A Claim on Klondyke. Edward Roper
see, could be drained by a few gutters cut with a spade. There being such a slope it was easy to run water off, and where that was impossible log causeways—corduroys—could be built with no great trouble, for logs were plentiful for the cutting. It was possible to wind round most of the rocks, and a few pounds of dynamite or giant powder would quickly clear the impassable masses. Certainly when we crossed it was terrible enough; but yet we plainly saw that a good road, fairly easy to traverse by horses, even with loaded waggons, was certain ere long to exist there.
If it should be proved that gold was plentiful in the Yukon country—"Undoubtedly," we said, "before two years are past there will be a fine road here," and as to the gold—well, we had reason to be very sure about that.
From this camp the trail led up a narrow and precipitous defile until the actual summit was reached. We were then at least fifteen miles from Skagway, and near three thousand feet above tide-water.
From here there was a sheer descent of many feet to a lake—Summit Lake. It was frozen solid. The Indians assured us it was always frozen—that the snow never left its margin. At one point the ice overlapped the edge, forming a small glacier. A few yards below it was thawing. At some far distant day a great glacier had been there, for a cañon had been formed, and down it, beside the rushing stream of white water, our course lay. Mountains rose high around us, covered with ever-lasting snow.
Gradually the snow on our course disappeared and the sleds became useless, and Jim assured us that for the rest of the journey to Windy Arm packing must be resorted to. Therefore next morning the sleds were cached, and we started on our weary tramp.
Everything was frozen solid still, for it was not yet May. The travelling was exceedingly arduous—not that there were any mountains to traverse or swamps to push through; it was simply a rough rock-strewn country, sparsely covered with scraggy trees, mostly pines and spruces, with bushes which we thought were willows, and long coarse grass.
We had five days of this, and then we reached the Windy Arm, and the Indians' contract was completed. We had come about sixty-five miles from Skagway.
It was still winter here: there was no open water, the woods were full of snow, which had been long since driven by strong winds from the open; it was a bleak and dreary outlook. Around the lake most of the timber had been fired, gaunt grey sticks alone were standing, and the ground was covered with half-burned logs and branches. Of fuel there was no lack. We made camp in the only close clump of living trees about. We put our tent up securely, made ourselves comfortable, for we knew we must stay on there and by some means build a boat or raft, and wait for the ice to break up. Thus our object was gained in reaching that spot, and we were ready to avail ourselves instantly of the open water, and to pursue our journey.
The Indians had behaved so exceedingly well that I proposed, and Meade agreed, to give them each a dollar.
Through Jim we signified our intention: he made them clearly understand that this was "potlach"—that is, a present. It gave great satisfaction, and when we added a plug of tobacco to each man, there was rejoicing in the camp.
We had taken quite a liking to Jim. He was seemingly proud to be more noticed by us than the others. He was an exceedingly handy fellow, and so far as we could make out from his very peculiar English and Chinook, he knew all about the route we had to follow, and was an experienced boatman. He had "shot" the Grand Cañon twice, and knew the way to get past the White Horse Rapids. He was apparently about five-and-twenty, a tall, athletic fellow, and with us very bright and talkative, although with his fellows he was taciturn. Like them he was keen after money, yet did not appear to realise that we were going up to where we hoped it would be plentiful. It is difficult to understand an Indian's apathy on this matter—along the Fraser, at Cariboo, and even in Alaska, they will work at washing gold, and seem quite satisfied to make a dollar or two a-day; but to undertake any plan for making a big lot at once they have no notion. It is perhaps because the idea of accumulating anything is not an Indian's nature.
Meade formed the idea that it would be well to induce this fellow to go with us to Lake La Barge. With this intent we plied him with information about gold, assuring him that, if he went with us, he would get plenty, so that he could return to the coast a rich man. This prospect had no charms for him, yet he liked the idea of the trip, and said that if we would pay him "ikt dolla la sun"—that is, in plain English, one dollar a-day—he would go; but when he added that he must bring his klootchman, his wife, with him, I was taken aback. Meade, however, was in favour of it—he considered it would be an additional inducement for Jim to stay, that she would probably be useful, and no trouble to us.
He questioned the fellow closely as to her age, her abilities; and he made us understand that she was young, could cook and paddle well, speak English, and would "mamook elan wash pil chickamin," which meant that she would help wash for gold. Her name, he announced, was Fanny; and Meade confided to me that he had a particular liking for that name, so we were induced to enter into the arrangement.
About "muck a muck"—i.e., food—Jim said they would provide themselves; that he would go back to Skagway with the party and bring his wife out, and a load of all they needed, in six "la suns," six days. All that he stipulated for was that we should have nothing to do with Tagish Indians and that he should have "plenty 'bacca."
Of this we had a good supply; but thinking it would be no harm to have still more, we sent a little "chit" by him to Boss Parkinson, telling him how we had got on, and begging him to send out to us by Jim, if he discovered that they really meant to come with us, another dozen pounds of that fascinating weed.
The following day the band left us, and Meade and I were left alone in our glory.
CHAPTER II.
Meade and I were by this time great friends: our tastes and aims were exactly alike—it was very nice. We had mutual acquaintances in England—we were the best of companions.
In our tent, with our sheet-iron stove going, our beds of thick layers of sweet-scented spruce twigs on rubber ground-sheets, with plenty of good blankets, we were quite cosy, and we had a few books with us.
Our surroundings were gloomy and uninteresting enough—just a dreary rock-strewn waste. Here and there were patches of faded grass, flattened by the snow which had covered it for months. A few gnarled and twisted cedars and spruces still grew about there; but gaunt, black-butted, dead pine-trees, their tops whitened by the frost and wind, were everywhere—the dry bones of the forest. The frozen lake and the coast range close behind us, the mountains to right, left, and ahead, were snow-covered and dismal, and there was no sign of life, no trace of a living creature.
It rained steadily for two days, and as it was freezing hard at the same time, everything was encased in ice. On the third day the clouds were scattered, and each twig and leaf and blade flashed and sparkled gloriously in the brilliant sun-rays. This only lasted a few hours, for the heat of the sun being great, this beautiful scene was soon spoiled. However, we hoped that a few such days would make havoc with the ice upon the lake, and we should have open water. But this was not to be just yet, for on the fourth day it blew hard from the east, and that night it snowed again and froze as hard as ever.
"On time," as Yankees say, Jim and his wife arrived: they came bounding along the trail, full of glee—we thought them like children coming home from school. Jim was most voluble; a stream of the best English he knew, and jargon, fell unceasingly from his mouth. He was proud of his wife, that was clear—he showed her off, asking our opinion of her, giving us to understand that she was as good as she appeared.
I must say that she was well worth his praise, in looks at any rate; her other good qualities we discovered later.
She was unmistakably an Indian woman: her colour was warm brown, she had beautiful eyes, and a very amiable expression. Her hair was her pride: it was not straight and coarse—it waved, even curled some little, and glistened in the sun as if it were black spun glass.