It was a light hide kyak, a mere shell that scarce had the weight of a thing of feathers. And the brown man driving it was its only burden, unless the long old rifle lying thrusting up from its prow could be counted. It crept through the shallows dangerously near to the river bank, and every turn in the twisting course of the silver highway was utilized as a screen from any chance glance cast backwards by those whose course it was dogging.
The shadowy pursuit went on. It went on right up to within a furlong of the final landing. For the mood of the brown man was relentless with every passion of original man stirring. But he never shortened by a yard the distance that lay between him and his quarry. And as the leading boats drew into the side, and the beacon light of a great camp fire suddenly changed the silvery tone of the night, the pursuing kyak shot into the bank far behind, and the brown man leapt ashore.
The feast was over. And what a feast it had been. There had been mountain trout, caught and prepared by the grizzled camp cook, whose atmosphere of general uncleanness emphasised his calling, and who was the only other living creature in this camp on the gravel flats. There had been baked duck, stuffed with some conglomeration of chopped “sow-belly,” the mixing of which was the cook’s most profound secret. There had been syrupy canned fruit, and canned sweet corn, and canned beans with tomato. There had been real coffee. Not the everlasting stewed tea of the trail. And then there had been canned milk full of real cream.
That was the feast. But there had been much more than the simple joy of feasting. There had been laughter and high spirits, and a wild delight. How Perse had eaten and talked. How Clarence had eaten and listened. How the Kid had shyly smiled, while Bill Wilder played his part as host, and looked to the comfort of everybody. Then Mary Justicia. There was no cleaning to do after. There was no Janey to wipe at intervals. So she had given all her generous attention to the profound yarning of the trail-bounded Chilcoot Massy.
The happy interim was drawing to a close. The camp fire was blazing mountains high, a prodigal waste of precious fuel at such a season. And the revellers were squatting around at a respectful distance, contemplating it, and settling to a calm sobriety in various conditions of delighted repletion.
The cold moonlight was forgotten. The chill of the air could no longer be felt with the proximity of the fire. The Coming season gave no pause for a moment’s regret. The only thought to disturb utter contentment was that soon, all too soon, the routine of life would close down again, and, one and all, it would envelop them.
Bill was lounging on a spread of skin rug, and the Kid and Mary Justicia shared it with him. A yard away Chilcoot, who could never rise above a seat on an upturned camp pot, was smoking and addressing Clarence, and the more restless Perse, much in the fashion of a mentor. Their talk was of the trail, the gold trail, as it was bound to be with the veteran guiding it. He was narrating stories of “strikes,” rich “strikes,” and wild rushes. He was recounting adventures which seemed literally to stream out of his cells of memory to the huge enjoyment, and wonder, and excitement of his youthful audience. And it was into the midst of this calm delight the final uplift of the night’s entertainment came.
The whole thing was planned and worked up to. Chilcoot had led along the road through his wealth of narrative. He was telling the story of Eighty-Mile Creek. Of the great bonanza that had fallen into the laps of himself and Bill Wilder. Of the tremendous rush after he and his partner had secured their claims.
“It was us boys who located the whole darn ‘strike’” he said appreciatively. “Us two. Bill an’ me. Say, they laffed. How they laffed when we beat it up Eighty-Mile. Gold? Gee! Ther’ wasn’t colour other than grey mud anywheres along its crazy course. That’s how the boys said. They said: ‘Beat it right up it an’ feed the timber wolves.’ They said—But, say, I jest can’t hand you haf the things them hoodlams chucked at us. But Bill’s got a nose fer gold that ’ud locate it on a skunk farm. He knew, an’ I was ready to foiler him if it meant feedin’ any old thing my carkiss. My, I want to laff. It was the same as your Mum said when she heard we’d come along here chasin’ gold, only worse. She couldn’t hand the stuff the boys could. An’ queer enough, now I think it, Eighty-Mile was as nigh like this dam creek as two shucks. Ther’s the mud, an’ the queer gravel, an’ the granite. Guess ther’ ain’t the cabbige around this lay out like ther’ was to Eighty-Mile. You see, we’re a heap further north, right here. No. Ther’ was spruce, an’ pine, an’ tamarack to Eighty-Mile. Ther’s nothing better than dyin’ skitters an’ hies you can smell a mile to Caribou. But the formation’s like. Sure it is. An’ Bill’s nose—”