Not long after my arrival, a good fellow named Joe Brennan, while bringing his horses and freight up the rivers, was drowned some ten miles below Council. It was believed that he was swimming a horse, and that when the animal climbed the bank, Brennan fell off and, his boots filling, drowned. When the body was recovered, a few days later, it was brought to Council, a coroner's inquest held, and then decently buried. Northwestern Alaska furnishes excellent graveyards, rivaling the art of ancient Egypt. Its ground will preserve a man forever, but it is a long way for his friends and relatives to come to see him. A small amount of currency was found on Brennan; a poke of dust with which he was to execute certain commissions was identified and returned to its owner; but a considerable sum of money of his own, with which he was known to have left Nome, was missing. Doubtless the body had been robbed. But there are lots of good men in Alaska, although in the Nome country they seem to be pretty well scattered. Brennan's two partners, who came to consult us about the estate of the deceased, were such men—manly fellows who wanted to have "poor Joe's" property rights preserved. One of them came from Washington, my native city, with whom I could chat about familiar landmarks; the other, who looked the athlete, had held the New England championship for the high jump, and had trained for that event several college men of my acquaintance. It is a well-worn phrase, but the world is very small. The Washingtonian was duly appointed special administrator, and soon realized funds on a sale of the horses, feed, provisions, etc., which were well within the legal definition of "perishable property."
Enjoying the proud distinction of being notaries public for Alaska, and being therefore quasi-judicial officers, we were frequently called upon to take acknowledgments, affidavits, and depositions. I am not likely to forget the work of taking an affidavit from one Joe Ripley. It was of immediate importance in litigation at Nome, and Ripley, a squaw-man, who lived with his Eskimo wife and children a number of miles down the stream, had been specially engaged to come up and make affidavit to certain matters with which he alone was familiar. As luck would have it, my partner, who was acquainted with Ripley, had been called away to euphonious Puckmummy Creek (Eskimo, "quick"), and it devolved upon me to take the affidavit. Ripley and whisky, I was informed, were always associated together,—were almost synonymous terms,—and whenever "Joe" struck town it was a gala day for the saloons. In abnormal condition, Mr. Ripley was a mild-mannered, polite, well-educated son of old England. But my hopes that he might appear in the latter condition were blasted when, in response to a shuffling and a bang at the door, I welcomed in a small man with white mustache, wearing the native coat or "parkie," and gloriously, triumphantly full! There was no doubt that this was Ripley—recipient of the Victoria cross for gallantry in India, sailor, miner, squaw-man, and devotee of the bottle. "Where's Castle?" was his opening remark, of course not knowing me from Adam; and, as I explained my presence, I racked my brain for delicate, unoffending language which should suggest that he sleep "it" off and call again on the morrow. The suggestion of delay brought forth a flow of noble sentiments, delivered in heroic attitude, accompanied by gestures dramatic. Pointing down the river, he burst forth in glowing language on the subject of the devoted spouse whom he longed to see, somewhat inconsistently declaiming, however, that the lady was twice as big as he and usually shook the life out of him whenever he tacked home with several sheets in the wind. I eagerly seized upon this latter tribute to his charmer's charms as an argument for his remaining over, but realized that it was useless to argue when, with emphatic "No, no's", and a beating of his breast, he exclaimed: "Old Joe has a very small heart for white people, but" (stretching forth his arms in yearning affection toward the beloved) "his heart goes out to her like a bullock's." This was all very romantic and entertaining, but that affidavit had to be obtained, and Captain John Smith, somehow, had to be prevented from escaping to his Pocahontas. Excusing myself with the explanation that I would consult my client in the matter, I went on a still hunt for the man who might manage Ripley, and the latter, navigating his way toward the nearest saloon, went on a hunt for the still. I found my man, explained the situation, and instructed him, if impossible to detain Ripley, to steer him back to the office, where we should proceed with the ceremonies. Captain John having previously, when sober, told our client the facts to which he could swear, I purposed having these facts act as a check to a too willing or imaginative affiant. Shortly afterward, I heard the two men coming, cleared the deck for action, and braced myself for a delectable situation. It was a story of a "snow" location of mining property. The law requires that a certain fixed amount of work or expenditure shall be done or made annually upon every mining location for purposes of benefiting and developing the claim, and further provides that upon failure to do such "assessment work" the ground shall become open and relocatable on the 1st of January following. Hence many individuals single out what they believe to be valuable property, and acutely investigate the validity of its holder's title, nosing about the ground or searching through the records to ascertain, first, whether the work has been done; second, whether an affidavit of labor has been recorded; and, third, if the facts render such an affidavit of no effect (save only as prima facie evidence) and subject the affiant to a charge of perjury.
The legal requirements had not been fulfilled regarding the property in question; and on December 31, 1899, Ripley and Welch (before mentioned) set out from Council, over the snow, for Crooked Creek, fifteen miles away. Before starting, they took the precaution to set their watches by the recorder's chronometer, for timepieces are very contradictory in Alaska, and it frequently happens that a number of relocators assemble at the same spot, watches in hand, near midnight of a December 31, prepared to drive down their stakes at the first moment of the new year, and of course it becomes a nice question of evidence as to who has the right time. The case in point certainly had not been lacking in dramatic incident. Welch and Ripley found others on the ground for whom no love was lost. It was not a trysting-place. Some underhand work was done, and Ripley, so he said, restrained old Tom from putting a bullet into a certain miscreant. But it was hard work to confine the enthusiastic Ripley to the material matters, and I had frequently to nail him down and shut him up until I wrote out a portion of the statement desired. He was acting it through, walking up and down, gesticulating, and, occasionally, falling into the native dialect. His favorite mode of brushing aside a suggestion—treating it as immaterial—was to exclaim: "That's all right, but it don't buy whisky"; and now and then he would suddenly turn upon the third man with the question, "Ain't she pretty?"—referring to his Pocahontas. Now, of all the hideously ugly creatures rated as human beings, the full-blooded Eskimo woman is easily the prize-winner, and Mrs. Ripley, besides, was notoriously unattractive even in her own class. It was, therefore, a very embarrassing question. My sense of professional dignity was continually outraged, but, in the end, I got a satisfactory affidavit, though it required nearly four hours to round it up. In vino veritas. Exit Ripley.
A word as to the natives of northwestern Alaska. I presume they as nearly approach living in a state of nature as any beings on the face of the earth. Of undoubted Mongolian origin, their ancestors drifted over from Siberia to an equally hard country where the sole occupation of their descendants is a hand-to-mouth struggle for existence, in obtaining for daily subsistence the scant provender which nature supplies ready-made. It is a matter simply of catching fish in their nets during the summer, and in winter trapping the ptarmigan or wild grouse and hunting the walrus and the seal. Their boats, or "kyaks," made from walrus-hide and repaired with ivory, are very ingeniously contrived and cleverly managed. They are naturally a very peaceful people, except when, in violation of the law, the white man sells them whisky. They are godless and have no religion whatever, nor any form of worship, nor any imagery, nor any idea of a happy hunting-ground hereafter. They bury their dead in airy wooden biers several feet above the ground, together with pots and pans, food, guns and ammunition, their theory being that the deceased has lain down for a long sleep. Perhaps he may wake up sometime, and then he will need the means to procure and prepare food; and from his position he can see his family and friends when they come by, and note their prosperity as represented by the number of children and dogs. As a race, they are few and scattered, without attempt to live in tribal relation. The epidemics among them in 1900 of pneumonia and measles carried away perhaps half their number, and it is safe to predict that within a short period this hapless race will become extinct.
Later in July there came a welcome spell of hot weather, which melted the remaining snow upon the slopes and helped matters generally, giving one an opportunity, among other things, to sun his blankets. It not only did great work in thawing the ground, but it magnificently and quite unnecessarily thawed out the mosquitos. The latter, however, though bothersome at times and in places, were not very annoying. This hot wave, which practically prevented traveling during the middle of the day, gave way to cooler, overcast weather, which now and then furnished a series of rainy, disagreeable days, broken, perhaps, by one or two hopefully clear and beautiful. It is the most fickle climate in the world, and will frequently, within a few hours, fancifully exhibit all its contrary elements of rain and sunshine, wind and chill. But, rain or shine, day and night, mining operations progress, and the fine treasure in the earth is laboriously brought to light.
It frequently became necessary for one of us to journey through the now more sparse timber, up the slaty, moss-covered, mountainous "divide," and over to the claims on the fast-becoming-famous Ophir Creek. In the absence of rain, and with the encouragement of the wind or a little sunshine, the ground, up to a certain point, dries remarkably soon, and furnishes fairly good footing. If the day be pleasant, the cheerful chirp of the inevitable song-sparrow and the song of the wild canary are heard; a thrush or robin, surprised and alarmed, starts from the brush; swallows and snow-white gulls from the sea circle over and about the streams; and odd, unfamiliar little birds hop about in the willows. How they get there, the Lord only knows. Beautiful—the daintiest—wild flowers in great variety also do their part to make a desolate country lovely. Truly, it is a wonderful land of contradictions. Looking down from the "divide" to the basin below, Ophir Creek, almost a river, is now dotted with permanent camps along its lengthy, sinuous course; the little log-cabin settlements, whose lumber has been brought there at great labor and expense, representing the larger operators or the companies.
Of course, Frank Shaw was still in charge of the Wild Goose Company's interests on claim No. 15 Ophir; and he had under him about a hundred good men, opening up the claim, shoveling the pay dirt into five strings of sluice-boxes, and some of them, teamsters, carpenters, etc., daily bringing supplies from Council over the primitive roads, or doing other necessary work about the camp. A very remarkable young man is Shaw, and a very fine fellow. Born and bred, so to speak, in the mines of California and Arizona, and having a genius for the work, he was naturally a "born miner," and, though only twenty-three years of age, was generally acknowledged to be the best in the Council City country. In a comparatively recent explosion in a quartz-mine, Shaw had been almost blown to pieces; and although he still carried in his face and body bits of the rock, and could see only through powerful glasses, he was, nevertheless, noted for his energetic zeal and indefatigable labor. The qualities which go to make a good miner are, perhaps, generally underestimated. He must, primarily, be a man of intelligence. He must have the eye of an engineer for turning a creek, constructing ditches, building dams, and meeting the exigencies of the situation. He must know formation,—understand geology,—in order to locate the pay streak and operate it successfully. And he must know how to manage men. These qualities Shaw combined. For instance: The labor is divided into two ten-hour shifts, the day shift and the night shift, and not infrequently hardy men either have not the physique to endure the exhausting labor of pick and shovel or they "soldier" in their work. Men discharged for either of these reasons usually came to Shaw and, shaking his hand, acknowledged the corn, and asked him to look them up if he ever came to Montana, or wherever they lived.
I noted some familiar faces in the pits, among them those of the lusty men on the St. Paul with the uncongenial room-mate. On the steamer they had shown me with pride a skiff-shaped boat which they had had built in San Francisco especially for the Fish and Neukluk rivers; and I didn't then have the heart to tell them that they could not have obtained a boat more ill adapted to their purposes. They arrived at Council worn out, disgusted, and with only half the load with which they had started. And, having been told that their claim, ten miles above, was glaciered, without further ado or any idea of investigating it themselves, they sold out their remaining outfit, and went to work on "15" for wages. In this they showed much more stuff than the fellows who "lie down" immediately; and, having enough to get out on, go home and tell their friends that the country is a "fake." Many of these latter are the men who, on the way up, have fiercely declaimed to admiring audiences: "By God, sir, if I find any jumper on my claim, I've a six-shooter," etc. One of these brave boys, whom the ladies of the St. Paul had greatly admired, did find an interloper diligently working his Ophir Creek claim, whereupon he proceeded to auction off his plant and sneak out of town without so much as making me a social call.
They were cleaning up one string of sluice-boxes the first time I went to "15"; the water-gate in the ditch, into which a portion of the creek had been diverted, allowed only a gentle stream to flow through the huge boa-constrictor hose into the boxes and down over the riffles where the bronze-colored gold shone forth distinctly. The work of the day shift had ceased; the men were at dinner; and Shaw and one of the shift bosses were carefully sweeping the result of a day's "run" into a gold-pan. This finished, I accompanied him and his burden to the little cabin which he and the bookkeeper occupied; and there found Billy West, looking sturdier after his winter sojourn in Alaska, and engaged in "blowing out" a pan of gold-dust—that is, eliminating the fine black sand. In reply to my query, he said that they tried to average five thousand dollars every twenty-four hours.