Part 14 (1/2)

”The Coppermine,” interrupted McTavish, ”Always theer has been talk of gold on the Coppermine--but na gold has been found theer. However, as ye say, the trappin' should be gude. Yer Injuns be na gude along the river.

They're lazy an' no account, an' gettin' worse. Theer's a bare chance ye can save 'em yet if ye can get 'em far into the barrens. I'm goin' to give ye that chance. If ye'll guarantee the debt, I'll outfit 'em--no finery an' frippery, mind ye--just the necessities for the winter in the bush. Bring 'em along, la.s.s, an' the sooner ye get started the better, for 'tis a lang trail ye've set yerself--an' may gude luck go with ye.”

And so it was that upon the first day of September, the little band of Indians under the leaders.h.i.+p of Snowdrift and Wananebish, loaded their goods into canoes and began the laborious ascent of Hare Indian River.

CHAPTER X

THE DINNER AT REEVES'

With the rush of the _chechakos_ had come also the vanguard of big business--keen-eyed engineers and bespectacled metallurgists, accompanied by trusted agents of Wall Street, who upon advice of the engineers and the metallurgists paid out money right and left for options.

First over the pa.s.s in the spring came Reeves and Howson who struck into the hills and, pa.s.sing up the rich ”gold in the gra.s.s roots” claims, concentrated upon a creek of lesser promise. By the first of July, their findings upon this creek justified the report to their princ.i.p.als in the states that roused those officials of the newly organized Northern Dredge Company from their stupor of watchful waiting into a cauldron of volcanic activity.

Fowler, the little purchasing agent sat at his desk and for fourteen straight hours dictated telegrams, pausing only to refer to pages of neatly typed specifications, with the result that within twenty-four hours upon many railroads carloads of freight began to move toward a certain dock in Seattle at which was moored a tramp steamer waiting to receive her cargo. A sawmill from the Was.h.i.+ngton forests, steel rails and a d.i.n.ky engine from Pittsburg, great dredges from Ohio, tools, iron, cement from widely separated States and the crowning item of all, a Mississippi River steamboat jerked bodily from the water and dismantled ready to be put together in a matter of hours at the mouth of the Yukon.

Late in August that same steamboat, her decks and two barges piled high with freight, nosed into the bank at Dawson and threw out her mooring lines, while down her plank swarmed the Northern Company's skilled artisans--swarmed also into the waiting arms of her husband, Reba Reeves, wife of the Northern Dredge Company's chief engineer and general manager of operation. Reeves led his wife to the little painted house that he had bought and furnished, and turned his attention to the problem of transporting his heavy outfit to the creek of his selection.

For a month thereafter he was on the works night and day, s.n.a.t.c.hing his sleep where he could, now and then at home, but more often upon the pile of blankets and robes that he had thrown into a corner of the little slab office on the bank of the creek. Early in October, upon one of his flying visits, his wife reminded him that he had promised to send a man down to bank the house for the winter.

”Don't see how I can spare a man right now, little girl,” he answered, ”I'm hiring every man I can find that will handle a pick or a shovel, or drive a nail, or carry a board. I've still got three miles of flume to put in, and half a mile of railroad grade to finish--and the snow will hit us any time now.”

”You can't work your old dredges in the winter, anyhow, why don't you wait till spring.”

”When spring comes I want to be in shape to begin throwing out the gravel the minute the ground thaws, and I don't want to be bothered building flume and railroad.”

”But, dearest, the floor is so cold. We can't live in this house in the winter unless it is banked. All the neighbors have their houses banked three or four feet high, and if the ground freezes we'll never get it done.”

Reeves' brow puckered into a frown: ”That's right,” he admitted, ”Tell you what I'll do, I'll come down Sat.u.r.day afternoon and stay over Sunday and bank it myself. Maybe I can find someone to help me. There's an old tramp that lives in a cabin a piece back from the river. One of my foremen has hired him three or four times, but he's no good--won't work more than two or three days at a stretch--he's a drunkard, and can't stay away from booze. Maybe, though, if I stay right on the job with him till it's finished I can get a day's work out of him--anyway I'll try.”

Of the books left by the Englishman, the one that interested Brent most was a volume from which the t.i.tle page had long since disappeared as had the lettering upon its back, if indeed any had ever existed. It contained what appeared to be semi-official reports upon the mineral possibilities of the almost unexplored territory lying between the Mackenzie and Back's Fish River, but more particularly upon the Coppermine River and its tributaries. To these reports was added a monograph which treated exhaustively of the expeditions of Hearne into the North in search of gold, and also of the illfated expedition of old Captain Knight. This book held a peculiar fascination for Brent, and he read and reread it, poring over its contents by the hour as he dreamed his foolish dreams of some day carrying on Hearne's explorations to ultimate success.

Upon the night following the visit of Camillo Bill, Brent sat beside his dirty table, with his stinking oil lamp drawn near, and his favorite book held close to catch the sullen light that filtered through its murky, smoke blackened chimney. This night the book held a new interest for him. All along he had cherished the hope that when Camillo Bill should turn back his claims, there would still be a goodly amount of gold left in the gravel. But Camillo Bill said that the claims had petered out--and Camillo Bill was square. All that was left for him to do then was to hit for the Coppermine, and not so much for himself, for he stood in honor bound to see that Camillo Bill lost nothing through cas.h.i.+ng those slips and markers upon his a.s.surance that the claims were worth a million.

The book settled slowly to Brent's lap, he poured a drink, and idly turned its pages, as his drunken imagination pictured himself mus.h.i.+ng at the head of a dog team through those unknown wastes, and at the end of the long trail finding gold, gold, gold. He turned to the inside of the front cover and stared idly at the name penned many years ago. The ink was faded and brown and the name almost illegible so that he had to turn it aslant to follow the faint tracery. ”Murdo MacFarlane, Las.h.i.+ng Water,” he read, ”I wonder where Las.h.i.+ng Water is? And who was this Murdo MacFarlane? And where is he now? Did he find Hearne's lost gold?

Or, did he--did he--?” A loud knock upon the door roused Brent from his dreamy speculation.

”Come in!” he called, and turned to see Reeves standing in the doorway.

”h.e.l.lo,” greeted the intruder, plunging straight into the object of his visit, ”I'm up against it, and I wonder if you won't help me out.” He paused, and Brent waited for him to proceed, ”I'm Reeves, of the Northern Dredge Company, and I've got every available man in Dawson out there on the works trying to finish three miles of flume and a half mile of railroad before snow flies. I can't spare a man off the works, but I've got to bank my house, so I decided to stay home myself tomorrow and tackle it. If you'll help me, and if we get a good early start, I think we can finish the job by night. I wouldn't care a rap if it were not for my wife, she's from the South, and I'm afraid of those cold floors. What do you say, will you do it? I'll pay you well.”

”Yes,” answered Brent, and he noticed that the other's eyes had strayed in evident surprise to the pile of books upon the table among the dirty dishes.

”All right, that's fine! What time can I expect you?”

”Daylight,” answered Brent, ”Will you have a drink?” he indicated the bottle that stood beside the pile of books, but Reeves shook his head:

”No, thanks, I've got to tackle some work tonight that I've been putting off for weeks. See you in the morning.”

Seated once more in his chair with his book, Brent poured himself a drink, ”From the South,” he whispered, and raising the murky gla.s.s to his lips swallowed the liquor. His eyes closed and into his brain floated a picture, dim and indistinct, at first, but gradually taking definite form--a little town of wide, tree-shaded streets, a weather-stained brick courthouse standing in the centre of a gra.s.sed square, and facing it across the street a red brick schoolhouse. The schoolhouse doors swung open and out raced a little boy swinging his books on the end of a strap. He was a laughing, cleareyed little boy, and he wore buckled slippers and black velvet nickers, and a wide collar showed dazzling white against the black of the velvet jacket.

Other children followed, barefooted little boys whose hickory s.h.i.+rts, many sizes too large for the little bodies, bulged grotesquely about their ”galluses,” and little boys shod in stiff hot looking black shoes and stockings, and little girls with tight-braided pig-tails hanging down their backs, and short starched skirts, who watched with envious eyes as the velvet clad boy ran across to the ”hitch-rail” that flanked the courthouse sidewalk, and mounted a stocky little ”calico” Shetland pony, and rode down the tree-shaded street at a furious gallop. On the outskirts of the town the pony swerved of its own accord between two upstanding stone posts and into a broad avenue that swept in graceful curves between two rows of huge evergreens that led from the white turnpike to a big brick house, the roof of whose broad gallery was supported upon huge white pillars. Up the avenue raced the pony and up the dozen steps that led to the gallery, just at the moment that the huge bulk of a round-eyed colored ”mammy” blocked the doorway of the hall.