| Klondike-Bound Miners and their Outfits on Lake Linderman. |
A moment more and we were floating in almost placid waters. Beside us bobbed three smashed boats. Major Walsh stood sorrowfully on shore assisting dripping men from the water.
"It's all over, boys," I said to my crew; "you can ease off now," and I steered for the beach and lent my aid in the work of rescue.
The half-drowned Canadians were dragged ashore gasping and almost senseless, and while we scanned the grim waters anxiously for a trace of one still missing, his body was tossed at our feet by the relentless waves. Soon after, the sand was littered with sacks of flour, and beans, and miscellaneous foodstuffs.
Several camps were in evidence around this melancholy spot, erected by men who had lost their all in the rapids, and were only waiting a chance to return to civilisation. They eagerly accepted the Major's offer to purchase their scanty outfits, and without loss of time that intrepid old Indian fighter had embarked again for the north. To him it was a race with the elements, but the elements won after all, and compelled him to make his winter camp at Big Salmon River, forty miles further north, where we overtook him a few days later.
"It's no use my lads, you can't do it!" he said, on my reiterating my intention of proceeding onwards. "Why, the river's frozen solid from here to St. Michael's."
"Then we'll put skids under the old boat and make her into a sledge," quoth Mac, drily, and I hailed the suggestion with encouragement.
We duly arrived at Dawson City after many days and weeks of ceaseless struggle with the elements on that long and terrible icy trail, and our coming was received with rejoicings by the few half-starved miners who at that time peopled the "City." We had proved the feasibility of an over-ice route to Dyea.