own studies, I have taken up an assistant instructorship
in the Department of Economics. It is an ambitious course, and an important one. I don’t know
how they ever came to confide it to me, or how I found the temerity to attempt it,—which is
neither here nor there. It is all agreed. Hester is a sensible girl.
The engagement is to be long. I shall continue my career as charted. Two years from
now, when I shall have become a Doctor of Social Sciences (and candidate for numerous
other things), I shall also become a benedict. My marriage and the presumably necessary
honeymoon chime in with the summer vacation. There is no disturbing element even there.
Oh, we are very practical, Hester and I. And we are both strong enough to lead each our own
Which reminds me that you have not asked about her. First, let me shock you—she, too,
is a scientist. It was in my undergraduate days that we met, and ere the half-hour struck we
were quarrelling felicitously over Weismann and the neo-Darwinians. I was at Berkeley at the
time, a cocksure junior; and she, far maturer as a freshman, was at Stanford, carrying more
culture with her into her university than is given the average student to carry out.
Next, and here your arms open to her, she is a poet. Pre-eminently she is a poet—this
must be always understood. She is the greater poet, I take it, in this dawning twentieth
century, because she is a scientist; not in spite of being a scientist as some would hold. How
shall I describe her? Perhaps as a George Eliot, fused with an Elizabeth Barrett, with a hint of
Huxley and a trace of Keats. I may say she is something like all this, but I must say she is
something other and different. There is about her a certain lightsomeness, a glow or flash
almost Latin or oriental, or perhaps Celtic. Yes, that must be it—Celtic. But the
highstomached Norman is there and the stubborn Saxon. Her quickness and fine audacity are
checked and poised, as it were, by that certain conservatism which gives stability to purpose
and power to achievement. She is unafraid, and wide-looking and far-looking, but she is not
over-looking. The Saxon grapples with the Celt, and the Norman forces the twain to do what
the one would not dream of doing and what the other would dream beyond and never do. Do
you catch me? Her most salient charm, is I think, her perfect poise, her exquisite adjustment.
Altogether she is a most wonderful woman, take my word for it. And after all she is
described vicariously. Though she has published nothing and is exceeding shy, I shall send
you some of her work. There will you find and know her. She is waiting for stronger voice and
sings softly as yet. But hers will be no minor note, no middle flight. She is—well, she is Hester.
In two years we shall be married. Two years, Dane. Surely you will be with us.
One thing more; in your letter a certain undertone which I could not fail to detect. A
shade less of me than formerly?—I turn and look into your face—Waring’s handiwork you
remember—his painter’s fancy of you in those golden days when I stood on the brink of the
world, and you showed me the delights of the world and the way of my feet therein. So I turn
and look, and look and wonder. A shade less of me, of you? Poesy and economics! Where
lies the blame?
Chapter 3 — From Dane Kempton to Herbert Wace

September 30, 19—.

It is because you know not what you do that I cannot forgive you. Could you know that
your letter with its catalogue of advantages and arrangements must offend me as much as it
belies (let us hope) you and the woman of your love, I would pardon the affront of it upon us
all, and ascribe the unseemly want of warmth to reserve or to the sadness which grips the
heart when joy is too palpitant. But something warns me that you are unaware of the chill your
words breathe, and that is a lapse which it is impossible to meet with indulgence.
“He does not love her,” was Barbara’s quick decision, and she laid the open letter down
with a definiteness which said that you, too, are laid out and laid low. Your sister’s very wrists
can be articulate. However, I laughed at her and she soon joined me. We do not mean to be
extravagant with our fears. Who shall prescribe the letters of lovers to their sisters and
fosterfathers? Yet there are some things their letters should be incapable of saying, and amongst
them that love is not a crisis and a rebirth, but that it is common as the commonplace, a hit or
miss affair which “shuffling” could not affect.
Barbara showed me your note to her. “Had I written like this of myself and Earl—”
“You could not,” I objected.
“Then Herbert should have been as little able to do it,” she deduced with emphasis. Here
I might have told her that men and women are races apart, but no one talks cant to Barbara.
So I did not console her, and it stands against you in our minds that on this critical occasion
you have baffled us with coldness.
An absence of six years, broken into twice by a brief few months, must work changes.
When Barbara called your letter unnatural, she forgot how little she knows what is natural to
you. She and I have been wont to predetermine you, your character, foothold, and outlook, by
—say by the fact that you knew your Wordsworth and that you knew him without being able to
take for yourself his austere peace. Youth which lives by hope is riven by unrest.

“I made no vows; vows were made for me,
Bond unknown to me was given
That I should be, else sinning gently,
A dedicated spirit.”

That pale sunrise seen from Mt. Tamalpais and your voice vibrant to fierceness on the
“else sinning gently”—to me the splendour of rose on piled-up ridges of mist spoke all for you,
so dear have you always been. It rested on the possible wonder of your life. It threw you into
the scintillant Dawn with an abandon meet to a son of Waring.
Tell me, do you still read your Wordsworth on your knees? I am bent with regret for the
time when your mind had no surprises for me, when the days were flushed halcyon with my
hope in you. I resent your development if it is because of it that you speak prosaically of a
prosaic marriage and of a honeymoon simultaneous with the Degree. I think you are too well
pleased with the simultaneousness.
Yet the fact of the letter is fair. It cannot be that the soul of it is not. Hester Stebbins is a
poet. I lean forward and think it out as I did some days ago when the news came. I conjure up
the look of love. If the woman is content (how much more than content the feeling she bounds
with in knowing you hers as she is yours), what better test that all is well? I conjure up the lookof love. It is thus at meeting and thus at parting. Even here, to-night, when all is chill and hard
to understand, I catch the flash and the warmth, and what I see restores you to me, but how
deep the plummet of my mind needed to sound before it reached you. It is because you
permitted yourself to speak when silence had expressed you better.
Show me the ideally real Hester Stebbins, the spark of fire which is she. The storms
have not broken over her head. She will laugh and make poetry of her laughter. If before she
met you she wept, that, too, will help the smiling. There is laughter which is the echo of a
Miserere sobbed by the ages. Men chuckle in the irony of pain, and they smile cold, lessoned
smiles in resignation; they laugh in forgetfulness and they laugh lest they die of sadness. A
shrug of the shoulders, a widening of the lips, a heaving forth of sound, and the life is saved.
The remedy is as drastic as are the drugs used for epilepsy, which in quelling thespasm bring
idiocy to the patient. If we are made idiots by our laughter, we are paying dearly for the
privilege of continuing in life.
Hester shall laugh because she is glad and must tell her joy, and she will not lose it in the
telling. Greet her for me and hasten to prove yourself, for

“The Poet, gentle creature that he is,
Hath like the Lover, his unruly times;
His fits when he is neither sick nor well,
Though no distress be near him but his own
Unmanageable thoughts.”

You will judge by this letter that I am neither sick nor well, and that I reach for a distress
which is not near. If I were Merchant rather than Poet, it would be otherwise with me.
Chapter 4 — From Herbert Wace to Dane Kempton

The Ridge,
Berkeley, California.
October 27, 19—.

Do I still read my Wordsworth on my knees? Well, we may as well have it out. I have
foreseen this day so long and shunned it that now I meet it almost with extended hands. No, I
do not read my Wordsworth on my knees. My mind is filled with other things. I have not the
time. I am not the Herbert Wace of six years gone. It is fair that you should know this; fair,
also, that you should know the Herbert Wace of six years gone was not quite the lad you
deemed him.
There is no more pathetic and terrible thing than the prejudice of love. Both you and I
have suffered from it. Six years ago, ay, and before that, I felt and resented the growing
difference between us. When under your spell, it seemed that I was born to lisp in numbers
and devote myself to singing, that the world was good and all of it fit for singing. But away
from you, even then, doubts faced me, and I knew in vague fashion that we lived in different
worlds. At first in vague fashion, I say; and when with you again, your spell dominated me and
I could not question. You were true, you were good, I argued, all that was wonderful and
glorious; therefore, you were also right. You mastered me with your charm, as you were wont
to master those who loved you.
But there came times when your sympathy failed me and I stood alone on outlooks I had
achieved alone. There was no response from you. I could not hear your voice. I looked down
upon a real world; you were caught up in a beautiful cloudland and shut away from me.
Possibly it was because life of itself appealed to you, while to me appealed the mechanics of
life. But be it as it may, yours was a world of ideas and fancies, mine a world of things and
Enters here the prejudice of love. It was the lad that discovered our difference and
concealed; it was the man who was blind and could not discover. There we erred, man and
boy; and here, both men now, we make all well again.
Let me be explicit. Do you remember the passion with which I read the “Intellectual
Development of Europe?” I understood not the tithe of it, but I was thrilled. My common sense
was thrilled, I suppose; but it was all very joyous, gripping hold of the tangible world for the
first time. And when I came to you, warm with the glow of adventure, you looked blankly, then
smiled indulgently and did not answer. You regarded my ardour complacently. A passing
humour of adolescence, you thought; and I thought: “Dane does not read his Draper on his
knees.” Wordsworth was great to me; Draper was great also. You had no patience with him,
and I know now, as I felt then, your consistent revolt against his materialistic philosophy.
Only the other day you complained of a letter of mine, calling it cold and analytical. That I
should be cold and analytical despite all the prodding and pressing and moulding I have
received at your hands, and the hands of Waring, marks only more clearly our temperamental
difference; but it does not mark that one or the other of us is less a dedicated spirit. If I have
wandered away from the warmth of poesy and become practical, have you not remained and
become confirmed in all that is beautifully impractical? If I have adventured in a new world of
common things, have you not lingered in the old world of great and impossible things? If I
have shivered in the gray dawn of a new day, have you not crouched over the dying embers
of the fire of yesterday? Ah, Dane, you cannot rekindle that fire. The whirl of the world
scatters its ashes wide and far, like volcanic dust, to make beautiful crimson sunsets for atime and then to vanish.
None the less are you a dedicated spirit, priest that you are of a dying faith. Your prayers
are futile, your altars crumbling, and the light flickers and drops down into night. Poetry is
empty these days, empty and worthless and dead. All the old-world epic and lyric-singing will
not put this very miserable earth of ours to rights. So long as the singers sing of the things of
yesterday, glorifying the things of yesterday and lamenting their departure, so long will poetry
be a vain thing and without avail. The old world is dead, dead and buried along with its heroes
and Helens and knights and ladies and tournaments and pageants. You cannot sing of the
truth and wonder of to-day in terms of yesterday. And no one will listen to your singing till you
sing of to-day in terms of to-day.
This is the day of the common man. Do you glorify the common man? This is the day of
the machine. When have you sung of the machine? The crusades are here again, not the
Crusades of Christ but the Crusades of the Machine—have you found motive in them for your
song? We are crusading to-day, not for the remission of sins, but for the abolition of sinning,
of economic and industrial sinning. The crusade to Christ’s sepulchre was paltry compared
with the splendour and might of our crusade to-day toward manhood. There are millions of us
afoot. In the stillness of the night have you never listened to the trampling of our feet and
been caught up by the glory and the romance of it? Oh, Dane! Dane! Our captains sit in
council, our heroes take the field, our fighting men are buckling on their harness, our martyrs
have already died, and you are blind to it, blind to it all!
We have no poets these days, and perforce we are singing with our hands. The walking
delegate is a greater singer and a finer singer than you, Dane Kempton. The cold, analytical
economist, delving in the dynamics of society, is more the prophet than you. The carpenter at
his bench, the blacksmith by his forge, the boiler-maker clanging and clattering, are all
warbling more sweetly than you. The sledge-wielder pours out more strength and certitude
and joy in every blow than do you in your whole sheaf of songs. Why, the very socialist
agitator, hustled by the police on a street corner amid the jeers of the mob, has caught the
romance of to-day as you have not caught it and where you have missed it. He knows life and
is living. Are you living, Dane Kempton?
Forgive me. I had begun to explain and reconcile our difference. I find I am lecturing and
censuring you. In defending myself, I offend. But this I wish to say: We are so made, you and
I, that your function in life is to dream, mine to work. That you failed to make a dreamer of me
is no cause for heartache and chagrin. What of my practical nature and analytical mind, I have
generalised in my own way upon the data of life and achieved a different code from yours. Yet
I seek truth as passionately as you. I still believe myself to be a dedicated spirit.
And what boots it, all of it? When the last word is said, we are two men, by a thousand
ties very dear to each other. There is room in our hearts for each other as there is room in the
world for both of us. Though we have many things not in common, yet you are my dearest
friend on earth, you who have been a second father to me as well.
You have long merited this explanation, and it was cowardly of me not to have made it
before. My hope is that I have been sufficiently clear for you to understand.
Chapter 5 — From Dane Kempton to Herbert Wace

3 a Queen’s Road, Chelsea, S.W.
November 16, 19—.

You sigh “Poesy and Economics,” supplying the cause and thereby admitting the fact. I
wish you had shown some reluctance to see my meaning, that you had preferred to waive the
matter on the ground of insufficient data, that you had been less eager to ferret out the
science of the thing. Do you remember how your boy’s respect rose for little Barbara
whenever she cried when too readily forgiven? “She dreads a double standard,” you explained
to me with generous heat. You sympathised with her fear lest I demand less of her than of
you, honouring her insistence on an equality of duty as well as of privilege. Is the man Herbert
less proud than the child Barbara, that you speak of a temperamental difference and ask for a
special dispensation?
You are not in love (this you say in not gainsaying my attack on you, and so far I
understand), because you are a student of Economics. At the last I stop. What is this about
economics and poesy? About your emancipation from my riotously lyric sway? The hand of
the forces by which you have been moulded cannot detain you from going out upon the
lovequest. The fact of your preference for Draper cannot forestall your spirit’s need of love. There
are many codes, but there is one law, binding alike on the economist and poet. It springs out
of the common and unappeasable hunger, commanding that love seek love through night to
day and through day to night.
Yet it is possible to put oneself outside the pale of the law, to refuse the gift of life and
snap the tie between time and space and creature. It is possible to be too emaciated for
interest or feeling. The men and women of the People know neither love nor art because they
are too weary. They lie in sleep prostrate from great fatigue. Their bodies are too much tried
with the hungers of the body and their spirits too dimly illumined with the hope of fair chances.
It is also possible to fill oneself so full with an interest that all else is crowded out. You have
done this. Like the cobbler who is a cobbler typically, the teacher who is a pedagogue, the
physician and the lawyer who are pathologists merely, you are a fanatic of a text. You are in
the toils of an idea, the idea of selection, as I well know, and you exploit it like a drudge. When
a man finds that he cannot deal in petroleum without smelling of it, it is time that he turn to
something else. Every man is engaged in the cause of keeping himself whole, in watching
himself lest his man turn machine, in watching lest the outside world assail the inner. Nature
spares the type, but the individual must spare himself. He is strong who is sensitive and who
responds subtly to everything in his environment, but his response must be characteristic; he
must sustain his personality and become more himself through the years. He alone is vital in
the social scheme who lets nothing in him atrophy and who persists in being varied from all
others in the scale of character to the degree of variability that was his at the beginning.
I read in your letter nothing but a decision to stop short and give over, as if you had
strength for no more than your book and your theory! You have become slave to a small point
of inquiry, and you call it the advance to a new time. “The crusade is on,” you say. Coronation
rites for the commoners and destruction to superstition. I put my hand out to you in joy. The
joy is in unholy worship of a fetish, the pain that there is no joy also deference to a fetish. Your
creed thunders “Thou shalt not.” Love is a thing of yesterday. No room for anything that
intimately concerns the self. But what are the apostles of the young thought preaching if it is
not the right of men to their own, and what would it avail them to come into their own if life bestripped of romance?
I am dissatisfied because you are willing to live as others must live. You should stay
aristocrat. Ferdinand Lassalle dressed with elegance for his working-men audiences, with the
hope, he said, of reminding them that there was something better than their shabbiness. You
are of the favoured, Herbert. It devolves upon you to endear your life to yourself. You do not
agree with me. You do not believe that love is the law which controls freedom and life. Slave
to your theory and rebel to the law, you lose your soul and imperil another’s.
“Gently! Gently!” I say to myself. Old sorrows and wrongs oppress me and I grow harsh.
My heat only helps to convince you that my position is not based on the rational rightness you
hold so essential and that therefore it is unlivable. I will state calmly, then, that it is wrong to
marry without love. “For the perpetuation of the species”—that is noble of you! So you strip
yourself of the thousand years of civilisation that have fostered you, you abandon your
prerogative as a creature high in the scale of existence to obey an instinct and fulfil a
function? You say: “These men and women will marry, and the work of the world go on just as
it did before. Shuffle them about and the work of the world would yet go on.” And you are
content. You feel no need of anything different from this condition.
Believe me, Herbert, these million men and women will not let you shuffle them about.
There are forces stronger than force, shadows more real than reality. We know that the need
of the unhungered for the one friend, one comrade, one mate, is good. We honour the love
that persists in loving. More beautiful than starlight is the face of the lover when the Voice and
the Vision enfold him. The race is consecrated to the worship of idea, and the lover who lays
his all on the altar of romance (which is idea) is at one with the race. The arms of the unloved
girl close about the formless air and more real than her loneliness and her sorrow is the
imagined embrace, the awaited warm, close pressure of the hands, the fancied gaze. What
does it mean? What secret was there for Leonardo in Mona Lisa’s smile, what for him in the
motion of waters? You cannot explain the bloom, the charm, the smile of life, that which rains
sunshine into our hearts, which tells us we are wise to hope and to have faith, which buckles
on us an armour of activity, which lights the fires of the spirit, which gives us Godhead and
renders us indomitable. Comparative anatomy cannot reason it down. It is sensibility,
romance, idea. It is a fact of life toward which all other facts make. For the flush of rose-light
in the heavens, the touch of a hand, the colour and shape of fruit, the tears that come for
unnamed sorrows, the regrets of old men, are more significant than all the building and
inventing done since the first social compact.
Forgive my tediousness. I have flaunted these truisms before you in order to exorcise
that modern slang of yours which is more false than the overstrained forms of a feudal
France. To shut out glory is not to be practical. You are not adjusting your life artistically; there
is too much strain, too little warmth, too much self-complacence. I see that you are really
younger than I thought. The world never censures the crimes of the spirit. You are safe from
the world’s tongue lashings, and in that safety is the danger against which my friendship
warns you.
I have been reading Hester’s poems, and I know that she is like them, nervous, vibrant,
throbbing, sensitive. I have been reading your letters, and I think her soul will escape yours. If
you have not love like hers, you have nothing with which to keep her. This I have undertaken
to say to you. It is a strange role, yet conventional. I am the father whose matrimonial whims
are not met by the son. The stock measure is to disinherit. But the cause of our quarrel is
somewhat unusual, and I can be neither so practical nor so vulgar as to set about making
codicils. Love is of no value to financiers; there is no bank for it nor may it be made over in a
will. Rather is it carried on in the blood, even as Barbara carried it on into the life of her
girlbabe. Your sister keeps me strong with the faith of love. May God be good to her! It was five
years ago that she came to me and whispered, “Earl.” When she saw I could not turn to her in
joy, she leaned her little head back against the roses of the porch and wept, more than was