A Claim on Klondyke: A Romance of the Arctic El Dorado

by Edward Roper

CHAPTER VII.

The following day—I call it day, because my watch indicated eight in the morning—I went to work, determined to lose no time in finishing all I had to do before starting. There was a collar and traces to make for Patch, and a few other things to complete. I stuck to this employment till evening, when it blew hard, snow fell in flurries, and it was again a blizzard. This lasted for two entire days.

Every few minutes during this time my thoughts reverted to that sound which had attracted me up the creek. I could not get rid of the notion that some people might be there. I tried to look the matter squarely in the face, endeavouring to convince myself that even if it were so, it was of no consequence to me.

I was going down stream; I was ready to leave; in a couple more days, if the weather settled, I should be off, and would, I trusted and believed, quickly arrive at where people dwelt. I knew the way. I could not miss the way. How much better for me this was than setting out on an indefinite hunt into a region still farther from the haunts of men.

Thus I reasoned, thus I endeavoured to pacify my thoughts, but again and again there came over my spirit the fancy that there might be some one, not so many miles off, who was as much in need of companionship, who was just as lonely as I was. I cannot explain why I felt thus. I had merely heard, repeated twice, two cracks that sounded like gunshots, that was all, whilst the woods and the ice on which I had stood were full of similar noises.

It was, I suppose, the great desire, the mighty longing that I had for the company of a fellow-being that thus agitated me.

This seemed to me to be the greatest pain I suffered; it was indeed my chief longing to meet a human being—white, black, or red. Just then I believe I should have hailed enthusiastically the poorest specimen of an Indian, the meanest white man in all the country.

Meade had only been gone about eleven weeks, it is true, although it appeared to me that I had been eleven years alone.

On the third evening, which was intensely, indescribably cold, but calm and clear, with brilliant moonlight—stimulated by these thoughts and anxious for action, I started off with my good dog, determined, if possible, to satisfy my longing. I meant, if necessary, to go farther up the creek than I had yet been, up a branch of it which appeared to trend in the direction in which I had been attracted by the peculiar sounds.

I put half a loaf of bread into my bag, some meat, a lump of chocolate, and a pot to boil water in. For a wonder I did this—I rarely took any food with me, but this time it occurred to me as possible that I might have to be out some time—and, as you will learn, it was indeed providential that I did.

Patch and I marched off along the wide avenue which our stream formed through the scrubby firs and Jack pines which grew closely along its margins. We halted first at the place where we had stopped previously, and listened again.

There were the frost-sounds frequent enough, but nothing more. We halted there some little time; Patch was not interested, he sat beside me listless. Then we trudged on a piece farther up the arm, which pointed, as nearly as I could guess, south-west, and this was towards where I thought that I had heard the shots. Here the stream had spread out some width, there was a wide expanse of unruffled snow, and the sounds made by the frost were nearly inaudible.

We waited there again, and to my surprise and amusement Patch became quite animated. He stood beside me, gazing solemnly ahead, with his tail waving slowly, his ears pricked up. He seemed to be listening, as I was, very intently. We stood some minutes thus. I was very cold, but I spoke cheerily to Patch.

He paid no attention to me, just gazed wistfully before him. Yet no sound like a gunshot broke the silence.

I had become impatient; with my mittened hand I patted my companion's head, saying something to him about the futility of this—that it was all hallucination, imagination—at which he looked at me for a moment gravely, then pointed his nose upstream once more, and with his ears erect listened again.

But I could not stand still any longer. I spoke to Patch about it. He paid no attention, at which I turned, meaning to retrace my steps.

I saw he was unwilling to go with me; indeed he sat down in the snow and pointed his nose persistently up the creek, at which it occurred to me we might just as well go on a little farther, as I knew we could not lose ourselves, and I knew, alas! that there was no one "at home" to be troubled about our absence, so I turned again, crying, "Come, my lad! come on, then!"

At this the good old dog began to wag his tail, to jump and caper around me, barking with delight. I had not seen him so excited for weeks, not even when he thought he had a fox cornered, or a rabbit entangled in a snow-drift.

Often he stood still suddenly, as if he had heard something deeply interesting, and always after these intermissions he went ahead with greater demonstrations of pleasure and excitement, which caused me to become more agitated: I wondered what his meaning was.

After a while, when we were standing side by side, attentive, suddenly the stillness, which was oppressive, was broken by two shots!

No doubt of it this time, they were shots! and not so very far away.

Patch looked at me delighted. I am sure he was. Instinctively I took him by the collar, for I thought he might in his transports rush off and get into mischief.

However, a very few minutes after the sound of the shots had ceased to echo amongst the hills, six cracks rang through the stillness. It was a revolver that had been fired, that was sure!

I loosed the dog then, who rushed off in the direction of the sound, whilst I floundered after him, calling as I ran, "Forward, good dog! Forward!"

We must have gone half a mile before we stopped again to listen. Patch had been running ahead barking, then returning to me, showing his eagerness, his delight, urging me with all his powers to hurry on.

But I was out of breath. I stood still, and then I heard a double shot fired once more, and six revolver shots immediately after, and they were much nearer than the last!

There was no mistake about it then. There were other human beings in that awful wilderness, there were more folk suffering—perhaps as I was—for I could not help regarding these reports as signals, perhaps signals of distress.

I thought it well now to make a response. I raised my gun, let fly both barrels, then I drew my revolver from its case and discharged, at regular intervals, all six cartridges, saying, as I did so, "We'll try what that will do, Patch."

Very little time elapsed before I had my answer. The signal was repeated.

It may be imagined what I felt. The knowledge that there was really some person there was pleasing; it was also extremely agitating. I rejoiced that I should soon greet a fellow-creature; that I was not alone in that vast region, in that wilderness of snow and ice. This knowledge was quite overpowering—for a few seconds I could neither speak nor move.

Quickly, however, recovering some composure, I hurried on after Patch, who was rushing ahead and barking vehemently.

Those shots had seemingly been fired on the far side of a low bare hill, which I hurried up, cheering on the dog, making my way with all the speed I could to the summit of the ridge. Fortunately I had the presence of mind to note the course I must take to return to our creek.

This hill was steeper than it looked to be; it took me some time to mount it, and when at last I stood upon its top I saw no sign of life, nothing but the vast snow-fields, sprinkled here and there with black pines.

Here I fired again, Patch all the time barking exuberantly, and I, feeling sure that I was on the point of some wonderful discovery, felt very strange.

As I stood panting with the exertion of my climb through that chill dry air, I wondered what I could possibly expect to find in those terrific wilds—rough miners, possibly Indians, more likely some one as unfortunate as myself, that was all.

However, the response to my signal was not delayed; down in the valley below there was what appeared to be a door thrown open. A flood of light shone forth, and in the glare of it there stood a figure, whether man or woman, friend or foe, I did not stay to consider—I just bowed my head in thankfulness. This person discharged a double-barrelled gun, then, running out, brandished a blazing firebrand to attract attention evidently, at which I started forward.

I soon had to stop, out of breath, and then I heard the outcry of a human being, and what was most astonishing, it seemed to be the voice of a woman in distress.

Patch had already disappeared. I hastened after him, but had to halt again: the declivity was very steep, the way was encumbered with fallen timber and scrub, it was difficult to descend; so what with the thin cold air and my hurry, I made slow progress, and had to rest frequently.

At one of these rests I saw against the light of the open door my dog crouched at the feet of the person there, who was stooping to caress him.

I hurried on again, and soon could understand what the woman cried; it was, "Help! oh, help! White man or Indian, come and help us!"

I shouted in reply—the distance was very short between us now—"I'm English! You may trust me! I'll come to you as speedily as possible!"

And, as I began to flounder on again, I heard her exclaim most eagerly, "Thank God! Thank God!"

It was not long after this before I reached her and the dog. As I approached she stood up and gazed at me.

She was so enveloped in rugs and clothing that it was impossible to make out from her figure what she was; only two piercing eyes were visible, intently fixed on me. We stood thus, looking at each other for several seconds, then she exclaimed, "Oh! I'm so grateful that you're an Englishman! I'm sure you'll help me if you can."

Her voice thrilled me; I knew instinctively that she was a young woman; moreover, her tone, her accent, assured me that she was no rough and common one. Was I in a dream? I could not realise what had come to pass; I merely said, "Most certainly, I'll help you; what is the matter?"

Then she begged me to come inside the dwelling: I followed her, Patch entering with us. Shutting the door closely, and drawing a curtain across it, she pointed to a rough stool, asked me to remove my snow-shoes and be seated.

I glanced around; I was in a fair-sized log shanty, one end of which appeared to be the fireplace, which, being piled up with blazing logs, filled the low room with light and most welcome warmth. There were two nooks curtained off with coloured blankets. Behind one of them my conductress disappeared, but only for a few moments, when she appeared again. I was greatly embarrassed, for she had removed her wraps, and stood before me a tall and graceful girl, who impressed me instantly with the feeling that I was in the presence of a saint, for the glow from the fire, shining on her fair hair, which was in disorder round her head, formed a halo, an aureole.

"WHEN SHE APPEARED AGAIN I WAS GREATLY EMBARRASSED."

Her face, indeed, was thin, drawn, and bore a most distressed expression, but for all that my first glance showed me that it was a beautiful, a supremely beautiful, girl in whose presence I stood.

When I had removed my capote and outer clothing, she glanced at me, and I noticed she gave a sigh of relief when she saw that I was a young man—rough, unkempt, and anything but clean, certainly—but not a ruffianly bushman, as she no doubt had feared I would prove to be; then sitting down by her fire, I asked, "Now, what can I do to help you? What is wrong?"

She looked at me very sorrowfully, tears filled her eyes, she sobbed, she strove to reply to me; it took same time for her to attain the power of speech, whilst I regarded her with extreme interest and sympathy. At length she murmured, "I am not alone here—my father is lying in there," and she pointed to the other curtained place. "He is lying there very ill—dying, I'm afraid; it is for him that I want help."

I told her that I was greatly grieved for her, but that, unfortunately, I knew little or nothing about illness. I asked if there were no others camped about there—were they entirely alone?

She assured me that, so far as they knew, there was no human being within a hundred miles of them, and that the great trouble was, they had no food,—that they were actually starving!

"Do you mean," I asked, horrified, "that you really have nothing here to eat? How long have you been like this?"

She told me that for weeks they had had nothing but salmon and a little tea; no bread, no meat—nothing but what she had mentioned. "And for a sick man," she went on, "what are they? I have tried to cook this fish in various ways, to get him to eat, but it is useless; he has had nothing but tea for many days—he's dying of starvation!"

"And you," I said; "how have you managed? Have you had nothing but salmon?"

She replied reluctantly, "Oh, I've done well enough. I can eat the fish, and have done so all the time; but now, alas! that too is consumed! We are just perishing for want of food—it is dreadful. What am I to do? Can you help us?"

I was unbuckling my bag now. "Come," said I; "cheer up, then. If that is all that's wrong, I can soon make it right;" and when I put the piece of bread and meat upon the rough table, and unfolded the cake of chocolate, her eyes dilated with eagerness. She glared at the provisions as a half-starved dog would do, which completely upset my equanimity.

"My dear lady!" I exclaimed, "I have plenty. By God's good providence I put these things into my bag when I started. Why, I don't know, but there they are; pray eat, and let me assure you that I have ample provisions; eat, and then we'll talk further about what is to be done."

She took the chocolate and scraped some into a tin can, saying, "Ah! it's not myself I care so much about, it's my poor father: with this and with this bread he'll recover, I trust—it will save his life, please God! And oh! I bless and thank Him for this, and you for coming to our aid."

Then she took it behind the other curtain, and I heard her endeavouring to awaken her father, who appeared to be in a kind of swoon, out of which she was unable to arouse him.

After a while she called me in, and there on a rough couch he lay, quite insensible. He was a handsome, grey-bearded man, having an air of refinement I could see, although he was now so terribly thin and emaciated, with face and hands so white and bloodless, that he was a pitiful sight.

His daughter had contrived to raise him on a heap of clothes used as pillows. I saw he breathed, but beyond that he looked to be already dead.

She looked up as I entered, perplexed and alarmed. "I cannot make him understand!" she cried, and with a gasp she fell prone upon his bed herself, and I suppose she fainted.

I was bewildered now; it looked as if they were both in a very serious state, and I neither knew which to attend to first, or what to do for either.

I first endeavoured to bring him to consciousness, then I begged his daughter to try to rouse herself; but for some minutes I called to both in vain, and I thought they were dead.

There I was, completely at a loss,—I could do nothing but stare at them. Was this another horror added to what had occurred to me already? I asked myself. Had I found companions in my solitude only to see them die before my eyes? What could I do?

At length the girl stirred, gave a heart-rending sigh or two, and turning, saw me. I believe she did not at once understand what I was doing there; but I spoke gently to her, saying, "I think you are as nearly famished as your father; let me persuade you to leave him a while; drink some of this stuff yourself, eat some bread and meat. I hope it is only want of sustenance that affects you. Do as I ask, and I will stay here and try to bring him to his senses, and to take some food."

She appeared willing, but unable to move. I offered her my hand; she took it, and I helped her into the outer room. When I saw that she was trying to take some food I left her.

I had much difficulty in dealing with her father, I tried in many ways; but at last I forced some chocolate into his mouth with a spoon. He swallowed it, and after a little he too revived; intelligence came to him. He opened his eyes, gazed wonderingly at me, and asked faintly, "Who are you? Where do you come from? Where is May?"

She was by his side instantly. "Father! father, dear!" she cried, "we are saved; this good man has found us. He has plenty of food, and he will help us."

At which he, looking alive at last to the state of affairs, muttered, "Food, did you say, May—food? Ah! there's plenty to pay for it; give the man gold, any amount of it, for food—that is worth more than gold to us, my love!"

"Hush—hush!" she whispered to him, "this is a friend; I know he is a friend. Say nothing about gold!"

But he would not be suppressed. He was taking spoonful after spoonful of the chocolate now, and munching a piece of bread, and between the mouthfuls he said to her, "It is delicious, darling. I am better already; it is only food I needed, you see? Get more, dear girl—get plenty of it; pay this man what he asks for it, only get us food."

I spoke up then. "Don't trouble, sir," I said, "I have plenty not so very far from here, plenty of gold too; don't trouble about that, only eat all you can, and get up your strength for your daughter's sake—she needs food as much as you do. What I have fortunately brought with me will sustain you for a few hours whilst I go for more."

"But where do you live? how did you find us?" he asked, looking at me fiercely with dark, brilliant, hungry eyes. "To think what we have suffered, May, and there was food close to us."

Perceiving that it was useless to discuss this with him, and seeing that he was taking food and gradually coming to himself, I thought it as well to leave him.

The girl soon followed, and we drew stools near the fire, where Patch had been all along stretched out luxuriously.

He came up at once and laid his head upon her lap, showing very plainly that he approved of her.

As for me, I was in a position hard to describe. I who had been for many months away from all refined female society, and for some time past had been utterly alone, a dog my sole companion, now sat beside a lovely girl in dire distress, a girl who was without doubt a lady. I was sure of that, and was shy accordingly.

Her dress was serge, it was worn and soiled and shabby, a shawl was round her shoulders, a fox's pelt was round her neck, and she wore heavy, clumsy mocassins, the beadwork and decorations torn and tarnished. Her hands were small and shapely, but they were cut and bruised, wretchedly discoloured and black with bad usage and neglect. Her hair was in spite of all lovely, although it was touselled and dishevelled, looking as if a comb had not been used to it for many a day.

This girl was very fair, her hair was golden, her eyes were beautifully blue, she was tall, and though then borne down with toil and trouble, I could not help remarking that when in health and happiness she would be a rare specimen of a lovely English girl, than whom not one on earth is handsomer.

Now here she was, away back in the Yukon territory, surely the most inhospitable, the most unsuitable, for a refined woman, in the wide, wide world, many miles from all her fellow-creatures, practically alone and starving, with a dying father, and not much hope of rescue. It was an awful situation, hard enough to describe, impossible to realise.

And here was I, a young fellow with precious little experience of civilised life, for I had left England when little more than a lad. I was diffident, too, with ladies, yet here I was, thrown into her company, and, as it seemed, looked at by her as her saviour and her hope!

I saw all I have described, thought all I have said, in a moment, and I considered at the same time what I was and what this fair lady must think of me! I remembered my dress, my dreadfully dirty dress. My face was black with soot and grease; I knew my hands were.

You may suppose that in that country, where for eight months of the twelve every drop of water had to be obtained with difficulty by melting ice or snow, that most ideas of cleanliness have to be given up. Yukon miners, as a rule, do not bother much with soap in the long dark winter.

We two, seated by the fire, were silent for a while. I knew well that I had a serious task before me, and the sooner I started to it the better it would be, and the weather being then settled, I ought to make use of it. Supposing another blizzard should arise, then moving about outside would not be practicable, it would mean death to all of us.

I felt a difficulty in questioning this girl, and yet I was sure I ought to know more about her, their position then, what they most needed, and in what way I had better move.

She sat silently gazing into the fierce fire. There were several large sticks of firewood ready to pile on, and a couple of huge knotty logs, which it would take a strong man some trouble to get there. I noticed these and asked her about them, saying that she and her father I supposed had not been very long alone, or else her father had been but a short time laid by, as I saw they had a good supply of fuel.

She smiled sadly. "That is the last of it," she said, "and I'm afraid I'm not strong enough to chop more just yet—perhaps that'll last till I feel better."

"You chopped that! You dragged all that inside!" I exclaimed, astonished. "Why, what are you? You don't look as if you could do such work. Is it really true?"

She assured me that it was—that she and her father had been alone there, entirely alone, since the end of the previous September; that he was ill then, and that was the reason that they did not go out with the others of their party when they left. I believe she wished to tell me all about it then, but I knew that time was precious, so contrived to lead her into speaking of her father's illness and his most pressing needs. I told her where I was camped, what I possessed, and made her tell me what I had better bring. I explained that I had arranged to start for Dawson, had all preparations made, so that all I would have to do would be to load my sleigh with provisions and necessaries and come up to them instead of going down stream to the Yukon—that I should be some hours on the journey, and that soon after I returned I trusted to see a very great improvement in her health and her father's.

"Why," said she, almost gaily, "I'm better already. Can't you see I am? and so is poor father. Come and see him before you leave."

I did so. He was sleeping peacefully, and really already looked improved.

When I told her all that I possessed, she was quite overcome with excitement. Would I bring some of it? Should I be robbing myself? Would not I be neglecting my own affairs by devoting time to them? and many such questions she put to me.

I begged her not to trouble about me—that when I returned I would explain all, and she would then understand; but as it was all-important to get what was wanted without delay, I must start at once.

Tears filled her eyes as she thanked me, and called down blessings on me, at which I laughed, asking her if she had met with strangers in distress would she pass them by unhelped? She said "No, she could not." "Well, then," I proceeded, "neither can I, so say no more, dear lady. I'm going to help you and your father out of this dreadful strait."

Before I left I chopped a heap of firewood and brought it in, for which she was very grateful. Then whistling Patch, I prepared to start. "Oh! leave me Patch," she begged; "the dear dog will be such company."

I assured her I would willingly do so if I dared, but that Patch had his work to do; he was a Huskie, trained to draw a sledge; without his help I could not bring much, so it was necessary that he should come with me.

She held out her hand to me, saying with a smile, "It's a very dirty one, but it's the best one I have to offer."

I clasped it gladly, shook it warmly, as I replied, "It's not half as bad and black as mine, but what can we expect in this awful climate, this terrible region!"

"Ah! what indeed," said she.

When I had gone fifty yards from the hut I looked back. She stood framed in the doorway against the light. I called to her "Go inside. Stay there till I return. I'll not be long; keep up your heart and your father's. All will now be well." Then an idea struck me, and I cried, "But tell me, what is your father's name and yours! Mine is Herbert Singleton, of Blumfield, Bedfordshire."

She answered loudly, but in tones I never will forget, "My father is William Bell of Hawkenhurst in Kent, and I am Mary Bell—but they always call me May!"

Then I shouted cheerily, "Farewell, God bless you!" and calling again to Patch, who was quite reluctant to leave her, I was off.