The Yukon Trail: A Tale of the North Read online

  CHAPTER IX

  GID HOLT GOES PROSPECTING

  As soon as Selfridge reached Kamatlah he began arranging the stageagainst the arrival of the Government agent. His preparations wereelaborate and thorough. A young engineer named Howland had been incharge of the development work, but Wally rearranged his forces so asto let each dummy entryman handle the claim entered in his name. One ortwo men about whom he was doubtful he discharged and hurried out of thecamp.

  Selfridge had been given a free hand as to expenses and he oiled hisway by liberal treatment of the men and by a judicious expenditure.He let them know pretty plainly that if the agent on his way to Kamatlahsuspected corporate ownership of the claims, the Government would closedown all work and there would be no jobs for them.

  The company boarding-house became a restaurant, above which wassuspended a newly painted sign with the legend, "San Francisco Grill,J. Glynn, Proprietor." The store also passed temporarily into the handsof its manager. Miners moved from the barracks that had been built byMacdonald into hastily constructed cabins on the individual claims.Wally had always fancied himself as a stage manager for amateurtheatricals. Now he justified his faith by transforming Kamatlahoutwardly from a company camp to a mushroom one settled by wanderingprospectors.

  Gideon Holt alone was outside of all these activities and watched themwith suspicion. He was an old-timer, sly but fearless, who hated ColbyMacdonald with a bitter jealousy that could not be placated and hetook no pains to hide the fact. He had happened to be in the vicinityprospecting when Macdonald had rushed his entries. Partly out of mereperversity and partly by reason of native shrewdness, old Holt hadslipped in and located one of the best claims in the heart of thegroup. Nor had he been moved to a reasonable compromise by any amountof persuasion, threats, or tentative offers to buy a relinquishment.He was obstinate. He knew a good thing when he had it, and he meant tosit tight.

  The adherents of the company might charge that Holt was cracked in theupper story, but none of them denied he was sharp as a street Arab. Heguessed that all this preparation was not for nothing. Kamatlah wasbeing dressed up to impress somebody who would shortly arrive. Thefirst thought of Holt was that a group of big capitalists might becoming to look over their investment. But he rejected this surmise.There would be no need to try any deception upon them.

  Mail from Seattle reached camp once a month. Holt sat down before hisstove to read one of the newspapers he had brought from the office. Itwas the "P.-I." On the fifth page was a little boxed story that gave himhis clue.

  ELLIOT TO INVESTIGATE MACDONALD COAL CLAIMS

  The reopening of the controversy as to the Macdonald claims, which had been clear-listed for patent by Harold B. Winton, the Commissioner of the General Land Office, takes on another phase with the appointment of Gordon Elliot as special field agent to examine the validity of the holdings. The new field agent won a reputation by his work in unearthing the Oklahoma "Gold Brick" land frauds.

  Elliot leaves Seattle in the Queen City Thursday for the North, where he will make a thorough investigation of the whole situation with a view to clearing up the matter definitely. If his report is favorable to the claimants, the patents will be granted without further delay.

  This was too good to keep. Holt pulled on his boots and went out to twitsuch of the enemy as he might meet. It chanced that the first of themwas Selfridge, whom he had not seen since his arrival, though he knewthe little man was in camp.

  "How goes it, Holt? Fine and dandy, eh?" inquired Wally with theprofessional geniality he affected.

  The old miner shook his head dolefully. "I done bust my laig, Mr.Selfish," he groaned. It was one of his pleasant ways to affect adifficulty of hearing and a dullness of understanding, so that he couldlegitimately call people by distorted versions of their names. "The oldman don't amount to much nowadays. Onct a man or a horse gits stove upI don't reckon either one pans out much pay dust any more."

  "Nothing to that, Gid. You're younger than you ever were, judging byyour looks."

  "Then my looks lie to beat hell, Mr. Selfish."

  "My name is Selfridge," explained Wally, a trifle irritated.

  Holt put a cupped hand to his ear anxiously. "Shellfish, did you say?Tha' 's right. Howcome I to forget? The old man's going pretty fast,Mr. Shellfish. No more memory than a jackrabbit. Say, Mr. Shellfish,what's the idee of all this here back-to-the-people movement, as theold sayin' is?"

  "I don't know what you mean. And my name is Selfridge, I tell you,"snapped the owner of that name.

  "'Course I ain't got no more sense than the law allows. I'm a buzzardhaid, but me I kinder got to millin' it over and in respect to thesehere local improvements, as you might say, I'm doggoned if I _sabe_the whyfor." There was an imp of malicious deviltry in the black, beadyeyes sparkling at Selfridge from between narrowed lids.

  "Just some business changes we're making."

  Holt showed his tobacco-stained teeth in a grin splenetic. "Oh. That'sall. I didn't know but what you might be expecting a visitor."

  Selfridge flashed a sharp sidelong glance at him. "What do you mean--avisitor?"

  "I just got a notion mebbe you might be looking for one, Mr. Pelfrich.But I don't know sic' 'em. Like as not you ain't fixing up for thisGordon Elliot a-tall."

  Wally had no come-back, unless it was one to retort in ironicadmiration. "You're a wonder, Holt. Pity you don't start a detectivebureau."

  The old man went away cackling dryly.

  If Selfridge had held any doubts before, he discarded them now. Holtwould wreck the whole enterprise, were he given a chance. It would neverdo to let Elliot meet and talk with him. He knew too much, and he waseager to tell all he knew.

  Macdonald's lieutenant got busy at once with plans to abduct Holt. Thatit was very much against the law did not disturb him much so long as hischief stood back of him. The unsupported word of the old man would notstand in court, and if he became obstreperous they could always have himlocked up as a lunatic. The very pose of the old miner--the make-believepretension that he was half a fool--would lend itself to such a charge.

  "We'll send the old man off on a prospecting trip with some of theboys," explained Selfridge to Rowland. "That way we'll kill two birds.He's back on his assessment work. The time limit will be up before hereturns and we'll start a contest for the claim."

  Howland made no comment. He was an engineer and not a politician. In hisposition it was impossible for him not to know that a good deal aboutthe legal status of the Macdonald claims was irregular. But he was afirm believer in a wide-open Alaska, in the use of the Territory bythose who had settled it. The men back of the big Scotchman were goingto spend millions in development work, in building railroads. It wouldhelp labor and business. The whole North would feel a healthful reactionfrom the Kamatlah activities. So, on the theory that the end sometimesjustifies doubtful means, he shut his eyes to many acts that in his ownprivate affairs he would not have countenanced.

  "Better arrange it with Big Bill, then, but don't tell me anything aboutit. I don't want to know the details," he told Selfridge.

  Big Bill Macy accepted the job with a grin. There was double pay in itboth for him and the men he chose as his assistants. He had never likedold Holt anyhow. Besides, they were not going to do him any harm.

  Holt was baking a batch of sour-dough bread that evening when there camea knock at the cabin door. At sight of Big Bill and his two companionsthe prospector closed the oven and straightened with alert suspicion.He was not on visiting terms with any of these men. Why had they cometo see him? He asked point-blank the question in his mind.

  "We're going prospecting up Wild-Goose Creek, and we want you to goalong, Gid," explained Macy. "You're an old sour-dough miner, and we-allagree we'd like to have you throw-in with us. What say?"

  The old miner's answer was direct but not flattering. "What do I want togo on a wild-goose mush with a bunch of bums for?" he shrilled.

  Bill Macy s
cratched his hook nose and looked reproachfully at his host.At least Holt thought he was looking at him. One could not be sure, forBill's eyes did not exactly track.

  "That ain't no kind o' way to talk to a fellow when he comes at you witha fair proposition, Gid."

  "You tell Selfridge I ain't going to leave Kamatlah--not right now. I'mgoing to stay here on the job till that Land Office inspector comes--andthen I'm going to have a nice, long, confidential chat with him. See?"

  "What's the use of snapping at me like a turtle? Durden says Wild-Gooselooks fine. There's gold up there--heaps of it."

  "Let it stay there, then. I ain't going. That's flat." Holt turned toadjust the damper of his stove.

  "Oh, I don't know. I wouldn't say that," drawled Bill insolently.

  The man at the stove caught the change in tone and turned quickly. Hewas too late. Macy had thrown himself forward and the weight of his bodyflung Holt against the wall. Before the miner could recover, the othertwo men were upon him. They bore him to the floor and in spite of hisstruggles tied him hand and foot.

  Big Bill rose and looked down derisively at his prisoner. "Better changeyour mind and go with us, Holt. We'll spend a quiet month up at theheadquarters of Wild-Goose. Say you'll come along."

  "You'll go to prison for this, Bill Macy."

  "Guess again, Gid, and mebbe you'll get it right this time." Macy turnedto his companions. "George, you bring up the horses. Dud, see if thatbread is cooked. Might as well take it along with us--save us frombaking to-morrow."

  "What are you going to do with me?" demanded Holt.

  "I reckon you need a church to fall on you before you can take a hint.Didn't I mention Wild-Goose Creek three or four times?" jeered hiscaptor.

  "Every step you take will be one toward the penitentiary. Get that intoyour cocoanut," the old miner retorted sharply.

  "Nothing to that idee, Gid."

  "I'll scream when you take me out."

  "Go to it. Then we'll gag you."

  Holt made no further protest. He was furious, but at present quitehelpless. However it went against the grain, he might as well give inuntil rebellion would do some good.

  Ten minutes later the party was moving silently along the trail that ledto the hills. The pack-horses went first, in charge of George Holway.The prisoner walked next, his hands tied behind him. Big Bill followed,and the man he had called Dud brought up the rear.

  They wound up a rising valley, entering from it a canon with precipitouswalls that shut out the late sun. It was by this time past eleveno'clock and dusk was gathering closer. The winding trail ran parallelwith the creek, sometimes through thickets of young fir and sometimesacross boulder beds that made traveling difficult and slow. They went insingle file, each of them with a swarm of mosquitoes about his head.

  Macy had released the hands of his prisoner so that he might have achance to fight the singing pests, but he kept a wary eye upon him andnever let him move more than a few feet from him. The trail grew steeperas it neared the head of the canon till at last it climbed the left walland emerged from the gulch to an uneven mesa.

  The leader of the party looked at his watch. "Past midnight. We'll camphere, George, and see if we can't get rid of the 'skeeters."

  They built smudge fires of green wood and on the lee side of theseanother one of dry sticks. Dud made coffee upon this and cooked baconto eat with the fresh bread they had taken from the oven of Holt. WhileGeorge chopped wood for the fires and boughs of small firs for bedding,Big Bill sat with a rifle across his knees just back of the prisoner.

  "Gid's a shifty old cuss, and I ain't taking any chances," he explainedaloud to Dud.

  Holt was beginning to take the outrage philosophically. He sat close toa smudge and smoked his pipe.

  "I wouldn't either if I were you. Sometime when you ain't watching, I'mliable to grab that gun and shoot a hole in the place where your brainswould be if you had any," countered the old man.

  He slept peacefully while they took turns watching him. Just now therewould be no chance to escape, but in a few days they would becomecareless. The habit of feeling that they had him securely would growupon them. Then, reasoned Holt, his opportunity would come. One of theguards would take a chance. Perhaps he might even fall asleep on duty.It was not reasonable to suppose that in the next week or two he wouldnot catch them napping once for a short ten seconds.

  There was, of course, just the possibility that they intended to murderhim, but Holt could not associate Selfridge with anything so lawless.The man was too soft of fiber to carry through such a programme, and asyet there was need of nothing so drastic. No, this little kidnappingexpedition would not run to murder. He would be set free in a few weeks,and if he told the true story of where he had been his foes would spreadthe report that he was insane in his hatred of Macdonald and imaginedall sorts of persecutions.

  They followed Wild-Goose Creek all next day, getting always closer toits headwaters near the divide. On the third day they crossed to theother side of the ridge and descended into a little mountain park. Theywere in a country where prospectors never came, one deserted even bytrappers at this season of the year.

  The country was so much a primeval wilderness that a big bull moosestalked almost upon their camp before discovering the presence of astrange biped. Big Bill snatched up a rifle and took a shot which sentthe intruder scampering.

  From somewhere in the distance came a faint sound.

  "What was that?" asked George.

  "Sounded like a shot. Mebbe it was an echo," returned Dud.

  "Came too late for an echo," Big Bill said.

  Again faintly from some far corner of the basin the sound drifted. Itwas like the pop of a scarcely heard firecracker.

  The men looked at one another and at their prisoner. Their eyesconsulted once more.

  "Think we better break camp and drift?" asked Dud.

  "No. We're in a little draw here--as good a hiding-place as we'd belikely to find. Drive the horses into the brush, George. We'll sittight."

  "Got the criminals guessing," Holt contributed maliciously. "You ladswant to take the hide offen Macy if he lands you in the pen through thatfool shot of his. Wonder if I hadn't better yell."

  "I'll stop your clock right then if you do," threatened Big Bill with ascowl.

  Dud had been busy stamping out the camp-fire while Holway was drivingthe horses into the brush.

  "Mebbe you had better get the camp things behind them big rocks," Macyconceded.

  Even as he spoke there came the crack of a revolver almost at theentrance to the draw.

  One of the men swore softly. The gimlet eyes of the old miner fastenedon the spot where in another moment his hoped-for rescuers would appear.

  A man staggered drunkenly into view. He reeled halfway across the mouthof the draw and stopped. His eyes, questing dully, fell upon the camp.He stared, as if doubtful whether they had played him false, thenlurched toward the waiting group.

  "Lost, and all in," Holway said in a whisper to Dud.

  The other man nodded. Neither of them made a move toward the stranger,who stopped in front of their camp and looked with glazed eyes from oneto another. His face was drawn and haggard and lined. Extreme exhaustionshowed in every movement. He babbled incoherently.

  "Seven--eighteen--ninety-nine. 'Atta-boy," he said thickly.

  "Don't you see he's starving and out of his head?" snapped Holtbrusquely. "Get him grub, _pronto_."

  The old man rose and moved toward the suffering man. "Come, pard. Tha''s all right. Sit down right here and go to it, as the old sayin' is."He led the man to a place beside Big Bill and made him sit down. "Betterlight a fire, boys, and get some coffee on. Don't give him too muchsolid grub at first."

  The famished man ate what was given him and clamored for more.

  "Coming up soon, pardner," Holt told him soothingly. "Now tell ushowcome you to get lost."

  The man nodded gravely. "Hit that line low, Gord. Hit 'er low. Onlythree yards to gain."
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  "Plumb bughouse," commented Dud, chewing tobacco stolidly.

  "Out of his head--that's all. He'll be right enough after he's fed upand had a good sleep. But right now he's sure some Exhibit A. Look atthe bones sticking through his cheeks," Big Bill commented.

  "Come, Old-Timer. Get down in your collar to it. Once more now. Don'tlie down on the job. All together now." The stranger clucked to animaginary horse and made a motion of lifting with his hands.

  "Looks like his hawss bogged down in Fifty-Mile Swamp," suggested Holt.

  "Looks like," agreed Dud.

  The old miner said no more. But his eyes narrowed to shining slits. Ifthis man had come through Fifty-Mile Swamp he must have started from theriver. That probably meant that he had come from Kusiak. He was a youngman, talking the jargon of a college football player. Without doubt hewas, in the old phrasing of the North, a chechako. His clothing, thoughmuch soiled and torn, had been good. His voice held the inflections ofthe cultured world.

  Gideon Holt's sly brain moved keenly to the possibility that he couldput a name to this human derelict they had picked up. He began to seeit as more than a possibility, as even a probability, at least as afifty-fifty chance. A sardonic grin hovered about the corners of hisgrim mouth. It would be a strange freak of irony if Wally Selfridge,to prevent a meeting between him and the Government land agent, hadsent him a hundred miles into the wilderness to save the life of GordonElliot and so had brought about the meeting that otherwise would neverhave taken place.