Part 17 (1/2)

”Wonder who worked this mine?” speculated Connie. ”Just think of men working for years and years, I s'pose, to dig out _copper_--with all that gold lying free in the gravel.”

”Yeh, son, seems queeah to us. But when yo' come to think of it, coppeh's wo'th a heap mo'n gold, when it comes down to usin' it fo'

hammehs, an' ha'poons, an' dishes. Gold ain't no real good, nohow--'cept fo' what it'll buy. An' if they ain't no place to spend it, a man mout a heap sight betteh dig out coppeh.”

The sun was s.h.i.+ning brightly on the snow when the three finally stood at the tunnel-mouth and gazed out into the valley of the Ignatook. A light wind carried the steam and frozen fog particles toward the opposite bank, whose high cliffs appeared from time to time as islands in a billowy white sea. Almost at their feet the waters of the creek wound between banks of glittering snow crystals, and above them the great bank of frozen mist eddied and rolled. The stakes Carlson had driven to mark his claim, and that of Pete Mateese, were plainly visible, and upon the black gravel at the water's edge were strewn the weather-darkened bones of many men.

”The copper miners!” cried Connie, pointing toward the grewsome collection. Waseche nodded.

”I reckon so,” he answered. ”I wondeh what ailed 'em.”

”Aye, what!” echoed O'Brien. ”What but th' Ignatook--that's shpelt death to iverywan that's come into uts valley. Th' whole Lillimuit's a land av dead min. Av ut ain't th' wan thing, uts another. Phwere's Car-rlson, an' Pete Mateese? Av ye don't dhrink th' pizen wather, ye'll freeze, er shtar-rve, er ye'll go loike Craik an' Greenhow, that come in with me--an' that's th' wor-rst av all. Craik, glum an' sombre, follyin' day an' noight th' thrail av a monster white moose, that no wan ilse c'd iver see, an' that always led into th' Narth. An' Greenhow, yellin' an'

laughin' loike foorty fiends, rus.h.i.+n' shtraight into th' mid-noight aurora--an 'nayther come back!

”Ye'd besht moind phwat Oi'm tellin' yez,” he croaked, as he sat upon the bank and watched Waseche and Connie stake adjoining claims.

”Ut's th' same in th' ind,” he continued, letting his glance rove over the tragic relics of a bygone race. ”Some comes f'r copper, an' some f'r gold--an' phwere's th' good av ut? Th' metal is left--but th' bones av th' diggers mark th' thrail f'r th' nixt that comes! An' none goes back!”

”We're going back!” said Connie. ”You don't know, maybe Pete Mateese got through.”

”Mebbe he did--but ut's mebbier he didn't,” despaired the man.

”Now, look a heah, O'Brien,” cut in Waseche, ”yo' be'n up heah so long yo' plumb doleful an' sad-minded. We-all ah goin' to get out of heah, like the kid done told yo'. Come on along now an' stake out yo' claim 'long side of ou'n. I've mined, it's goin' on fo'teen yeah, now--an' I neveh seen no pay streak like this heah--not even Nome, with her third beach line; the Klondike, with its shallow gravel; oah Ten Bow, with its deep yellah sand. It's no wondeh yo' expected a stampede.”

But the Irishman was obdurate and, despite all persuasion, flatly refused to stake a claim.

”Come on, then,” said Waseche. ”We-all got to locate that map of Carlson's. He said how he mapped the trail to the Kandik.”

”Sure, an' he did!” exclaimed O'Brien. ”Oi found th' map six months agone. But ivery toime Oi'd thry to folly ut, thim danged haythins ud dhrag me back.”

”Where is the map? Le's see it,” said Waseche. O'Brien stared from one to the other of his companions, with a foolish, round-eyed stare.

Suddenly he leaped to his feet and without a word dashed down the creek in the direction of the river, leaving Waseche and Connie to gaze after him in astonishment.

”Where's he going?” asked the boy.

”Sea'ch me!” exclaimed Waseche; ”come on--we got to catch him. Me'be he's took a spell. Po' fellow, I'd hate fo' anything to happen to him now.”

O'Brien had obtained a very considerable lead when the others started and, giving no heed to their cries to halt, he lumbered heavily onward.

Connie and Waseche ceased to call and, saving their breath, dashed after him as fast as their legs could carry them. The Irishman was in good muscle and wind, thanks to his life in the open, but in neither speed nor endurance was he a match for his pursuers, who were iron-hard from the long snow trail. When O'Brien neared the pa.s.s that gave out onto the river, the two partners redoubled their efforts and, although they gained perceptibly, O'Brien was still ten yards in advance when he plunged between the two upstanding rocks that Connie had named the ”gate-posts of the Ignatook.”

[Ill.u.s.tration: ”As they pa.s.sed between the pillared rocks the Indians broke cover, hurling their copper-tipped harpoons as they ran.”]

Without a moment's hesitation, the boy, who had outdistanced Waseche, dashed after him and with a ”flying tackle” tripped the fleeing man, so that both rolled over and over upon the rime-covered ice of the river.

And Waseche Bill, bursting upon the scene, saw, approaching silently and swiftly among the rocks and scrub of the river's edge, shadowy, fur-clad forms. The White Indians were guarding well the egress from the creek of the frozen steam.

Hastening to the two struggling figures, Waseche jerked them to their feet, and before the surprised O'Brien knew what was happening, he was being unceremoniously hustled into the narrow valley from which he had just emerged--and none too soon, for as they pa.s.sed between the pillared rocks, the Indians broke cover and rushed boldly upon them, hurling their copper-tipped harpoons as they ran.

CHAPTER XVI