North

The journey to the Gordon claim was made in silence, and in silence MacShane pushed aside the poles that covered the mouth of the shaft against snow, and dropped lightly in. Peering curiously over the edge, by the light of the glittering stars, Camillo Bill saw MacShane drop to his knees, thrust a hand into his pocket, withdraw a sack of dust and methodically sprinkle it into the gravel at the bottom of the shaft. Another and another sack followed until all the gold he had won from Gordon had been returned to the gravel, then, with the aid of the windlass rope, he drew himself from the shaft. As he stooped to fasten the thongs of his snowshoes Camillo Bill’s mittened hand descended upon his shoulder with a thump that threatened to send him sprawling into the snow:

“Well, I’ll be damned! MacShane, I—I—Oh, hell! I’ll be damned!”

“Um-hum,” grunted MacShane, regaining his feet, “I reckon we all will—accordin’ to the preachers. But there ain’t no call to go braggin’ about it.”

“You son-of-a-gun!” rumbled Camillo Bill, admiringly, “Gawd, I’m glad I ain’t Moosehide!”

MacShane regarded him with a twisted grin: “Moosehide’s all right, accordin’ to his lights,” he said, “I ain’t blamin’ him none—an’ you ain’t got any call to blame him. You thought the same as he did—only you took the trouble to make sure. You don’t need to say nothin’ about this. It ain’t no one’s business but mine. It was the woman an’ the kid—they need the dust, an’ I don’t. Hope the old man learnt his lesson, though.”

“The hell I won’t say nothin’ about it!” cried Camillo Bill, “The hell I won’t! It’s too good a one to keep. Jest wait till the boys hears about it! Moosehide’s prob’ly spilt it all over the place that the reason you wouldn’t give Old Man Gordon a run for his money was because you wouldn’t take his word that his claim was worth what he said it was worth without slippin’ up an’ seein’ for yourself. You wait an’ see. I’ll bet you the drinks you won’t be near so pop’lar when you hit the Golden North as what you have be’n.”

“I don’t give a damn what they think,” said MacShane, “Only don’t go gettin’ excited if Gordon comes rompin’ in the first time he mucks out his shaft, claimin’ he washed four or five hundred dollars out of a pan. I tried to salt her even, but I reckon maybe she’s spread a little thick in spots.”

“Maybe you don’t care what they think, but I do. It ain’t you they’d say much to, nohow. There ain’t many of ’em would be huntin’ fer a chance to mix it up with you. But, me, it’s different. Whenever you wasn’t around they’d be damnin’ you off amongst theirselves, an’ knowin’ what I know an’ they don’t, I’d jest naturally have to sail in an’ knock hell out of some of ’em an’ there’s some of ’em that could knock hell out of me if I tried it—an’ there you are!”

MacShane laughed: “You’re all right, Camillo. But, anyway, don’t say anything about it till I’m out of the country.”

“Out of the country!” cried Camillo Bill, “What do you mean—out of the country?”

“Plumb out of the Yukon,” answered MacShane, “I’m hittin’ the trail. You know how it is with me, Camillo. I kind of get tired of a place. An’ besides it ain’t goin’ to be anyways fit to live here as soon as spring comes, with the chechakos pourin’ down the river, an’ swarmin’ all over the country.”

“You’re hittin’ the trail,” breathed Camillo, dumfounded, “An’ only last night you was tellin’ of washin’ a hundred an’ forty dollars to the pan! Be you plumb crazy, or what?”

“No, I ain’t crazy. Leastwise I don’t call it that, an’ I’m the only one that wins or loses by what I do. No, it ain’t craziness, it’s jest naturally a honin’ I’ve got to hit the trail—to go places an’ see places, that other folks ain’t be’n to an’ seen. It’s—say, did you ever hear the opposite word to homesick?”

Camillo shook his head.

“I mean, it’s like this, some folks get homesick, just get to pinin’ an’ mopin’ to get back to the place they call home, an’ when they get that way, an’ get it bad enough, there ain’t no place else looks good to ’em. They’ll quit any job, or whatever they’re doin’ an’ hit back home, an’ it don’t make no difference if home is a mud shanty. I knew an Injun once, he was a harpooner on a whaler, an’ he drawed down more money at the end of a voyage than all the rest of the Injuns in his tribe thought there was in the world. But he got homesick an’ quit cold when we run in to Valdez one time. Three or fours years later I run onto him way back in the Kuskokwim country, an’ he was dryin’ whitefish on a rack—but he was happy. He was home, an’ his home was a caribou hide stretched over a couple of willow sticks. Well, that’s the way with me—only just the opposite. I never had any home that I can remember. I run away from a foundlin’ home when I was somewheres around eight or nine, an’ I’ve be’n goin’ ever since. I reckon at first, I kep’ on the move because I didn’t want ’em to get me an’ take me back there, an’ after a while it got to be a habit. Till now it’s got so that after I’ve be’n in a place a while, I get homesick for someplace I ain’t never seen. I used to try to buck it, but it wasn’t any use. I’ve be’n in a lot of good places—places that ought to satisfy any man, but I’ve never be’n satisfied, an’ it ain’t long till I’d hit the trail.”

“But, man, the gold! A hundred an’ forty dollars to the pan an’ you ain’t nowheres near the bottom! There ain’t nothin’ like it ever be’n heard of before! Where in hell are you ever goin’ to make another strike like that?”

“Maybe I won’t,” replied MacShane, gravely, “An’ then, again, maybe I will.”

“There ain’t nothin’ like it in the world!”

“Maybe that’s true, an’ maybe it ain’t. There ain’t no one can prove it. A year ago there wasn’t any such thing as a hundred dollars to the pan in the world. Next year or next month, I may be takin’ out a thousan’ dollars to the pan, a thousand miles from here—an’ I may not be takin’ out wages.”

“Where you goin’, an’ when?” asked Camillo Bill.

“North,” answered MacShane, “That’s all I know about it myself. The hunch I’ve got now says North, an’ North I go—North to God knows where!”

“When?”

“Tonight!”

“Tonight! Ain’t you going back to yer claim?”

“No. The hunch is pullin’ strong. I didn’t know when I left I wasn’t goin’ back or I’d have brought along some more stuff, but, shucks, there ain’t nothin’ there that I can’t get somewheres else, so I’ll let her stay.”

“What you goin’ to do with your claim?”

“Sell it.”

“Who to?”

“You, if you want it. I’ll give you first chance at it. I figure there’s over a hundred thousand in the dump, an’ a lot more in the ground—maybe half a million, maybe two million, I don’t know.”

“What do you want for it?”

“Five hundred thousand.”

“That’s more than I can swing,” said Camillo, regretfully.

“How much you got?”

“Nothin’ to speak of, right now. My dump has got a lot of good stuff in it, but I can’t get it out till spring. An’ my claim is good for a whole lot more. But dumps an’ claims don’t do you any good.”

“None whatever,” laughed MacShane, “Tell you what I’ll do, we’ll go pardners. Bunch the two claims an’ you work ’em an’ we’ll pool the dust.”

“Mine ain’t as good as yours,” said Camillo Bill.

“I know it ain’t,” agreed MacShane, “But, you’ve got the work an’ worry of gettin’ out the dust, an’ I ain’t. The difference in what they’re worth will be your salary as manager of the concern, see?”

“Suits me if it suits you,” grinned Camillo Bill, “But, at that, I think I’m gettin’ the best end of it.”

“You’re welcome to it.”

“Where North you goin’, MacShane?” asked Camillo Bill as they drew into the outskirts of the camp, “Beyond the daylight?”

“Yes beyond, an’ way beyond. I’ll most likely hit up the Chandalar an’ cross over to the Koyukuk, an’ maybe I’ll stop there an’ maybe I’ll keep goin’. There’s a river north of there yet, the Colville, where there ain’t no one ever be’n. When your hunch says North, you might as well go good an’ damn North.”

“You’ve took a hell of a pick when it comes to places to go,” grinned Camillo, “Up there all alone in the dark, an’ the strong cold, an’ prob’ly north of timber.”

“I’d just as soon be alone, an’ I ain’t afraid of the dark, an’ I don’t mind the strong cold, an’ I don’t aim to do any loggin’, so it won’t be so bad. Maybe that’s where I’ll find my thousand-dollar-a-pan strike.”

“Damn sight more apt to freeze to death an’ feed the wolves,” replied Camillo Bill, lugubriously. “Why in hell can’t you let well enough alone an’ stay with yer claim?”

MacShane smiled: “I just told you why—or, tried to tell you. I didn’t expect you’d understand exactly. No one does. I don’t understand it myself. All I know is, that when a hunch comes to hit the trail, I hit the trail—an’ that’s all there is to it.”

“Where you goin’?” asked Camillo Bill in surprise, as MacShane paused and held out his hand before the door of the Golden North.

“I told you, I’m goin’ North,” answered MacShane, “So long!”

“But, ain’t you comin’ in? Ain’t you goin’ to say goodbye to the boys?”

“The boys won’t be particularly glad to see me. Moosehide has talked before now. No, I’ll just slip down an’ get my outfit an’ pull. So long, pardner, I’ll see you again—sometime!”

“So long!” cried Camillo Bill, his hand meeting MacShane’s in a mighty grip, “But, you better wait till tomorrow, or today, rather, it’s most two o’clock, an’ you didn’t get no sleep last night, an’ you ain’t had none tonight.”

“Plenty of time to sleep where I’m goin’,” laughed MacShane, “up there it’s all night.”

“Good luck to you, you damned old sourdough! If I ain’t here when you come back, your share will be in McCarty’s safe.”

MacShane waved his hand, and after watching until he was swallowed up in the gloom, Camillo Bill opened the door and entered the Golden North where he was at once greeted by Moosehide Charlie:

“Where’s MacShane?” he enquired.

“He pulled out,” answered Camillo Bill, shortly.

“Pulled out! Then, he never aimed to give Old Man Gordon a run fer his money?”

“No, he didn’t.”

“Did he go up an’ snoop around Gordon’s claim?”

“Yup.”

Moosehide sniffed contemptuously: “Ain’t that the damndest thing you ever seen a man do?”

“It were.”

“Well, I don’t know as I blame him none fer pullin’ back to his claim after the way he done—an’ that’s the way most of the boys looks at it. I don’t savvy it. If it be’n anyone else but MacShane! He’s counted the best man in the North. Bettles says the only way he kin figger it is that playin’ a lone hand as long as he has, it’s mebbe got to him, here.” Moosehide touched his forehead significantly with his finger.

“Mebbe it has,” commented Camillo Bill, his eyes sweeping the room, “Where’s everybody?”

“Most of ’em’s gone to bed,” Moosehide replied, “An’ I ain’t goin’ to be far behind ’em. Two nights hand runnin’ is a little too strong fer me. I got to sleep now an’ then.”

“Me, too,” agreed Camillo Bill, and together they left the saloon.