The Trail of the Goldseekers Part 15

"That ends it, Burton," I said. "I had hoped to bring all my horses through, but this old fellow is out of the race. It is a question now either of leaving him beside the trail with a notice to have him brought forward or of shooting him out of hand."

To this partner gravely agreed, but said, "It's going to be pretty hard lines to shoot that faithful old chap."

"Yes," I replied, "I confess I haven't the courage to face him with a rifle after all these weeks of faithful service. But it must be done. You remember that horse back there with a hole in his flank and his head flung up? We mustn't leave this old fellow to be a prey to the wolves. Now if you'll kill him you can set your price on the service. Anything at all I will pay. Did you ever kill a horse?"

Partner was honest. "Yes, once. He was old and sick and I believed it better to put him out of his suffering than to let him drag on."

"That settles it, partner," said I. "Your hands are already imbued with gore--it must be done."

He rose with a sigh. "All right. Lead him out into the thicket."

I handed him the gun (into which I had shoved two steel-jacketed bullets, the kind that will kill a grizzly bear), and took the old horse by the halter. "Come, boy," I said, "it's hard, but it's the only merciful thing." The old horse looked at me with such serene trust and confidence, my courage almost failed me. His big brown eyes were so full of sorrow and patient endurance. With some urging he followed me into the thicket a little aside from the trail. Turning away I mounted Ladrone in order that I might not see what happened.

There was a crack of a rifle in the bush--the sound of a heavy body falling, and a moment later Burton returned with a coiled rope in his hand and a look of trouble on his face. The horses lined up again with one empty place and an extra saddle topping the pony's pack. It was a sorrowful thing to do, but there was no better way. As I rode on, looking back occasionally to see that my train was following, my heart ached to think of the toil the poor old horse had undergone--only to meet death in the bush at the hands of his master.

Relieved of our wounded horse we made good time and repa.s.sed before nine o'clock several outfits that had overhauled us during our trouble. We rose higher and higher, and came at last into a gra.s.sy country and to a series of small lakes, which were undoubtedly the source of the second fork of the Stikeen. But as we had lost so much time during the day, we pushed on with all our vigor for a couple of hours and camped about nine o'clock of a beautiful evening, with a magnificent sky arching us as if with a prophecy of better times ahead.

The horses were now travelling very light, and our food supply was reduced to a few pounds of flour and bread--we had no game and no berries. Beans were all gone and our bacon reduced to the last shred. We had come to expect rain every day of our lives, and were feeling a little the effects of our scanty diet of bread and bacon--hill-climbing was coming to be laborious. However, the way led downward most of the time, and we were able to rack along at a very good pace even on an empty stomach.

During the latter part of the second day the trail led along a high ridge, a sort of hog-back overlooking a small river valley on our left, and bringing into view an immense blue canon far ahead of us.

"There lies the Stikeen," I called to Burton. "We're on the second south fork, which we follow to the Stikeen, thence to the left to Telegraph Creek." I began to compose doggerel verses to express our exultation.

We were very tired and glad when we reached a camping-place. We could not stop on this high ridge for lack of water, although the feed was very good. We were forced to plod on and on until we at last descended into the valley of a little stream which crossed our path.

The ground had been much trampled, but as rain was falling and darkness coming on, there was nothing to do but camp.

Out of our last bit of bacon grease and bread and tea we made our supper. While we were camping, "The Wild Dutchman," a stalwart young fellow we had seen once or twice on the trail, came by with a very sour visage. He went into camp near, and came over to see us. He said: "I hain't had no pread for more dan a veek. I've nuttin' put peans. If you can, let me haf a biscuit. By Gott, how goot dat vould taste."

I yielded up a small loaf and encouraged him as best I could: "As I figure it, we are within thirty-five miles of Telegraph Creek; I've kept a careful diary of our travel. If we've pa.s.sed over the Dease Lake Trail, which is probably about four hundred miles from Hazleton to Glenora, we must be now within thirty-five miles of Telegraph Creek."

I was not half so sure of this as I made him think; but it gave him a great deal of comfort, and he went off very much enlivened.

Sunday and no sun! It was raining when we awoke and the mosquitoes were stickier than ever. Our grub was nearly gone, our horses thin and weak, and the journey uncertain. All ill things seemed to a.s.semble like vultures to do us harm. The world was a grim place that day. It was a question whether we were not still on the third south fork instead of the second south fork, in which case we were at least one hundred miles from our supplies. If we were forced to cross the main Stikeen and go down on the other side, it might be even farther.

The men behind us were all suffering, and some of them were sure to have a hard time if such weather continued. At the same time I felt comparatively sure of our ground.

We were ragged, dirty, lame, unshaven, and unshorn--we were fighting from morning till night. The trail became more discouraging each moment that the rain continued to fall. There was little conversation even between partner and myself. For many days we had moved in perfect silence for the most part, though no gloom or sullenness appeared in Burton's face. We were now lined up once more, taking the trail without a word save the sharp outcry of the drivers hurrying the horses forward, or the tinkle of the bells on the lead horse of the train.

THE VULTURE

He wings a slow and watchful flight, His neck is bare, his eyes are bright, His plumage fits the starless night.

He sits at feast where cattle lie Withering in ashen alkali, And gorges till he scarce can fly.

But he is kingly on the breeze!

On rigid wing, in careless ease, A soundless bark on viewless seas.

Piercing the purple storm cloud, he makes The sun his neighbor, and shakes His wrinkled neck in mock dismay, And swings his slow, contemptuous way Above the hot red lightning's play.

Monarch of cloudland--yet a ghoul of prey.

CAMPFIRES

1. _Popple_

A river curves like a bended bow, And over it winds of summer lightly blow; Two boys are feeding a flame with bark Of the pungent popple. Hark!

They are uttering dreams. "I Will go hunt gold toward the western sky,"

Says the older lad; "I know it is there, For the rainbow shows just where It is. I'll go camping, and take a pan, And shovel gold, when I'm a man."

2. _Sage Brush_

The burning day draws near its end, And on the plain a man and his friend Sit feeding an odorous sage-brush fire.

A lofty b.u.t.te like a funeral pyre, With the sun atop, looms high In the cloudless, windless, saffron sky.

A snake sleeps under a grease-wood plant; A horned toad snaps at a pa.s.sing ant; The plain is void as a polar floe, And the limitless sky has a furnace glow.

The men are gaunt and s.h.a.ggy and gray, And their childhood river is far away; The gold still hides at the rainbow's tip, Yet the wanderer speaks with a resolute lip.

"I will seek till I find--or till I die,"

He mutters, and lifts his clenched hand high, And puts behind him love and wife, And the quiet round of a farmer's life.

3. _Pine_

The dark day ends in a bitter night.

The mighty mountains cold, and white, And stern as avarice, still hide their gold Deep in wild canons fold on fold, Both men are old, and one is grown As gray as the snows around him sown.

He hovers over a fire of pine, Spicy and cheering; toward the line Of the towering peaks he lifts his eyes.

"I'd rather have a boy with s.h.i.+ning hair, To bear my name, than all your share Of earth's red gold," he said; And died, a loveless, childless man, Before the morning light began.

CHAPTER XVIII

AT LAST THE STIKEEN

About the middle of the afternoon of the fifty-eighth day we topped a low divide, and came in sight of the Stikeen River. Our hearts thrilled with pleasure as we looked far over the deep blue and purple-green spread of valley, dim with mist, in which a little silver ribbon of water could be seen.

After weeks of rain, as if to make amend for useless severity, the sun came out, a fresh westerly breeze sprang up, and the sky filled with glowing clouds flooded with tender light. The bloom of fireweed almost concealed the devastation of flame in the fallen firs, and the grim forest seemed a royal road over which we could pa.s.s as over a carpet--winter seemed far away.

But all this was delusion. Beneath us lay a thousand quagmires. The forest was filled with impenetrable jungles and hidden streams, ridges sullen and silent were to be crossed, and the snow was close at hand. Across this valley an eagle might sweep with joy, but the pack trains must crawl in mud and mire through long hours of torture.

We spent but a moment here, and then with grim resolution called out, "Line up, boys, line up!" and struck down upon the last two days of our long journey.

On the following noon we topped another rise, and came unmistakably in sight of the Stikeen River lying deep in its rocky canon. We had ridden all the morning in a pelting rain, slashed by wet trees, plunging through bogs and sliding down ravines, and when we saw the valley just before us we raised a cheer. It seemed we could hear the hotel bells ringing far below.