THE MINERS' MEETING
Of all criminals in the unwritten code of mining camps in the early days in the Yukon, the sneak-thief was the most despised. A man might live as he pleased, as a squaw-man, or with several paramours; he might shoot a man down in his tracks, if for honour or self-defense. But for a man who robbed sluice boxes or stole from cabins there was no term of condemnation strong enough in the English language. Cabins in those days were seldom locked, and a man who secured his door at night, or when he left the place, was viewed with suspicion, and often shunned. Anyone might enter another's abode, borrow what he needed, and, if hungry, help himself. It was the law, the unwritten verdict of the place.
When Keith reached the store he found most of the men congregated there, discussing the whole affair in no light terms. Some were sitting on rude benches, others were standing. The room reeked with tobacco and whiskey fumes. As he gazed around and noticed how the scent of blood had aroused their passions, a sigh escaped his lips. A number who at the debate had talked the strongest about temperance, who were so quiet in the Reading Room, and orderly in church, were among the most vehement talkers, and expressed their views in the strongest manner.
They reminded him of a certain Sunday School class in his old home town. When separated each was quiet and manly, a typical little saint, who said "yes, sir," and "no, sir," most carefully, and could tell about Moses and David with evident pride. But when together, the mob instinct seemed to possess them, and to carry them beyond all bounds of reason in thought, word and deed.
As he listened to these miners and heard their rash remarks he shuddered. "God help the poor fellow!" he thought, "whoever he may be, if he once gets into such brutish hands."
"Yes," he heard Tim Fleeters saying, "it was only yesterday that I went out to cut fire-wood. The poke of gold was in my chest, at the foot of my bunk. When I returned, and lifted the lid to get some tea which I kept there, the poke was gone—gold and all."
"The sneak!" spoke up another, "shooting's too good for him."
"Hanging would be better," remarked a third. "Shooting'd be a cinch."
In the meantime the rest of the men had arrived, among whom was Pritchen, and joined in the conversation.
There were several miners in the room calmer than the rest, of whom Caribou Sol was one. He had watched the whole proceedings, and listened to the talk as it drifted along. Seeing that nothing definite was being done, he at length rose slowly to his feet, and mounted the bench on which he had been sitting.