He's the symbol of hunger the whole earth through, His spectre sits at the door or cave, And the homeless hear with a thrill of fear The sound of his wind-swept voice on the air.
ABANDONED ON THE TRAIL
A poor old horse with down-cast mien and sad wild eyes, Stood by the lonely trail--and oh! He was so piteous lean. He seemed to look a mild surprise At all mankind that we should treat him so. How hardily he struggled up the trail And through the streams All men should know. Yet now abandoned to the wolf, his waiting foe, He stood in silence, as an old man dreams. And as his master left him, this he seemed to say: "You leave me helpless by the path; I do not curse you, but I pray Defend me from the wolves' wild wrath!" And yet his master rode away!
CHAPTER X
DOWN THE BULKLEY VALLEY
As we rose to the top of the divide which lies between the twocrossings of the Bulkley, a magnificent view of the coast range againlightened the horizon. In the foreground a lovely lake lay. On theshore of this lake stood a single Indian shack occupied by ahalf-dozen children and an old woman. They were all wretchedlyclothed in graceless rags, and formed a bitter and depressingcontrast to the magnificence of nature.
One of the lads could talk a little Chinook mixed with English.
"How far is it to the ford?" I asked of him.
"White man say, mebbe-so six, mebbe-so nine mile."
Knowing the Indian's vague idea of miles, I said:--
"How _long_ before we reach the ford? Sit-kum sun?" which is to saynoon.
He shook his head.
"Klip sun come. Me go-hyak make canoe. Me felly."
By which he meant: "You will arrive at the ford by sunset. I willhurry on and build a raft and ferry you over the stream."
With an axe and a sack of dried fish on his back and a poor oldshot-gun in his arm, he led the way down the trail at a slappingpace. He kept with us till dinner-time, however, in order to get somebread and coffee.
Like the _Jicarilla_ Apaches, these people have discovered thevirtues of the inner bark of the black pine. All along the trail weretrees from which wayfarers had lunched, leaving a great strip of thewhite inner wood exposed.
"Man heap dry--this muck-a-muck heap good," said the young fellow, ashe handed me a long strip to taste. It was cool and sweet to thetongue, and on a hot day would undoubtedly quench thirst. The boytook it from the tree by means of a chisel-shaped iron after theheavy outer bark has been hewed away by the axe.
All along the trail were tree trunks whereon some loitering youngSiwash had delineated a human face by a few deft and powerful strokesof the axe, the sculptural planes of cheeks, brow, and chin beingindicated broadly but with truth and decision. Often by some old campa tree would bear on a planed surface the rude pictographs, so thatthose coming after could read the number, size, sex, and success athunting of those who had gone before. There is something Japanese, itseems to me, in this natural taste for carving among all theNorthwest people.
All about us was now riotous June. The season was incredibly warm andforward, considering the latitude. Strawberries were in bloom, birdswere singing, wild roses appeared in miles and in millions, plum andcherry trees were white with blossoms--in fact, the splendor andradiance of Iowa in June. A beautiful lake occupied our left nearlyall day.
As we arrived at the second crossing of the Bulkley about sixo'clock, our young Indian met us with a sorrowful face.
"Stick go in chuck. No canoe. Walk stick."
A big cottonwood log had fallen across the stream and layhalf-submerged and quivering in the rushing river. Over this log ahalf-dozen men were passing like ants, wet with sweat, "bucking"their outfits across. The poor Siwash was out of a job andexceedingly sorrowful.
"This is the kind of picnic we didn't expect," said one of the youngmen, as I rode up to see what progress they were making.
We took our turn at crossing the tree trunk, which was submergednearly a foot deep with water running at mill-race speed, and resumedthe trail, following running water most of the way over a very goodpath. Once again we had a few hours' positive enjoyment, with nosense of being in a sub-arctic country. We could hardly convinceourselves that we were in latitude 54. The only peculiarity which Inever quite forgot was the extreme length of the day. At 10.30 atnight it was still light enough to write. No sooner did it get darkon one side of the hut than it began to lighten on the other. Theweather was gloriously cool, crisp, and invigorating, and whenever wehad sound soil under our feet we were happy.
The country was getting each hour more superbly mountainous. Greatsnowy peaks rose on all sides. The coast range, lofty, roseate, dim,and far, loomed ever in the west, but on our right a group of othergiants assembled, white and stern. A part of the time we threaded ourway through fire-devastated forests of fir, and then as suddenlyburst out into tracts of wild roses with beautiful open spaces ofwaving pea-vine on which our horses fed ravenously.
We were forced to throw up our tent at every meal, so intolerable hadthe mosquitoes become. Here for the first time our horses wereseverely troubled by myriads of little black flies. They were small,but resembled our common house flies in shape, and were exceedinglyvenomous. They filled the horses' ears, and their sting producedminute swellings all over the necks and breasts of the poor animals.Had it not been for our pennyroyal and bacon grease, the bay horsewould have been eaten raw.
We overtook the trampers again at Chock Lake. They were thin, theirlegs making sharp creases in their trouser legs--I could see that asI neared them. They were walking desperately, reeling from side toside with weakness. There was no more smiling on their faces. Oneman, the smaller, had the countenance of a wolf, pinched in round thenose. His bony jaw was thrust forward resolutely. The taller man waslimping painfully because of a shoe which had gone to one side. Theirpacks were light, but their almost incessant change of position gaveevidence of pain and great weariness.
I drew near to ask how they were getting along. The tall man, with alook of wistful sadness like that of a hungry dog, said, "Not verywell."
"How are you off for grub?"
"Nothing left but some beans and a mere handful of flour."
I invited them to a "square meal" a few miles farther on, and inorder to help them forward I took one of their packs on my horse. Iinferred that they would take turns at the remaining pack and so keeppace with us, for we were dropping steadily now--down, down throughthe most beautiful savannas, with fine spring brooks rushing from themountain's side. Flowers increased; the days grew warmer; it began tofeel like summer. The mountains grew ever mightier, looming cloudlikeat sunset, bearing glaciers on their shoulders. We were almostcompletely happy--but alas, the mosquitoes! Their hum silenced thesongs of the birds; their feet made the mountains of no avail. Theotherwise beautiful land became a restless hell for the unprotectedman or beast. It was impossible to eat or sleep without some defence,and our pennyroyal salve was invaluable. It enabled us to travel withsome degree of comfort, where others suffered martyrdom.
At noon Burton made up a heavy mess, in expectation of the trampers,who had fallen a little behind. The small man came into view first,for he had abandoned his fellow-traveller. This angered me, and I wasminded to cast the little sneak out of camp, but his pinched andhungry face helped me to put up with him. I gave him a smart lectureand said, "I supposed you intended to help the other man, or Iwouldn't have relieved you of a pound."
The other toiler turned up soon, limping, and staggering withweakness. When dinner was ready, they came to the call like a coupleof starving dogs. The small man had no politeness left. He gorgedhimself like a wolf. He fairly snapped the food down his throat. Thetall man, by great effort, contrived to display some knowledge ofbetter manners. As they ate, I studied them. They were blotched bymosquito bites and tanned to a leather brown. Their thin hands werelike claws, their doubled knees seemed about to pierce their trouserlegs.
"Yes," said the taller man, "the mosquitoes nearly ea
t us up. We canonly sleep in the middle of the day, or from about two o'clock in themorning till sunrise. We walk late in the evening--till nine orten--and then sit in the smoke till it gets cold enough to drive awaythe mosquitoes. Then we try to sleep. But the trouble is, when it iscold enough to keep them off, it's too cold for us to sleep."
"What did you do during the late rains?" I inquired.
"Oh, we kept moving most of the time. At night we camped under a firtree by the trail and dried off. The mosquitoes didn't bother us somuch then. We were wet nearly all the time."
I tried to get at his point of view, his justification for suchsenseless action, but could only discover a sort of blind beliefthat something would help him pull through. He had gone to theCaribou mines to find work, and, failing, had pushed on towardHazleton with a dim hope of working his way to Teslin Lake and to theKlondike. He started with forty pounds of provisions and three orfour dollars in his pocket. He was now dead broke, and his provisionsalmost gone.
Meanwhile, the smaller man made no sign of hearing a word. He ate andate, till my friend looked at me with a comical wink. We fed himstaples--beans, graham bread, and coffee--and he slowly but surelyreached the bottom of every dish. He did not fill up, he simply"wiped out" the cooked food. The tall man was not far behind him.
As he talked, I imagined the life they had led. At first the trailwas good, and they were able to make twenty miles each day. Theweather was dry and warm, and sleeping was not impossible. Theycamped close beside the trail when they grew tired--I had seen andrecognized their camping-places all along. But the rains came on, andthey were forced to walk all day through the wet shrubs with thewater dripping from their ragged garments. They camped at nightbeneath the firs (for the ground is always dry under a fir), where afire is easily built. There they hung over the flame, drying theirclothing and their rapidly weakening shoes. The mosquitoes swarmedupon them bloodily in the shelter and warmth of the trees, for theyhad no netting or tent. Their meals were composed of tea, a fewhastily stewed beans, and a poor quality of sticky camp bread. Theirsleep was broken and fitful. They were either too hot or too cold,and the mosquitoes gave way only when the frost made slumberdifficult. In the morning they awoke to the necessity of putting ontheir wet shoes, and taking the muddy trail, to travel as long asthey could stagger forward.
In addition to all this, they had no maps, and knew nothing of theirwhereabouts or how far it was to a human habitation. Their onlycomfort lay in the passing of outfits like mine. From such as I, they"rustled food" and clothing. The small man did not even thank us forthe meal; he sat himself down for a smoke and communed with hisstomach. The tall man was plainly worsted. His voice had a plaintivedroop. His shoe gnawed into his foot, and his pack was visiblyheavier than that of his companion.
We were two weeks behind our schedule, and our own flour sack was notmuch bigger than a sachet-bag, but we gave them some rice and part ofour beans and oatmeal, and they moved away.
We were approaching sea-level, following the Bulkley, which flows ina northwesterly direction and enters the great Skeena River at rightangles, just below its three forks. Each hour the peaks seemed toassemble and uplift. The days were at their maximum, the sun setshortly after eight, but it was light until nearly eleven. At middaythe sun was fairly hot, but the wind swept down from the mountainscool and refreshing. I shall not soon forget those radiant meadows,over which the far mountains blazed in almost intolerable splendor;it was too perfect to endure. Like the light of the sun lingering onthe high peaks with most magical beauty, it passed away to be seen nomore.
In the midst of these grandeurs we lost one of our horses. Whenever ahorse breaks away from his fellows on the trail, it is pretty safe toinfer he has "hit the back track." As I went out to round up thehorses, "Major Grunt" was nowhere to be found. He had strayed fromthe bunch and we inferred had started back over the trail. We trailedhim till we met one of the trampers, who assured us that no horse hadpassed him in the night, for he had been camped within six feet ofthe path.
Up to this time there had been no returning footsteps, and it waseasy to follow the horse so long as he kept to the trail, but thetramper's report was positive--no horse had passed him. We turnedback and began searching the thickets around the camp.
We toiled all day, not merely because the horse was exceedinglyvaluable to us, but also for the reason that he had a rope attachedto his neck and I was afraid he might become entangled in the fallentimber and so starve to death.
The tall tramper, who had been definitely abandoned by his partner,was a sad spectacle. He was blotched by mosquito bites, thin and weakwith hunger, and his clothes hung in tatters. He had just aboutreached the limit of his courage, and though we were uncertain of ourhorses, and our food was nearly exhausted, we gave him all the ricewe had and some fruit and sent him on his way.
Night came, and still no signs of "Major Grunt." It began to look asthough some one had ridden him away and we should be forced to go onwithout him. This losing of a horse is one of the accidents whichmake the trail so uncertain. We were exceedingly anxious to get on.There was an oppressive warmth in the air, and flies and mosquitoeswere the worst we had ever seen. Altogether this was a dark day onour calendar.
After we had secured ourselves in our tents that night the sound ofthe savage insects without was like the roaring of a far-offhailstorm. The horses rolled in the dirt, snorted, wheeled madly,stamped, shook their heads, and flung themselves again and again onthe ground, giving every evidence of the most terrible suffering. "Ifthis is to continue," I said to my partner, "I shall quit, and eitherkill all my horses or ship them out of the country. I will not havethem eaten alive in this way."
It was impossible to go outside to attend to them. Nothing could bedone but sit in gloomy silence and listen to the drumming of theirfrantic feet on the turf as they battled against their invisiblefoes. At last, led by old Ladrone, they started off at a hobblinggallop up the trail.
"Well, we are in for it now," I remarked, as the footsteps died away."They've hit the back trail, and we'll have another day's hard workto catch 'em and bring 'em back. However, there's no use worrying.The mosquitoes would eat us alive if we went out now. We might justas well go to sleep and wait till morning." Sleep was difficult underthe circumstances, but we dozed off at last.
As we took their trail in the cool of the next morning, we found thehorses had taken the back trail till they reached an open hillside,and had climbed to the very edge of the timber. There they were allin a bunch, with the exception of "Major Grunt," of whom we had notrace.
With a mind filled with distressing pictures of the lost horseentangled in his rope, and lying flat on his side hidden among thefallen tree trunks, there to struggle and starve, I reluctantly gaveorders for a start, with intent to send an Indian back to search forhim.
After two hours' smart travel we came suddenly upon the little Indianvillage of Morricetown, which is built beside a narrow canyon throughwhich the Bulkley rushes with tremendous speed. Here high on thelevel grassy bank we camped, quite secure from mosquitoes, andsurrounded by the curious natives, who showed us where to find woodand water, and brought us the most beautiful spring salmon, andpotatoes so tender and fine that the skin could be rubbed from themwith the thumb. They were exactly like new potatoes in the States.Out of this, it may be well understood, we had a most satisfyingdinner. Summer was in full tide. Pieplant was two feet high, andstrawberries were almost ripe.
Calling the men of the village around me, I explained inPigeon-English and worse Chinook that I had lost a horse, and that Iwould give five dollars to the man who would bring him to me. Theyall listened attentively, filled with joy at a chance to earn so muchmoney. At last the chief man of the village, a very good-lookingfellow of twenty-five or thirty, said to me: "All light, me go, mefetch 'um. You stop here. Mebbe-so, klip-sun, I come bling horse."
His confidence relieved us of anxiety, and we had a very pleasant dayof it, digesting our bountiful meal of salmon and potatoes,
andmending up our clothing. We were now pretty ragged and very brown,but in excellent health.
Late in the afternoon a gang of road-cutters (who had been sent outby the towns interested in the route) came into town from Hazleton,and I had a talk with the boss, a very decent fellow, who gave a grimreport of the trail beyond. He said: "Nobody knows anything aboutthat trail. Jim Deacon, the head-man of our party when we leftHazleton, was only about seventy miles out, and cutting fallen timberlike a man chopping cord wood, and sending back for more help. We arenow going back to bridge and corduroy the places we had no time tofix as we came."
Morricetown was a superb spot, and Burton was much inclined to stayright there and prospect the near-by mountains. So far as a merecasual observer could determine, this country offers every inducementto prospectors. It is possible to grow potatoes, hay, and oats,together with various small fruits, in this valley, and if goldshould ever be discovered in the rushing mountain streams, it wouldbe easy to sustain a camp and feed it well.
Long before sunset an Indian came up to us and smilingly said, "Youhoss--come." And a few minutes later the young ty-ee came riding intotown leading "Major Grunt," well as ever, but a little sullen. He hadtaken the back trail till he came to a narrow and insecure bridge.There he had turned up the stream, going deeper and deeper into the"stick," as the Siwash called the forest. I paid the reward gladly,and Major took his place among the other horses with no sign of joy.
DO YOU FEAR THE WIND?
The Trail of the Goldseekers: A Record of Travel in Prose and Verse Page 6
