A Claim on Klondyke: A Romance of the Arctic El Dorado

ALONE IN THE VAST SOLITUDE.

A CLAIM ON KLONDIKE

A Romance

OF

THE ARCTIC EL DORADO

BY

EDWARD ROPER, F.R.G.S.

AUTHOR OF
'BY TRACK AND TRAIL THROUGH CANADA,' ETC., ETC.

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS

WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS
EDINBURGH AND LONDON
MDCCCXCIX

All Rights reserved

ILLUSTRATIONS.

[ ALONE IN THE VAST SOLITUDE . . . . . . Frontispiece ]

[ SHOOTING MYLES CAÑON ]

[ LAKE LA BARGE ]

[ FIVE FINGERS RAPIDS ]

[ ON THE YUKON AT THE MOUTH OF THE KLONDYKE RIVER ]

[ OUR DUG-OUT, OUR TUNNEL, AND OUR SLUICE ]

[ "WHEN SHE APPEARED AGAIN I WAS GREATLY EMBARRASSED" ]

[ MAY AND I IN THE DUG-OUT ]

[ "IT WAS A MELANCHOLY UNDERTAKING" ]

[ "WELCOME, FRIENDS" ]

A CLAIM ON KLONDYKE

PREAMBLE.

Somewhere near midnight in January 1897, a man—important to this little history—stood on an expanse of glittering snow, amidst low forest-covered hills and rugged mountains which were draped in the same white garb. He was looking eagerly towards the north-west, and was listening intently.

This man was muffled to the eyes in furs, he wore a rough bearskin coat, and his head was enveloped in a huge capote. He wore snow-shoes, and a gun lay across his arm.

A grand long-haired dog was by his side; he was listening, seemingly as intently as his master.

The moon was shining full, the deep purple sky was sown thick with brilliant stars,—one could have read small print easily, it was so light.

Not a breath of air was stirring.

The intensity of the cold was indescribable: if there had been the slightest wind, this man could not have stood thus, in this open space, and lived.

He was a large man really, but the immensity of his surroundings, the vast field of dazzling snow on which he stood, made him appear to be a pigmy, whilst his loneliness and solitude gave a note of unutterable melancholy to the scene.

Several minutes passed, neither dog nor man moving from this attitude of strained attention. All nature was absolutely motionless; no branch stirred in the near forest, nor was one flake of snow wafted by the softest zephyr—yet there was no silence. The far-off woods resounded with frequent sharp reports, as if firearms were being discharged there, the nearer rocks and trees from time to time gave forth detonations like fusilades of musketry, and beneath his feet—he stood on a broad space of water, turned to ice of unknown depth, cushioned deep with snow—were groanings, grindings, cracklings, and explosions. It was the terrible arctic cold that caused this tumult. One could almost fancy that these two figures, silhouetted black against the dazzling white, were frozen solid too.

At length the man moved, and, patting his companion's head with his gauntleted hand, spoke, "No, good dog," he sighed, "it's another hallucination." And the dog looked up at him, and whimpered, then turned his gaze again in the direction it had been before, with eagerness.

It was impossible to guess from this man's appearance what he was like: he was so enveloped in wrappers only his eyes were visible; but his voice proclaimed him to be gently bred—it had the accent of a cultivated Englishman.

"No good," he went on muttering. "Let us get back, old Patch, my sole companion in this awful wilderness; it was not a shot we heard, only the frost that made that clamour," and he made as if to move away.

But the dog evidently was not satisfied. He sat down, kept his nose pointed in the one direction, and whimpered again and again. The man stood still and listened.

"Strange, strange," he spoke aloud, "that Patch is so persistent; perhaps it will be well to go on a bit more. There's nothing to prevent it—no one waiting for us. I suppose it is about midnight by the moon; but night or day, it's pretty much the same up here. Yes; we'll go on along this frozen creek: one cannot well miss the way back."

He was silent for a few moments, then resumed, "I'm talking aloud to myself again! or is it to the dog? This isolation, this loneliness, is terrible; but, come, my lad, come on!" and he started.

Patch, seeing his master move, began to wag his bushy tail, and dance with delight; he flew ahead, barking and capering, but every now and then stopped suddenly, pricked up his sharp ears, and listened as his master did.

They must have pushed on a mile or more from where we first encountered them. The expanse of level snow had widened greatly. There were no trees near, the sound of the frost in rock and timber was distant and subdued, and they stood side by side again attentive.

Suddenly, away off in the ranges to their right, two reports were audible—unmistakably they were shots fired from a gun—and then immediately six sharp cracks resounded; it was the discharge of a revolver!

At the first noise, again the man's mittened hand sought the dog's collar to restrain him, for he was intensely excited. The moment the sixth revolver shot had sounded, he removed his hand, and shouted, "Forward, good dog; go sic 'em!" and the two rushed off in the direction of the sounds.

Another mile they covered rapidly, the dog running ahead and barking; then returning, looking eagerly and joyfully into his master's face, then hurrying on again.

But soon calling Patch to him, he held him and waited, hoping to hear more signs of human presence in that awful region. He was not disappointed.

Again two rapid gun shots were fired, and six revolver shots, and they were nearer than they had been before.

"Patch," said the man then, "we'll try what this will do," and lifting up his gun, he pulled one trigger, and a few seconds after the other. Then taking a revolver from his belt, he fired six cartridges slowly in the air.

What would come of this? would there be any response? He had not long to wonder. The signal was repeated, and he knew that there were fellow-creatures in those mountains. White, black, or red, he did not care then. The feeling that he was not alone in that white world, that terribly hard, frozen world, was enough for him.

He and the dog hurried on, ascended the low bare hill upon their right, and when after a vigorous climb they reached the summit, he fired again, as he had done before. Patch barked loudly, joyfully, and there came into his master's mind the certainty that he was on the point of some discovery, some adventure to break the monotony of his life.

The response was immediate. Down in the valley at his feet, but at some distance, what appeared to be a door was opened suddenly, revealing a light within, and in the illuminated space a figure stood, who, lifting up a gun, fired again. Next this figure ran out of the building brandishing a blazing pine-knot, and across the wide valley he distinctly heard the cry of a fellow-being, and, still more wonderful, more amazing, it sounded to be the voice of a woman in distress.

"Go to her, Patch!" he cried. The good dog obeyed, whilst he followed as rapidly as he could. It was rough ground, all rocks and fallen trees: he was exhausted ere he had traversed half the distance. Halting a moment to recover breath, he had a view against the bright light of the doorway of Patch crouched at the feet of the person there, who was stooping to caress him.

A few hundred yards more and he halted again for breath, and then he heard a long-drawn cry of agony. "Help, oh! help! whoever you are! Indian or white man, come, come and help!" And our friend called loudly across the waste: "I'm an Englishman! Trust me. I'm making my way to you with all the haste I can!" and over the snow-clad expanse resounded the response, "Thank God! thank God!"

CHAPTER I.

During the winter of 1895-96, I was staying at Bella Rocca, a boarding-house in Victoria, Vancouver Island, British Columbia. I had come to that charming city, on that beautiful island, to discover, if possible, an opening for the investment of my modest capital in a manner which would give me a more congenial way of making a livelihood than I had found in Eastern Canada, where I had resided for some few years.

When I first arrived in the Dominion, I settled in the backwoods of Ontario. Later, I had passed some years on the prairies, and later still, I had spent some time in the Rocky Mountains, the Selkirks, and on the Fraser river.

I had led a life of toil, I was well up in bush work and ways, but I did not like the life; so, having saved a little money, and having heard so much of the Pacific coast, I came to Victoria, as I have said.

At Bella Rocca a man was staying with whom I became very friendly: he was an Englishman, about my age, and had many tastes congenial to me. He was idle, appeared to have plenty of money, and seemingly had no wish to do any work or business.

He was my frequent companion in my walks around Victoria: there being few idle people there, and I having much time unoccupied, this friendship was mutually agreeable.

I was puzzled for a while about him. He was very reticent about himself—I could not even tell if he had been long in Canada, although occasionally a few words fell from him which made me believe he knew it well.

It was towards March; I had found nothing to suit me; I had often told this friend what I was looking for, and had been quite open about my past, my present desires, and my experience in the country, when one day, as he and I were sitting on Beacon Hill, enjoying the soft spring weather, gazing with delight at the glorious Olympic range across the Straits of San Juan de Fuca, "Ah!" said my companion—his name was Percy Meade—"ah! it's not long now before I'll be outside there," and he pointed north to Cape Flattery and the Pacific Ocean.

"You are going across, then—to China or Australia?" I asked.

"Neither," replied he, with a smile; "I am going north by the first ship that sails."

"North!" I remarked. I was not greatly interested. "Well, I've never had the wish to go up the coast. What is to be done up there?"

He did not reply at once; but after a bit said he, "I wonder you have never tried gold-mining in this country; don't you think it's worth considering?"

I replied that I had heard so much about it in the mountains, and had read about the old days on the Fraser and the Cariboo, that I believed it to be a poor business, and supposed that every ounce of gold found cost two in labour and expense, and said many things that most men do who have not taken the gold-fever.

Meade said little more that day, but shortly after he asked me what I would do if I were told of a spot, by some one I could trust, where gold existed in large quantities, where any one who had the courage to go could pick it up, or at any rate obtain it, with comparatively little labour.

I replied that, no doubt, if such a chance were offered me I should accept it,—that I was as keen to make a pile as any one. "Only," I added, laughing, "I doubt if there are such places left, and still more that if any person knew of one he would tell me."

Meade was silent for some time, then, "Look here," he said, very seriously, "we've been together a few months; I can see the sort of fellow you are; you know what rough life is, I'm sure you can stand it better than most; so now, listen—I know of such a place, and I'll tell you about it on condition, naturally, that you'll keep it to yourself."

I smiled. "How do you know?" I asked, "and why do you tell me?"

To this he answered slowly and earnestly, "I was up north all last season—on the Yukon. I found a place on our side that is full of gold; you would hardly believe it if you saw it, but it is so. It is on a creek up a river that joins the Yukon in British territory, about seventy-five miles from the boundary, not far from the ruins of Fort Reliance.

"I went from Seattle last spring up the coast round the Alaskan peninsula, into Behring Sea, and so to Fort St Michael, where I landed. Then I proceeded up the Yukon in a stern-wheel steamer to a place they call Fort Cudahy, or the Forty Mile, in British territory. It was a terribly long journey—four thousand three hundred and fifty miles from here. It took eight weeks, and cost a big sum. There was a little mining going on up the river, but different from any I had seen, and I have been to Australia. I did not like the look of it. The diggers were scattered about, getting what they called flour-gold, and not so very much of that.

"The season during which washing can be done is very short—four months at most; but then it is broad daylight always, no night at all; men work ceaselessly—ay, and women too.

"I tried a little here and there, I 'prospected' about, and in time I got up the big river some long way indeed, until I came to a collection of shacks and shanties, with a store or two, that they call Dawson City. I was short of everything then but money, of which I still had a moderate supply; so I obtained some stores and a decent outfit, and after a few days of misery in the wretched place, I loaded all into a canoe which I bought, and pushed on, quite alone, up a river which joined the Yukon there. It was the THRON-DUICK—the Klondyke as it is called now. Paddling slowly up this stream, I landed frequently, seldom finding gold, and I always tried the soil as I went along. Occasionally I found the colour, once or twice enough to pay, I fancied, with good machinery. There was a fascination about this life. I believed that any moment some pan of gravel that I washed might be rich and give me all I wanted—a golden claim.

"I kept on thus until I must have been at least forty miles up this river. I passed several branches, for to me the main stream looked most promising, until I came to one, much narrower: it joined in with a rush and roar, and I liked the look of it. I landed, walked up it, and liked it so that I determined to ascend it if possible. I could not get my laden canoe up the steep water—I must therefore 'portage.' I set to work; I carried my stuff past the rapid. It was a tough job getting my canoe up, but by good luck I did. Then I went on again, trying here and there as usual.

"When I was too tired to keep on, I put up my little tent ashore and slept. When rested, on I went again.

"I had quite lost reckoning; I had no idea of the day of the week or month, but the sun indicated that the summer was going. It would not do to be caught up there as unprovided as I was. I thought I had come far enough, so, reluctantly, I made up my mind that I would after another day or two retrace my steps.

"That very day I found what I had looked for. I hit upon a bar on this creek, where gold was so thick that I was bewildered.

"I suppose you know how gold is washed? Well, I had no need to wash—I picked out of that heap of gravel in three days over seventy-five pounds' weight of it!"

"Seventy-five pounds of gold! Why, that was worth £3000!" I cried.

"Yes, quite that," said Meade; "but I got £2500 for it here, and have a decent little bag of nuggets still unsold. I'll show them to you at the bank some day if you like."

I smiled. I'm afraid I did not altogether believe him. I had an idea that he was romancing. "How did you get down and bring all that gold with you?" I asked, half laughing.

"It's too long a yarn to tell now," he replied. "I got back all right to Dawson in my canoe, sold it, and managed to keep my find secret. I fortunately procured a passage in the stern-wheeler, P. B. Weare, the last boat for St Michael's that season. From there I easily got here, and no one knew that I had struck gold—no one does know it yet but the manager of the bank, and now you."

It was a most interesting story, certainly; I was glad to have heard it, but there was "no such luck for me," I observed, at which Meade laughed, but added, "See here, I've told you this because I want you to share with me this season! What d'ye say?"

"What?" I exclaimed, "and get gold like that? Oh! of course I'll go; but are you in earnest? why should you favour me thus?"

He declared solemnly that he meant it; he averred that he had taken to me, that he knew I was strong, healthy, a good fellow, and used to working in rough country, and as he was determined to go, and certainly would not do so again alone, he had made me his confidant and this offer in perfect good faith, and he ended thus, "Think it over, take time, keep what I've told you to yourself, but I hope you'll join me."

Later, he explained that we must leave Victoria soon, that we should come back at the end of September, and that he would be miserably surprised if we did not return with reasonable piles. "But we will not go the way I went," said he. "No, I met some men at Dawson who had come by a much shorter route—by the Lynn Canal and Skagway. We save thus nearly 3000 miles, and the trail is quite feasible. You've done some boating, some canoeing, I suppose?"

I said I had, both in England and Canada, which pleased him, and he assured me that we should do splendidly, and again he said he hoped I'd join him.

Naturally, I did think this over. I heard about his antecedents from the bank manager, found he was a member of a good old English family, and that he himself was of good repute. I heard from the same source that it was true about the gold he had brought down, I saw his bag of nuggets, and I liked him. I was looking for some employment, I counted the cost, and knowing that if, at the worst, I returned empty-handed, I should not even then be quite without funds, I consented to share with him in the adventure. He was to defray all expenses.

It was early in April that he and I started in a steamer bound for Sitka and other ports in Alaska. She came from Tacoma, in the State of Washington, and picked us up at Victoria on her way to the north.

Meade having all plans cut and dried, it did not take us long to lay in our stock of necessaries. We purchased provisions, tinned meats and vegetables, flour and bacon, with plenty of various preserved foods, enough to keep us going well for at least a year. We took ample supply of tobacco, with guns, ammunition, a sheet-iron Yukon stove, picks, shovels, washpans, and we did not forget our axes. All these goods were done up in parcels covered with waterproof canvas, each in weight suitable for "packing," that is for Indians to carry.

Leaving Victoria, we travelled up between Vancouver Island and the mainland to Naniamo. Here we took in coal, then headed up the coast.

How am I to describe to you this wonderful journey? Words fail me. From the very start it was delightful. True, we were at sea; but being amongst islands, we were so sheltered that it was like a placid river. We traversed the grandest scenery that can be imagined, the water clear and smooth as glass, with air as soft as velvet. We sighted Queen Charlotte's Islands, but voyaged through channels nearer the mainland, between grand timbered islets, past rocky bluffs and gorges, always in sight of mountains, many being snow-covered and glaciered. Then on between Prince of Wales' Island and the mainland, and so to Fort Wrangel, where we left the goodly steamer. We had come seven hundred miles in her, and had been four days on the way.

Wrangel was just a rough group of shanties, with some stores and many totem-poles, as most of the few inhabitants were Indians of the Stickeen tribe. The whites were traders, or miners and prospectors, en route to the Yukon country. Here we hired a canoe to carry us to Juneau. It was an immense one, beautifully fashioned out of one huge log of cedar—a dug-out—but in shape and seaworthiness most excellent. We engaged four Indians to man it. Most of the trip was made with paddles; but sometimes a square sail was hoisted on a pole forward. We camped each night upon the rocky shores.

It took three days to reach that town. It is the metropolis of Alaska, Sitka being the capital. But most of the business is done in Juneau. It is, naturally, a rough and ramshackle place, yet we found it possible to obtain fair accommodation at a queer hotel, and every article of provisions and gear needed in the upper country. It has a city hall and court-house, waterworks, banks, and electric light and wharves! We had to wait two days for one of the two small steamers which ply between Juneau and Skagway. The Rustler is the one we took, the fare then being only 10 dollars each—but we had to feed ourselves.

After leaving Juneau we steamed along a narrow strait between Douglas Island and the coast, and entered the famed Lynn Canal, which is an arm of the sea running almost due north. It averages ten miles in width, and is about one hundred in length, having very regular shores, straight and uniform; but for its dimensions, it might be taken indeed for an artificially made canal. On our left we skirted the great Davidson Glacier. The whole journey was grand, sublime, and in many places awful.

We arrived in Skagway Inlet on the second day. A few miles from the head of it we came to the Skagway river or creek, 120 miles from Juneau, and here, amongst a wilderness of trees, mountains, and mud flats, a mere foothold in the snow-clad granite coast-range, were a handful of Indian rancheries and a few log shanties and some tents. There is a great rise and fall in the tides at Skagway. We had to wait some time ere the one boat belonging to the Rustler could land us and our stuff on the rock-strewn muddy beach. No one from the shore lent a hand. There was a rough wharf, it is true, in course of construction. The men building it, we understood, had gone to their camp, for it was late when we arrived.

A number of Indians were about: their sole employment seemed to be to sit on stumps and logs, smoke and chew tobacco, and gaze stolidly at us. They were dressed just like the white men.

As for the few white men, they gathered round us, eyed us and our outfit, but said nothing. A more miserable, unhappy, low-spirited set of men I had never before come across.

Well, we were landed at Skagway, and questioned the inhabitants. It was not easy to obtain information. "Where is the trail to the White Pass? How could we get to it? What means of transport were there?" Those were the questions we made it plain that we desired to have answered.

One would have supposed that these people could have enlightened us; but no—their advice and information was so vague that we might have taken them for new arrivals, like ourselves. But that they were old hands was plain, for they argued amongst themselves, entered into long yarns about what this and that man had experienced, what Slim Jim thought, and Blear-eyed Scottie said—we could make nothing of them. Some advised us to go by canoe, which was chaff; and others declared that was ridiculous—by the trail was the only way. "What trail? Which is it?" we begged to be informed. "Oh! just up the river a piece," was all we could arrive at.

No doubt these men, regarding us as "tenderfeet," took pleasure, as usual, in mystifying us; and it was our policy not to undeceive them. I was the usual spokesman.

It must be quite clearly understood that the rush to the Klondyke had not begun then. It was known, undoubtedly, that there was much gold up country, and every white man there was after it, so that if it had been guessed that Meade had been up already, the fact of his returning with the ample outfit we possessed would have convinced them that he had been successful, and we should have been followed and our secret discovered.

It was ten o'clock at night then, but not really dark. We were perplexed. These loafers gradually dispersed, and only one man hung behind, who had been silent hitherto. When we were alone with him he became communicative. We knew, directly he spoke, that he was an Englishman of a better sort, and he recognised what we were.

Said he, "Let me advise you: get all your stuff piled up yonder; put up your tent and turn in; in the morning you'll find all easy. There's a man here who bosses everything—white folks and Indians; he's a Yankee, true enough, but a decent fellow; he keeps a sort of a boarding-house, and has a store; he's a fur-buyer, a trader, and a packer; he'll straighten things out for you."

Accordingly, in the morning, after we had fed, Indians and loafers gathered around again, and for a bit it looked as if the difficulty would continue; but shortly our English friend, who was working at the wharf building, and whose sobriquet, we found, was "Colney Hatch," usually shortened to "Coney" (he explained that he foolishly one day let it be known that that famous institution was near his home in England), well, this man came to us, and took us with him to Boss Parkinson's—the man he had mentioned.

We found the boss was certainly a "live" man: in five minutes he had cleared all up. He shook hands heartily, asked us if we had any money, where we proposed to go, with a few other questions.

Having satisfied him on these points, "Come on," said he; "guess we will soon fix things. Thar's but one way from here to Dawson City. You've got to have your gear packed to the Windy Arm, that's sure. It'll cost you 14 dollars for every hundred pounds. How much you got?"

We took him to our pile. He was surprised. "Land sakes!" he exclaimed. "Why, what'n tarnation! There ain't bin one party through yere yet fixed like you fellers; 'n say—guess you bin through before. No; wall some person's told you who has been—eh?"

We admitted we had had good advice. "Wall, so I jedge," he went on. "Why, darn me, if you hain't got every pack just right!" and he lifted one or two. "50 lb. each, I reck'n?"

We said that was so, and that each man could carry two; and as we had exactly 800 lb. of grub, and about 200 lb. weight of tent, blankets, and cooking gear and tools, we considered it would take just about twelve Indians to do what was required comfortably.

"Gee-rusalem!" cried our new acquaintance; "'n you're fixed to pay 140 dollars for this yere job?"

"Oh yes, we can," I replied; "but it seems these Indians around are idle—can't it be done for less?"

"Idle!—Great Scot!" he yelled with laughter. "Why, stranger, they're a restin'—you bet they need it. Hold on till you see the kind o' journey they've got to make—lor! and you too—you stop till you've felt fifty, 'n mebbe a hundred pounds o' pack on your backs, 'n then I guess you'll think them 140 dollars ain't so easy airned. These yere Si-washes ain't like them red fellers of the plains—nossir. These work, they do; m—m—I guess so. You pay me that 140 dollars, 'n I guess all will go slick."

A few dollars one way or the other were no particular consequence to us, and we thought it wiser to keep dark, so we agreed; at which the boss, calling to an Indian, took him aside.

Ten minutes after there was excitement in the camp. From listless, silent logs, the whole tribe woke up, and from that moment showed of what stuff they were made. We learnt from the boss what our route would be after reaching Lake Tagish. He told us about Miles Cañon and the White Horse Rapids, which he assured us were the only real difficulties we had to face. He advised us to hire an Indian to go with us who knew the way to the foot of the White Horse, anyway.

The Stick (Stickeen) Indians are an avaricious people, they are shrewd and tricky, a good match for whites at bargains, and will do anything for money, which they know the value of right well. They are fine strapping fellows, and are proud to tell you they are "aller same King George man"—i.e., Englishmen; but I believe they say to Yankees that they are "aller same Boston man," which means Americans. They are evidently pretty deep, have a great love for tobacco and all intoxicants, and every beverage that possesses a "tang." They are supposed to be diminishing in numbers rapidly—there were thought to be only about one thousand left of them then.

It was sixty-five miles from Skagway to the Windy Arm of Lake Tagish, we were told, and that if we averaged ten miles a-day we should do well.

Within an hour our march began—that is, our Indians loaded four canoes with our packs; then we paddled six miles up-stream, landed, and camped for the night.

Our men were cheery; some spoke the Chinook jargon,—"the trade language of the Pacific coast,"—a few knew a little English. One who appeared to be their head man knew most, and he attached himself closely to us, cooked and helped us. It was our policy to appear "green," and this man, believing it was our first night in the bush, showed us how to manage. He called himself Jim Crow; this name had been given him by some facetious countryman of ours.

Starting at six the following morning, we soon understood what packing over the White Pass meant. There was a trail, sure enough; it consisted of a path winding through thick forest, up steep and rocky hills, some of them almost perpendicular; across swift running brooks, and beds of spongy moss—up to one's waist in places. There were clumps of coarse grass, thickets of brambles and the terrible devil's club thorn; so, before we had gone a couple of miles, we were satisfied that every cent we paid these Indian packers was well "airned" indeed.

For ourselves, it was all we could do to get on, carrying only our guns, and a small shoulder-bag with a little grub; whilst our boys plodded on, grunting but cheery, with their one hundred pounds apiece.

As we ascended gradually, we realised that it was becoming colder. We had not done three miles by noon when we came to snow. Jim Crow—Jim is what we called him of course—ordered a halt, and said they were well pleased,—that it was probably snow in the pass; some of them would go ahead without burdens and investigate—if so, they would return for sledges, "sleds"; they were very happy at this prospect. Accordingly two men went on. We rested, boiled some tea, and ate. In a couple of hours they returned, and had a pow-wow, resulting in some of them starting back to Skagway, whilst our tent was erected, a huge camp-fire built, and we prepared to pass the night, as Jim told us it would be too late when they returned with sleds to push on. We were somewhat annoyed at what we thought delay, but he assured us this plan would shorten the journey greatly.

It was midnight when they returned. They brought five sleds. On these, next day—which was hot and the snow was melting—all our goods were lashed, and that evening, when the crust upon the snow was frozen, we were off.

Our route lay up a shelving mountain-side overlooking a deep cañon. Snow-capped ranges and many small glaciers were constantly in sight across the valley, and every depression, on our side, held a trickling rivulet, a roaring stream, or more frequently a morass, knee-deep in moss and sodden grasses. The snow was not deep, but it was soft and slushy—the travelling was terrible, yet in spite of all we made what Jim called "good time."

It was noon next day ere we reached the timber line, and all above this was open and rocky. The snow was heavier here; in the shade it was frozen solid; the sleds travelled over it easily. Meade and I had all we could do to keep up with them; indeed we had let them get some distance ahead at one time, and when we caught them they were camped beside a great rock with stunted trees about it, and Jim said that we were very near the summit.

We camped that night in considerable comfort,—it was dry and cold, but having good blankets and plenty of fuel, Meade and I were cosy enough. Our Indians made shelters of sticks and brushwood and thin blankets, and built a huge fire. They played "poker"; their "chips" were beans.

An immense amount of snow falls on these coast ranges; luckily we had none during our crossing—neither did it rain, which was wonderful.

Now, as to this White Pass ever being made the highway to the Yukon, I must say a few words. The trail as it then existed was absolutely impracticable for horses—it was all that men could do to clamber up it, and we realised that with much traffic, even of human beings, it would quickly become impassable, and yet Meade and I felt confident that with comparatively little work and some engineering skill a road, and some day even a railroad, could be made across it. Most of the runs of water could be bridged easily, in the rough way which is the custom in the wilds. Many of the morasses, we could see, could be drained by a few gutters cut with a spade. There being such a slope it was easy to run water off, and where that was impossible log causeways—corduroys—could be built with no great trouble, for logs were plentiful for the cutting. It was possible to wind round most of the rocks, and a few pounds of dynamite or giant powder would quickly clear the impassable masses. Certainly when we crossed it was terrible enough; but yet we plainly saw that a good road, fairly easy to traverse by horses, even with loaded waggons, was certain ere long to exist there.

If it should be proved that gold was plentiful in the Yukon country,—"Undoubtedly," we said, "before two years are past there will be a fine road here," and as to the gold—well, we had reason to be very sure about that.

From this camp the trail led up a narrow and precipitous defile until the actual summit was reached. We were then at least fifteen miles from Skagway, and near three thousand feet above tide-water.

From here there was a sheer descent of many feet to a lake—Summit Lake. It was frozen solid. The Indians assured us it was always frozen—that the snow never left its margin. At one point the ice overlapped the edge, forming a small glacier. A few yards below it was thawing. At some far distant day a great glacier had been there, for a cañon had been formed, and down it, beside the rushing stream of white water, our course lay. Mountains rose high around us, covered with ever-lasting snow.

Gradually the snow on our course disappeared and the sleds became useless, and Jim assured us that for the rest of the journey to Windy Arm packing must be resorted to. Therefore next morning the sleds were cached, and we started on our weary tramp.

Everything was frozen solid still, for it was not yet May. The travelling was exceedingly arduous,—not that there were any mountains to traverse or swamps to push through; it was simply a rough rock-strewn country, sparsely covered with scraggy trees, mostly pines and spruces, with bushes which we thought were willows, and long coarse grass.

We had five days of this, and then we reached the Windy Arm, and the Indians' contract was completed. We had come about sixty-five miles from Skagway.

It was still winter here: there was no open water, the woods were full of snow, which had been long since driven by strong winds from the open; it was a bleak and dreary outlook. Around the lake most of the timber had been fired, gaunt grey sticks alone were standing, and the ground was covered with half-burned logs and branches. Of fuel there was no lack. We made camp in the only close clump of living trees about. We put our tent up securely, made ourselves comfortable, for we knew we must stay on there and by some means build a boat or raft, and wait for the ice to break up. Thus our object was gained in reaching that spot, and we were ready to avail ourselves instantly of the open water, and to pursue our journey.

The Indians had behaved so exceedingly well that I proposed, and Meade agreed, to give them each a dollar.

Through Jim we signified our intention: he made them clearly understand that this was "potlach"—that is, a present. It gave great satisfaction, and when we added a plug of tobacco to each man, there was rejoicing in the camp.

We had taken quite a liking to Jim. He was seemingly proud to be more noticed by us than the others. He was an exceedingly handy fellow, and so far as we could make out from his very peculiar English and Chinook, he knew all about the route we had to follow, and was an experienced boatman. He had "shot" the Grand Cañon twice, and knew the way to get past the White Horse Rapids. He was apparently about five-and-twenty, a tall, athletic fellow, and with us very bright and talkative, although with his fellows he was taciturn. Like them he was keen after money, yet did not appear to realise that we were going up to where we hoped it would be plentiful. It is difficult to understand an Indian's apathy on this matter—along the Fraser, at Cariboo, and even in Alaska, they will work at washing gold, and seem quite satisfied to make a dollar or two a-day; but to undertake any plan for making a big lot at once they have no notion. It is perhaps because the idea of accumulating anything is not an Indian's nature.

Meade formed the idea that it would be well to induce this fellow to go with us to Lake La Barge. With this intent we plied him with information about gold, assuring him that, if he went with us, he would get plenty, so that he could return to the coast a rich man. This prospect had no charms for him, yet he liked the idea of the trip, and said that if we would pay him "ikt dolla la sun"—that is, in plain English, one dollar a-day—he would go; but when he added that he must bring his klootchman, his wife, with him, I was taken aback. Meade, however, was in favour of it—he considered it would be an additional inducement for Jim to stay, that she would probably be useful, and no trouble to us.

He questioned the fellow closely as to her age, her abilities; and he made us understand that she was young, could cook and paddle well, speak English, and would "mamook elan wash pil chickamin," which meant that she would help wash for gold. Her name, he announced, was Fanny; and Meade confided to me that he had a particular liking for that name, so we were induced to enter into the arrangement.

About "muck a muck"—i.e., food—Jim said they would provide themselves; that he would go back to Skagway with the party and bring his wife out, and a load of all they needed, in six "la suns," six days. All that he stipulated for was that we should have nothing to do with Tagish Indians and that he should have "plenty 'bacca."

Of this we had a good supply; but thinking it would be no harm to have still more, we sent a little "chit" by him to Boss Parkinson, telling him how we had got on, and begging him to send out to us by Jim, if he discovered that they really meant to come with us, another dozen pounds of that fascinating weed.

The following day the band left us, and Meade and I were left alone in our glory.

CHAPTER II.

Meade and I were by this time great friends: our tastes and aims were exactly alike—it was very nice. We had mutual acquaintances in England—we were the best of companions.

In our tent, with our sheet-iron stove going, our beds of thick layers of sweet-scented spruce twigs on rubber ground-sheets, with plenty of good blankets, we were quite cosy, and we had a few books with us.

Our surroundings were gloomy and uninteresting enough—just a dreary rock-strewn waste. Here and there were patches of faded grass, flattened by the snow which had covered it for months. A few gnarled and twisted cedars and spruces still grew about there; but gaunt, black-butted, dead pine-trees, their tops whitened by the frost and wind, were everywhere—the dry bones of the forest. The frozen lake and the coast range close behind us, the mountains to right, left, and ahead, were snow-covered and dismal, and there was no sign of life, no trace of a living creature.

It rained steadily for two days, and as it was freezing hard at the same time, everything was encased in ice. On the third day the clouds were scattered, and each twig and leaf and blade flashed and sparkled gloriously in the brilliant sun-rays. This only lasted a few hours, for the heat of the sun being great, this beautiful scene was soon spoiled. However, we hoped that a few such days would make havoc with the ice upon the lake, and we should have open water. But this was not to be just yet, for on the fourth day it blew hard from the east, and that night it snowed again and froze as hard as ever.

"On time," as Yankees say, Jim and his wife arrived: they came bounding along the trail, full of glee,—we thought them like children coming home from school. Jim was most voluble; a stream of the best English he knew, and jargon, fell unceasingly from his mouth. He was proud of his wife, that was clear—he showed her off, asking our opinion of her, giving us to understand that she was as good as she appeared.

I must say that she was well worth his praise, in looks at any rate; her other good qualities we discovered later.

She was unmistakably an Indian woman: her colour was warm brown, she had beautiful eyes, and a very amiable expression. Her hair was her pride: it was not straight and coarse—it waved, even curled some little, and glistened in the sun as if it were black spun glass.

We took to her at once: she appeared to be of a bright and happy disposition, and not an atom like our preconceived notions of a squaw. Meade subsequently made a sketch of her in her ordinary dress.

But what charmed us greatly was, she could speak English quite understandably, and when she informed us that she was "one Metlakahtla gal," and had been trained under the eye of good Mr Duncan, we felt we were fortunate to have her with us, and we never ceased to impress on Jim what a lucky dog he was. He seemed to think so himself—at least Fan said he did. They put up a little canvas tepee, or wigwam, near. They had brought it with them on their sled, with their entire household gear, which was not much. It consisted mostly of dried salmon which was to be their food. We added some of ours to it occasionally, and later when we killed game we shared it with them. Fan cooked for us, and we believed she religiously refrained from pilfering our food. She had certainly been well trained.

After this we had a few days clear, calm, and sunny. Pools of water formed on land amongst the rocks and tangle, and the lake-ice was awash, yet Jim assured us that we need not expect the lake to open yet, and Fan added, "By'me by we get plenty freeze once more, and, mebbe, plenty snow!"

In this latter she was mistaken: she was right about the freeze, though. Thick ice formed every night, if night it could be called. One day it blew a heavy gale: we kept under cover, wondering that our little tent was not carried bodily away.

The matter of a boat occupied our consideration. Jim had heard that two men, camped down on Tagish Lake, had a whip-saw, and were cutting lumber to sell to parties like us to build their boats with, but our only means of getting to them was by a raft. There was no timber fit for boat-building in our neighbourhood, therefore when weather permitted we chopped and rolled logs on to the ice, and lashed and pinned them together into a form we hoped would bear us safely. We built it on the ice so that when that broke up it would be afloat.

Jim and his wife helped: she was as active as a young deer, and as strong as either of us.

Two weeks passed thus. Our raft was finished, and we were waiting patiently for the ice to disappear. We had spells of very hot weather, plenty of wind, but very little rain. The sun did not set till late; by two A.M. it was up again. The growth of vegetation was amazing—grass was green, and flowers had sprung into bloom, seemingly in a few hours. A few birds were seen, robins and jays.

One evening a flock of ducks whistled over the tent. Meade sprang up, gun in hand, but too late for a shot; but next day more passed and we bagged several brace. It was evident that spring had arrived.

On May 15th Fan informed us that "Pretty soon now, my believe, ice go away." Jim had gone up a creek to try for fish; when he returned, with a string of suckers he had speared, he agreed with what Fan had said, adding that he believed next day we should "no more ice see."

It was so. When we turned out the following morning, instead of a field of rotting ice, which had all sunk we supposed, there was before our camp a lovely blue lake, sparkling and rippling in a gentle breeze, and Jim gleefully announced, "Now, bossee, you bet we go ahead aller same steamboat."

At once we loaded our raft, and we four drifted on it down the Windy Arm, Tagish Lake. It is but a narrow strip of water, this arm, more like a river. The hills on both sides are steep, the wind from the east rushes through, sometimes dangerously, but we were fortunate to have merely a fresh breeze behind us.

By towing from the shore sometimes, at others by poling, we contrived on the third day to reach the lake, and here we were lucky enough to find not only the men we had heard were cutting lumber there, but that they had just finished a boat which they could sell to us.

These men welcomed us very heartily: they told us we were the first party on the way since the previous autumn. They had run out of tobacco.

The boat they had to sell was not built for either speed or beauty, but we saw it was the very thing for us—-it would carry us well with our heavy load to Dawson City. We agreed to their price, which was naturally high, and before we turned in that night we had stowed our goods on board her, and were ready to begin our journey in earnest. We had received a good bit of information about it from these men, who had been often up and down the Yukon. We left them a little happier for our visit, for we had supplied them with a few stores, and notably with tobacco.

We sailed off cheerfully next morning down Lake Tagish. At the mouth of Windy Arm are islands and high mountains,—one superb dome-shaped giant stands alone.

We trolled that day, and caught one large fish like a salmon,—it probably was a land-locked one. Its flesh was white and absolutely tasteless, but Jim and Fan considered it was prime. We made a lovely camp that night on an island near shore.

It took us till the following afternoon to get down this lake. We saw no human beings, but along the sluggish river which joins it to Lake Marsh we passed Tagish House, and there was a group of Indians at which Jim and Fan were terribly alarmed, declaring that if they were seen they would be killed by them, for it appears that war between the Tagishes and the Sticks, which our two were, is perpetual.

Accordingly we gave these Indians a wide berth. Tagish House is but a rough log affair. Yet it is famous, for it is not only the place the tribe meets at annually for its council and festival, but it is the only permanent building in all that country.

Passing down for half-a-dozen miles, we entered Lake Marsh, which occupies a broad valley with high mountains on the east. It is about two miles wide. Traversing it, we got all the wildfowl and the fish we could consume. We lived sumptuously. The journey took us two days.

Fan and Jim were always bright and cheery, and ready to lend a hand; they were good companions, and were uncommonly good specimens of Indians. One particularly good thing about them was that Fan had been taught the use of soap at Metlakahtla, and she had taught her husband; so they were, wonder of wonders, clean Indians!

The foot of Marsh Lake we found to be low and swampy; the sleughs appeared to be full of ducks and musk-rats—also of mosquitos!

We certainly expected these last. We had suffered from them in Manitoba and in other parts of Canada; we supposed we knew what we had to contend with, but we did not.

Fortunately we had brought some mosquito netting, which we rigged up in our tent, so that, inside, we had a trifle of peace; but when travelling or moving outside, it was impossible to protect ourselves, and we experienced untold misery. Our Indians suffered quite as much as we did, and complained as loudly. They lit fires inside their tepee, filling it with pungent smoke, through which they slept contented; but we could not stand that.

I may here say that from this time on, with very rare exceptions, we were simply tortured by mosquitos. We passed through many hardships, had innumerable physical difficulties to contend with during that summer and winter, but they are all forgotten, or regarded as mere trifles, and one phase of misery is vividly recorded on my memory: it is the ceaseless torment of those infernal gnats. They are the cause of the worst suffering that people must submit to in that country: winter's cold, summer's heat, even hunger, are not to be compared to this awful pest.

For instance, you are tramping with a load upon your back, your hands are full carrying tools or packages, the sun is blistering hot, the perspiration is pouring off you in streams, yet all the time the ubiquitous mosquitos are engaging your closest attention; your eyes, your ears, your nostrils, all your most sensitive spots, are their favourite feeding-grounds. You are helpless, you suffer agony, and you often feel that life itself is next thing to a curse. We have seen hardy, rough men shed tears of impotent anger at these innumerable, invisible, relentless enemies. Dogs and men, cattle and wild beasts, deer especially, and even bears, are their victims.

Frequently we were so swollen about our necks that we could hardly turn our heads, and our wrists were so enlarged that our wristbands were useless. We tried tobacco juice, turpentine, lamp-oil, but nothing gave us relief. Truly the mosquitos of the Yukon hold the record as tormentors.

Lake Marsh is twenty miles long. It then narrows, and for nearly thirty miles we followed the course of the river, which is the Lewes. The current is about three miles an hour, and we were blessed with a gentle breeze astern, so got on famously. We passed through miles and miles of cut sandbanks, which were completely honeycombed by a species of martin, which were then busy nesting. The air was alive with millions of these little birds, and we gloried in the knowledge that they were feeding exclusively on our deadly foes.

Here we met with a few large salmon. They come all the long way up from Behring Sea to spawn. In August, Jim said, the river is crowded with them, and the bears come down from the hills to feed on them. Dozens, he assured us, might be seen any day along that river. We saw but one; we shot at and missed it.

Up to this time, it will be noticed, we had experienced only fine weather,—indeed, so far, our only real suffering had been from the mosquitos; but one evening, the sun being high, though it was ten P.M., the sky was suddenly enveloped in dense clouds, against which steamlike scud drifted with great rapidity; and by the action of the martins and waterfowl, and by the sudden cessation of the rapacity of the mosquitos, which had been earlier in the day more persistent than usual, we knew that some change was at hand.

Jim said that wind was coming, so we camped, put our tents up with extra care, and drew our boat into what we thought was a safe harbour by the river side.

Not long after—we could see up stream for at least a mile—we perceived that a huge wave was bearing down to us. It was like a bore. We stared aghast!

Our boat and nearly all we had was in imminent danger. I made a rush, intending to leap on board, push it out into the river, then turn its head to the great surge that was rolling down, and so, I hoped, save it from wreck; but Meade held me back, shouting above the dreadful roar of wind and water that I should not go—that the risk was far too great.

As we stood thus, he restraining me, I struggling to go, Jim passed us, stripped: he leapt into the boat, pushed her off, then with one grand sweep of the steering oar he turned her head up stream just as the wave reached her. She lifted with the heave of it, veered this way and that, the heavy water curled up, and we stood there trembling, feeling sure that she would be swamped. But Jim held on manfully, kept her well up, and although she was carried down stream at terrible speed, yet we saw that the brave Indian, standing like a bronze statue at the stern, had conquered.

It was soon lost to sight in the gloom, for the spray which the mighty wind raised was driving down river as if it were drifting snow.

So far, the boat, we trusted, had escaped, but what would ultimately become of her and Jim, we wondered.

We turned to Fan, asking what she thought about it. She was crouched under the lee of a log, smiling peacefully!

"No you bother," she shouted, "Jim all light; outfit all light too. By'me by, pretty soon, no mo' wind, Jim tie up er boat, come back'n we pack all tings down to boat—or, mebbee, Jim bring boat back here. You see me?—well, all light!" and she smiled again quite happily.

How we blessed our stars that we had hired this Indian and his charming klootchman. We thought her a perfect heroine that night, whilst I believe she considered us very childish for being so very much alarmed.

Almost as quickly as this heavy squall had arisen it ceased, the sun streamed out, and the silence was oppressive, yet very welcome. But what should we do about Jim?

We consulted Fan, who calmly replied, "Nosing, nossir, make muck-a-muck, what you call supper, then turn in, my tink Jim come along all lightee by'me by, soon."

At which we made up the fire, and did as she advised.

We were aroused towards morning by Jim calling to his wife from the other side the river. He told us that the boat was safely moored a mile below, that he had tried to bring her to camp but could not, therefore we must pack all to her. He swam across and joined us, after which we had our first real essay at "packing," and we concluded that it was not our forte. We found our boat and her cargo safe and sound below, which was no small blessing. It took two days to pack all down to her. Then on we went again, the stream carrying us along between smooth grassy hills and sandy knolls. Soon the current became stronger, and we heard a distinct roar ahead, and on the bank we saw a board stuck up by some friendly voyageur, on which was scrawled in big letters—"Danger, Stop," which at once we did.

We had arrived at Myles Cañon, the grand cañon of the Lewes—the Miners' Grave.

Eager to examine what we had now to encounter, Meade and I landed and went ahead to prospect. Where we had stopped the river was two hundred yards wide at least: it was roaring ahead in the middle, rushing vehemently on its way.

We mounted the basalt cliff above where we were camped, and came in full view of the cañon. We knew the length of it and the width, we had heard so much about it, and believed we knew just what to expect, yet the reality appalled us. How could we get through? It looked impossible: still, knowing that it had been done, and if we were to reach our destination we must negotiate it, we sat on an outstanding point and wondered.

The walls of the gorge, which averages one hundred feet in width, are about the same height; they are worn into fantastic shapes, very little vegetation clings to them, but along the top there is timber, and one can march through it with ease.

The river, forced through this narrow cañon, is heaped up in the middle much higher than at the sides: it is one mass of foam, and it flashes along at lightning speed, roaring and raging. It is about three-quarters of a mile from fairly smooth water up stream to quietness below.

As we sat on the summit of the cliff, critically examining the scene, we presently perceived two tents at what looked to be the lower end of the gorge, and there was the smoke of a camp-fire.

With Jim and Fan, who had joined us, we consulted; it resulted in Meade and Jim going ahead to visit these campers and obtaining information. From them they learned that they had got through safely. There were half-a-dozen men, old Yukoners, friendly and communicative, who had wintered by Lake Marsh, where they had got a little gold. They offered to help us. Some of them returned and packed each a load over the portage, and then as they saw that neither of us was experienced at shooting rapids, one of them very kindly volunteered to go through with Fan and Jim in our boat.

Everything was carefully planned, the strength of the steering sweep tested; Jim stripped, Fan doffed all she could decently, and our new friend, whom his chums called Samson, did the same,—then the start was made.

Meade stayed to push them off; I went to the cliff-top to watch the proceedings.

Fan and Samson took the oars, Jim was steersman. They pulled far out into the eddy, straining every nerve, even after the current caught them, so as to keep steerage way on the boat. They soon shot into the dark shadows of the walls. Here, they told us, they were nearly stopped by the first huge breaker, but only for a second: the frail boat trembled, seemed to stagger, then surmounting the crest, dashed on.

SHOOTING MYLES CAÑON.

I, on the top, could mark their progress easily. I saw them flying like a cork through the turmoil; I saw them now whirled one way, now another; at one moment it seemed they were to be hurled against the adamantine walls, where they would be stove to splinters instantly; at the next they miraculously sheered away into the boiling turmoil in the midst. Clouds of spray dashed over them; they were often lost to my sight. Half a minute passed—I saw their speed slacken—was anything wrong? No, I saw they were in the eddy, and were half-way through; next moment they were again in the thick of it, and, so far as I could tell, they were having more terrible experiences still. There were then a few indescribable moments. I held my breath, as I am sure they did theirs, as they vanished from my sight round an intervening point.

Directly after one of our new acquaintances at the camp below fired two shots and waved a red blanket, the signal agreed on that all was well.

From the moment they started until I saw that signal was exactly two and a half minutes by my watch.

With thankful hearts we two shouldered our light packs, crossed the portage, and joined the others. Jim and Fan were perfectly unconcerned,—he was contentedly smoking beside the fire, she was putting our tent up. We thanked Jim, called him a brave good fellow, at which he merely grunted "Ugh"; and Fan said, "Orl right—welly good; guess we make camp here one day—eh?"

We were agreeable to this, especially as the other party was remaining too. They were Canadians, very decent fellows indeed, and on that and for several days we kept company with them with much mutual pleasure.

On the river-side were several mounds, marked with rough stones or wooden crosses. They were the graves of some of the many who had lost their lives there—many more had been drowned whose bodies had never been recovered—and we, I hope, were very grateful that we had got through so safely.

Next day a couple of us went ahead in one of their light canoes to examine the White Horse Rapids—they were two miles on—and to arrange how to attack them. Then we loaded our boats, and, by warping and towing, we, by degrees, hauled them to a place where there is slack water, just above the dangerous place.

Here we camped again, unloaded everything, and hauled boats and canoes on shore. Then we carried our packages on to smooth water below, and lastly dragged the boats there: there were many willing hands to help now, and we did it all quickly.

These rapids are full of sunken rocks, impossible to steer amongst. There is one piece particularly formidable: it is only about one hundred feet, and has been shot, but not intentionally up to that time. With light well-made canoes it would be possible, we thought, though very risky, but with the really unwieldy boat of ours it was impossible.

When we had everything safely over—it took us best part of a day, and we all worked very hard to do it—we packed up again, and camped for the night. We had a most jovial evening—there was a banjo in the crowd, and one good singer, the weather was grand, the mosquitos were rather less troublesome than usual, and the last great obstacle had been thus safely mastered. Yet there were many graves about us of poor fellows who had failed where we had come through with such success.

Next morning early we were off again.

We had now reached the place to which Jim and Fan had agreed to accompany us. We were loath to part with them, and, so far as we could judge, they were not anxious to leave us. If good food and plenty of tobacco is an Indian's idea of earthly bliss, then I should think these two had all they could desire. I must say they appeared to appreciate it, and when we spoke to them about returning to the coast they were evidently anything but pleased.

Besides, how were they to go back? We had really never thought of that: it was very stupid of us. We had brought their sled, but they could not go home on that.

We should have brought a canoe with us. We proposed to buy one from the Canadians, but they would not part with one.

Jim showed no anxiety at all to solve the problem; as for Fan, she declared her intention was to go on to Dawson City in our company! but this she said merely to tease Jim. The fact is, they were both perfectly satisfied with the life, and indifferent about returning to Skagway, where what they call their home was thought to be. They talked about Lake La Barge, the Five Fingers, and the Rink in such a way that we believed they did really intend to come with us, whether we would or not, if they could.

It ended in our proposing to continue Jim in our employ until we reached our journey's end, offering him the same pay—that is, one dollar a day and food, now, for himself and Fan.

They had been very quiet and melancholy for some hours: when we made this proposal they jumped up, laughed, and shouted with delight. These Indians are very much like children.

We were very glad too, and, as Meade always said when any question about expense arose between us, "Don't bother; when we get to the spot I know about, we can wash out what will cover all these outlays in twenty minutes!"

CHAPTER III.

From the foot of White Horse Rapids to the head of Lake La Barge the Lewes river is said to be thirty miles. Midway it is joined by the Tahkeena, and runs then through a wide valley, having cut many channels, so that we found difficulty in keeping the right one. The current and the wind were still with us.

We camped together with the Canadians: they had two good boats and two canoes. We should have been a merry party, but for the mosquitos. We caught plenty of fish; in every creek were trout and grayling; they rose to a fly, to a black feather, or even to a scrap of cloth. We trolled when moving, catching white fish and some salmon, proving that no one need starve there at that time of the year.

We were fortunate with our guns, shooting many ducks and geese, several swans, and a few grouse—probably ptarmigan. It was the breeding season, yet we considered we were justified in killing what we needed for our larder. Humming-birds were quite numerous, flitting about the brilliant flowers which were everywhere. We saw ravens, some magpies exactly like English ones, and several bald eagles.

We only shot one deer. At one of our camps a herd of some dozens trotted past. All guns were instantly brought to bear, but as only one contained a ball, but one animal fell. It was a caribou, very much like a reindeer.

We saw a few bears, black and brown, and there were small ones called silver-tips, as they have white throats and chins. Our friends assured us they were fierce, and attack a man "on sight"; but we fancied this was only a hunter's yarn, until we had proof that it is true. This was what occurred:—

We were settled for the night in an exposed position, away from stagnant water and bushes, as we found such spots a trifle freer than others from mosquitos. All of us but Fan were scattered, fishing or trying in the woods for birds, quite free from apprehension of anything untoward happening. It was a beautiful night; the sun had set—that is, it had just dipped behind some mountains to the north; the sky was brilliant in purple, gold, and crimson fire, as it would remain till three or four next morning, when we were to move on again. It was late, eleven, I suppose, and we were all out of sight of camp, when Jim and I—we were after ptarmigan—heard the crack of a rifle there.

"M'm," says Jim, "guess dat Fan ketch'm deer mebbe—welly good shot dat klootchman."

I merely said that I hoped it was so, for he and I were having bad luck, and were longing for meat; fish was palling on us. A few seconds after we heard another shot.

"M'm," says Jim again, "my tink Fan got two deer; zat is welly good."

He had hardly ceased speaking when we heard a third report, and several at quick intervals, at which I said, "Come, we'd better return and help her," and we hastened back to camp.

When we came in sight of the river and our boats, we heard Fan calling. It did not sound as if she were afraid, and yet we realised that she was in earnest; so we hurried, and perceived her on a great log that lay stretched across a narrow chasm in the cliff behind the tents, some distance from the ground. There she stood, firmly planted, with a rifle, looking intently at one spot below her. We called; she looked at us delighted.

"Come on! quick, quick!" she cried. "My have got one silver-tip thar; it is no dead, look out; but my tink he no can move! My cannot see him no more, frow rocks in dere," and she pointed. "My have nosing hyar to frow!"

At which, of course, we began to bombard the spot, and as nothing stirred, we stepped forward slowly, cautiously, till amongst some tangle we found the beast lying dead. Telling Fan this, we called to her to come down.

She walked to the butt end of the log and looked up, then to the other. "My can't!" she cried, half laughing.

"Well, but how did you get there?" I asked.

"My jumped down. My no can get up no more, and my no can come down!"

Jim began haranguing her in Indian, then said that we must cut a pole to reach to the log, which we did, and the girl climbed down and joined us.

Meade and the others had returned during this operation, which we carried out amidst much laughter. The bear was hauled out, dragged to camp, Jim set to work, and we soon had steaks frying for supper—or breakfast was it? We praised Fan for what she had done; she said it was "Oh, nosing—nosing at all, at all!" that the bear was trying to get a salmon we had hung in a bush, and she went for it.

"But how did you get up where you were?" we asked.

She said that the bear drove her there, at which we made her tell exactly what had happened, which she did, with many laughs, much as follows:—

"My was making slapjacks for de supper; my was at de fire. My see de bar a-grabbin' for de fish, and my go for him. My got no gun, no nosing but de fry-pan. You bet my go for him wis zat. Oh, yes! but de bar he no scart; nossir, he come for me; yessir, 'n I go for de tepee, 'n zare I ketch Jim's lifle and katlidges. Well, de bar he come zare too, 'll he went for de tepee—see," and she pointed to where it had been torn. "He make to drag down de tepee 'n ketch dis Injun gal; yessir, 'n so my shoot at him 'n hit him, 'n den my run avay! Oh yes, my run up dat rock dare, 'n de bar kum arter me, 'n he druv me to de aige of de bank dere. 'N he druv, 'n druv, 'n my shot two times—tree times, 'n my guess my didn't hit him bad; 'n he comed up so clost my tink he'd have me. So zen my look down onct; my see de log, my jump for it, 'n when my get dere zat bar he make to come to me too! Yessir, but zat time my get steady shot, my give it him in de tum-tum 'n he go tumblin' down—way down dere where you find him. Oh, you bet, dat last time my shot it hurt him—eh?" Then she turned to her cookery as calmly as if it had been the neck of a pigeon she had wrung, and nothing more.

After this we took care that no one was left alone at camp again, and if by any chance we came across a silver-tip we steered clear of him.

Barring mosquitos—and they were a bar and no mistake—it was a glorious trip down Lewes river: we did it in two days to Lake La Barge.

This lovely sheet of water is five, and in some places ten, miles broad, and about thirty-five long. Our friends parted from us here, and we were left to pursue our travels alone. They could sail straight down the lake, their boats being good and not laden like ours. We dared not venture, as it was blowing stiffly, and there was some sea on.

We followed the coast closely, and were three days doing the journey.

When we left this—the last of the lakes—we found the Lewes had quickened its current to six miles an hour. It was extremely crooked, too, and filled with boulders, causing us much difficult and anxious work; but by means of ropes from shore, and careful poling, we made a safe and fairly rapid progress.

The hills came down, often, sheer to the water's edge, and were generally well timbered. We moved on, mostly at night—that is, when the sun was low: at other times it was too terribly hot, and we found it better to turn night into day.

LAKE LA BARGE.

About twenty-eight miles from Lake La Barge the Hootalinqua river enters from the east: it is as wide as the Lewes at the junction. Here we came in sight of several tents, with people about them. We were for passing unnoticed, for Jim and his wife were terribly afraid of Indians. However, we were hailed from the shore, and begged to land. They were miners, rough customers; but they treated us well, and were glad of the latest news from the outer world. They were Americans. They said they were finding "flour" gold on all the bars, and advised us to stay and prospect; but we made excuses and hurried on, giving our destination as Fort Cudahy. I believe these men thought we were Government officials, and not gold-seekers, for our equipment was so perfect, and the careless way in which we spoke of gold deceived them.

Cut clay banks, full of martins, were common along this river. We found first-rate camping places, and were never without fish and game, but rarely missed mosquitos for more than an hour or two in the early morning.

Thirty miles below the Hootalinqua the Big Salmon joins. We saw no one about here, though we had heard that its bars carry much gold. Salmon were crowding up its rather shallow mouth when we passed; we could have secured a boatful in an hour with a net.

Below the Big Salmon the hills are high and round, mostly wooded to their summits. Thirty-five miles below, the Little Salmon river enters also from the east. There was a band of veritable Indians fishing. We had much ado to pacify our two—they wished us to keep close to the opposite shore, and generally to act as if we had something to conceal; but we made them sit out of sight, and sailed merrily by, with only the cheery response to our cry, "Kla-howya!"[[1]] from them.

Still a little farther we passed a camp. A boat was hauled up, the tents were closed; we concluded they were all asleep—it was bed-time anyway.

Twenty miles below this we came to a trading-post kept by one George M'Connel. There was a log-house and store, two or three rough shanties, and a boat or two. We hailed some men, "asking if there were any Indians around?" As they said "No," we landed, and spent an hour with them. M'Connel was impressed with our outfit, and the fact that we had two Indians as helpers struck him as very stylish. He, too, evidently supposed we were on some Government business. We got from these people information about the Five Fingers Rapids, which we had now to tackle.

A short distance below the Little Salmon we passed the Eagle's Nest, which is the most conspicuous landmark along the Lewes. It is about five hundred feet high, rising abruptly from a gravel flat. The river is here three hundred yards wide, and we had come three hundred miles from tide-water at Skagway.

FIVE FINGERS RAPIDS.

We camped here and tried some of the soil for gold, as we had done at many of our stopping-places. More often than not we got the colour—that is, a few fine specks. In several spots we got so many that we felt sure it would some day pay to work, but Meade always smiled and said, "Don't bother; we'll get all we want directly."

From here the banks are high, of clay and gravel; the current is about five miles an hour. The country was well wooded; there were many birch trees. We had fifty-three miles to go from Little Salmon river, which took us two days only; then Five Fingers came in sight. We had little difficulty in running these rapids—Meade and I had become expert with oars and paddles. We rested for a few hours above them, on the western bank of the river, where he made a sketch, as he had done when any particularly interesting bit was noted and the mosquitos would give him a chance. Then, without discharging any cargo, with Jim at the steering sweep, we ventured forth, crossed to the right-hand shore, into the white water, and in a very few minutes had rushed through the passage, and were in quiet beyond, and the last serious obstruction had been overcome.

We ran on cheerily after this, and came to a bar of rocks they call Rink Rapids, which we passed without mishap. Below this the river widens considerably, and there are many islands, which became more numerous as we advanced: it was often difficult to tell which were the real shores. Past there the high hills came down abruptly to the water, the current was accelerated, and navigation, though not dangerous, needed constant care.

Fifty-five miles from Five Fingers the great Pelly river joins the Lewes, and the two become the Yukon. Here is old Fort Selkirk, a trading-post of some importance, and there they winter the steamer P. B. Weare, which navigates the Yukon between there and Fort St Michael. Several dwellings and a store were on the bank; half-a-dozen men were about and some women. We supposed they were prospectors, for they spoke of nothing but gold, which indeed was the one topic with every one. Indeed, Gold! Gold! Gold! was in everybody's mouth we met, though certainly they were not numerous.

One man here was very friendly, lavish with advice, telling us again and again about the good places he knew, and saying he only wished he was free to go—he would quickly make his pile and quit the country; at which the bystanders smiled, and winked at one another. One of them told us aside that it was well known that this man had already got better than a gold mine, and was making his fortune rapidly. All the goods he sold were exorbitant in price—which was, as they admitted, fair enough—and everything was paid for in gold dust, which he had to weigh himself. "'N you bet," as an old Yankee miner said with a grin,—"you bet he don't lose much every time he uses them scales o' his'n."

The furs he bought from the trappers and Indians at a very low price, which he paid in goods. Oh, yes; we readily understood he did not need, or really wish, to go gold-mining.

There was a large number of dogs about this place, principally mongrels, yet there were some pure Huskies—that is, Esquimaux dogs. One fine young one had been petted, which made the others jealous: they set upon him whenever they caught him outside alone, which made his owner believe they were bound to kill him, so he offered him to us and we accepted him. We named him Patch, after an old dog I knew in England: we fed him well, and he quickly became a most beautiful and faithful creature—one of the most intelligent dogs I ever knew.

Very little remains of Fort Selkirk now beyond the ruins of the chimneys. It was raided and burned by coast Indians in 1852.

Ninety-six miles on we passed the mouth of the White river, which is of great volume, coming into the Yukon with a roar. It is so called from a white substance it holds in solution, probably volcanic ash. Ten miles below this is the Stewart river, helping to swell the already mighty Yukon. It is deep and dark.

There were a few miners hereabouts. We did not land. They hailed us as we passed, calling out that there was plenty of gold if we would stay and tackle it. We replied that we were bound down river some distance, and one fellow shouted, "Bloomin' Yanks, no doubt!"

Seventy miles below Stewart river we came to another trading-post, and a sawmill actually—this was at Sixty-Mile Creek. We camped below it, as there were some Indians working at the mill, much to Jim's and Fan's horror. Meade and I walked back and purchased some boards to make sluice-boxes, and floated them down to our boat. There were a number of miners about: some spoke favourably of their doings, but most were downhearted, and all looked unhappy. We thought then, and believe it fully now, that mosquitos were the cause of most of it. Here we found to our great content that we had but fifty more miles to run down to the Klondyke. They called it the Thronduk though.

Asking if there was any gold there, we were told not any—that it had been examined well, and there was nothing there to pay. It was just a salmon river and nothing more, at which information Meade looked at me with eyebrows raised and a smile hovering about his mouth.

We heard, however, that twenty miles before reaching that river we should come to Indian Creek, which the year before had proved to be quite rich, though already "played out." But as we heard people were still at work on it, we had doubts about the truth of this. The fact is, gold-hunters are amongst the most easily excited and depressed of beings, and one can rarely depend on individual opinions.

ON THE YUKON AT THE MOUTH OF THE KLONDYKE RIVER.

We made the run to the mouth of the Klondyke in two days. Here and there were heaps of ice still on the shore and shallows, for it does not entirely disappear from the Yukon till well on in June.

Usually an Indian camp was there, as it is really famous for salmon. They come annually to fish it. Here, too, is Dawson City—described by Meade as a rough miners' camp of shacks and shanties only—chiefly saloons, drinking-bars, dance-houses, and gambling dens. There were only a few hundred people in it, storekeeping and trading with the miners, of whom there were always a number hanging about, spending their hard-earned gold. Our aim being to avoid all communication with the shore, we held back till midnight, when there was a certain gloom spread over the scene, and when most people would be asleep. We were fortunate enough to slip into the river without any notice being taken. There was no very strong current down the Klondyke, yet as we had to pull against it we moved slower: however, finding a sequestered nook a few miles up, we camped before it was what we called day. This stream is not wide. The water is very clear. It was a very beautiful scene, but truly we took no time to criticise our surroundings. We had all we could do to attend to our business, and fight mosquitos!

Naturally we were impatient to reach Meade's last year's camp unobserved, and to discover if his find had been unmolested by wandering prospectors. We had seen so few human beings about that we hoped for the best; yet, now that we were so near the end of our long journey, we were in a fever of excitement.

Meade and I realised what a mistake we had made in not bringing a light canoe with us, for he knew it would be impossible to get our heavy boat past the rough water at the mouth of the creek where he had found the gold. We could manage our packs, but we four could not convey that boat over the portage.

Besides, how were Jim and his wife to get home? We did not intend to keep them with us whilst we were mining. We firmly believed that they were both true and trustworthy, but they were simple, and it would be easy for them to be led to disclose where we were and what we were doing, so we had determined that they should go back as soon as they had helped us with our stuff on to the still water of Meade's creek.

To carry out our plans, then, we must have a canoe, so it was in the end arranged that I should march into Dawson and, if possible, buy one. It was a difficult tramp, but I managed it.

My arrival at the "City" attracted little notice: a number of men had lately come up by the boat from Fort St Michael—they supposed I was one of them. I announced that I was one of a party camped up stream, and wanted a canoe.

There was a variety on sale. I don't suppose those who said they owned them did so really—they had been brought there by people who had gone back and abandoned them; but anyway one was offered with a pair of paddles for one hundred dollars—a Peterborough canoe, therefore a good one. I purchased it, got a square meal, and then towards evening I paddled off, not heading up the Klondyke but across it, as if I were going to ascend the Yukon. I wished to put the people off my scent.

I need not attempt to describe what I saw at Dawson. It was rough, and the goings on were rougher. I was assured that there was very little actual crime—only gambling, drinking, and every description of dissipation. There were some women, strange specimens. I came across the wife of a storekeeper, however, who was very pleasant. She was an Englishwoman from Eastbourne. She spoke bitterly of everything there—climate, people, and mosquitos. She admitted that she and her husband were making money, and hoped that a year or two only of the awful life would have to be endured ere they could return to England.

Not having seen or spoken to a decent white woman since I left the steamship at Juneau, I confess it was pleasant to have a talk with this nice Englishwoman, and I am thankful that I made her acquaintance then, as subsequent events will demonstrate.

I did not get back to our camp till the following day, when we started again. We made no rapid progress—there were many shallow bars or ledges to cross; we got stuck more than once, until we put some of our cargo into the canoe and towed her. It took us four days, hard work too, to get up to the rapids at the mouth of what we called "The Creek."

On the way we passed the mouths of several creeks where a few miners were camped. They hailed us, but were so intent upon making use of every moment of the short summer that they really took small heed of us. However, for the last two days we had not seen a soul.

Meade knew the way perfectly. When we reached the rapids we unloaded everything, and carried all with the canoe up to calm water above. The boat we cached in a convenient crevice we found in a rocky bluff near at hand. Then loading all we possibly could into the canoe, my friend and I pushed up stream, paddling, as you may be sure, our very hardest, scarcely taking time to eat or sleep.