I was washing some of the baby’s clothes in the kitchen and drying them on a line over the fire, when Swiftwater came in from the diggings, clad in his rubber boots which reached to his hips.
The miner asked for some hot water and a towel and began to shave the three weeks’ black growth from his chin.
“What are you going to do now, Swiftwater?” I asked.
“I’m going down to town.”
For two days the cabin had been without food except some mush and a few dried potatoes and a can of condensed milk for the baby. Swiftwater had sent a man over the trail to Dawson for food two days before.
“You’ll not go without Bera! You are not going to leave us here to starve,” said I.
“Bera cannot possibly go,” said Bill.
I turned and went to Bera’s room and told her to dress immediately. Then I washed the baby, put an entire new change of clothes on him, wrapped up his freshly ironed garments in a package, got a bottle of soothing syrup and a can of condensed milk.
It was always my belief and is now, that Swiftwater’s mind contained a plan to abandon Bera, the baby and me, and to run away from the Yukon to escape his troubles.
We got a small boat and filled one end of it with fir boughs, covered them over with rugs, and put Bera and the baby there. Then Swiftwater and I got in the boat and pushed off down stream.