his traverses and charted the trails his feet had broken.
Heroes are seldom given to hero-worship, but among those of that
young land, young as he was, he was accounted an elder hero. In
point of time he was before them. In point of deed he was beyond
them. In point of endurance it was acknowledged that he could
kill the hardiest of them. Furthermore, he was accounted a nervy
man, a square man, and a white man.
In all lands where life is a hazard lightly played with and
lightly flung aside, men turn, almost automatically, to gambling
for diversion and relaxation. In the Yukon men gambled their
lives for gold, and those that won gold from the ground gambled
for it with one another. Nor was Elam Harnish an exception. He
was a man’s man primarily, and the instinct in him to play the
game of life was strong. Environment had determined what form
that game should take. He was born on an Iowa farm, and his
father had emigrated to eastern Oregon, in which mining country
Elam’s boyhood was lived. He had known nothing but hard knocks
for big stakes. Pluck and endurance counted in the game, but the
great god Chance dealt the cards. Honest work for sure but
meagre returns did not count. A man played big. He risked
everything for everything, and anything less than everything
meant that he was a loser. So for twelve Yukon years, Elam
Harnish had been a loser. True, on Moosehide Creek the past
summer he had taken out twenty thousand dollars, and what was
left in the ground was twenty thousand more. But, as he himself
proclaimed, that was no more than getting his ante back. He had
ante’d his life for a dozen years, and forty thousand was a small
Burning Daylight
6
pot for such a stake–the price of a drink and a dance at the
Tivoli, of a winter’s flutter at Circle City, and a grubstake for
the year to come.
The men of the Yukon reversed the old maxim till it read: hard
come, easy go. At the end of the reel, Elam Harnish called the
house up to drink again. Drinks were a dollar apiece, gold rated
at sixteen dollars an ounce; there were thirty in the house that
accepted his invitation, and between every dance the house was
Elam’s guest. This was his night, and nobody was to be allowed
to pay for anything.
Not that Elam Harnish was a drinking man. Whiskey meant little
to him. He was too vital and robust, too untroubled in mind and
body, to incline to the slavery of alcohol. He spent months at a
time on trail and river when he drank nothing stronger than
coffee, while he had gone a year at a time without even coffee.
But he was gregarious, and since the sole social expression of
the Yukon was the saloon, he expressed himself that way. When he
was a lad in the mining camps of the West, men had always done
that. To him it was the proper way for a man to express himself
socially. He knew no other way.
He was a striking figure of a man, despite his garb being similar
to that of all the men in the Tivoli. Soft-tanned moccasins of
moose-hide, beaded in Indian designs, covered his feet. His
trousers were ordinary overalls, his coat was made from a
blanket. Long-gauntleted leather mittens, lined with wool, hung
by his side. They were connected in the Yukon fashion, by a
leather thong passed around the neck and across the shoulders.
On his head was a fur cap, the ear-flaps raised and the
tying-cords dangling. His face, lean and slightly long, with the
suggestion of hollows under the cheek-bones, seemed almost
Indian. The burnt skin and keen dark eyes contributed to this
effect, though the bronze of the skin and the eyes themselves
were essentially those of a white man. He looked older than
thirty, and yet, smooth-shaven and without wrinkles, he was
almost boyish. This impression of age was based on no tangible
evidence. It came from the abstracter facts of the man, from
what he had endured and survived, which was far beyond that of
ordinary men. He had lived life naked and tensely, and something
of all this smouldered in his eyes, vibrated in his voice, and
seemed forever a-whisper on his lips.
The lips themselves were thin, and prone to close tightly over
the even, white teeth. But their harshness was retrieved by the
upward curl at the corners of his mouth. This curl gave to him
sweetness, as the minute puckers at the corners of the eyes
gave him laughter. These necessary graces saved him from a
nature that was essentially savage and that otherwise would have
been cruel and bitter. The nose was lean, full-nostrilled, and
delicate, and of a size to fit the face; while the high forehead,
as if to atone for its narrowness, was splendidly domed and
Burning Daylight
7
symmetrical. In line with the Indian effect was his hair, very
straight and very black, with a gloss to it that only health
could give.
“Burning Daylight’s burning candlelight,” laughed Dan MacDonald,
as an outburst of exclamations and merriment came from the
dancers.
“An’ he is der boy to do it, eh, Louis?” said Olaf Henderson.
“Yes, by Gar! you bet on dat,” said French Louis. “Dat boy is
all gold–”
“And when God Almighty washes Daylight’s soul out on the last big
slucin’ day,” MacDonald interrupted, “why, God Almighty’ll have
to shovel gravel along with him into the sluice-boxes.”
“Dot iss goot,” Olaf Henderson muttered, regarding the gambler
with profound admiration.
“Ver’ good,” affirmed French Louis. “I t’ink we take a drink on
dat one time, eh?”
CHAPTER II
It was two in the morning when the dancers, bent on getting
something to eat, adjourned the dancing for half an hour. And it
was at this moment that Jack Kearns suggested poker. Jack Kearns
was a big, bluff-featured man, who, along with Bettles, had made
the disastrous attempt to found a post on the head-reaches of the
Koyokuk, far inside the Arctic Circle. After that, Kearns had
fallen back on his posts at Forty Mile and Sixty Mile and changed
the direction of his ventures by sending out to the States for a
small sawmill and a river steamer. The former was even then
being sledded across Chilcoot Pass by Indians and dogs, and would
come down the Yukon in the early summer after the ice-run. Later
in the summer, when Bering Sea and the mouth of the Yukon cleared
of ice, the steamer, put together at St. Michaels, was to be
expected up the river loaded to the guards with supplies.
Jack Kearns suggested poker. French Louis, Dan MacDonald, and
Hal Campbell (who had make a strike on Moosehide), all three of
whom were not dancing because there were not girls enough to go
around, inclined to the suggestion. They were looking for a
fifth man when Burning Daylight emerged from the rear room, the
Virgin on his arm, the train of dancers in his wake. In response
to the hail of the poker-players, he came over to their table in
the corner.
“Want you to sit in,” said Campbell. “How’s your luck?”
“I sure got it to-night,” Burning Daylight answered with
enthusiasm, and at the same time felt the Virgin press his arm
Burning Daylight
8
warningly. She wanted him for the dancing. “I sure got my luck
with me, but I’d sooner dance. I ain’t hankerin’ to take the
money away from you-all.”
Nobody urged. They took his refusal as final, and the Virgin was
pressing his arm to turn him away in pursuit of the
supper-seekers, when he experienced a change of heart. It was
not that he did not want to dance, nor that he wanted to hurt
her; but that insistent pressure on his arm put his free
man-nature in revolt. The thought in his mind was that he did
not want any woman running him. Himself a favorite with women,
nevertheless they did not bulk big with him. They were toys,
playthings, part of the relaxation from the bigger game of life.
He met women along with the whiskey and gambling, and from
observation he had found that it was far easier to break away
from the drink and the cards than from a woman once the man was
properly entangled.
He was a slave to himself, which was natural in one with a
healthy ego, but he rebelled in ways either murderous or panicky
at being a slave to anybody else. Love’s sweet servitude was a
thing of which he had no comprehension. Men he had seen in love
impressed him as lunatics, and lunacy was a thing he had never
considered worth analyzing. But comradeship with men was
different from love with women. There was no servitude in
comradeship. It was a business proposition, a square deal