The Trail of the Goldseekers Read online

  Out of our last bit of bacon grease and bread and tea we made our supper. While we were camping, "The Wild Dutchman," a stalwart young fellow we had seen once or twice on the trail, came by with a very sour visage. He went into camp near, and came over to see us. He said: "I hain't had no pread for more dan a veek. I've nuttin' put peans. If you can, let me haf a biscuit. By Gott, how goot dat vould taste."

  I yielded up a small loaf and encouraged him as best I could: "As I figure it, we are within thirty-five miles of Telegraph Creek; I've kept a careful diary of our travel. If we've passed over the Dease Lake Trail, which is probably about four hundred miles from Hazleton to Glenora, we must be now within thirty-five miles of Telegraph Creek."

  I was not half so sure of this as I made him think; but it gave him a great deal of comfort, and he went off very much enlivened.

  Sunday and no sun! It was raining when we awoke and the mosquitoes were stickier than ever. Our grub was nearly gone, our horses thin and weak, and the journey uncertain. All ill things seemed to assemble like vultures to do us harm. The world was a grim place that day. It was a question whether we were not still on the third south fork instead of the second south fork, in which case we were at least one hundred miles from our supplies. If we were forced to cross the main Stikeen and go down on the other side, it might be even farther.

  The men behind us were all suffering, and some of them were sure to have a hard time if such weather continued. At the same time I felt comparatively sure of our ground.

  We were ragged, dirty, lame, unshaven, and unshorn—we were fighting from morning till night. The trail became more discouraging each moment that the rain continued to fall. There was little conversation even between partner and myself. For many days we had moved in perfect silence for the most part, though no gloom or sullenness appeared in Burton's face. We were now lined up once more, taking the trail without a word save the sharp outcry of the drivers hurrying the horses forward, or the tinkle of the bells on the lead horse of the train.

  * * *

  THE VULTURE

  He wings a slow and watchful flight,

  His neck is bare, his eyes are bright,

  His plumage fits the starless night.

  He sits at feast where cattle lie

  Withering in ashen alkali,

  And gorges till he scarce can fly.

  But he is kingly on the breeze!

  On rigid wing, in careless ease,

  A soundless bark on viewless seas.

  Piercing the purple storm cloud, he makes

  The sun his neighbor, and shakes

  His wrinkled neck in mock dismay,

  And swings his slow, contemptuous way

  Above the hot red lightning's play.

  Monarch of cloudland—yet a ghoul of prey.

  * * *

  CAMPFIRES

  1. Popple

  A river curves like a bended bow,

  And over it winds of summer lightly blow;

  Two boys are feeding a flame with bark

  Of the pungent popple. Hark!

  They are uttering dreams. "I

  Will go hunt gold toward the western sky,"

  Says the older lad; "I know it is there,

  For the rainbow shows just where

  It is. I'll go camping, and take a pan,

  And shovel gold, when I'm a man."

  2. Sage Brush

  The burning day draws near its end,

  And on the plain a man and his friend

  Sit feeding an odorous sage-brush fire.

  A lofty butte like a funeral pyre,

  With the sun atop, looms high

  In the cloudless, windless, saffron sky.

  A snake sleeps under a grease-wood plant;

  A horned toad snaps at a passing ant;

  The plain is void as a polar floe,

  And the limitless sky has a furnace glow.

  The men are gaunt and shaggy and gray,

  And their childhood river is far away;

  The gold still hides at the rainbow's tip,

  Yet the wanderer speaks with a resolute lip.

  "I will seek till I find—or till I die,"

  He mutters, and lifts his clenched hand high,

  And puts behind him love and wife,

  And the quiet round of a farmer's life.

  3. Pine

  The dark day ends in a bitter night.

  The mighty mountains cold, and white,

  And stern as avarice, still hide their gold

  Deep in wild cañons fold on fold,

  Both men are old, and one is grown

  As gray as the snows around him sown.

  He hovers over a fire of pine,

  Spicy and cheering; toward the line

  Of the towering peaks he lifts his eyes.

  "I'd rather have a boy with shining hair,

  To bear my name, than all your share

  Of earth's red gold," he said;

  And died, a loveless, childless man,

  Before the morning light began.

  * * *

  CHAPTER XVIII

  AT LAST THE STIKEEN

  About the middle of the afternoon of the fifty-eighth day we topped a low divide, and came in sight of the Stikeen River. Our hearts thrilled with pleasure as we looked far over the deep blue and purple-green spread of valley, dim with mist, in which a little silver ribbon of water could be seen.

  After weeks of rain, as if to make amend for useless severity, the sun came out, a fresh westerly breeze sprang up, and the sky filled with glowing clouds flooded with tender light. The bloom of fireweed almost concealed the devastation of flame in the fallen firs, and the grim forest seemed a royal road over which we could pass as over a carpet—winter seemed far away.

  But all this was delusion. Beneath us lay a thousand quagmires. The forest was filled with impenetrable jungles and hidden streams, ridges sullen and silent were to be crossed, and the snow was close at hand. Across this valley an eagle might sweep with joy, but the pack trains must crawl in mud and mire through long hours of torture. We spent but a moment here, and then with grim resolution called out, "Line up, boys, line up!" and struck down upon the last two days of our long journey.

  On the following noon we topped another rise, and came unmistakably in sight of the Stikeen River lying deep in its rocky cañon. We had ridden all the morning in a pelting rain, slashed by wet trees, plunging through bogs and sliding down ravines, and when we saw the valley just before us we raised a cheer. It seemed we could hear the hotel bells ringing far below.

  But when we had tumbled down into the big cañon near the water's edge, we found ourselves in scarcely better condition than before. We were trapped with no feed for our horses, and no way to cross the river, which was roaring mad by reason of the heavy rains, a swift and terrible flood, impossible to swim. Men were camped all along the bank, out of food like ourselves, and ragged and worn and weary. They had formed a little street of camps. Borland, the leader of the big mule train, was there, calm and efficient as ever. "The Wilson Outfit," "The Man from Chihuahua," "Throw-me-feet," and the Manchester boys were also included in the group. "The Dutchman" came sliding down just behind us.

  After a scanty dinner of bacon grease and bread we turned our horses out on the flat by the river, and joined the little village. Borland said: "We've been here for a day and a half, tryin' to induce that damn ferryman to come over, and now we're waitin' for reënforcements. Let's try it again, numbers will bring 'em."

  Thereupon we marched out solemnly upon the bank (some ten or fifteen of us) and howled like a pack of wolves.

  For two hours we clamored, alternating the Ute war-whoop with the Swiss yodel. It was truly cacophonous, but it produced results. Minute figures came to the brow of the hill opposite, and looked at us like cautious cockroaches and then went away. At last two shadowy beetles crawled down the zigzag trail to the ferry-boat, and began bailing her out. Ultimately three men, sweating, scared, and tremulous, swung a clumsy sc
ow upon the sand at our feet. It was no child's play to cross that stream. Together with one of "The Little Dutchmen," and a representation from "The Mule Outfit," I stepped into the boat and it was swung off into the savage swirl of gray water. We failed of landing the first time. I did not wonder at the ferryman's nervousness, as I felt the heave and rush of the whirling savage flood.

  At the "ratty" little town of Telegraph Creek we purchased beans at fifteen cents a pound, bacon at thirty-five cents, and flour at ten cents, and laden with these necessaries hurried back to the hungry hordes on the opposite side of the river. That night "The Little Dutchman" did nothing but cook and eat to make up for lost time. Every face wore a smile.

  The next morning Burton and one or two other men from the outfits took the horses back up the trail to find feed, while the rest of us remained in camp to be ready for the boats. Late in the afternoon we heard far down the river a steamer whistling for Telegraph Creek, and everybody began packing truck down to the river where the boat was expected to land. Word was sent back over the trail to the boys herding the horses, and every man was in a tremor of apprehension lest the herders should not hear the boat and bring the horses down in time to get off on it.

  It was punishing work packing our stuff down the sloppy path to the river bank, but we buckled to it hard, and in the course of a couple of hours had all snug and ready for embarkation.

  There was great excitement among the outfits, and every man was hurrying and worrying to get away. It was known that charges would be high, and each of us felt in his pocket to see how many dollars he had left. The steamboat company had us between fire and water and could charge whatever it pleased. Some of the poor prospectors gave up their last dollar to cross this river toward which they had journeyed so long.

  The boys came sliding down the trail wildly excited, driving the horses before them, and by 5.30 we were all packed on the boat, one hundred and twenty horses and some two dozen men. We were a seedy and careworn lot, in vivid contrast with the smartly uniformed purser of the boat. The rates were exorbitant, but there was nothing to do but to pay them. However, Borland and I, acting as committee, brought such pressure to bear upon the purser that he "threw in" a dinner, and there was a joyous rush for the table when this good news was announced. For the first time in nearly three months we were able to sit down to a fairly good meal with clean nice tableware, with pie and pudding to end the meal. It seemed as though we had reached civilization. The boat was handsomely built, and quite new and capacious, too, for it held our horses without serious crowding. I was especially anxious about Ladrone, but was able to get him into a very nice place away from the engines and in no danger of being kicked by a vicious mule.

  We drifted down the river past Telegraph Creek without stopping, and late at night laid by at Glenora and unloaded in the crisp, cool dusk. As we came off the boat with our horses we were met by a crowd of cynical loafers who called to us out of the dark, "What in hell you fellows think you're doing?" We were regarded as wildly insane for having come over so long and tedious a route.

  We erected our tents, and went into camp beside our horses on the bank near the dock. It was too late to move farther that night. We fed our beasts upon hay at five cents a pound,—poor hay at that,—and they were forced to stand exposed to the searching river wind.

  As for ourselves, we were filled with dismay by the hopeless dulness of the town. Instead of being the hustling, rushing gold camp we had expected to find, it came to light as a little town of tents and shanties, filled with men who had practically given up the Teslin Lake Route as a bad job. The government trail was incomplete, the wagon road only built halfway, and the railroad—of which we had heard so much talk—had been abandoned altogether.

  As I slipped the saddle and bridle from Ladrone next day and turned him out upon the river bottom for a two weeks' rest, my heart was very light. The long trail was over. No more mud, rocks, stumps, and roots for Ladrone. Away the other poor animals streamed down the trail, many of them lame, all of them poor and weak, and some of them still crazed by the poisonous plants of the cold green mountains through which they had passed.

  This ended the worst of the toil, the torment of the trail. It had no dangers, but it abounded in worriments and disappointments. As I look back upon it now I suffer, because I see my horses standing ankle-deep in water on barren marshes or crowding round the fire chilled and weak, in endless rain. If our faces looked haggard and worn, it was because of the never ending anxiety concerning the faithful animals who trusted in us to find them food and shelter. Otherwise we suffered little, slept perfectly dry and warm every night, and ate three meals each day: true, the meals grew scanty and monotonous, but we did not go hungry.

  The trail was a disappointment to me, not because it was long and crossed mountains, but because it ran through a barren, monotonous, silent, gloomy, and rainy country. It ceased to interest me. It had almost no wild animal life, which I love to hear and see. Its lakes and rivers were for the most part cold and sullen, and its forests sombre and depressing. The only pleasant places after leaving Hazleton were the high valleys above timber line. They were magnificent, although wet and marshy to traverse.

  As a route to reach the gold fields of Teslin Lake and the Yukon it is absurd and foolish. It will never be used again for that purpose. Should mines develop on the high divides between the Skeena, Iskoot, and Stikeen, it may possibly be used again from Hazleton; otherwise it will be given back to the Indians and their dogs.

  * * *

  THE FOOTSTEP IN THE DESERT

  A man put love forth from his heart,

  And rode across the desert far away.

  "Woman shall have no place nor part

  In my lone life," men heard him say.

  He rode right on. The level rim

  Of the barren plain grew low and wide;

  It seemed to taunt and beckon him,

  To ride right on and fiercely ride.

  One day he rode a well-worn path,

  And lo! even in that far land

  He saw (and cursed in gusty wrath)

  A woman's footprint in the sand.

  Sharply he drew the swinging rein,

  And hanging from his saddle bow

  Gazed long and silently—cursed again,

  Then turned as if to go.

  "For love will seize you at the end,

  Fear loneliness—fear sickness, too,

  For they will teach you wisdom, friend."

  Yet he rode on as madmen do.

  He built a cabin by a sounding stream,

  He digged in cañons dark and deep,

  And ever the waters caused a dream

  And the face of woman broke his sleep.

  It was a slender little mark,

  And the man had lived alone so long

  Within the cañon's noise and dark,

  The footprint moved him like a song.

  It spoke to him of women in the East,

  Of girls in silken robes, with shining hair,

  And talked of those who sat at feast,

  While sweet-eyed laughter filled the air.

  And more. A hundred visions rose,

  He saw his mother's knotted hands

  Ply round thick-knitted homely hose,

  Her thoughts with him in desert lands.

  A smiling wife, in bib and cap,

  Moved busily from chair to chair,

  Or sat with apples in her lap,

  Content with sweet domestic care.

  All these his curse had put away,

  All these were his no more to hold;

  He had his cañon cold and gray,

  He had his little heaps of gold.

  * * *

  CHAPTER XIX

  THE GOLDSEEKERS' CAMP AT GLENORA

  Glenora, like Telegraph Creek, was a village of tents and shacks. Previous to the opening of the year it had been an old Hudson Bay trading-post at the head of navigation on the Stikeen River, but during April and May it
had been turned into a swarming camp of goldseekers on their way to Teslin Lake by way of the much-advertised "Stikeen Route" to the Yukon.

  A couple of months before our arrival nearly five thousand people had been encamped on the river flat; but one disappointment had followed another, the government road had been abandoned, the pack trail had proved a menace, and as a result the camp had thinned away, and when we of the Long Trail began to drop into town Glenora contained less than five hundred people, including tradesmen and mechanics.

  The journey of those who accompanied me on the Long Trail was by no means ended. It was indeed only half done. There remained more than one hundred and seventy miles of pack trail before the head of navigation on the Yukon could be reached. I turned aside. My partner went on.

  In order to enter the head-waters of the Pelly it was necessary to traverse four hundred miles of trail, over which a year's provision for each man must be carried. Food was reported to be "a dollar a pound" at Teslin Lake and winter was coming on. To set face toward any of these regions meant the most careful preparation or certain death.

  The weather was cold and bleak, and each night the boys assembled around the big campfire to discuss the situation. They reported the country full of people eager to get away. Everybody seemed studying the problem of what to do and how to do it. Some were for going to the head-waters of the Pelly, others advocated the Nisutlin, and others still thought it a good plan to prospect on the head-waters of the Tooya, from which excellent reports were coming in.

  Hour after hour they debated, argued, and agreed. In the midst of it all Burton remained cool and unhurried. Sitting in our tent, which flapped and quivered in the sounding southern wind, we discussed the question of future action. I determined to leave him here with four of the horses and a thousand pounds of grub with which to enter the gold country; for my partner was a miner, not a literary man.