Part 26 (1/2)

The Yankee turned his head slowly, spat a brown hailstone on to the ice, and then said--

”Whar did I get that thar piece o' wood, stranger? Wall, I reckon that's a bit o' Pole--North Pole--as I took off with these here hands with the carpenter's saw.”

”I'll take a piece of it,” said the doctor, and turning it over in his hands, ”Ha, hum!” he muttered; ”_Pinus silvestris_.” Then aloud--”But how did you get up here, my friend?”

”Wall, I'll tell you,” drawled the Yankee. ”But I reckon thar's yards on it; and when I begin, I don't leave off till I've done, that I don't, you bet--not if you're friz. Won't it do that I'm here?”

”Well, no,” said the doctor; ”we should like to know how you got here.”

”So,” said the Yankee sailor, and, drawing his legs up under him, firing a couple of brown hailstones off right and left, and whittling away at so much of the North Pole as the doctor had left him, he thus began.

CHAPTER EIGHT.

THE YANKEE SAILOR'S YARN.

I warn't never meant for no sailor, I warn't; but I come of a great nation, and when a chap out our way says he'll du a thing, he does it.

I said I'd go to sea, and I went--and thar you are. I said I'd drop hunting, and take to mining, and thar I was; and that's how it come about.

You see, we was rather rough out our way, where Hez Lane and me went with our bit of tent and pickers, shooting-irons, and sech-like, meaning to make a pile of gold. We went to Washoe, and didn't get on; then we went to Saint Laramie, and didn't get on there. Last, we went right up into the mountains, picking our way among the stones, for Hez sez, ”Look here, old hoss, let's get whar no one's been afore. If we get whar the boys are at work already, they've took the cream, and we gets the skim milk. Let's you and me get the cream, and let some o' the others take the skim milk.”

”Good for you,” I says; and we tramped on day after day, till we got right up in the heart o' the mountains, where no one hadn't been afore, and it was so still and quiet, as it made you quite deaf.

It was a strange, wild sort of place, like as if one o' them c.o.o.ns called giants had driven a wedge into a mountain, and split it, making a place for a bit of a stream to run at the bottom, and lay bare the cold we wanted to find.

”This'll do, Dab,” says Hez, as we put up our bit of a tent on a pleasant green shelf in the steep valley place. ”This'll do, Dab; thar's yaller gold spangling them sands, and running in veins through them rocks, and yaller gold in pockets of the rock.”

”Then, let's call it Yaller Gulch,” I says.

”Done, old hoss!” says Hez; and Yaller Gulch it is.

We set to work next day was.h.i.+ng in the bit of a stream, and shook hands on our luck.

”This'll do,” says Hez. ”We shall make a pile here. No one won't dream of hunting this out.”

”Say, stranger!” says a voice, as made us both jump. ”Do it wash well?”

And if there warn't a long, lean, ugly, yaller-looking chap looking down at us, as he stood holding a mule by the bridle.

Why, afore a week was over, so far from us keeping it snug, I reckon there was fifty people in Yaller Gulch, was.h.i.+ng away, and making their piles. Afore another week as over some one had set up a store, and next day there was a gambling saloon. Keep it to ourselves! Why, stranger, I reckon if there was a speck of gold anywheres within five hundred miles, our chaps'd sniff it out like vultures, and be down upon it.

It warn't no use to grumble, and we kept what we thought to ourselves, working away, and making our ounces the best way we could. One day I proposed we should go up higher in the mountains; but Hez said he'd be darned if he'd move; and next day, if he'd wanted me to go, I should have told him I'd be darned if I'd move; and all at once, from being red-hot chums, as would have done anything for one another, Hez and me got to be mortal enemies.

Now, look here, stranger. Did you ever keep chickens? P'r'aps not; but if you ever do, just you notice this. You've got, say, a dozen young c.o.c.ks pecking about, and as happy as can be--smart and lively, an'

innercent as chickens should be. Now, jist you go and drop a pretty young pullet in among 'em, and see if there won't be a row. Why, afore night there'll be combs bleeding, eyes knocked out, feathers torn and ragged--a reg'lar pepper-box and bowie set-to, and all acause of that little smooth, brown pullet, that looks on so quiet and gentle as if wondering who made the row.

Now, that's what was the matter with us; for who should come into the Gulch one day, but an old storekeeping sort of fellow, with as pretty a daughter as ever stepped, and from that moment it was all over between Hez and me.

He'd got a way with him, you see, as I hadn't; and they always made him welkim at that thar store, when it was only ”How do you do?” and ”Good-morning,” to me. I don't know what love is, strangers; but if Jael Burn had told me to go and cut one of my hands off to please her, I'd ha' done it. I'd ha' gone through fire and water for her, G.o.d bless her! and if she'd tied one of her long, yaller hairs round my neck, she might have led me about like a bar, rough as I am.