by Howard Blum
He sat lost in thought over his predicament. And after a while, he came up with an idea. He shared it with Billy that afternoon when they went off alone into the woods to gather firewood. Might work, Billy agreed.
Later that evening, as the four of them were sitting around the campfire and a bottle was being passed, Charlie tried it out on Schell and Hubbard.
If we’re gonna build a furnace and recast the gold, then we’re gonna need supplies, he said. Sayles will stay here with you, but I’m gonna go to Juneau and get us what we need. What do you think? he asked, hoping his suggestion sounded reasonable.
Hubbard looked questioningly at Schell. The big man thought about it for a moment, then spoke. Sounds like a good idea, he agreed.
But then, Schell had no idea where Charlie intended to get the supplies.
THERE IS a difference, Durkin lectured authoritatively, a huge difference, between melting and smelting. You can’t just put gold in a frying pan as if it were a hunk of hog lard, like those two fools did.
Earlier, the meeting in the mine superintendent’s home on Douglas Island had started off as though it were a war council. As soon as Charlie had announced that he’d caught up with the two thieves, Durkin had jumped to his feet. A log fire roared in a massive limestone fireplace, and Durkin stood silhouetted in front of it, waving his hands and shouting with glee. Charlie wouldn’t have been surprised if the man had broken out into a jig. “I knew we’d get the bastards. I knew it,” he exalted. “Congratulations, Mr. Davis.”
It was then that the detective disclosed for the first time that his name was in reality Charlie Siringo, not Lee Davis. The superintendent considered that for only an instant before proclaiming that he didn’t care a dickens about the name. All that mattered was that Davis or Siringo or whatever he wanted to call himself had found the thieves. He wanted Charlie to contact the authorities and make the arrests.
We do that, Charlie countered flatly, it’s more than likely we’ll never recover the gold.
Durkin suddenly stood very still. It was as if all his previous joy had in an instant been drained out of him. He stared at Charlie, and when he finally spoke his tone was low and accusatory. “You don’t know where the gold is?” he asked.
Charlie suggested that Durkin take a seat; he would explain the situation. In great detail he recounted how, along with his partner, he’d tracked the two thieves, won their confidence, and been offered the job of recasting the stolen gold bars. But, Charlie went on, neither he nor Sayles had the slightest idea how to build a furnace and mold the gold into nuggets.
Well, Durkin said, you’ve come to the right man. What I don’t know about gold ain’t worth knowing.
For the next hour or so Durkin delivered a thoughtful and meticulous primer on the art of processing gold. In truth, a lot of it was lost on Charlie, especially when Durkin reeled off the chemical formulas of the solutions involved in removing the impurities from gold. But by the time Durkin had concluded his lecture, Charlie was confident that he’d understood the basic principles. He’d be able to build a furnace with heat-resistant clay bricks. He’d stoke it up with charcoal, not wood, because charcoal was pure carbon and burned at a higher temperature. He’d make sure the fire reached 2,000 degrees; gold melted at 1,943 degrees Fahrenheit, Durkin had specified. And he’d wait until the flame turned blue, an indication that there was sufficient carbon monoxide present for the melting process to proceed. Durkin also trained Charlie in the tricky skills of handling the red-hot crucibles that would hold the molten ore as well as the molds into which the gold would be recast.
It was late when the lecture was finally concluded, and Durkin brought out a celebratory bottle of whiskey and two glasses. Perhaps we’d better wait until we’ve something to toast, Charlie suggested cautiously. But Durkin wouldn’t hear of it. “We got ’em,” he kept on repeating. Florid with excitement, he clinked his glass against Charlie’s and raised it to his lips. “To the arrests,” he toasted.
Charlie spent the night as a guest in Durkin’s house. At precisely six-thirty a big breakfast was served in the wood-paneled dining room by an Indian cook. Then the superintendent, still bubbling with the previous night’s enthusiasm, escorted Charlie on a tour of the mine and mill buildings. As Charlie followed behind him, Durkin walked swiftly up and down the corridors, picking and choosing items as he went. He wanted to make sure that the detective had all the supplies and materials he needed.
It was quite a load, and Charlie fretted that he wouldn’t be able to get it all back to Chieke Bay. Durkin told him not to worry. He gave a flurry of orders, and his assistants packed everything up into a couple of large crates. Then, on Durkin’s further command, the crates were taken by ferry to Juneau. They would be put on the next steamer to Killisnoo. A ticket had been booked for Charlie, too. Just go to the shipping office after you arrive in Killisnoo, Durkin instructed. The crates will be waiting for you.
But when the steamer Topeka docked in Killisnoo, Charlie didn’t go directly to the small shipping shack on the wharf. On his trip to Juneau earlier in the week he’d noticed a U.S. Navy warship anchored in the harbor. On a hunch he hired a rowboat and went out to the man-of-war. He’d suspected there might be a U.S. marshal on board, and he was correct.
Marshal Jim Collins was a discouragingly old man with a scraggly gray mustache. When Charlie introduced himself as a Pinkerton, Collins’s attitude was reserved. Like most lawmen, the marshal didn’t set much store in private detectives. But as soon as Collins learned the reason for Charlie’s visit, his attitude improved.
Putting the cuffs on two gold thieves would be a good day’s work, he agreed. Soon as you’ve learned where they’ve hidden the gold, get word to me. Just tell me when you’re ready, he volunteered, and I’ll be there to make it nice and legal.
That pledge of support reassured Charlie, but there was something else that’d been troubling him. He thought it only fair to share it with the marshal before things went any further.
Schell and Hubbard, Charlie began cautiously, have a good deal of Indian friends. The chief of the village is their bosom buddy. We arrest them, and we might find ourselves in a real fight. Whole tribe might come out to protect ’em.
The old marshal replied without the slightest hesitation. “Then I imagine another gun will come in mighty handy,” he said firmly.
So it was with a renewed feeling of confidence about his prospects that Charlie had the crates loaded into a hired Indian canoe and began the trip back to Chieke Bay. A storm blew up as the canoe entered the long strait leading into the bay, and for an unsteady hour Charlie worried that the overloaded canoe might capsize in rough waters. But the storm finally passed and the sea calmed. The rest of the trip was uneventful.
He left the crates on the beach and, exhausted, walked up toward the camp. As he got closer he could smell bacon frying, and his stomach began to growl. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast. He was looking forward to some hot grub, a few pulls from the bottle, and then a good night’s sleep. In the morning he’d start constructing the furnace, and if all went according to plan, he’d soon have his hands on the stolen gold. Charlie was feeling very good about things as he walked into the camp.
There was Billy, cooking over the fire. Across the way sat Hubbard, nursing a bottle. And right off Charlie knew that something was very wrong.
When Billy saw his partner, he didn’t say anything; he just walked into the tent. When he emerged a few moments later, he waited until Hubbard’s head was turned and then, without a word, slipped a small piece of paper into Charlie’s hand.
Charlie quickly put it into his pocket, and went over to talk to Hubbard. The small man was in a sullen mood. He sat hunched, a tight, grim expression on his face. Charlie pretended not to notice. He went on in his spirited way about the high time he’d had in Juneau and how he’d picked up all the supplies. Hubbard listened with a fierce silence. Finally Charlie said he needed a drink. He was going to fetch a fresh bottle. A man in no hur
ry, he went off to the tent.
But once inside, he immediately took Billy’s note from his pocket. He read: “It’s all off. They are suspicious of us and say they won’t dig up the gold.”
TWENTY-SIX
s Charlie’s careful strategy collapsed, George Carmack was sitting idly farther north in Fortymile, a small, lonely settlement on the high banks on the Yukon River forty miles downstream from Fort Reliance. A decision made by the impetuous toss of a coin had pointed him toward this destination. But now that George had arrived, he’d no idea of what he’d do; unlike the detective, he didn’t even possess a plan that could fall apart. He was a man alone, and without prospects. Oddly, though, he wasn’t concerned. In fact, his blood, he would say, was tingling. The previous day’s premonition remained strong. He knew that something unusual was about to take place.
That night George slept in his tent, and very quickly he fell into a dream as intense as if he were living it. Events unfolded in vivid detail. There he was sitting on the banks of a small stream, watching grayling shoot the rapids. Suddenly the grayling scattered in fright as two large king salmon burst upstream in a torrent of white, foaming water. The two enormous fish came to a stop below him. He gazed down and was immediately stirred by their golden beauty. When he looked closer, he saw that their sparkling skin was covered not in scales but with bright gold nuggets. Their eyes were shiny twenty-dollar gold pieces. Excited, he reached into the icy water to grasp one of the salmon, and it was at that moment he awoke.
The dream had been so compelling, so fantastic yet at the same time so real, that sleep was no longer possible. George spent the remainder of the restless night lying under his blanket trying to make some sense of the experience. Living with the Tagish had taught him that dreams were not accidents but communications from the guiding spirits. Yet George could not decipher the message in this strange dream. It was very frustrating, like a letter that could not be read because the ink had faded.
By the morning, however, the implications of the dream grew clear: He must go fishing for salmon. There was a good market for dried salmon, and the dream was telling him that he’d be able to earn some money by selling his catch. The spirits, he felt, were looking out for him.
After breakfast, George went to the trading post run by old Jack McQuesten, another frustrated prospector, and bought a spool of net twine. He spent the morning stringing together the long gill net he’d anchor down with willow poles and use as a weir to catch the salmon. As he worked in the strong sun, he gave some thought to where he’d set his net. He’d hunted and fished with the Tagish along many of the streams that emptied into the Yukon. There were plenty of rich fishing grounds. But as soon as he began to consider the possibilities, one location took an iron hold in his mind. About fifty miles to the north, in Canadian territory, a small, swift stream of placid blue-green waters cut off from the roaring Yukon River. The Indians called it Throndiuk; the name meant “Hammer Water,” in recognition of the fence of stakes they’d hammer across its shallow waters to hold their gill nets. Trappers and prospectors had taken to netting salmon there, too. But they found the guttural Indian word unpronounceable. Mangled by the white man, it came out “Klondike,” and the new name stuck.
George now had a plan. To his surprise, his life had been given a new and resolute direction. He’d fish for salmon, and grow rich from selling his catch. On the first day of July 1896, George loaded his boat and started upriver for the Klondike.
THE INDIANS blamed the white man’s steamboats. They believed that the constant churning of the paddle wheels as the boats chugged downstream had disturbed the pattern of the currents flowing through the Yukon River. George had no idea whether this explanation was correct. All he knew was that this year the salmon weren’t running on the Klondike. He’d hammered in the stakes and stretched his fish trap across the shallow water at the mouth of the river. He’d built a birch frame where he’d hang the fish to dry in the sun. But there was little to catch or dry. In all his years in the north, George had never seen a poorer run of fish.
The weather was working against him, too. Torrential rains fell day after day, and when, at last, the daily drenchings subsided, cold moved in. He’d wake up in the morning to find that the heavy dew glistening on the riverbank had frozen into a solid icy coat. But George didn’t break camp. He had faith in the guiding wisdom of his dream. He’d stay on and the salmon run would soon increase.
One afternoon, after spending a disappointing month on the Klondike, George waded into the cold, shallow water to check his traps. This was monotonous work; each square of netting needed to be inspected and, more bothersome, the long immersion in the chilly water made his legs cramp. He was pulling a small salmon from the net when he heard a booming voice: “Kla-how-ya, George.” He looked up to see Skookum Jim calling to him; Tagish Charley was beside him.
Surprised, George hurried out of the water to greet them. He hadn’t seen the two Indians since their time prospecting together in the Yukon, and now the sudden memory struck him as an experience from another, distant life. Their appearance also nudged his thoughts to Kate—she was, he reminded himself, Jim’s sister—and little Gracie. In pursuit of his new ambition, he had left his family behind. And by now the wilderness had crept around him so completely that they also seemed to belong to another time. He didn’t miss them; it was not his way. The years on his own had taught George to find comfort in solitude.
After shaking hands, George asked what had brought the two Indians so far downriver.
We’ve had nothing but bad luck since you left, Jim explained. We find no gold. And this—
Jim rolled up his sleeve and displayed a row of long, deep scars. George recognized that they’d been made by a bear. George had always feared bears, and it was unsettling to listen as Jim described the attack.
He’d been in the woods when, without warning, a big brown bear had charged. He got off two quick shots with his rifle and both bullets hit, but the wounds seemed only to enrage the great creature. Growling with fury, the bear rose up on its hind legs and swiped with its sharp claws like a boxer throwing punches. Desperate, Jim clubbed at the bear with his empty rifle. But he was no match for the angry beast. Jim’s caribou-skin shirt was in tatters, his arms and chest were dripping with blood, when suddenly the bear collapsed from its wounds. As the animal lay helpless on its back, Jim repeatedly smashed a large rock against its head until he was sure the bear was dead.
Bad luck, George agreed; just hearing the tale had left him with shivers. But he still didn’t understand why the two Indians had turned up on the Klondike.
We speak with the medicine man in the village, Jim went on. He said we want to rid evil spirits, we need to find George. He said George make good medicine for us.
“Well, you’ve hunted me up,” George said. “You’re welcome to stay.” But he also told them that maybe the shaman was wrong: “I’m not having much luck myself. Don’t see how I can help you.”
All afternoon, George pondered what Jim had said. He knew the shaman’s medicine was strong. There had to be a reason the two Indians were instructed to find him. All his life he’d been on his own, and he’d grown accustomed to sorting through things. So George kept at it, and soon he felt he understood. He’d stumbled off the path the spirits had determined for him. The shaman had sent Jim and Charley to warn him. But what about his dream? George let it unfold again in his mind, and now it occurred to him that he’d misinterpreted the message. The spirits hadn’t wanted him to fish for salmon. That wasn’t what it was about at all.
That night after dinner he sat with Jim and Charley and held a council. “The fish aren’t coming,” George began. “We got to do something else.”
Jim suggested that they go lumbering. They could float the logs down the river. The saw mill at Fortymile was paying $25 a thousand feet.
George considered the idea. Been told there’re some big spruce trees up the Klondike, he said. Maybe we do a little logging, he agreed.
The Indians nodded. A new path had been set. Their luck would change. The shaman had been wise to send them to George.
George, however, was not finished. There was something he needed to tell them, he announced with a measure of gravity. Sitting by the campfire across from his two friends, he shared his dream.
The spirits talking to you, George, Charley said with certainty.
George concurred. And at last, George explained, he understood what he was being told. The dream wasn’t about salmon fishing. The spirits weren’t telling him to go logging, either. George said, “We head up the Klondike and go prospecting.”
THE KLONDIKE was unexplored country, a wilderness new to all three of the men, and George decided that it made sense first to scout out a good route north. In the morning George and Jim shouldered their packs and started up the Klondike on foot; Tagish Charley stayed behind to begin packing up the camp.
The two men hiked along the north bank of the river for several miles. The brush was not thick, and it was an easy journey. Soft green willows bent low toward the smooth water, and martens scattered at the sound of their approach. The birdsong of thrushes and yellow warblers filled the air. Shortly before noon, George spotted a high butte rising in the west. From its top, he told Jim, they’d be able to see the entire countryside. Jim agreed, and George led the way.
The climb to the summit was steep and exhausting. When they reached the top, George was eager to drop his pack. He wanted to sit down and catch his breath. But as he began to remove the leather strap from his shoulder, his eyes peered out into the distance; and then he no longer was aware of his fatigue.
The view was glorious. At that instant George was, he’d remember for the rest of his life, “deeply moved.” As far as he could see was a procession of fat hills, one after another, an undulating carpet woven in a pattern of green and brown shades. Instinctively, George turned to see what was behind him. Now he looked out at a solid wall of mountains, their snow-capped peaks reaching up into the blue sky. He turned his head again, looking eastward, and he saw another range of low, dome-shaped hills. As he studied this rolling landscape, each hill nearly identical in height, he noticed a series of long, broad furrows cutting across the length of the entire range. For a moment he was reminded of the red claw marks scarring Jim’s arm. But then he grasped what he was looking at it. The clefts were deep stream beds. Over the course of untold centuries, their fast waters had gouged their way down from the hilltops, carving out steep valleys and breaking off into a lace of twisting creeks as they’d rumbled toward the Klondike River. And at once George knew. These were the streams in his dream. The fish in these waters would have twenty-dollar coins for eyes, and the stream beds would be shining with gold nuggets. It’d be like panning on the floor of heaven. Standing on that high butte and looking east, he had another unshakable premonition: He’d strike gold in those distant streams.
