CHAPTER XI.
Gold-getting at this time was entirely given up: we scarcely mentioned the subject.
Were we satisfied with what we had obtained? I believe that we were to a great extent, for we knew that our claims were valuable, and we knew we could look to the future proceeds with assurance.
As for May's party's claim, she could do nothing. She believed it was safe, legally registered; and the American partners would return in the spring, and she had all the documents which her father had drawn up to prove her interest in it. With my claim it was much the same; I knew I could prove my title to it.
I believed then that it was only in the tunnel that the golden streak of gravel existed, and I really had not the courage to go in there to work alone, and of course I could not ask May to go in with me. She would have gone if I had, for she had a great objection to being alone, which I suppose was natural. She knew where Meade's body was lying; she knew where we had got gold, and I showed her my store of it in the cache.
Three weeks passed, during which we did a mere nothing: we were waiting till the season was more advanced, when we should have longer days, and so we made ourselves as contented as we could. We had planned, however, that when May had recovered some peace of mind, and had regained her health and strength, I should go back to their shanty with my toboggan, and bring the rest of her gold down.
I did this; I made the journey there and back in one day. She bravely wished to accompany me; it really was unnecessary, and after persuasion she consented to remain with Patch for company. I did not bring all her gold that trip, for I had formed another plan. I loaded some of it on the sled, but I also brought her father's body with me!
I had not told May of my intention, but I knew my scheme would please her. It was a melancholy undertaking, but I managed it all right, and crept silently back, and was able to take my burden into the tunnel without discovery. I left it there, came to May's door, and was welcomed home—it really seemed like home now.
"IT WAS A MELANCHOLY UNDERTAKING."
I made some excuse about not bringing all her gold, and later, by manoeuvring, I managed to hew out a niche for the body of Mr Bell close to Meade's; indeed I got it all done without her guessing anything. She knew I went out with pick and shovel, and supposed that it was something to do with mining. Several days after, I told her what I had done. She was very grateful, and went with me to the place, and saw, with tear-dimmed eyes, where I had laid her father.
Shortly after I made another trip to her place and brought away the rest of her treasure; and then, in our burrow on the hillside, there were many thousand pounds' worth of bullion stowed away.
All this time we were seriously talking about how and when we should get away; but as yet there were no signs of spring, further than increasing length of daylight.
During this time a very curious thing happened as we sat one evening by our fire, May and I, talking and planning: she, with a wooden stick we used as a poker, was stirring the earth of the floor about, when she exclaimed, "Why, there's a bit of gold!"
It was so, a piece the size of a bean. I supposed, at first, that I had in some way dropped it there, but when she stirred the earth again and found another piece or two, we realised that it was pay dirt that our floor was composed of! This set us examining, and we soon discovered that not only was the earth beneath us, but the very walls and roof of our abode, full of gold!
We scooped out with pick and shovel a large portion of one side of the dug-out, we carefully picked over the stuff we moved, and it was surprising how many coarse pieces we found. We had several meat tins full of small nuggets before a week went by, and we piled up before our door a heap—a dump—of what we knew was rich stuff, ready to be washed in spring.
However, we two had become so used to finding gold before, that this experience did not excite us as you might suppose. We knew we had a rich claim here anyway, and that May's party had a rich one farther in; we realised we were well off, had each made a very decent pile, and were perfectly well aware that what was of most immediate importance was to get away to arrange for the safety of the gold we had actually got, and legally to secure our claims. Our gold-digging, therefore, was more a pastime than a serious employment—we were eagerly looking forward to start for Dawson.
To wait till our creek opened in June, then float with all we possessed down it on the raft to its junction with the Klondyke, where our boat was cached, seemed at first the only way for us; but could we wait so long? No. We discussed, we projected, we planned, and at last we determined to pack the toboggan with all that we three could drag, and depart at once.
I had all my gear ready—May only needed a sleeping-bag, which we constructed—we cooked a good supply of food, packed all with fifty pounds of gold, and one bright noon-day we started, as we fondly hoped, to civilisation and home.
To those who do not know what moving about in winter in that arctic region means, it may appear strange that we should have made so much ado about this journey of one hundred miles or so. If I had been alone I might have thought less of this undertaking. If I had had a man for a companion, or even if we two had had no experience, we might have gone at it more light-heartedly. But we not only had the terror of the journey to face, and well knew that it was likely to be a terribly arduous one indeed, but we were full of anxiety, when it came to the point, about the valuable stores and gear we must leave behind us, above all our great hoard of gold. As I have explained, the difficulty had been to decide whether to wait till the creek opened and go down with all that we possessed, or to leave the bulk behind, trusting to its safety. We had chosen the latter plan, for we were impatient, at any rate May was, to get away from this awful place—to get home, in fact. So, putting our trust in God's protection, we started.
Our course was plain, the creek formed an avenue through the trees. It was fairly level, though we encountered many ridges and drifts of snow, which was deep; but the weather having been calm for some time, it had settled down and packed a little. Our load was very heavy, and the toboggan sunk in a good deal. Patch and I hauled in front usually, and May pushed, but sometimes, to make a change, she hauled in front; but breaking the track was generally too hard for her. What made our load, probably 300 lb. in weight, still harder to drag was that we could not pull with our snow-shoes on successfully, so gave them up, then sank in, often to our knees, sometimes to our waists; and many a time neither Patch nor I seemed able to get any secure foothold. As for my dear girl, she bravely struggled on and did her best to aid us, but really many times had all that she could do to keep herself from sinking out of sight in the dry powdery snow.
I don't believe we made three miles the first day. Our camp that night was in a clump of stunted pines. We put up our two tents close beside each other, lighting a big fire in front which warmed them both, and really in our sleeping-bags we felt little cold. May's tent being by far the larger, in it I ate with her, then turned into my own shelter for the night.
The following day I believe we made five miles. We were awfully fatigued; and having to put up tents, cut bedding, build the fire, and cook, was no light work after our day's march. That day I saw many tracks of wolves and foxes. I supposed my companion did not notice them, so I said nothing, for I did not wish to add to her discomfort the alarm of attacks from wild beasts. But I have learned since that she did see them and inwardly dreaded what they meant, yet kept her knowledge from me lest I should suffer more anxiety. She just "put her trust in God," she said, "and hoped He would protect us."
For several days and nights we had perfect weather, cold of course, I suppose it was never less than 15° or 20° below zero. Then on the seventh day—having made, we thought, fifty miles—as we were nearing the mouth of our creek, it began to blow! We well knew what that meant. The sky at noon was dark as night, the weird mountains were enshrouded in mists of driving snow. Down in the sheltered avenue, where we were struggling along, it was yet a breeze only, but even that seemed to cut us to our very marrow in spite of our furs and wraps: we realised that we must halt at once, make shelter somehow, somewhere, and lie up whilst this storm should last.
There was a high and rocky bank near the margin of the creek. I donned my snow-shoes and tramped across the snow to examine it, and fortunately found a sort of bay or gap between two huge boulders, which would protect us from most winds, and a big fire across the entrance would warm the air somewhat. Here we pitched our tents, and here we lay for three days and nights whilst the tempest howled past us.
Providentially there was no snowfall, only banks of it were lifted up and carried past our retreat in clouds, which caused us to dread every moment that a blast would curl it in on us and smother us. However, mercifully we were spared this horror, and on the fourth day the sun came out as the wind dropped, and we were able to move on. But it was awful work: my heart bled for May,—I could not help but show how much I felt for her. I could not refrain from exclamations which, I know now, showed her where my thoughts were, and what I felt. She, dear girl, quite understood: for she assures me that during all this dreadful time her one thought and hope was that in the time to come, if it should please God to bring us out of these horrors, she would be able to devote her life to my happiness and consolation in part payment for what she is pleased to speak of as my devotion to her,—just as if any man would not willingly risk life and limb for any woman in such a case—-just as if I, with such a girl as May, was not altogether glad to do anything and everything to help her.
The following day we got to and camped in the cave where our boat was hidden. It was with difficulty I found the place, everything was so deeply bedded in snow,—very different to when I parted those months before with Indian Fan and Jim. We had stowed the boat so safely that it was dry and free from snow, as the cave was. We camped that night in it, May taking up her quarters in the boat.
For some time we had not noticed tracks of any kind; but the following morning, which was bright and calm, I left the cave to May a while, and tramped down to the edge of the larger Klondyke river to make a survey of the route, and to discover, if possible, what the prospects were for our day's work.
There I was struck with astonishment to notice numerous footmarks along the margin. To be sure they were covered with fresh drifted snow, but my woodcraft taught me that they had been made recently. There was a regular path, which looked to have been much travelled. Certainly, I thought, it was a bear-track; and yet, knowing that those creatures hibernate, I was nonplussed. Did the Yukon bears behave as others, I wondered. Perhaps the St Elias grizzlies do not sleep the winter through. Was it wolves? I looked anxiously; the traces were too large, and spaced differently to their tracks. However, there was a well-used way, and I was greatly troubled.
We had by this time become so used to the toil and hardship of this mode of travel, that I was not surprised to find May in excellent spirits when I returned to camp. The brightness of the morning; the sunlight on the snow; the brilliant iridescence of the ice-bespangled branches of the trees, and the broader outlook across the white, wide expanse of the Klondyke; the knowledge of our having attained the first stage of our momentous journey safely; indeed, the very finding of the boat, which was the first link, as one may term it, with civilisation,—did so cheer the dear girl that she greeted me almost joyously as she bustled about with our cooking arrangements. We had promised ourselves a sumptuous repast on reaching the Klondyke, and I had fortunately knocked over a brace of grouse the day before, so we were reckoning on our breakfast.
But I was certainly bothered by the tracks I had seen, and May, noticing my preoccupied aspect, rallied me thereon. This made me put on a brighter look, and in my mind I determined to say nothing, to take all due precautions, and to put my trust for the rest in the good God who had protected us hitherto.
When we started on—gaily on May's part, trustfully on mine—we soon came to this track. Patch instantly noticed it, and would not move on. He whined, whimpered, and nosed it; then looking up and down the path, he whined again.
May was attracted by this proceeding. I endeavoured to pull ahead, saying nothing, merely calling to the dog to come on; but she, perceiving a trail of some kind, hesitated too. "Is it a bear path?" she inquired.
"Bears hibernate, you know," was my reply; "they don't make paths like that in winter."
"It must be caribou, or moose—perhaps there are cattle here, or, maybe, it's the track of people!"
"People here!—not likely." I shook my head as I spoke. "Who would be here, do you think?—Indians? Well, that might be, but I fancy they don't come about here at this season."
"Let us travel along it," said she; "it looks to be an easy way. Whatever made it, appears to have chosen the smoothest route," for we could perceive the trail for some distance winding amongst the scattered timber along the margin of the stream.
Now, my idea was to get as far away from those suspicious footmarks as possible. I wished to take to the middle of the creek, and we did so by-and-by, after I had assured my companion that I considered the level ice out there promised a better road. But she was not very easily persuaded. I believe she had the idea in her head that this path was made by human beings, and she had, naturally, a strong desire for the fellowship of her kind. As for me, I had no belief in anything but bears, and as for getting amongst people again—I wanted to, simply because it was necessary if we were ever to get home; yet I rather disliked the idea, for I knew well it would be the ending of her sweet companionship.
I cannot quite truly describe how I felt just then. Certainly there was an immense amount of suffering in our life, but I thought little of my share in it, for was I not suffering with May? and I did not look forward with entire pleasure to its ending. Only, for her dear sake, only to put an end to her discomfort, her misery, I knew what my duty was, and did it.
We hauled our load out into the wide white lane and travelled down towards Dawson. And as we moved slowly, laboriously onwards, I rarely took my eyes from where I knew that mysterious trail was winding through the timber.
It was laborious work, truly. The snow was deep, and it was not packed. There averaged three feet of it, then there seemed to be a heavy crust, and if one broke through that, which we often did, we found a layer of slush—half-melted snow—sometimes but a few inches deep, at others a yard or more, and only under this was the solid ice of the river. I used to go ahead with my pole and sound where I thought it looked suspicious. Often I thus steered clear of difficulty, and often I did not, for many a time the load, and May, and I, sunk in to such a depth that it was actually alarming. She bravely suppressed outcries and expressions of fear. She tried to laugh over these deplorable episodes, and sometimes I saw her gaze longingly on what she thought was a much better road in there amongst the trees, but, dear girl, she never tried to argue with me, or even to discuss the reason for my dislike to it.
Before noon our mocassins and leggings were wet and miserable. We ourselves were in a bath of perspiration. It was difficult to believe that it was freezing as hard as ever, and only when, after a few hundred yards of easy going, we halted to take breath, were we aware how cold it was, by our frozen leg-coverings.
We camped for our mid-day food on a brush-clad point on the south side. It was absolutely still and clear. On taking off our snow-glasses the light was so painfully dazzling that we understood what snow-blindness meant, and gladly put them on again. I caused May here to change her foot-wear, as we were staying long enough to dry our wet mocassins by the fire. It was a snug corner we had chosen. We had a side view both up and down the Klondyke and across it.
As we sat, as usual talking of our future, Patch suddenly stood up with bristling mane and gazed across the river. "There's something over there," said I; "that's just as he did when we first heard your shots up the creek there," and we gazed and listened intently, the dog as deeply interested as May and I were.
I, supposing it was bear or wolf that had thus excited Patch, felt thankful that we were on the side we were, and got my gun in order.
Patch's excitement increased. He began to bark. With difficulty I restrained him, and made him lie down. I stopped his barking, but I could not make him cease growling. This excited us, and we watched the opposite shore closely.
May was the first to discover the cause. Two men were tramping along the track across the river!—whether whites or Indians they were too far off to see.
The expression of my dear companion's face at this discovery was peculiar. She was flushed with excitement as she said to me, "Come, let us call to them. Oh, how splendid to see other people,—to realise that we are not alone in this dreadful country!"
Laying my mittened hand on her shoulder, I remarked, "Stop—let us think: they may be friends or foes; we must be cautious. Besides, what do we really want? We know our way, and we have all we need. It is satisfactory to know we are in an inhabited land, that is all."
"Oh, how terribly cautious and careful you are, Bertie!" she exclaimed. "I should like to run over to those two men and greet them. But you know best; oh, yes, I'm sure you do, forgive my impetuosity—only it is so fine to know that we are really going home."
The two men did not notice us—they kept steadily on: we could just see one was carrying a pack, the other pulling a little laden sledge behind him. They were heading up the river, and in due course would cross our trail, then, perhaps, would follow it, which was a serious aspect of the case indeed! They would not only find our boat, but could trace us to our dug-out, where all was at their mercy. What could be done? Nothing. We could only put our trust in God that all would be well.
I kept silence to May on these points, and hoped that she would not be troubled by the same fears.
One thing satisfied us both now, and that was that the trail across the river was really made by people, and from what we saw of the way the strangers got along it, it was very much better than where we had been travelling, so with one accord we packed up, and with a will hauled our sled across the river and hit that trail.
The fresh traces of the men were minutely examined. The leader had worn snow-shoes, the other boots—we could see the heel marks. This hardly pointed to Indians, nor old hands—for all but the greenest tender-feet wear mocassins, in the winter there.
This trail was a great improvement; we moved along it quickly—two miles an hour at least!
We had gone perhaps five miles; it was, we thought, getting on for four that afternoon; we were resting, when against a rather dense growth of firs we thought we saw smoke rising.
Now you must understand that we were both in a flutter of excitement all that afternoon. We had said little to each other about it, but I know we felt that we were likely at any moment to meet with some adventure, pleasant or the reverse. We were all eyes and ears. I could see May glance hurriedly and look intently, now in one direction, now in another. Even the dog appeared to be expecting something: as for me, I knew, of course, that very soon a great change would come in our lives, my thoughts were occupied with this subject, and I was trying to think how I should deal with every episode that I could imagine might arise. Once or twice before, we had stopped to gaze around as May or I had cried, "What is that over there?" But up to the present it had turned out to be merely a curious stump, or uproot, or some such bush object. We were on the qui vive.
So we considered for a little that we might be mistaken about this appearance also. It might be a wisp of snow lifted by the wind, or some shaken from the trees by a passing breeze: however, I soon saw that it was very blue, that it was rising steadily, that it was no hallucination, and that it was smoke, certainly.
A very momentous time had arrived. "My dear May," I murmured, "that is smoke—that means a camp, most likely of white people. Our lonely life ends the moment we arrive there."
"Oh, what a good thing!" she cried; "but why look so serious?"
"God knows what will happen to us," said I. "We may find ourselves able at once to go on with comparative ease to Dawson and home. We may find obstacles in our way—bad characters, who knows what? But any way we have up to now, through God's good mercy, been kept from any great harm, and we will trust Him still."
"Why, of course we will," she interjected: "but why are you so sad?"
"I cannot help feeling sad," I answered, "to know that you and I must now cease to be what we have been to each other; but remember that I shall not leave you, nor cease to help you all I can, until I know you are safe at home in England with your mother. Whatever comes to pass during the next few hours, or until that happy time arrives, believe in me and trust me."
"My dear Bertie, my great friend, what is come to you? Do you think I'm going to doubt you, or leave you now?"
"I hope not, indeed, indeed," I interjected.
"Why, amongst these rough fellows," she went on, "as, of course, they will be, I shall want you beside me more and more. I shall, I expect, want your protection and advice more perhaps—though that can hardly be—than I have as yet needed it."
"And you shall have it, May—be sure of that," said I.
"One thing is certain, though, that whoever they are, whatever kind of people they may prove to be," she continued, "I shall, as you say, till we reach home and mother, look to you for companionship and guidance. So don't look any more like that at me; don't be downhearted now, but come, let us hurry on and find out what our fate is."
Then on we went. Within a few minutes we were in sight of a camp. There were two log-shanties and a shelter or two; a huge chimney smoking, and other signs of humanity; a couple of figures were moving about; we had arrived at the haunts of men again!
We had paid little attention to the trail of late, but now noticed that there were sleigh tracks branching from it here and there—dog's tracks, men's tracks: here were stumps lately cut, there the traces of where logs had been hauled out of the bush. Now we were continually exclaiming to each other about these wonders.
Patch was excited—on the alert. When, a little farther on, he heard dogs barking, it was hard to control him. It was their noise, I suppose, that gave notice of our arrival, for we soon descried two or three persons looking towards us, whilst a couple of fine huskies came bounding through the snow, looking anything but friendly. However, they withdrew as we marched on, and were called off as we got close. When we at last halted near the first shanty, one man sung out to us, "Welcome, friends! ye'll be frae Quigly Creek, I'll warrant. How goes it there?"
"WELCOME, FRIENDS."
Oh, the blessed sound! a friendly human voice—a Scotsman's voice!
"Nay," I answered; "I don't know where we're from exactly—up river somewhere: we've had a pretty hard time of it. What place is this?"
"This place," the kindly voice made answer; "indeed, we canna give it a name—it's just the banks o' the Klondyke river. But ye'll be prospecting, eh? Have ye had luck? We've had a wee bittie. But come—come in bye; ye'll be gled o' something hot, nae doot, and the mistress 'll soon get the kettle on the boil."
"Mistress! is there a woman here, then? Oh, that is grand! This lady here will be so glad of that," is about what I said.
"Ay, indeed, is there a woman! But who'd have thocht that one o' ye was ane," he laughed; and then shouted, "Hi, Maggie, lass, see here—here's a lady till ye;" but addressing us he went on, "But she isna fit tae' come out into this cold. Come ben the hoose; we'll soon mak' a' richt." With that he led us to the shanty, saying as he did so to the other men, "Let loose the dog, and see the others keep frae it. We'll hae to take these freends in, and see to them a while, nae doot."
We were delighted with all this friendliness. We entered the shanty; it seemed a palace to us. The door was thickly curtained inside; there was a rough wooden floor, an immense fire roaring in the chimney, a table, chairs, and standing expectant amongst them was a youngish, nice-looking woman, beaming with good-nature.
"Did I hear ye cry there was a lady here?" she asked the man. "But which ane is it?" she went on, looking from May to me. "Ye're baith sae rolled and smoothered up wi' claes and skins I canna tell."
Indeed it was no wonder the good soul was perplexed, for we were dressed pretty much alike, if dressing could be called the furs and blankets in which we were enveloped.
May's skirt of serge, reaching to her knees, was so torn and ragged, very much as my frieze wrapper was, which I think reached nearer to my ankles than hers did to hers. I wore a cap with ears, and round my neck some fox-skins were muffled. She had a hood, a capote, a part of her outer garment: it was then drawn so closely round her face that nothing but her sweet eyes were visible. We had taken off our snow goggles as we entered.
As our hostess spoke, we drew off our fur gauntlets; this gave her the clue. I suppose she knew at once by the hands which was the woman of us, for she immediately took May by the shoulder, crying, "Ay! come you in here, I'll tend ye; and Tam," to her husband, "you see till him. I'll no be lang awa'."
Then I threw off my wrappings and overalls, drew up to the fire, and gazed around me. I noted that I was in a good-sized shanty, rough, certainly, but it was light, for it had a large window by the side of the door, and there were pots and pans and crockery about, clean and brilliant, and to my unaccustomed eyes all looked luxuriant.
Our host was busily making up the fire, adjusting the tea-kettle, fetching in buckets of snow which he emptied into a huge iron pot hanging in the chimney, muttering as he did so, "She'll be wantin' water to wash her, my certie—for neither o' them looks to hae seen soap for a wee while."
I heard him and smiled. "You're right," said I; "it is some months since we saw soap, and weeks since we could wash even our hands properly—this is an awfully dirty country."
"Eh! but it is, man," he forcibly replied; "but I wonder at ye, takin 'a wife wi' ye prospectin'. Ye're tenderfeet, I daur wager—so are we for that maitter—but I wouldna tak' my wife into such wark, nay, nay. It's bad eneuch for her to stop here in this wee hoose, but to tak' a woman rampagin' through these woods and mountains is no' richt."
He spoke so vehemently, almost angrily, that I could not stop him, but when he halted for breath, "Hold on! Hold on!" I cried; "that is not my wife, nor have I taken her out prospecting. Hers is a sad strange story, so is mine. I found her away back. I'll tell you all about it by-and-by. I can only tell you this now, that Miss Bell—that's her name—Mary Bell—I must take to Dawson and to England as soon as possible. Can you help us?—will you?"
As I spoke my host gazed at me, amazed. "To Dawson! and hame to England! Noo?—the noo?" he cried. "Is the man daft? Gude sakes! d'ye no' ken that it's just impossible to win awa' frae here the noo? It's too late, or too airly, at this time."
"If money can induce you to aid us—we have some with us, and we'll pay you almost anything you like to get us to Dawson at least," said I; but before I was half through the sentence I knew I had made a mistake.
"It's gold, I suppose you mean," the man exclaimed,—rather angrily, I thought. "Gold! well, we've got a wee bit oorsels here, and a tidy claim up this burn. We'll hae a decent pickle washed out before long; sae, ye ken, we're no' in need o' yer gold. If ye'd said grub, now, that would been o' far mair value, but gold or grub it's a' one, ye'll no get awa' frae here, my man, till the water opens in June."
"Grub!" I cried; "we've got a bit in our sled outside there, and up stream there's quite a heap of it yet: if that's all that's needed, you'll find that right."
"Man, I'm glad to hear it, for grub's mair valuable than gold in these parts the noo; but I say again, grub or gold, you'll no' get off to Dawson for a wee!"
"But why can't we get on?" I demanded. "We've got here; why can't we get farther? My companion is just as good as a man; what I can stand, she can, I believe."
"Man, man, I wonner at ye!" he exclaimed, with lifted hands and eyes. "D'ye no ken that the river is breaking up fast at this present moment?—half a mile below here it's a' under water; in a wee while it'll be just a grindin' mass o' ice and slush, no breathin' thing can live in it, the strongest boat that's built 'd be groon to powther in a meenute—and there's nae trail beside the stream. In the deep o' winter it's a' richt—ye can pull yer sleds along the ice well eneuch; and in summer, when the water's open, ye can get along fine; but just the noo! nay, it's no' possible."
"This is bad hearing," I said; "I don't know what Miss Bell will think. We did so reckon of being able to reach Dawson, to be in time for the first boat going down the Yukon: when will that be? D'ye know, sir?"
"Dawson! Dawson! what for d'ye want to take your lady freend to Dawson? D'ye no understan' that it's no' place for decent folk at a'—let alane a woman. But be easy, man, ye're weel aff here, and ye'll get awa' doon to Dawson lang before the first boat gangs doon, for ye ken the ice breaks up in these small streams lang before it does in the big river. I doot if there'll be a boat leave Dawson till the end o' June, and some say the middle o' the month o' July! Be easy then, and bide a wee; ye're well aff here, and if ye'll let us hae the grub ye spoke o' the noo, ye'll be far better aff, ay, very far better than in Dawson waitin'. But let's see what the mistress and the young leddy says."
Just then the mistress came in to us for hot water. As she lifted a tin of it from the pot she said to me, "Maister Singleton, yer freend in bye has tell't me o' some o' yer doings and what ye want to do. Just bide a wee while; we'll tak' time to settle a'. Ye're a' richt here; and as for me, I'm pleased eneuch and thankful tae to hae sae braw a lassie's company, I warrant ye."
"Ay, ay," said Tam, her husband; "that's what I'm sayin'. Bide a wee."
Patch was at the door, howling for admission. Said my host, "Well hae him in, the mistress 'll no' mind," for I had told him a little about the dog, and the good fellow bounded to me and was happy.
When May returned how changed she was! Soap and water, comb and brush, a few simple feminine touches, a fresh handkerchief round her neck, and behold a figure that fairly dazzled me.
As for me, I gazed at my hands and dress with shame and horror. Mr Bain, as I found his name was, saw my discomfiture. "Come awa' ben, then!" he laughingly exclaimed; "we'll tak' some hot watter inby, and see what we can mak' o' you, my freend!"
Part of the shanty was divided off by a screen of blankets, behind it was their sleeping-place, and here I obtained what I needed very sadly—a wash. The sorting of my locks, though, as Bain called it, was a business: they hung down to my shoulders, and a comb had not been through them for many days. Bain lent me a change of clothes, and I returned to the living-room shortly, to be struck still more at my love's sweet looks, my darling's loving presence. Quite a spread of good things was on the table. We had of late lived well, thanks to my stores, but we were hungry now, and our hostess heaped our plates—earthenware plates, how nice they felt—with all the good things she had. There did not seem to be much lack either.
We were joined now by two other men, decent fellows. One was a Scotchman, Bain's brother; the other a Canadian from Peterborough, Ontario.
After this, as we sat around the fire smoking, I told our story. I did not say much about the gold; I admitted that we had got some, but made light of the quantity. May here and there put in a word or two of explanation when I came to her entry on the scene, and was not silent, though I tried to make her so, in praise of me.
It was late, quite late, when I had finished. May was to have a bed by the fire; I was to accompany the two young fellows to their shanty and turn in with them. "And, d'ye mind," said Mr Bain, as we parted, "ye'll no be turnin' oot sae verra early the morn's morning. Yon lassie 'll tak a lang rest, ye ken, sae sleep sae lang's ye're able, Mr Singleton, and sae gude nicht."
Patch accompanied me to my quarters, and thereafter made them his.