The Winds of Chance | Page 8

in this short time,
had changed the men's characters--they had become pack- animals and
they deported themselves as such. All labor-saving devices, all
mechanical aids, all short cuts to comfort and to accomplishment, had
been left behind; here was the wilderness, primitive, hostile, merciless.
Every foot they moved, every ounce they carried, was at the cost of

muscular exertion. It was only natural that they should take on the color
of their surroundings.
Money lost its value a mile above Sheep Camp said became a thing of
weight, a thing to carry. The standard of value was the pound, and men
thought in hundredweights or in tons. Yet there was no relief, no respite,
for famine stalked in the Yukon and the Northwest Mounted were on
guard, hence these unfortunates were chained to their grub-piles as
galley-slaves are shackled to their benches.
Toe to heel, like peons rising from the bowels of a mine, they bent their
backs and strained up that riven rock wall. Blasphemy and pain, high
hopes and black despair, hearts overtaxed and eyes blind with fatigue,
that was what the Chilkoot stood for. Permeating the entire atmosphere
of the place, so that even the dullest could feel it, was a feverish haste,
an apprehensive demand for speed, more speed, to keep ahead of the
pressing thousands coming on behind.
Pierce Phillips breasted the last rise to the Summit, slipped his
pack-straps, and flung himself full length upon the ground. His lungs
felt as if they were bursting, the blood surged through his veins until he
rocked, his body streamed with sweat, and his legs were as heavy as if
molded from solid iron. He was pumped out, winded; nevertheless, he
felt his strength return with magic swiftness, for he possessed that
marvelous recuperative power of youth, and, like some fabled warrior,
new strength flowed into him from the earth. Round about him other
men were sprawled; some lay like corpses, others were propped against
their packs, a few stirred and sighed like the sorely wounded after a
charge. Those who had lain longest rose, took up their burdens, and
went groaning over the sky-line and out of sight. Every moment new
faces, purple with effort or white with exhaustion, rose out of the
depths--all were bitten deep with lines of physical suffering. On
buckled knees their owners lurched forward to find resting- places; in
their eyes burned a sullen rage; in their mouths were foul curses at this
Devil's Stairway. There were striplings and graybeards in the crowd,
strong men and weak men, but here at the Summit all were alike in one
particular--they lacked breath for anything except oaths.

Here, too, as in the valley beneath, was another great depot of provision
piles. Near where Phillips had thrown himself down there was one man
whose bearing was in marked contrast to that of the others. He sat
astride a bulging canvas bag in a leather harness, and in spite of the fact
that the mark of a tump-line showed beneath his cap he betrayed no
signs of fatigue. He was not at all exhausted, and from the interest he
displayed it seemed that he had chosen this spot as a vantage-point
from which to study the upcoming file rather than as a place in which
to rest. This he did with a quick, appreciative eye and with a genial
smile. In face, in dress, in manner, he was different. For one thing, he
was of foreign birth, and yet he appeared to be more a piece of the
country than any man Pierce had seen. His clothes were of a pattern
common among the native packers, but he wore them with a free,
unconscious grace all his own. From the peak of his Canadian toque
there depended a tassel which bobbed when he talked; his boots were
of Indian make, and they were soft and light and waterproof; a sash of
several colors was knotted about his waist. But it was not alone his
dress which challenged the eye--there was something in this fellow's
easy, open bearing which arrested attention. His dark skin had been
deepened by windburn, his well- set, well-shaped head bore a
countenance both eager and intelligent, a countenance that fairly
glowed with confidence and good humor.
Oddly enough, he sang as he sat upon his pack. High up on this hillside,
amid blasphemous complaints, he hummed a gay little song:
"Chante, rossignol, chante! Toi qui a le coeur gai! Tu as le coeur a rire
Mai j'l'ai-t-a pleurer,"
ran his chanson.
Phillips had seen the fellow several times, and the circumstances of
their first encounter had been sufficiently unusual to impress
themselves upon his mind. Pierce had been resting here, at this very
spot, when the Canuck had come up into sight, bearing