stunt. Try it some time. It’s great for the pectoral muscles and
the spine.”
He wiped his face, flinging the slush from his hand with a snappy
jerk.
“Oh!” she cried in recognition. “It’s Mr–ah–Mr Smoke Bellew.”
“I thank you gravely for your timely rescue and for that name,” he
answered. “I have been doubly baptized. Henceforth I shall insist
always on being called Smoke Bellew. It is a strong name, and not
without significance.”
He paused, and then voice and expression became suddenly fierce.
“Do you know what I’m going to do?” he demanded. “I’m going back to
the States. I am going to get married. I am going to raise a large
family of children. And then, as the evening shadows fall, I shall
gather those children about me and relate the sufferings and
SMOKE BELLEW
20
hardships I endured on the Chilcoot Trail. And if they don’t cry–I
repeat, if they don’t cry, I’ll lambaste the stuffing out of them.”
VIII.
The arctic winter came down apace. Snow that had come to stay lay
six inches on the ground, and the ice was forming in quiet ponds,
despite the fierce gales that blew. It was in the late afternoon,
during a lull in such a gale, that Kit and John Bellew helped the
cousins load the boat and watched it disappear down the lake in a
snow-squall.
“And now a night’s sleep and an early start in the morning,” said
John Bellew. “If we aren’t storm-bound at the summit we’ll make
Dyea to-morrow night, and if we have luck in catching a steamer
we’ll be in San Francisco in a week.”
“Enjoyed your vacation?” Kit asked absently.
Their camp for that last night at Linderman was a melancholy
remnant. Everything of use, including the tent, had been taken by
the cousins. A tattered tarpaulin, stretched as a wind-break,
partially sheltered them from the driving snow. Supper they cooked
on an open fire in a couple of battered and discarded camp utensils.
All that was left them were their blankets, and food for several
meals.
From the moment of the departure of the boat, Kit had become absent
and restless. His uncle noticed his condition, and attributed it to
the fact that the end of the hard toil had come. Only once during
supper did Kit speak.
“Avuncular,” he said, relevant of nothing, “after this, I wish you’d
call me Smoke. I’ve made some smoke on this trail, haven’t I?”
A few minutes later he wandered away in the direction of the village
of tents that sheltered the gold-rushers who were still packing or
building their boats. He was gone several hours, and when he
returned and slipped into his blankets John Bellew was asleep.
In the darkness of a gale-driven morning, Kit crawled out, built a
fire in his stocking feet, by which he thawed out his frozen shoes,
then boiled coffee and fried bacon. It was a chilly, miserable
meal. As soon as finished, they strapped their blankets. As John
Bellew turned to lead the way toward the Chilcoot Trail, Kit held
out his hand.
“Good-bye, avuncular,” he said.
John Bellew looked at him and swore in his surprise.
“Don’t forget my name’s Smoke,” Kit chided.
“But what are you going to do?”
SMOKE BELLEW
21
Kit waved his hand in a general direction northward over the storm-
lashed lake.
“What’s the good of turning back after getting this far?” he asked.
“Besides, I’ve got my taste of meat, and I like it. I’m going on.”
“You’re broke,” protested John Bellew. “You have no outfit.”
“I’ve got a job. Behold your nephew, Christopher Smoke Bellew!
He’s got a job at a hundred and fifty per month and grub. He’s
going down to Dawson with a couple of dudes and another gentleman’s
man–camp-cook, boatman, and general all-around hustler. And O’Hara
and the Billow can go to hell. Good-bye.”
But John Bellew was dazed, and could only mutter:
“I don’t understand.”
“They say the baldface grizzlies are thick in the Yukon Basin,” Kit
explained. “Well, I’ve got only one suit of underclothes, and I’m
going after the bear-meat, that’s all.”
THE MEAT.
I.
Half the time the wind blew a gale, and Smoke Bellew staggered
against it along the beach. In the gray of dawn a dozen boats were
being loaded with the precious outfits packed across Chilcoot. They
were clumsy, home-made boats, put together by men who were not boat-
builders, out of planks they had sawed by hand from green spruce
trees. One boat, already loaded, was just starting, and Kit paused
to watch.
The wind, which was fair down the lake, here blew in squarely on the
beach, kicking up a nasty sea in the shallows. The men of the
departing boat waded in high rubber boots as they shoved it out
toward deeper water. Twice they did this. Clambering aboard and
failing to row clear, the boat was swept back and grounded. Kit
noticed that the spray on the sides of the boat quickly turned to
ice. The third attempt was a partial success. The last two men to
climb in were wet to their waists, but the boat was afloat. They
struggled awkwardly at the heavy oars, and slowly worked off shore.
Then they hoisted a sail made of blankets, had it carried away in a
gust, and were swept a third time back on the freezing beach.
Kit grinned to himself and went on. This was what he must expect to
encounter, for he, too, in his new role of gentleman’s man, was to
start from the beach in a similar boat that very day.
Everywhere men were at work, and at work desperately, for the
SMOKE BELLEW
22
closing down of winter was so imminent that it was a gamble whether
or not they would get across the great chain of lakes before the
freeze-up. Yet, when Kit arrived at the tent of Messrs Sprague and
Stine, he did not find them stirring.
By a fire, under the shelter of a tarpaulin, squatted a short, thick
man smoking a brown-paper cigarette.
“Hello,” he said. “Are you Mister Sprague’s new man?”
As Kit nodded, he thought he had noted a shade of emphasis on the
mister and the man, and he was sure of a hint of a twinkle in the
corner of the eye.
“Well, I’m Doc Stine’s man,” the other went on. “I’m five feet two
inches long, and my name’s Shorty, Jack Short for short, and
sometimes known as Johnny-on-the-Spot.”
Kit put out his hand and shook.
“Were you raised on bear-meat?” he queried.
“Sure,” was the answer; “though my first feedin’ was buffalo-milk as
near as I can remember. Sit down an’ have some grub. The bosses
ain’t turned out yet.”
And despite the one breakfast, Kit sat down under the tarpaulin and
ate a second breakfast thrice as hearty. The heavy, purging toil of
weeks had given him the stomach and appetite of a wolf. He could
eat anything, in any quantity, and be unaware that he possessed a
digestion. Shorty he found voluble and pessimistic, and from him he
received surprising tips concerning their bosses, and ominous
forecasts of the expedition. Thomas Stanley Sprague was a budding
mining engineer and the son of a millionaire. Doctor Adolph Stine
was also the son of a wealthy father. And, through their fathers,
both had been backed by an investing syndicate in the Klondike
adventure.
“Oh, they’re sure made of money,” Shorty expounded. “When they hit
the beach at Dyea, freight was seventy cents, but no Indians. There
was a party from Eastern Oregon, real miners, that’d managed to get
a team of Indians together at seventy cents. Indians had the straps
on the outfit, three thousand pounds of it, when along comes Sprague
and Stine. They offered eighty cents and ninety, and at a dollar a
pound the Indians jumped the contract and took off their straps.
Sprague and Stine came through, though it cost them three thousand,
and the Oregon bunch is still on the beach. They won’t get through
till next year.
“Oh, they are real hummers, your boss and mine, when it comes to
sheddin’ the mazuma an’ never mindin’ other folks’ feelin’s. What
did they do when they hit Linderman? The carpenters was just
putting in the last licks on a boat they’d contracted to a ‘Frisco
bunch for six hundred. Sprague and Stine slipped ’em an even
thousand, and they jumped their contract. It’s a good-lookin’ boat,
but it’s jiggered the other bunch. They’ve got their outfit right
here, but no boat. And they’re stuck for next year.
SMOKE BELLEW
23
“Have another cup of coffee, and take it from me that I wouldn’t
travel with no such outfit if I didn’t want to get to Klondike so
blamed bad. They ain’t hearted right. They’d take the crape off
the door of a house in mourning if they needed it in their business.
Did you sign a contract?”