Part 2 (1/2)
Morning found him again on the trail. He begrudged every minute of inaction, for well he knew the fame of McDougall's mail dogs, and Dutch Henry's Hudson Bays. It turned warmer. The snow slumped under foot, and he lost two hours at midday, waiting for the stiffening chill of the lengthening shadows.
On the third day it snowed. Not the fierce, cutting snow of the fall and winter, but large, feathery flakes, that lay soft and deep on the crust and piled up in front of the sled. That night he camped early, for both boy and dogs were weary with the trail-strain.
During the night the snow stopped falling and the wind rose, driving it into huge drifts. Progress was slow now and every foot of the trail was hard-earned. Old Boris picked his way among boulders and drifts with the wisdom of long practice. Slasher settled down to a steady pull, and Big Mutt threw himself into the collar and fairly lifted the sled through the loose snow. Toward noon they slanted into a wide valley, and the tired eyes of the boy brightened as they saw the bold outcropping of red rock. Then immediately they grew serious, and he urged the dogs to greater effort, for, far down the valley, dotting the white expanse of snow, were many moving black specks.
Old Boris turned toward the north, and the boy saw the huge split rock a mile away. He was travelling ahead of the dogs now, throwing his weight onto the _bab.i.+.c.he_ rope, his wide snowshoes breaking the trail. In spite of his efforts the pace was dishearteningly slow. Every few minutes he glanced back, and each time the black specks appeared larger and more distinct. He could make out men and sleds, and he knew by the long string of dogs that the first outfit was McDougall's.
”Hi! Hi! Mush you! Mush you!” faintly the sound was borne to his ears, and he knew that McDougall was gaining fast--he had already broken into Connie's own freshly made trail. The dogs heard it, too, and with c.o.c.ked ears plunged blindly ahead.
The split rock loomed tantalizingly near, and the boy thanked his stars that he had prepared his stakes beforehand. He loosened them from the back of the sled and, ax in hand, ploughed ahead through the loose snow.
His racket struck something hard and he pitched forward--it was one of Waseche Bill's stakes.
Feverishly he scrambled to his feet and drove in his own stakes, following Waseche's directions. With a final blow of his ax, he turned to face McDougall, who stared at him wide-eyed.
”You dang little scamp!” he roared. ”You dang little sourdough!” And as he staked out number Two Below Discovery, the hillsides echoed back his laughter.
Other men came. Soon the valley of the Ten Bow was staked with claims running into the forties, both above and below Discovery. But the great prize of all was One Below, and it stood marked by the stakes of Sam Morgan's boy.
That night the valley of the Ten Bow was dotted with a hundred camp fires, and the air rang with s.n.a.t.c.hes of rude song and loud laughter.
Men pa.s.sed from fire to fire and Connie Morgan's name was on every tongue.
”The little scamp!” men laughed; ”cut straight through the hills with them old discarded dogs, an' beat us to it!” ”Now, what d'ye know 'bout _that_?” ”If Sam Morgan c'd lived to seen it he'd be'n the tickledest man in the world!” ”Poor old Sam--looks like his luck's turned at last!”
From the surrounding gloom a man stepped into the light of a large camp-fire near which Connie Morgan was seated talking with a group of prospectors. He was a little, rat-like man, with a pinched, weasel face and little black eyes that shone beadlike from between lashless lids.
”This Number One claim, boys, it ain't legal. It's staked by a boy. I'm a lawyer, an' I know. He's a minor, an' he can't hold no claim!” He spoke hurriedly, and eyed the men for signs of approval; then he advanced toward Connie, shaking a long, bony finger.
”You ain't twenty-one,” he squeaked, ”an' I command you to vacate this claim in the name of the law!” From the boy's side came a low growl.
There was a flash of grey in the firelight, and the wolf-dog was at the man's throat, bearing him backward into the snow.
The boy was on his feet in an instant, pulling at the dog and beating him off. Luckily for the man his throat was protected by the heavy _parka_ hood, and he sustained no real damage. He arose whimpering with fright.
The other men were on their feet now, and one of them knocked the revolver from the hand of the cowering man as he aimed it at the growling Slasher.
Big McDougall stepped forward, and, grasping the man by the shoulder, spun him around with a jerk.
”Look a here, you reptile! Kin ye guess what that dog 'ud of done to ye, an' it hadn't be'n fer the kid? Well, fer my part he c'd gone ahead an'
done it as it was. But, seein' he didn't, just ye listen to me! What he would done won't be a patchin' to what I _will_ do to ye, if ever ye open yer head about that there claim ag'in. An' that ain't all. There's a hundred men in this gulch--good men--sourdoughs, ev'ry one--an' the kid beat us all fair an' square. An', law or no law, we're right here to see that Sam Morgan's boy _does_ hold down that claim! _An' don't ye fergit it!_”
CHAPTER III
THE NEW CAMP
The fame of Ten Bow travelled to far reaches, and because in the gold country men are fascinated by prosperity, even though it is the prosperity of others, the shortening days brought many new faces into the mining camp of Ten Bow. Notwithstanding the fact that every square foot of the valley was staked, gaunt men, whose hollow eyes and depleted outfits spoke failure, mushed in from the hills, knowing that here cordwood must be chopped, windla.s.ses cranked, and fires kept going, and preferring the certainty of high wages at day labour to the uncertainty of a new strike in unscarred valleys.
It was six months since Waseche Bill had burst into Scotty McCollough's store at Hesitation with the news of his great strike in the red rock valley to the southward--news that spread like wildfire through the camp and sent two hundred men over the trail in a frenzied rush for gold.