the consumptive storekeeper, whose liability to hemorrhage
accounted for his presence. Bill and Kink told him how they
intended loafing in their cabin and resting up after the hard
summer’s work. They told him, with a certain insistence, that was
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38
half appeal for belief, half challenge for contradiction, how much
they were going to enjoy their idleness. But the storekeeper was
uninterested. He switched the conversation back to the strike on
Klondike, and they could not keep him away from it. He could think
of nothing else, talk of nothing else, till Hootchinoo Bill rose up
in anger and disgust.
“Gosh darn Dawson, say I!” he cried.
“Same here,” said Kink Mitchell, with a brightening face. “One’d
think something was doin’ up there, ‘stead of bein’ a mere stampede
of greenhorns an’ tinhorns.”
But a boat came into view from downstream. It was long and slim.
It hugged the bank closely, and its three occupants, standing
upright, propelled it against the stiff current by means of long
poles.
“Circle City outfit,” said the storekeeper. “I was lookin’ for ’em
along by afternoon. Forty Mile had the start of them by a hundred
and seventy miles. But gee! they ain’t losin’ any time!”
‘We’ll just sit here quiet-like and watch ’em string by,” Bill said
complacently.
As he spoke, another boat appeared in sight, followed after a brief
interval by two others. By this time the first boat was abreast of
the men on the bank. Its occupants did not cease poling while
greetings were exchanged, and, though its progress was slow, a
half-hour saw it out of sight up river.
Still they came from below, boat after boat, in endless procession.
The uneasiness of Bill and Kink increased. They stole speculative,
tentative glances at each other, and when their eyes met looked
away in embarrassment. Finally, however, their eyes met and
neither looked away.
Kink opened his mouth to speak, but words failed him and his mouth
remained open while he continued to gaze at his partner.
“Just what I was thinken’, Kink,” said Bill.
They grinned sheepishly at each other, and by tacit consent started
to walk away. Their pace quickened, and by the time they arrived
at their cabin they were on the run.
“Can’t lose no time with all that multitude a-rushin’ by,” Kink
spluttered, as he jabbed the sour-dough can into the beanpot with
one hand and with the other gathered in the frying-pan and coffee-
pot.
“Should say not,” gasped Bill, his head and shoulders buried in a
clothes-sack wherein were stored winter socks and underwear. “I
say, Kink, don’t forget the saleratus on the corner shelf back of
the stove.”
Half-an-hour later they were launching the canoe and loading up,
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39
while the storekeeper made jocular remarks about poor, weak mortals
and the contagiousness of “stampedin’ fever.” But when Bill and
Kink thrust their long poles to bottom and started the canoe
against the current, he called after them:-
“Well, so-long and good luck! And don’t forget to blaze a stake or
two for me!”
They nodded their heads vigorously and felt sorry for the poor
wretch who remained perforce behind.
* * * * *
Kink and Bill were sweating hard. According to the revised
Northland Scripture, the stampede is to the swift, the blazing of
stakes to the strong, and the Crown in royalties, gathers to itself
the fulness thereof. Kink and Bill were both swift and strong.
They took the soggy trail at a long, swinging gait that broke the
hearts of a couple of tender-feet who tried to keep up with them.
Behind, strung out between them and Dawson (where the boats were
discarded and land travel began), was the vanguard of the Circle
City outfit. In the race from Forty Mile the partners had passed
every boat, winning from the leading boat by a length in the Dawson
eddy, and leaving its occupants sadly behind the moment their feet
struck the trail.
“Huh! couldn’t see us for smoke,” Hootchinoo Bill chuckled,
flirting the stinging sweat from his brow and glancing swiftly back
along the way they had come.
Three men emerged from where the trail broke through the trees.
Two followed close at their heels, and then a man and a woman shot
into view.
“Come on, you Kink! Hit her up! Hit her up!”
Bill quickened his pace. Mitchell glanced back in more leisurely
fashion.
“I declare if they ain’t lopin’!”
“And here’s one that’s loped himself out,” said Bill, pointing to
the side of the trail.
A man was lying on his back panting in the culminating stages of
violent exhaustion. His face was ghastly, his eyes bloodshot and
glazed, for all the world like a dying man.
“CHECHAQUO!” Kink Mitchell grunted, and it was the grunt of the old
“sour dough” for the green-horn, for the man who outfitted with
“self-risin'” flour and used baking-powder in his biscuits.
The partners, true to the old-timer custom, had intended to stake
down-stream from the strike, but when they saw claim 81 BELOW
blazed on a tree,–which meant fully eight miles below Discovery,–
they changed their minds. The eight miles were covered in less
than two hours. It was a killing pace, over so rough trail, and
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40
they passed scores of exhausted men that had fallen by the wayside.
At Discovery little was to be learned of the upper creek.
Cormack’s Indian brother-in-law, Skookum Jim, had a hazy notion
that the creek was staked as high as the 30’s; but when Kink and
Bill looked at the corner-stakes of 79 ABOVE, they threw their
stampeding packs off their backs and sat down to smoke. All their
efforts had been vain. Bonanza was staked from mouth to source,–
“out of sight and across the next divide.” Bill complained that
night as they fried their bacon and boiled their coffee over
Cormack’s fire at Discovery.
“Try that pup,” Carmack suggested next morning.
“That pup” was a broad creek that flowed into Bonanza at 7 ABOVE.
The partners received his advice with the magnificent contempt of
the sour dough for a squaw-man, and, instead, spent the day on
Adam’s Creek, another and more likely-looking tributary of Bonanza.
But it was the old story over again–staked to the sky-line.
For threes days Carmack repeated his advice, and for three days
they received it contemptuously. But on the fourth day, there
being nowhere else to go, they went up “that pup.” They knew that
it was practically unstaked, but they had no intention of staking.
The trip was made more for the purpose of giving vent to their ill-
humour than for anything else. They had become quite cynical,
sceptical. They jeered and scoffed at everything, and insulted
every chechaquo they met along the way.
At No. 23 the stakes ceased. The remainder of the creek was open
for location.
“Moose pasture,” sneered Kink Mitchell.
But Bill gravely paced off five hundred feet up the creek and
blazed the corner-stakes. He had picked up the bottom of a candle-
box, and on the smooth side he wrote the notice for his centre-
stake:-
THIS MOOSE PASTURE IS RESERVED FOR THE
SWEDES AND CHECHAQUOS.
– BILL RADER.
Kink read it over with approval, saying:-
“As them’s my sentiments, I reckon I might as well subscribe.”
So the name of Charles Mitchell was added to the notice; and many
an old sour dough’s face relaxed that day at sight of the handiwork
of a kindred spirit.
“How’s the pup?” Carmack inquired when they strolled back into
camp.
“To hell with pups!” was Hootchinoo Bill’s reply. “Me and Kink’s
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41
goin’ a-lookin’ for Too Much Gold when we get rested up.”
Too Much Gold was the fabled creek of which all sour doughs
dreamed, whereof it was said the gold was so thick that, in order
to wash it, gravel must first be shovelled into the sluice-boxes.
But the several days’ rest, preliminary to the quest for Too Much
Gold, brought a slight change in their plan, inasmuch as it brought
one Ans Handerson, a Swede.
Ans Handerson had been working for wages all summer at Miller Creek
over on the Sixty Mile, and, the summer done, had strayed up
Bonanza like many another waif helplessly adrift on the gold tides
that swept willy-nilly across the land. He was tall and lanky.
His arms were long, like prehistoric man’s, and his hands were like
soup-plates, twisted and gnarled, and big-knuckled from toil. He
was slow of utterance and movement, and his eyes, pale blue as his
hair was pale yellow, seemed filled with an immortal dreaming, the
stuff of which no man knew, and himself least of all. Perhaps this
appearance of immortal dreaming was due to a supreme and vacuous
innocence. At any rate, this was the valuation men of ordinary
clay put upon him, and there was nothing extraordinary about the
composition of Hootchinoo Bill and Kink Mitchell.