North

At last, at the end of a long day’s toil, the trio beached their boat on the shallows, and pitched their tent on the outskirts of the new camp that had sprung up on the flat at the mouth of Slate Creek. They had arrived at Coldfoot, the most northerly gold camp in the world.

Supper over, Mrs. Gordon surveyed the cluster of low log buildings, and canvas tents: “Surely, Stuart,” she said, reflectively. “We’ll find Burr MacShane here.”

Her husband shook his head: “An’ why d’ye think we’ll be findin’ him here?” he asked.

“Why because Coldfoot is the very last camp. If he headed North, he’s bound to be here. There is nothing beyond.”

Gordon smiled: “Aye, but ye do not know MacShane. Camps are nothin’ to him. He knows the North as no other man knows it, an’ always he plays a lone hand. ’Tis not because he does not like man, or the company of his kind, for he does. Everywhere, by white men, an’ by red men alike, he is held in regard. An’ when he foregathers with men he is the life of the camp. It was him, d’ye mind, that planned an’ carried out the Christmas ye had that year in Dawson.” He turned to the girl who had been listening. “An’ ’twas him that lifted ye in his two hands to the top of the piano, the better ye could see, an’ ’twas him that give ye the doll, the prettiest doll of the lot it was, an’ he picked it out for ye.”

Lou smiled, “I have the doll yet,” she said, “And I remember that a big man picked me up and stood me on the piano, but I can’t remember his face. It must be awfully lonesome for him—to be always alone.”

“It is too bad he has never married,” said Mrs. Gordon. “A man like that would make some woman a good husband.”

“Losh, woman!” cried Gordon, “An’ who would he marry? Who are the women he knows—Injun squaws, Eskimo klooches, an’ the strumpets of the dance halls! MacShane would have none of them. For, he’s clean.”

“He must get his supplies at Coldfoot,” said Mrs. Gordon, “There is no place else.”

“Aye, but ye must remember there was no Coldfoot when he passed this way, if he ever passed.”

“What do you mean, if he ever passed?”

“I mean that the Koyukuk is not the only river that lies North from the Yukon. There are many. An’ knowin’ MacShane by his reputation on the trail, he may be this minute anywhere between Hudson Bay an’ Bering Sea. An’ even if he traded in Coldfoot today, he might do his next tradin’ at Fort MacPherson.”

“Oh, I wish we could find him and thank him for—what he did.”

“Aye, woman,” answered Gordon, heavily, “I’ve sought him this long time. My humility weighs heavy upon me. But, as the Gude Book says, ‘Everything comes to him who waits.’ ’Tis doubtless the Lord’s will I should carry my load long.”

Inquiry at the Commercial Company’s store revealed the fact that only two months before MacShane had come into camp from the northward, remained for several days, and purchasing supplies, had suddenly pulled out.

“An where did he hit for?” asked Gordon.

“Lord knows, I don’t. Myrtle Creek, maybe. That’s where most of ’em are hittin’ for now. There has be’n some pretty good sacks of dust brought down off of Myrtle this summer. Goin’ to locate?”

Gordon nodded: “Aye. An’ can ye tell me how I’ll reach Myrtle Crick?”

“Sure, just follow up Slate Creek, an’ it’s the third creek that runs into it.”

“Maybe it’s all staked?”

“No, it ain’t, there’s plenty of room there yet. They ain’t so many of us up here, you know. It ain’t like the Yukon. The chechakos an’ the riff-raff don’t hit Coldfoot. This here country is a heap too skookum fer their blood. Bettles catches about the last of them, an’ they don’t stay there long. They hit back to the Yukon where they got more chanct of winterin’ through. They ain’t got no guts fer the long night an’ the strong cold. This here is a man’s country.”

“An’ Myrtle Crick,” persisted Gordon, “Is there timber for cabin logs?”

“Yes, plenty timber for cabin logs. It ain’t what you’d call big timber or nothin’, an’ it’s kind of scatterin’ like, but you’ll find patches here an’ there that’ll do. Now, how about your outfit?”

“I’ll be needin’ grub,” answered Gordon, “The rest I brought with me. I came up from the Yukon in a polin’ boat.”

“In a polin’ boat!” exclaimed the trader, “Alone!”

Gordon smiled: “No, there’s three of us, my wife an’ daughter.”

“Wife an’ daughter! An’ come clean up from the Yukon in a polin’ boat!”

“Aye,” answered Gordon, “’Twas a considerable chore.”

“An’ he calls it a chore,” muttered the trader, “Like feedin’ the dogs, or cuttin’ firewood! An’ a hell of a lot of ’em thinks they be’n somewhere’s when they come up to Bettles on the steamboat an’ shove a polin’ boat the rest of the way!” He suddenly thrust out his hand, “Crim’s my name, old timer, an’ I’m proud to meet you. The boys’ll all be proud to know you, here on the Koyukuk. You’re our kind.”

“Mine’s Gordon,” replied the Scotchman, and for the next hour Gordon and Crim were busy with the grub list. When the last item had been stacked up and the list checked, Gordon drew out his gold sack. “We thought prices was high in Dawson,” he said, as he balanced the sack in his hand, “But nothin’ as high as here.”

“No. Coldfoot’s the farthest north gold camp in the world, an’ she’s the most expensive. These here shallow-draught steamboats that runs up as far as Bettles can’t fetch up no hell of a load of freight, an’ they ain’t afraid to charge fer what they do haul, an’ on top of that it’s all got to be man-hauled in summer, an’ dog-hauled in winter fer the seventy-five mile between here an’ Bettles. An’ all that freightin’ has got to be added onto the Yukon prices.” The man paused and his glance traveled from Gordon’s gold sack to his face. “You can put that up,” he said, “These goods is charged.”

“But—you don’t know nothin’ about me. An’ besides, I don’t like to be in debt. There’s dust enough here to pay.”

The trader nodded: “There is. But how about dogs? You didn’t bring dogs, did you? An’ as fer the rest, I know all I need to know about you. That’s what the Company pays me fer—to size up men. This here will run you till Christmas, then you can come back fer more. An’ remember this, Gordon, the Koyukuk diggin’s is spotted. You might strike it lucky the first crack out of the box, an’ you might prod around fer a long while ’fore you strike it, but it’s here, an’ sooner or later you’ll win.”

“How about MacShane?” inquired Gordon, “Has he struck it, yet?”

“MacShane,” the other smiled, “You can’t never tell nothin’ about Burr MacShane. I know’d him, it’s years ago on the Lower Yukon. He might of mushed five hundred mile to get that grub. MacShane ain’t on Myrtle. It’s a way I’ve got—not tellin’ a party where another party is, till I’ve got the party sized up. But, fact is, I don’t know where MacShane come from, nor where he went. Wisht I did.”

“Why?” asked Gordon.

“Well, it’s like this. I’ve knocked around quite a bit, take it first an’ last, tradin’ on my own hook, an’ tradin’ fer the Company, an’ I kin most generally always tell from the gold in the blower where it come from. You’ve noticed the difference. Take the gold from the middle Yukon—Circle, an’ Fortymile, an’ around the Chandalar, it’s light colored gold. The up-river gold is darker, an’ the Koyukuk gold is light colored again. But, MacShane’s gold—it was red—reddest I ever seen. It wasn’t no Myrtle Creek gold, nor yet gold from anywheres that’s ever be’n prospected before.”

“But, he must of got it along the river, or some crick that runs into it,” argued Gordon. “He couldn’t pack no supplies off the river in summer.”

The trader laughed: “MacShane can, an’ he did. He’s be’n in the country long enough to be onto all its curves. He was Siwashin’ it. Said it was the first time he’d seen a camp fer a year an’ a half. Didn’t know there was a camp here even. He was hittin’ fer Bettles. Yes, sir, MacShane comes nearer to livin’ off the country than any white man I ever seen. Why the stuff he got wouldn’t last an ordinary man three months, an’ I bet he can make it do fer two years.”

“But how did he get the stuff off the river?” persisted Gordon.

“Back-packin’, him an’ his dogs both. Yes, sir, he had fourteen dogs, an’ he’d ripped up an old tent, or a tarp an’ rigged pack sacks for ’em—that’s Siwashin’ for you!”

“Aye, he’s a man!” agreed Gordon. “If he comes in again, tell him Old Man Gordon wants to see him.”

“I’ll tell him,” answered the trader, “But I ain’t lookin’ for him back. Leastways, not fer a year or two.”