Authors: Robert W Service
And every day was adding to their numbers. The trail ran over great boulders
covered with icy slush, through which the weary brutes sank to their bellies.
Struggling desperately, down they would come between two boulders. Then their
legs would snap like pipe-stems, and there usually they were left to die.
One would see, jammed in the cleft of a rock, the stump of a hoof, or
sticking up sharply, the jagged splinter of a leg; while far down the bluff lay
the
animal to which it
belonged. One would see the poor dead brutes lying head and tail for an hundred
yards at a stretch. One would see them deserted and desperate, wandering round
foraging for food. They would come to the camp at night whinnying pitifully, and
with a look of terrible entreaty on their starved faces. Then one would take
pity on themand shoot them.
I remember stumbling across a big, heavy horse one night in the gloom. It was
swaying from side to side, and as I drew near I saw its throat was hideously
cut. It looked at me with such agony in its eyes that I put my handkerchief over
its face, and, with the blow of an axe, ended its misery. The most spirited of
the horses were the first to fall. They broke their hearts in gallant effort.
Goaded to desperation, sometimes they would destroy themselves, throw themselves
frantically over the bluff. Oh, it was horrible! horrible!
Our own horse proved a ready victim. To tell the truth, no one but the
Jam-wagon was particularly sorry. If there was a sump-hole in sight, that horse
was sure to flounder into it. Sometimes twice in one day we had to unhitch the
ox and pull him out. There was a place dug out of the snow alongside the trail,
which was being used as a knacker's yard, and here we took him with a broken leg
and put a bullet in his brain. While we waited there were six others brought in
to be shot.
It was a Sunday and we were in the tent, indescribably glad of a day's rest.
The Jam-wagon was
mending a bit of harness; the Prodigal was playing solitaire.
Salvation Jim had just returned from a trip to Skagway, where he had hoped to
find a letter from the outside regarding one Jake Mosher. His usually hale and
kindly face was drawn and troubled. Wearily he removed his snow-sodden
clothes.
"I always did say there was God's curse on this Klondike gold," he said; "now
I'm sure of it. There's a hoodoo on it. What it's a-goin' to cost, what hearts
it's goin' to break, what homes it's goin' to wreck no man'll ever know. God
only knows what it's cost already. But this last is the worst yet."
"What's the matter, Jim?" I said; "what last?"
"Why, haven't you heard? Well, there's just been a snow-slide on the Chilcoot
an' several hundred people buried."
I stared aghast. Living as we did in daily danger of snow-slides, this
disaster struck us with terror.
"You don't say!" said the Prodigal. "Where?"
"Oh, somewhere's near Lindeman. Hundreds of poor sinners cut off without a
chance to repent."
He was going to improve on the occasion when the Prodigal cut in.
"Poor devils! I guess we must know some of them too." He turned to me. "I
wonder if your little Polak friend's all right?"
Indeed my thoughts had just flown to Berna. Among the exigencies of the trail
(when we had to fix our minds on the trouble of the moment and
every moment had its trouble) there
was little time for reflection. Nevertheless, I had found at all times visions
of her flitting before me, thoughts of her coming to me when I least expected
them. Pity, tenderness and a good deal of anxiety were in my mind. Often I
wondered if ever I would see her again. A feeling of joy and a great longing
would sweep over me in the hope. At these words then of the Prodigal, it seemed
as if all my scattered sentiments crystallised into one, and a vast desire that
was almost pain came over me. I suppose I was silent, grave, and it must have
been some intuition of my thoughts that made the Prodigal say to me:
"Say, old man, if you would like to take a run over the Dyea trail, I guess I
can spare you for a day or so."
"Yes, indeed, I'd like to see the trail."
"Oh, yes, we've observed your enthusiastic interest in trails. Why don't you
marry the girl? Well, cut along, old chap. Don't be gone too long."
So next morning, travelling as lightly as possible, I started for Bennett.
How good it seemed to get off unimpeded by an outfit, and I sped past the weary
mob, struggling along on the last lap of their journey. I had been in some
expectation of the trail bettering itself, but indeed it appeared at every step
to grow more hopelessly terrible. It was knee-deep in snowy slush, and below
that seemed to be literally paved with dead horses.
I only waited long enough at Bennett to have breakfast. A pie nailed to a
tent-pole indicated a
restaurant, and there, for a dollar, I had a good meal of
beans and bacon, coffee and flapjacks. It was yet early morning when I started
for Linderman.
The air was clear and cold, ideal mushing weather, and already parties were
beginning to struggle into Bennett, looking very weary and jaded. On the trail a
man did a day's work by nine in the morning, another by four in the afternoon,
and a third by nightfall. You were lucky to get off at that.
I was jogging along past the advance guard of the oncoming army, when who
should I see but Mervin and Hewson. They looked thoroughly seasoned, and had
made record time with a large outfit. In contrast to the worn, weary-eyed men
with faces pinched and puckered, they looked insolently fit and full of fight.
They had heard of the snow-slide but could give me no particulars. I inquired
for Berna and the old man. They were somewhere behind, between Chilcoot and
Lindeman. "Yes, they were probably buried under the slide. Good-bye."
I hurried forward, full of apprehension. A black stream of Cheechakos were
surging across Lindeman; then I realised the greatness of the other advancing
army, and the vastness of the impulse that was urging these indomitable atoms to
the North. It was blowing quite hard and many had put up sails on their sleds
with good effect. I saw a Jew driving an ox, to which he had four small sleds
harnessed. On each of these he had hoisted a small sail. Suddenly the ox looked
round and saw the sails. Here
was something that did not come within the scope of his
experience. With a bellow of fear, he stampeded, pursued by a yelling Hebrew,
while from the chain of sleds articles scattered in all directions. When last I
saw them in the far distance, Jew and ox were still going.
Why was I so anxious about Berna? I did not know, but with every mile my
anxiety increased. A dim unreasoning fear possessed me. I imagined that if
anything happened to her I would forever blame myself. I saw her lying white and
cold as the snow itself, her face peaceful in death. Why had I not thought more
of her? I had not appreciated her enough, her precious sweetness and her
tenderness. If only she was spared, I would show her what a good friend I could
be. I would protect her and be near her in case of need. But then how foolish to
think anything could have happened to her. The chances were one in a hundred.
Nevertheless, I hurried forward.
I met the Twins. They had just escaped the slide, they told me, and had not
yet recovered from the shock. A little way back on the trail it was. I would see
men digging out the bodies. They had dug out seventeen that morning. Some were
crushed as flat as pancakes.
Again, with a pain at my heart, I asked after Berna and her grandfather. Twin
number one said they were both buried under the slide. I gasped and was seized
with sudden faintness. "No," said twin number two, "the old man is missing, but
the
girl has escaped
and is nearly crazy with grief. Good-bye."
Once more I hurried on. Gangs of men were shovelling for the dead. Every now
and then a shovel would strike a hand or a skull. Then a shout would be raised
and the poor misshapen body turned out.
Again I put my inquiries. A busy digger paused in his work. He was a
sottish-looking fellow, and there was something of the glare of a ghoul in his
eyes.
"Yes, that must have been the old guy with the whiskers they dug out early on
from the lower end of the slide. Relative, name of Winklestein, took charge of
him. Took him to the tent yonder. Won't let any one go near."
He pointed to a tent on the hillside, and it was with a heavy heart I went
forward. The poor old man, so gentle, so dignified, with his dream of a golden
treasure that might bring happiness to others. It was cruel, cruel....
"Say, what d'ye want here? Get to hell outa this."
The words came with a snarl. I looked up in surprise.
There at the door of the tent, all a-bristle like a gutter-bred cur, was
Winklestein.
I stared at the man a moment, for little had I expected so gracious a
reception.
"Mush on, there," he repeated truculently; "you're not wanted 'round here.
Mush! Pretty darned smart."
I felt myself grow suddenly, savagely angry. I measured the man for a moment
and determined I could handle him.
"I want," I said soberly, "to see the body of my old friend."
"You do, do you? Well, you darned well won't. Besides, there ain't no body
here."
"You're a liar!" I observed. "But it's no use wasting words on you. I'm going
on anyhow."
With that I gripped him suddenly and threw him sideways with some force. One
of the tent ropes took away his feet violently, and there on the snow he
sprawled, glowering at me with evil eyes.
"Now," said I, "I've got a gun, and if you try any monkey business, I'll fix
you so quick you won't know what's happened."
The bluff worked. He gathered himself up and followed me into the tent,
looking the picture of malevolent impotence. On the ground lay a longish object
covered with a blanket. With a strange feeling
of reluctant horror I lifted the covering. Beneath
it lay the body of the old man.
He was lying on his back, and had not been squeezed out of all human
semblance like so many of the others. Nevertheless, he was ghastly enough, with
his bluish face and wide bulging eyes. What had worn his fingers to the bone so?
He must have made a desperate struggle with his bare hands to dig himself out. I
will never forget those torn, nailless fingers. I felt around his waist. Ha! the
money belt was gone!
"Winklestein," I said, turning suddenly on the little Jew, "this man had two
thousand dollars on him. What have you done with it?"
He started violently. A look of fear came into his eyes. It died away, and
his face was convulsed with rage.
"He did not," he screamed; "he didn't have a red cent. He's no more than an
old pauper I was taking in to play the fiddle. He owes
me
, curse him! And
who are you anyways, you blasted meddler, that accuses a decent man of being a
body robber?"
"I was this dead man's friend. I'm still his granddaughter's friend. I'm
going to see justice done. This man had two thousand dollars in a gold belt
round his waist. It belongs to the girl now. You've got to give it up,
Winklestein, or by"
"Prove it, prove it!" he spluttered. "You're a liar; she's a liar; you're all
a pack of liars, trying to blackmail a decent man. He had no money, I say!
He had no money, and if
ever he said so, he's a liar."
"Oh, you vile wretch!" I cried. "It's you that's lying. I've a mind to choke
your dirty throat. But I'll hound you till I make you cough up that money.
Where's Berna?"
Suddenly he had become quietly malicious.
"Find her," he jibed; "find her for yourself. And take yourself out of my
sight as quickly as you please."
I saw he had me over a barrel, so, with a parting threat, I left him. A tent
nearby was being run as a restaurant, and there I had a cup of coffee. Of the
man who kept it, a fat, humorous cockney, I made enquiries regarding the girl.
Yes, he knew her. She was living in yonder tent with Madam Winklestein.
"They sy she's tykin' on horful baht th' old man, pore kid!"
I thanked him, gulped down my coffee, and made for the tent. The flap was
down, but I rapped on the canvas, and presently the dark face of Madam appeared.
When she saw me, it grew darker.
"What d'you want?" she demanded.
"I want to see Berna," I said.
"Then you can't. Can't you hear her? Isn't that enough?"
Surely I could hear a very low, pitiful sound coming from the tent, something
between a sob and a moan, like the wailing of an Indian woman over
her dead, only infinitely
subdued and anguished. I was shocked, awed, immeasurably grieved.
"Thank you," I said; "I'm sorry. I don't want to intrude on her in her hour
of affliction. I'll come again."
"All right," she laughed tauntingly; "come again."
I had failed. I thought of turning back, then I thought I might as well see
what I could of the far-famed Chikoot, so once more I struck out.
The faces of the hundreds I met were the same faces I had passed by the
thousand, stamped with the seal of the trail, seamed with lines of suffering,
wan with fatigue, blank with despair. There was the same desperate hurry, the
same indifference to calamity, the same grim stoical endurance.
A snowstorm was raging on the summit of the Chikoot and the snow was
drifting, covering the thousands of caches to the depth of ten and fifteen feet.
I stood on the summit of that nearly perpendicular ascent they call the
"Scales." Steps had been cut in the icy steep, and up these men were straining,
each with a huge pack on his back. They could only go in single file. It was the
famous "Human Chain." At regular distances, platforms had been cut beside the
trail, where the exhausted ones might leave the ranks and rest; but if a
worn-out climber reeled and crawled into one of the shelters, quickly the line
closed up and none gave him a glance.
The men wore ice-creepers, so that their feet would clutch the slippery
surface. Many of them
had staffs, and all were bent nigh double under their burdens.
They did not speak, their lips were grimly sealed, their eyes fixed and stern.
They bowed their heads to thwart the buffetings of the storm-wind, but every way
they turned it seemed to meet them. The snow lay thick on their shoulders and
covered their breasts. On their beards the spiked icicles glistened. As they
moved up step by step, it seemed as if their feet were made of lead, so heavily
did they lift them. And the resting-places by the trail were never empty.