THE MAN WHO DIDN'T FIT
The return of Connie Morgan and Waseche Bill to Ten Bow, and the events that followed, are told to this day on the trails.
McDougall paused for a chat with Dutch Henry beside the long black dump of the German's claim.
"It's most time for the break-up, Mac," said the owner of the dump. "We'll sluice out big, this spring."
"Yes, mon, we will," agreed McDougall, as his eyes roved to the small snow-covered dump across the creek. "But, it's sore I've hated to see yon claim idle the winter—an' the laddie gaen—an' Waseche Bill—heaven knaws wheer. D'ye mind what the mon fr' Eagle told, how the lad c'd na be stopped, but trailed on after Waseche* *—on to the Lillimuit? They'll na com' back." Dutch Henry nodded.
"Sure, Mac, but whad' ye 'spect from the breed of Sam Morgan? 'Member how he beat us all to these here diggin's, with ondly them three old dogs. I'd give my claim to have 'em safe back. An' I'm sorry you lost your ten-team, too, Mac."
"Losh! Mon! 'Tis na'thing at a'—the dogs! The laddie tuk 'em—an' welcome. Ye sh'd o' seed the luk i' his e'e, the mornin' he com' bustin' into my cabin wi' the news that Waseche was gaen! 'I'll fetch him back,' he says, 'if I have to beat him up'—an' him na bigger'n a pint o' cider. They've gaen to the Lillimuit, Dutch, an' 'taint in reason they'll com' back. But, sometimes, when I think o' the luk i' the laddie's e'e, d'ye knaw, it comes to me that, me'be—" The man's voice trailed into silence as his gaze became fixed upon the moving black specks that appeared far down the Yukon trail. Dutch Henry's gaze followed the big Scotchman's.
"Look, Mac! Look!" he cried excitedly. "Them dogs!" And, almost at the same instant, with a roar like the bellow of a bull, McDougall sprang down the trail between the straggling cabins of Ten Bow, with Dutch Henry pounding along in his wake. Before the two had covered half the length of the camp other men joined them, running and yelling—though they knew not why they ran. Cabins and shafts were deserted and all Ten Bow strung out on the trail to meet the rapidly approaching dog teams. And when they did meet, a half-mile beyond the camp, Connie was rushed from his feet by the wildly yelling crowd and carried triumphantly into Ten Bow upon the broad shoulders of the big men of the North. For, as McDougall had said, word had come down from Eagle, and now, not because he was Sam Morgan's boy, but for his own grit and pluck and courage, Connie Morgan had won his place among the sourdoughs of the silent land.
"Know a man name of Misteh Squigg?" asked Waseche Bill of McDougall, as half a dozen men sat late that night about the stove in the little cabin that had lain deserted all through the winter.
"Yes, I ken the mon—an' na gude o' him, neither, wi' his leetle shifty e'en. I've mistrusted um fr' the time I furst seed um. D'ye ken, laddie, t'was him tried to drive ye fr' yer claim wi' his lawyer's drivvle, whilst Waseche was down to Hesitation?" Connie nodded, and McDougall continued: "I sent him about his business i' jig time, an' na more was he seed i' Ten Bow till a matter o' three or four months agane up he pops wi' a half-breed that's workin' f'r um. He bought Dave Crampton's claim an' has be'n workin' ut since. Why d'ye ask?" For answer Waseche motioned to the Indian who sat upon his blanket spread upon the floor: