The Winds of Chance | Page 9

then he had swung onward. Of all the sights young Phillips had beheld in this new land, the vision of that huge, unhurried Canadian, smoking, had impressed him deepest. It had awakened his keen envy, too, for Pierce was beginning to glory in his own strength. A few days later they had rested near each other on the Long Lake portage. That is, Phillips had rested; the Canadian, it seemed, had a habit of pausing when and where the fancy struck him. His reason for stopping there had been the antics of a peculiarly fearless and impertinent "camp-robber." With a crust of bread he had tolled the bird almost within his reach and was accepting its scolding with intense amusement. Having both teased and made friends with the creature, he finally gave it the crust and resumed his journey.
This was a land where brawn was glorified; the tales told oftenest around the stoves at Sheep Camp had to do with feats of strength or endurance, they were stories of mighty men and mighty packs, of long marches and of grim staying powers. Already the names of certain "old-timers" like Dinsmore and McDonald and Peterson and Stick Jim had become famous because of some conspicuous exploit. Dinsmore, according to the legend, had once lugged a hundred and sixty pounds to the Summit; McDonald had bent a horseshoe in his hands; Peterson had lifted the stem-piece out of a poling-boat lodged on the rocks below White Horse; Stick Jim had run down a moose and killed it with his knife.
From what Phillips had seen of this French Canadian it was plain that he, too, was an "old-timer," one of that Jovian band of supermen who had dared the dark interior and robbed the bars of Forty Mile in the hard days before the El Dorado discovery. Since this was their first opportunity of exchanging speech, Phillips ventured to address the man.
"I thought I had a load this morning, but I'd hate to swap packs with you," he said.
The Frenchman flashed him a smile which exposed a row of teeth snow-white against his tan. "Ho! You're stronger as me. I see you plenty tams biffore."
This was indeed agreeable praise, and Pierce showed his pleasure. "Oh no!" he modestly protested. "I'm just getting broken in."
"Look out you don' broke your back," warned the other. "Dis Chilkoot she's bad bizness. She's keel a lot of dese sof' fellers. Dey get seeck in de back. You hear 'bout it?"
"Spinal meningitis. It's partly from exposure."
"Dat's him! Don' never carry too moch; don' be in soch hurry."
Phillips laughed at this caution. "Why, we have to hurry," said he. "New people are coming all the time and they'll beat us in if we don't look out."
His comrade shrugged. "Mebbe so; but s'posin' dey do. Wat's de hodds? She's beeg countree; dere's plenty claims."
"Are there, really?" Phillips' eyes brightened. "You're an old- timer; you've been 'inside.' Do you mean there's plenty of gold for all of us?"
"Dere ain't 'nuff gold in all de worl' for some people."
"I mean is Dawson as rich as they say it is?"
"Um--m! I don' know."
"Didn't you get in on the strike?"
"I hear 'bout 'im, but I'm t'inkin' 'bout oder t'ings."
Phillips regarded the speaker curiously. "That's funny. What business are you in?"
"My bizness? Jus' livin'." The Canadian's eyes twinkled. "You don' savvy, eh--? Wal, dat's biccause you're lak dese oder feller-- you're in beeg hurry to be reech. Me--?" He shrugged his brawny shoulders and smiled cheerily. "I got plenty tam. I'm loafer. I enjoy myse'f--"
"So do I. For that matter, I'm enjoying myself now. I think this is all perfectly corking, and I'm having the time of my young life. Why, just think, over there"--Pierce waved his hand toward the northward panorama of white peaks and purple valleys-- "everything is unknown!" His face lit up with some restless desire which the Frenchman appeared to understand, for he nodded seriously. "Sometimes it scares me a little."
"Wat you scare' 'bout, you?"
"Myself, I suppose. Sometimes I'm afraid I haven't the stuff in me to last."
"Dat's good sign." The speaker slipped his arms into his pack- harness and adjusted the tumpline to his forehead preparatory to rising. "You goin' mak' good 'sourdough' lak me. You goin' love de woods and de hills wen you know 'em. I can tell. Wal, I see you bimeby at Wite 'Orse."
"White Horse? Is that where you're going?"
"Yes. I'm batteau man; I'm goin' be pilot."
"Isn't that pretty dangerous work? They say those rapids are awful."
"Sure! Everybody scare' to try 'im. W'en I came up dey pay me fifty dollar for tak' one boat t'rough. By gosh! I never mak' so moch money--tree hondred dollar a day. I'm reech man now. You lak get reech queeck? I teach you be pilot. Swif' water, beeg noise!