queens and an ace; MacDonald four jacks and an ace; and Kearns
four kings and a trey. Kearns reached forward with an encircling
movement of his arm and drew the pot in to him, his arm shaking
as he did so.
Daylight picked the ace from his hand and tossed it over
alongside MacDonald’s ace, saying:-
“That’s what cheered me along, Mac. I knowed it was only kings
that could beat me, and he had them.
Burning Daylight
16
“What did you-all have?” he asked, all interest, turning to
Campbell.
“Straight flush of four, open at both ends–a good drawing hand.”
“You bet! You could a’ made a straight, a straight flush, or a
flush out of it.”
“That’s what I thought,” Campbell said sadly. “It cost me six
thousand before I quit.”
“I wisht you-all’d drawn,” Daylight laughed. “Then I wouldn’t a’
caught that fourth queen. Now I’ve got to take Billy Rawlins’
mail contract and mush for Dyea. What’s the size of the
killing, Jack?”
Kearns attempted to count the pot, but was too excited. Daylight
drew it across to him, with firm fingers separating and stacking
the markers and I.O.U.’s and with clear brain adding the sum.
“One hundred and twenty-seven thousand,” he announced. “You-all
can sell out now, Jack, and head for home.”
The winner smiled and nodded, but seemed incapable of speech.
“I’d shout the drinks,” MacDonald said, “only the house don’t
belong to me any more.”
“Yes, it does,” Kearns replied, first wetting his lips with his
tongue. “Your note’s good for any length of time. But the
drinks are on me.”
“Name your snake-juice, you-all–the winner pays!” Daylight
called
out loudly to all about him, at the same time rising from his
chair
and catching the Virgin by the arm. “Come on for a reel, you-all
dancers. The night’s young yet, and it’s Helen Breakfast and the
mail contract for me in the morning. Here, you-all Rawlins,
you–I
hereby do take over that same contract, and I start for salt
water
at nine A.M.–savvee? Come on, you-all! Where’s that fiddler?”
CHAPTER III
It was Daylight’s night. He was the centre and the head of the
revel, unquenchably joyous, a contagion of fun. He multiplied
himself, and in so doing multiplied the excitement. No prank he
suggested was too wild for his followers, and all followed save
those that developed into singing imbeciles and fell warbling by
the wayside. Yet never did trouble intrude. It was known on the
Burning Daylight
17
Yukon that when Burning Daylight made a night of it, wrath and
evil were forbidden. On his nights men dared not quarrel. In
the younger days such things had happened, and then men had known
what real wrath was, and been man-handled as only Burning
Daylight could man-handle. On his nights men must laugh and be
happy or go home. Daylight was inexhaustible. In between dances
he paid over to Kearns the twenty thousand in dust and
transferred to him his Moosehide claim. Likewise he arranged the
taking over of Billy Rawlins’ mail contract, and made his
preparations for the start. He despatched a messenger to rout
out Kama, his dog-driver–a Tananaw Indian, far-wandered from his
tribal home in the service of the invading whites. Kama entered
the Tivoli, tall, lean, muscular, and fur-clad, the pick of his
barbaric race and barbaric still, unshaken and unabashed by the
revellers that rioted about him while Daylight gave his orders.
“Um,” said Kama, tabling his instructions on his fingers. “Get
um letters from Rawlins. Load um on sled. Grub for Selkirk–you
think um plenty dog-grub stop Selkirk?”
“Plenty dog-grub, Kama.”
“Um, bring sled this place nine um clock. Bring um snowshoes.
No bring um tent. Mebbe bring um fly? um little fly?”
“No fly,” Daylight answered decisively.
“Um much cold.”
“We travel light–savvee? We carry plenty letters out, plenty
letters back. You are strong man. Plenty cold, plenty travel,
all right.”
“Sure all right,” Kama muttered, with resignation.
“Much cold, no care a damn. Um ready nine um clock.”
He turned on his moccasined heel and walked out, imperturbable,
sphinx-like, neither giving nor receiving greetings nor looking
to right or left. The Virgin led Daylight away into a corner.
“Look here, Daylight,” she said, in a low voice, “you’re busted.”
“Higher’n a kite.”
“I’ve eight thousand in Mac’s safe–” she began.
But Daylight interrupted. The apron-string loomed near and he
shied like an unbroken colt.
“It don’t matter,” he said. “Busted I came into the world,
busted I go out, and I’ve been busted most of the time since I
arrived. Come on; let’s waltz.”
Burning Daylight
18
“But listen,” she urged. “My money’s doing nothing. I could
lend it to you–a grub-stake,” she added hurriedly, at sight of
the alarm in his face.
“Nobody grub-stakes me,” was the answer. “I stake myself, and
when I make a killing it’s sure all mine. No thank you, old
girl. Much obliged. I’ll get my stake by running the mail out
and in.”
“Daylight,” she murmured, in tender protest.
But with a sudden well-assumed ebullition of spirits he drew her
toward the dancing-floor, and as they swung around and around in
a waltz she pondered on the iron heart of the man who held her in
his arms and resisted all her wiles.
At six the next morning, scorching with whiskey, yet ever
himself, he stood at the bar putting every man’s hand down. The
way of it was that two men faced each other across a corner,
their right elbows resting on the bar, their right hands gripped
together, while each strove to press the other’s hand down. Man
after man came against him, but no man put his hand down, even
Olaf Henderson and French Louis failing despite their hugeness.
When they contended it was a trick, a trained muscular knack, he
challenged them to another test.
“Look here, you-all” he cried. “I’m going to do two things:
first, weigh my sack; and second, bet it that after you-all have
lifted clean from the floor all the sacks of flour you-all are
able, I’ll put on two more sacks and lift the whole caboodle
clean.”
“By Gar! Ah take dat!” French Louis rumbled above the cheers.
“Hold on!” Olaf Henderson cried. “I ban yust as good as you,
Louis. I yump half that bet.”
Put on the scales, Daylight’s sack was found to balance an even
four hundred dollars, and Louis and Olaf divided the bet between
them. Fifty-pound sacks of flour were brought in from
MacDonald’s cache. Other men tested their strength first. They
straddled on two chairs, the flour sacks beneath them on the
floor and held together by rope-lashings. Many of the men were
able, in this manner, to lift four or five hundred pounds, while
some succeeded with as high as six hundred. Then the two giants
took a hand, tying at seven hundred. French Louis then added
another sack, and swung seven hundred and fifty clear. Olaf
duplicated the performance, whereupon both failed to clear eight
hundred. Again and again they strove, their foreheads beaded
with sweat, their frames crackling with the effort. Both were
able to shift the weight and to bump it, but clear the floor with
it they could not.
Burning Daylight
19
“By Gar! Daylight, dis tam you mek one beeg meestake,” French
Louis said, straightening up and stepping down from the chairs.
“Only one damn iron man can do dat. One hundred pun’ more–my
frien’, not ten poun’ more.” The sacks were unlashed, but when
two sacks were added, Kearns interfered. “Only one sack more.”
“Two!” some one cried. “Two was the bet.”
“They didn’t lift that last sack,” Kearns protested.
“They only lifted seven hundred and fifty.”
But Daylight grandly brushed aside the confusion.
“What’s the good of you-all botherin’ around that way? What’s
one more sack? If I can’t lift three more, I sure can’t lift
two. Put ’em in.”
He stood upon the chairs, squatted, and bent his shoulders down
till his hands closed on the rope. He shifted his feet slightly,
tautened his muscles with a tentative pull, then relaxed again,
questing for a perfect adjustment of all the levers of his body.
French Louis, looking on sceptically, cried out,
“Pool lak hell, Daylight! Pool lak hell!”
Daylight’s muscles tautened a second time, and this time in
earnest, until steadily all the energy of his splendid body was
applied, and quite imperceptibly, without jerk or strain, the
bulky nine hundred pounds rose from the door and swung back and
forth, pendulum like, between his legs.
Olaf Henderson sighed a vast audible sigh. The Virgin, who had
tensed unconsciously till her muscles hurt her, relaxed. While
French Louis murmured reverently:-
“M’sieu Daylight, salut! Ay am one beeg baby. You are one beeg
man.”
Daylight dropped his burden, leaped to the floor, and headed for
the bar.
“Weigh in!” he cried, tossing his sack to the weigher, who
transferred to it four hundred dollars from the sacks of the two