The Trail of 98 (10 page)

"You infernal brute! If
you strike that horse another blow, I'll break your club over your
shoulders."

Bullhammer turned on him. Surprise paralysed the man, rage choked him. They
were both big husky fellows, and they drew up face to face. Then Bullhammer
spoke.

"Curse you, anyway. Don't interfere with me. I'll beat bloody hell out of the
horse if I like, an' you won't say one word, see?"

With that he struck the horse another vicious blow on the head. There was a
quick scuffle. The club was wrenched from Bullhammer's hand. I saw it come down
twice. The man sprawled on his back, while over him stood the Jam-wagon, looking
very grim. The horse slipped quietly back into the water.

"You ugly blackguard! I've a good mind to beat you within an ace of your
life. But you're not worth it. Ah, you cur!"

He gave Bullhammer a kick. The man got on his feet. He was a coward, but his
pig eyes squinted in impotent rage. He looked at his horse lying shivering in
the icy water.

"Get the horse out yourself, then, curse you. Do what you please with him.
But, mark youI'll get even with you for thisI'llgeteven."

He shook his fist and, with an ugly oath, went away. The block in the traffic
was relieved. The trail was again in motion. When we got abreast of the
submerged horse, we hitched on the ox and hastily pulled it out, and (the
Jam-wagon proving
to have
no little veterinary skill) in a few days it was fit to work again.

Another week had gone and we were still on the trail, between the head of the
canyon and the summit of the Pass. Day after day was the same round of
unflinching effort, under conditions that would daunt any but the stoutest
hearts. The trail was in a terrible condition, sometimes well-nigh impassable,
and many a time, but for the invincible spirit of the Prodigal, would I have
turned back. He had a way of laughing at misfortune and heartening one when
things seemed to have passed the limit of all endurance.

Here is another day selected from my diary:

And yet I believe, compared with others, we were getting along finely. Every
day, as the difficulties
of the trail increased, I saw more and more instances of
suffering and privation, and to many the name of the White Pass was the
death-knell of hope. I could see their faces blanch as they gazed upward at that
white immensity; I could see them tighten their pack-straps, clench their teeth
and begin the ascent; could see them straining every muscle as they climbed, the
grim lines harden round their mouths, their eyes full of hopeless misery and
despair; I could see them panting at every step, ghastly with fatigue, lurching
and stumbling on under their heavy packs. These were the weaker ones, who,
sooner or later, gave up the struggle.

Then there were the strong, ruthless ones, who had left humanity at home, who
flogged their staggering skin-and-bone pack animals till they dropped, then,
with a curse, left them to die.

Far, far above us the monster mountains nuzzled among the clouds till cloud
and mountain were hard to tell apart. These were giant heights heaved up to the
stars, where blizzards were cradled and the storm-winds born, stupendous
horrific familiars of the tempest and the thunder. I was conscious of their
absolute sublimity. It was like height piled on height as one would pile up
sacks of flour. As Jim remarked: "Say, wouldn't it give you crick in the neck
just gazin' at them there mountains?"

How ant-like seemed the black army crawling up the icy pass, clinging to its
slippery face in the blinding buffet of snow and rain! Men dropped from its
ranks uncared for and unpitied. Heedless of those
that fell, the gap closed up, the march went on. The
great army crawled up and over the summit. Far behind could we see them,
hundreds, thousands, a countless host, all with "Klondike" on their lips and the
lust of the gold-lure in their hearts. It was the Great Stampede.

"Klondike or bust," was the slogan. It was ever on the lips of those bearded
men. "Klondike or bust"the strong man, with infinite patience, righted his
overturned sleigh, and in the face of the blinding blizzard, pushed on through
the clogging snow. "Klondike or bust"the weary, trail-worn one raised himself
from the hole where he had fallen, and stiff, cold, racked with pain, gritted
his teeth doggedly and staggered on a few feet more. "Klondike or bust"the
fanatic of the trail, crazed with the gold-lust, performed mad feats of
endurance, till nature rebelled, and raving and howling, he was carried away to
die.

"'Member Joe?" some one would say, as a pack-horse came down the trail with,
strapped on it, a dead, rigid shape. "Joe used to be plumb-full of fun; always
joshin' or takin' some guy off; wellthat's Joe."

Two weary, woe-begone men were pulling a hand-sleigh down from the summit. On
it was lashed a man. He was in a high fever, raving, delirious. Half-crazed with
suffering themselves, his partners plodded on unheedingly. I recognised in them
the Bank clerk and the Professor, and I hailed them. From black hollows their
eyes stared at me unrememberingly,
and I saw how emaciated were their faces.

"Spinal meningitis," they said laconically, and they were taking him down to
the hospital. I took a look and saw in that mask of terror and agony the
familiar face of the Wood-carver.

He gazed at me eagerly, wildly: "I'm rich," he cried, "rich. I've found
itthe goldin millions, millions. Now I'm going outside to spend it. No more
cold and suffering and poverty. I'm going down there to
live
, thank God,
to live."

Poor Globstock! He died down there. He was buried in a nameless grave. To
this day I fancy his old mother waits for his return. He was her sole support,
the one thing she lived for, a good, gentle son, a man of sweet simplicity and
loving kindness. Yet he lies under the shadow of those hard-visaged mountains in
a nameless grave.

The trail must have its tribute.

It was at Balsam City, and things were going badly. Marks and Bullhammer had
formed a partnership with the Halfbreed, the Professor and the Bank clerk, and
the arrangement was proving a regrettable one for the latter two. It was all due
to Marks. At the best of times, he was a cross-grained, domineering bully, and
on the trail, which would have worn to a wire edge the temper of an angel, his
yellow streak became an eyesore. He developed a chronic grouch, and it was not
long before he had the two weaker men toeing the mark. He had a way of speaking
of those who had gone up against him in the past and were "running yet," of
shooting scrapes and deadly knife-work in which he had displayed a spirit of
cold-blooded ferocity. Both the Professor and the Bank clerk were men of peace
and very impressionable. Consequently, they conceived for Marks a shuddering
respect, not unmixed with fear, and were ready to stand on their heads at his
bidding.

On the Halfbreed, however, his intimidation did not work. While the other two
trembled at his frown, and waited on him hand and foot, the man of Indian blood
ignored him, and his face was expressionless. Whereby he incurred the intense
dislike of Marks.

Things were going from bad to worse. The man's
aggressions were daily becoming more unbearable. He
treated the others like Dagoes and on every occasion he tried to pick a quarrel
with the Halfbreed, but the latter, entrenching himself behind his Indian
phlegm, regarded him stolidly. Marks mistook this for cowardice and took to
calling the Halfbreed nasty names, particularly reflecting on the good character
of his mother. Still the Halfbreed took no notice, yet there was a contempt in
his manner that stung more than words. This was the state of affairs when one
evening the Prodigal and I paid them a visit.

Marks had been drinking all day, and had made life a little hell for the
others. When we arrived he was rotten-ripe for a quarrel. Then the Prodigal
suggested a game of poker, so four of them, himself, Marks, Bullhammer and the
Halfbreed, sat in.

At first they made a ten-cent limit, which soon they raised to twenty-five;
then, at last, there was no limit but the roof. A bottle passed from mouth to
mouth and several big jack-pots were made. Bullhammer and the Prodigal were
about breaking even, Marks was losing heavily, while steadily the Halfbreed was
adding to his pile of chips.

Through one of those freaks of chance the two men seemed to buck one another
continually. Time after time they would raise and raise each other, till at last
Marks would call, and always his opponent had the cards. It was exasperating,
maddening, especially as several times Marks himself was called on a bluff. The
very fiend of ill-luck seemed to have gotten into him, and as the game
proceeded, Marks
grew
more flushed and excited. He cursed audibly. He always had good cards, but
always somehow the other just managed to beat him. He became explosively angry
and abusive. The Halfbreed offered to retire from the game, but Marks would not
hear of it.

"Come on, you nigger!" he shouted. "Don't sneak away. Give me a chance to get
my money back."

So they sat down once more, and a hand was dealt. The Halfbreed called for
cards, but Marks did not draw. Then the betting began. After the second round
the others dropped out, and Marks and the Halfbreed were left. The Halfbreed was
inimitably cool, his face was a perfect mask. Marks, too, had suddenly grown
very calm. They started to boost each other.

Both seemed to have plenty of money and at first they raised in tens and
twenties, then at last fifty dollars at a clip. It was getting exciting. You
could hear a pin drop. Bullhammer and the Prodigal watched very quietly. Sweat
stood on Marks's forehead, though the Halfbreed was utterly calm. The jack-pot
held about three hundred dollars. Then Marks could stand it no longer.

"I'll bet a hundred," he cried, "and see you."

He triumphantly threw down a straight.

"There, now," he snarled, "beat that, you stinking Malamute."

There was a perceptible pause. I felt sorry for the Halfbreed. He could not
afford to lose all that
money, but his face showed no shade of emotion. He threw down
his cards and there arose from us all a roar of incredulous surprise.

For the Halfbreed had thrown down a royal flush in diamonds. Marks rose. He
was now livid with passion.

"You cheating swine," he cried; "you crooked devil!"

Quickly he struck the other on the face, a blow that drew blood. I thought
for a moment the Halfbreed would return the blow. Into his eyes there came a
look of cold and deadly fury. But, no! quickly bending down, he scooped up the
money and left the tent.

We stared at each other.

"Marvellous luck!" said the Prodigal.

"Marvellous hell!" shouted Marks. "Don't tell me it's luck. He's a sharper, a
dirty thief. But I'll get even. He's got to fight now. He'll fight with guns and
I'll kill the son of a dog."

He was drinking from the bottle in big gulps, fanning himself into an
ungovernable fury with fiery objurgations. At last he went out, and again
swearing he would kill the Halfbreed, he made for another tent, from which a
sound of revelry was coming.

Vaguely fearing trouble, the Prodigal and I did not go to bed, but sat
talking. Suddenly I saw him listen intently.

"Hist! Did you hear that?"

I seemed to hear a sound like the fierce yelling of a wild animal.

We hurried out. It
was Marks running towards us. He was crazy with liquor, and in one hand he
flourished a gun. There was foam on his lips and he screamed as he ran. Then we
saw him stop before the tent occupied by the Halfbreed, and throw open the
flap.

"Come out, you dirty tin-horn, you crook, you Indian bastard; come out and
fight."

He rushed in and came out again, dragging the Halfbreed at arm's length. They
were tussling together, and we flung ourselves on them and separated them.

I was holding Marks, when suddenly he hurled me off, and flourishing a
revolver, fired one chamber, crying:

"Stand back, all of you; stand back! Let me shoot at him. He's my meat."

We stepped back pretty briskly, for Marks had cut loose. In fact, we ducked
for shelter, all but the Halfbreed, who stood straight and still.

Marks took aim at the man waiting there so coolly. He fired, and a tide of
red stained the other man's shirt, near the shoulder. Then something happened.
The Halfbreed's arm rose quickly. A six-shooter spat twice.

He turned to us. "I didn't want to do it, boys, but you see he druv' me to
it. I'm sorry. He druv' me to it."

Marks lay in a huddled, quivering heap. He was shot through the heart and
quite dead.

We were camping in Paradise Valley. Before us and behind us the great
Cheechako army laboured along with infinite travail. We had suffered, but the
trail of the land was near its end. And what an end! With every mile the misery
and difficulty of the way seemed to increase. Then we came to the trail of
Rotting Horses.

Dead animals we had seen all along the trail in great numbers, but the sight
as we came on this particular place beggared description. There were thousands
of them. One night we dragged away six of them before we could find room to put
up the tent. There they lay, sprawling horribly, their ribs protruding through
their hides, their eyes putrid in the sunshine. It was like a battlefield,
hauntingly hideous.