A thousand deaths by Jack London

all in, I guess.”

“Put him in the near bunk there,” Lucy said. She bent over and

pulled back the furs, disclosing a face composed principally of

large, staring, black eyes, and of skin, dark and scabbed by

repeated frost-bite, tightly stretched across the bones.

“If it ain’t Alonzo!” she cried. “You pore, starved devil!”

“That’s the man on the other bank,” Smoke said in an undertone to

Breck.

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83

“We found it raidin’ a cache that Harding must a-made,” one of the

men was explaining. “He was eatin’ raw flour an’ frozen bacon, an’

when we got ‘m he was cryin’ an’ squealin’ like a hawk. Look at

him! He’s all starved, an’ most of him frozen. He’ll kick at any

moment.”

. . . . .

Half an hour later, when the furs had been drawn over the face of

the still form in the bunk, Smoke turned to Lucy.

“If you don’t mind, Mrs Peabody, I’ll have another whack at that

steak. Make it thick and not so well done.”

THE RACE FOR NUMBER ONE.

I.

“Huh! Get on to the glad rags!”

Shorty surveyed his partner with simulated disapproval, and Smoke,

vainly attempting to rub the wrinkles out of the pair of trousers he

had just put on, was irritated.

“They sure fit you close for a second-hand buy,” Shorty went on.

“What was the tax?”

“One hundred and fifty for the suit,” Smoke answered. “The man was

nearly my own size. I thought it was remarkable reasonable. What

are you kicking about?”

“Who? Me? Oh, nothin’. I was just thinkin’ it was goin’ some for

a meat-eater that hit Dawson in an ice-jam, with no grub, one suit

of underclothes, a pair of mangy moccasins, an’ overalls that looked

like they’d ben through the wreck of the Hesperus. Pretty gay

front, pardner. Pretty gay front. Say–?”

“What do you want now?” Smoke demanded testily.

“What’s her name?”

“There isn’t any her, my friend. I’m to have dinner at Colonel

Bowie’s, if you want to know. The trouble with you, Shorty, is

you’re envious because I’m going into high society and you’re not

invited.”

“Ain’t you some late?” Shorty queried with concern.

“What do you mean?”

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84

“For dinner. They’ll be eatin’ supper when you get there.”

Smoke was about to explain with elaborate sarcasm when he caught the

twinkle in the others’ eyes. He went on dressing, with fingers that

had lost their deftness, tying a Windsor tie in a bow-knot at the

throat of the soft cotton shirt.

“Wish I hadn’t sent all my starched shirts to the laundry,” Shorty

murmured sympathetically. “I might a-fitted you out.”

By this time Smoke was straining at a pair of shoes. The thick

woollen socks were too thick to go into them. He looked appealingly

at Shorty, who shook his head.

“Nope. If I had thin ones I wouldn’t lend ’em to you. Back to the

moccasins, pardner. You’d sure freeze your toes in skimpy-fangled

gear like that.”

“I paid fifteen dollars for them, second-hand,” Smoke lamented.

“I reckon they won’t be a man not in moccasins.”

“But there are to be women, Shorty. I’m going to sit down and eat

with real live women–Mrs Bowie, and several others, so the Colonel

told me.”

“Well, moccasins won’t spoil their appetite none,” was Shorty’s

comment. “Wonder what the Colonel wants with you?”

“I don’t know, unless he’s heard about my finding Surprise Lake. It

will take a fortune to drain it, and the Guggenheims are out for

investment.”

“Reckon that’s it. That’s right, stick to the moccasins. Gee!

That coat is sure wrinkled, an’ it fits you a mite too swift. Just

peck around at your vittles. If you eat hearty you’ll bust through.

And if them women-folks gets to droppin’ handkerchiefs, just let ’em

lay. Don’t do any pickin’ up. Whatever you do, don’t.”

II.

As became a high-salaried expert and the representative of the great

house of Guggenheim, Colonel Bowie lived in one of the most

magnificent cabins in Dawson. Of squared logs, hand-hewn, it was

two stories high, and of such extravagant proportions that it

boasted a big living room that was used for a living room and for

nothing else.

Here were big bear-skins on the rough board floor, and on the walls

horns of moose and caribou. Here roared an open fireplace and a big

wood-burning stove. And here Smoke met the social elect of Dawson–

not the mere pick-handle millionaires, but the ultra-cream of a

mining city whose population had been recruited from all the world–

men like Warburton Jones, the explorer and writer, Captain Consadine

of the Mounted Police, Haskell, Gold Commissioner of the North-West

SMOKE BELLEW

85

Territory, and Baron Von Schroeder, an emperor’s favourite with an

international duelling reputation.

And here, dazzling in evening gown, he met Joy Gastell, whom

hitherto he had encountered only on trail, befurred and moccasined.

At dinner he found himself beside her.

“I feel like a fish out of water,” he confessed. “All you folks are

so real grand you know. Besides I never dreamed such oriental

luxury existed in the Klondike. Look at Von Schroeder there. He’s

actually got a dinner jacket, and Consadine’s got a starched shirt.

I noticed he wore moccasins just the same. How do you like MY

outfit?”

He moved his shoulders about as if preening himself for Joy’s

approval.

“It looks as if you’d grown stout since you came over the Pass,” she

laughed.

“Wrong. Guess again.”

“It’s somebody else’s.”

“You win. I bought it for a price from one of the clerks at the A.

C. Company.”

“It’s a shame clerks are so narrow-shouldered,” she sympathized.

“And you haven’t told me what you think of MY outfit.”

“I can’t,” he said. “I’m out of breath. I’ve been living on trail

too long. This sort of thing comes to me with a shock, you know.

I’d quite forgotten that women have arms and shoulders. To-morrow

morning, like my friend Shorty, I’ll wake up and know it’s all a

dream. Now, the last time I saw you on Squaw Creek–”

“I was just a squaw,” she broke in.

“I hadn’t intended to say that. I was remembering that it was on

Squaw Creek that I discovered you had feet.”

“And I can never forget that you saved them for me,” she said.

“I’ve been wanting to see you ever since to thank you–” (He

shrugged his shoulders deprecatingly). “And that’s why you are here

to-night–”

“You asked the Colonel to invite me?”

“No! Mrs Bowie. And I asked her to let me have you at table. And

here’s my chance. Everybody’s talking. Listen, and don’t

interrupt. You know Mono Creek?”

“Yes.”

“It has turned out rich–dreadfully rich. They estimate the claims

as worth a million and more apiece. It was only located the other

day.”

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86

“I remember the stampede.”

“Well, the whole creek was staked to the sky-line, and all the

feeders, too. And yet, right now, on the main creek, Number Three

below Discovery is unrecorded. The creek was so far away from

Dawson that the Commissioner allowed sixty days for recording after

location. Every claim was recorded except Number Three Below. It

was staked by Cyrus Johnson. And that was all. Cyrus Johnson has

disappeared. Whether he died, whether he went down river or up,

nobody knows. Anyway, in six days, the time for recording will be

up. Then the man who stakes it, and reaches Dawson first and

records it, gets it.”

“A million dollars,” Smoke murmured.

“Gilchrist, who has the next claim below, has got six hundred

dollars in a single pan off bedrock. He’s burned one hole down.

And the claim on the other side is even richer. I know.”

“But why doesn’t everybody know?” Smoke queried skeptically.

“They’re beginning to know. They kept it secret for a long time,

and it is only now that it’s coming out. Good dog-teams will be at

a premium in another twenty-four hours. Now, you’ve got to get away

as decently as you can as soon as dinner is over. I’ve arranged it.

An Indian will come with a message for you. You read it, let on

that you’re very much put out, make your excuses, and get away.”

“I–er–I fail to follow.”

“Ninny!” she exclaimed in a half-whisper. “What you must do is to

get out to-night and hustle dog-teams. I know of two. There’s

Hanson’s team, seven big Hudson Bay dogs–he’s holding them at four

hundred each. That’s top price to-night, but it won’t be to-morrow.

And Sitka Charley has eight Malemutes he’s asking thirty-five

hundred for. To-morrow he’ll laugh at an offer of five thousand.

Then you’ve got your own team of dogs. And you’ll have to buy

several more teams. That’s your work to-night. Get the best. It’s

dogs as well as men that will win this race. It’s a hundred and ten

miles, and you’ll have to relay as frequently as you can.”