The Yukon Trail: A Tale of the North Read online

  CHAPTER I

  GOING "IN"

  The midnight sun had set, but in a crotch between two snow-peaks ithad kindled a vast caldron from which rose a mist of jewels, garnetand turquoise, topaz and amethyst and opal, all swimming in a sea ofmolten gold. The glow of it still clung to the face of the broad Yukon,as a flush does to the soft, wrinkled cheek of a girl just roused fromdeep sleep.

  Except for a faint murkiness in the air it was still day. There waslight enough for the four men playing pinochle on the upper deck, thoughthe women of their party, gossiping in chairs grouped near at hand, hadat last put aside their embroidery. The girl who sat by herself at alittle distance held a magazine still open on her lap. If she were notreading, her attitude suggested it was less because of the dusk thanthat she had surrendered herself to the spell of the mysterious beautywhich for this hour at least had transfigured the North to a land alllight and atmosphere and color.

  Gordon Elliot had taken the boat at Pierre's Portage, fifty milesfarther down the river. He had come direct from the creeks, and hisimpressions of the motley pioneer life at the gold-diggings were sovivid that he had found an isolated corner of the deck where he couldscribble them in a notebook while still fresh.

  But he had not been too busy to see that the girl in the wicker chairwas as much of an outsider as he was. Plainly this was her first tripin. Gordon was a stranger in the Yukon country, one not likely to beover-welcome when it became known what his mission was. It may have beenbecause he was out of the picture himself that he resented a little theexclusion of the young woman with the magazine. Certainly she herselfgave no evidence of feeling about it. Her long-lashed eyes lookeddreamily across the river to the glowing hills beyond. Not once did theyturn with any show of interest to the lively party under the awning.

  From where he was leaning against the deckhouse Elliot could see onlya fine, chiseled profile shading into a mass of crisp, black hair, butsome quality in the detachment of her personality stimulated gently hisimagination. He wondered who she could be. His work had taken him tofrontier camps before, but he could not place her as a type. The besthe could do was to guess that she might be the daughter of someterritorial official on her way in to join him.

  A short, thick-set man who had ridden down on the stage with Elliot toPierre's Portage drifted along the deck toward him. He wore the carelessgarb of a mining man in a country which looks first to comfort.

  "Bound for Kusiak?" he asked, by way of opening conversation.

  "Yes," answered Gordon.

  The miner nodded toward the group under the awning. "That bunch livesat Kusiak. They've got on at different places the last two or threedays--except Selfridge and his wife, they've been out. Guess you cantell that from hearing her talk--the little woman in red with the snappyblack eyes. She's spillin' over with talk about the styles in New Yorkand the cabarets and the new shows. That pot-bellied little fellow inthe checked suit is Selfridge. He is Colby Macdonald's man Friday."

  Elliot took in with a quickened interest the group bound for Kusiak. Hehad noticed that they monopolized as a matter of course the best placeson the deck and in the dining-room. They were civil enough to outsiders,but their manner had the unconscious selfishness that often regulatessocial activities. It excluded from their gayety everybody that did notbelong to the proper set.

  "That sort of thing gets my goat," the miner went on sourly. "Thosewomen over there have elected themselves Society with a capital S. Theyput on all the airs the Four Hundred do in New York. And who the hellare they anyhow?--wives to a bunch of grafting politicians mostly."

  From the casual talk that had floated to him, with its many littleallusions punctuating the jolly give-and-take of their repartee, Elliotguessed that their lives had the same background of tennis, dinners,hops, official gossip, and business. They evidently knew one anotherwith the intimacy that comes only to the segment of a small communityshut off largely from the world and forced into close social relations.No doubt they had loaned each other money occasionally, stood by introuble, and gossiped back and forth about their shortcomings and familyskeletons even as society on the outside does.

  "That's the way of the world, isn't it? Our civilization is built on thegroup system," suggested Elliot.

  "Maybeso," grumbled the miner. "But I hate to see Alaska come to it.Me, I saw this country first in '97--packed an outfit in over the Pass.Every man stood on his own hind legs then. He got there if he wasstrong--mebbe; he bogged down on the trail good and plenty if he wasweak. We didn't have any of the artificial stuff then. A man had to havethe guts to stand the gaff."

  "I suppose it was a wild country, Mr. Strong."

  The little miner's eyes gleamed. "Best country in the world. Wedidn't stand for anything that wasn't on the level. It was a poorman's country--wages fifteen dollars a day and plenty of work. Everybodyhad a chance. Anybody could stake a claim and gamble on his luck. Nowthe big corporations have slipped in and grabbed the best. It ain'ta prospector's proposition any more. Instead of faro banks we've gotsavings banks. The wide-open dance hall has quit business in favorof moving pictures. And, as I said before, we've got Society."

  "All frontier countries have to come to it."

  "Hmp! In the days I'm telling you about that crowd there couldn't 'a'hustled meat to fill their bellies three meals. Parasites, that's whatthey are. They're living off that bunch of roughnecks down there andfolks like 'em."

  With a wave of his hand Strong pointed to a group of miners who hadboarded the boat with them at Pierre's Portage. There were about a dozenof the men, for the most part husky, heavy-set foreigners. They had beendrinking, and were in a sullen humor. Elliot gathered from their talkthat they had lost their jobs because they had tried to organize anincipient strike in the Frozen Gulch district.

  "Roughnecks and booze-fighters--that's all they are. But they earn theirway. Not that I blame Macdonald for firing them, mind you," continuedthe miner.

  "Were they working for Macdonald?"

  "Yep. His superintendent up there was too soft. These here Swedes gotgay. Mac hit the trail for Frozen Gulch. He hammered his big fistinto the bread-basket of the ringleader and said, 'Git!' That fellow'srunning yet, I'll bet. Then Mac called the men together and read theriot act to them. He fired this bunch on the boat and was out of thecamp before you could bat an eye. It was the cleanest hurry-up job Iever did see."

  "From what I've heard about him he must be a remarkable man."

  "He's the biggest man in Alaska, bar none."

  This was a subject that interested Gordon Elliot very much. ColbyMacdonald and his activities had brought him to the country.

  "Do you mean personally--or because he represents the big corporations?"

  "Both. His word comes pretty near being law up here, not only becausehe stands for the Consolidated, but because he's one man from the groundup. I ain't any too strong for that New York bunch of capitalists backof Mac, but I've got to give it to him that he's all there withoutleaning on anybody."

  "I've heard that he's a domineering man--rides roughshod over others.Is that right, Mr. Strong?"

  "He's a bear for getting his own way," grinned the little miner. "If youwon't get out of his road he peels your hide off and hangs it up to dry.But I can't help liking him. He's big every way you take him. He'llstand the acid, Mac will."

  "Do you mean that he's square--honest?"

  "You've said two things, my friend," answered Strong dryly. "He'ssquare. If he tells you anything, don't worry because he ain't put downhis John Hancock before a notary. He'll see it through to a finish--toa fighting finish if he has to. Don't waste any time looking for fat oryellow streaks in Mac. They ain't there. Nobody ever heard him squealyet and what's more nobody ever will."

  "No wonder men like him."

  "But when you say honest--Hell, no! Not the way you define honestydown in the States. He's a grabber, Mac is. Better not leave anythingvaluable around unless you've got it spiked to the floor. He takes whathe wants."
/>   "What does he look like?" asked Gordon.

  "Oh, I don't know." Strong hesitated, while he searched for words toshow the picture in his mind. "Big as a house--steps out like a buckin the spring--blue-gray eyes that bore right through you."

  "How old?"

  "Search me. You never think of age when you're looking at him.Forty-five, mebbe--or fifty--I don't know."

  "Married?"

  "No-o." Hanford Strong nodded in the direction of the Kusiak circle."They say he's going to marry Mrs. Mallory. She's the one with the redhair."

  It struck young Elliot that the miner was dismissing Mrs. Mallory in toocavalier a fashion. She was the sort of woman at whom men look twice,and then continue to look while she appears magnificently unaware of it.Her hair was not red, but of a lustrous bronze, amazingly abundant,and dressed in waves with the careful skill of a coiffeur. Half-shut,smouldering eyes had met his for an instant at dinner across the tableand had told him she was a woman subtle and complex. Slightest shadesof meaning she could convey with a lift of the eyebrow or an intonationof the musical voice. If she was already fencing with the encroachingyears there was little evidence of it in her opulent good looks. She hadmanifestly specialized in graceful idleness and was prepared to meetwith superb confidence the competition of debutantes. The elusive shadowof lost illusions, of knowledge born of experience, was the onlybetrayal of vanished youth in her equipment.