Datasets:
NNEngine
/
Gutenberg-Clean

Dataset card Data Studio Files
xet
Community
id
stringlengths
16
16
text
stringlengths
151
2.3k
word_count
int64
30
60
source
stringclasses
1 value
twg_000012933400
felt drawn very near to those two, the music, the tears, the fervent sadness of their faces. I felt as if I had been allowed to share with them a few moments consecrated to their sorrow, and that they knew I understood. That day as I was leaving, I said to her: "Berna, this is our last night on board."
60
gutenberg
twg_000012933401
"Yes." "To-morrow our trails divide, maybe never again to cross. Will you come up on deck for a little while to-night? I want to talk to you." "Talk to me?" She looked startled, incredulous. She hesitated. "Please, Berna, it's the last time." "All right," she answered in a low tone. Then she looked at me curiously. She came to meet
60
gutenberg
twg_000012933402
me, lily-white and sweet. She was but thinly wrapped, and shivered so that I put my coat around her. We ventured forward, climbing over a huge anchor to the very bow of the boat, and crouching down in its peak, were sheltered from the cold breeze. We were cutting through smooth water, and crowding in on us were haggard mountains,
60
gutenberg
twg_000012933403
with now and then the greenish horror of a glacier. Overhead, in the desolate sky, the new moon nursed the old moon in her arms. "Berna!" "Yes." "You're not happy, Berna. You're in sore trouble, little girl. I don't know why you come up to this God-forsaken country or why you are with those people. I don't want to know;
60
gutenberg
twg_000012933404
but if there's anything I can do for you, any way I can prove myself a true friend, tell me, won't you?" My voice betrayed emotion. I could feel her slim form, very close to me, all a-tremble. In the filtered silver of the crescent moon, I could see her face, wan and faintly sweet. Gently I prisoned one of
60
gutenberg
twg_000012933405
her hands in mine. She did not speak at once. Indeed, she was quiet for a long time, so that it seemed as if she must be stricken dumb, or as if some feelings were conflicting within her. Then at last, very gently, very quietly, very sweetly, as if weighing her words, she spoke. "No, there's nothing you can do.
60
gutenberg
twg_000012933406
You've been too kind all along. You're the only one on the boat that's been kind. Most of the others have looked at me--well, you know how men look at a poor, unprotected girl. But you, you're different; you're good, you're honourable, you're sincere. I could see it in your face, in your eyes. I knew I could trust you.
60
gutenberg
twg_000012933407
You've been kindness itself to grandfather and I, and I never can thank you enough." "Nonsense! Don't talk of thanks, Berna. You don't know what a happiness it's been to help you. I'm sorry I've done so little. Oh, I'm going to be sincere and frank with you. The few hours I've had with you have made me long for
60
gutenberg
twg_000012933408
others. I'm a lonely beggar. I never had a sister, never a girl friend. You're the first, and it's been like sudden sunshine to me. Now, can't I be really and truly your friend, Berna; your friend that would do much for you? Let me do something, anything, to show how earnestly I mean it?" "Yes, I know. Well, then,
60
gutenberg
twg_000012933409
you are my dear, true friend--there, now." "Yes,--but, Berna! To-morrow you'll go and we'll likely never see each other again. What's the good of it all?" "Well, what do you want? We will both have a memory, a very sweet, nice memory, won't we? Believe me, it's better so. You don't want to have anything to do with a girl
60
gutenberg
twg_000012933410
like me. You don't know anything about me, and you see the kind of people I'm going with. Perhaps I am just as bad as they." "Don't say that, Berna," I interposed sternly; "you're all that's good and pure and sweet." "No, I'm not, either. We're all of us pretty mixed. But I'm not so bad, and it's nice of
60
gutenberg
twg_000012933411
you to think those things.... Oh! if I had never come on this terrible trip! I don't even know where we are going, and I'm afraid, afraid." "No, little girl." "Yes, I can't tell you how afraid I am. The country's so savage and lonely; the men are so like brute beasts; the women--well, they're worse. And here are we
60
gutenberg
twg_000012933412
in the midst of it. I don't know what's going to become of us." "Well, Berna, if it's like that, why don't you and your grandfather turn back? Why go on?" "He will never turn back. He'll go on till he dies. He only knows one word of English and that's Klondike, Klondike. He mutters it a thousand times a
60
gutenberg
twg_000012933413
day. He has visions of gold, glittering heaps of it, and he'll stagger and struggle on till he finds it." "But can't you reason with him?" "Oh, it's all no use. He's had a dream. He's like a man that's crazy. He thinks he has been chosen, and that to him will a great treasure be revealed. You might as
60
gutenberg
twg_000012933414
well reason with a stone. All I can do is to follow him, is to take care of him." "What about the Winklesteins, Berna?" "Oh, they're at the bottom of it all. It is they who have inflamed his mind. He has a little money, the savings of a lifetime, about two thousand dollars; and ever since he came to
60
gutenberg
twg_000012933415
this country, they've been trying to get it. They ran a little restaurant in New York. They tried to get him to put his little store in that. Now they are using the gold as a bait, and luring him up here. They'll rob and kill him in the end, and the cruel part is--he's not greedy, he doesn't want
60
gutenberg
twg_000012933416
it for himself--but for me. That's what breaks my heart." "Surely you're mistaken, Berna; they can't be so bad as that." "Bad! I tell you they're _vile_. The man's a worm, and the woman, she's a devil incarnate. She's so strong and so violent in her tempers that when she gets drinking--well, it's just awful. I should know it, I
60
gutenberg
twg_000012933417
lived with them for three years." "Where?" "In New York. I came from the old country to them. They worked me in the restaurant at first. Then, after a bit, I got employment in a shirt-waist factory. I was quick and handy, and I worked early and late. I attended a night school. I read till my eyes ached. They
60
gutenberg
twg_000012933418
said I was clever. The teacher wanted me to train and be a teacher too. But what was the good of thinking of it? I had my living to get, so I stayed at the factory and worked and worked. Then when I had saved a few dollars, I sent for grandfather, and he came and we lived in the
60
gutenberg
twg_000012933419
tenement and were very happy for a while. But the Winklesteins never gave us any peace. They knew he had a little money laid away, and they itched to get their hands on it. The man was always telling us of get-rich-quick schemes, and she threatened me in horrible ways. But I wasn't afraid in New York. Up here it's
60
gutenberg
twg_000012933420
different. It's all so shadowy and sinister." I could feel her shudder. "Oh, Berna," I said, "can't I help you?" She shook her head sadly. "No, you can't; you have enough trouble of your own. Besides it doesn't matter about me. I didn't mean to tell you all this, but now, if you want to be a true friend, just
60
gutenberg
twg_000012933421
go away and forget me. You don't want to have anything to do with me. Wait! I'll tell you something more. I'm called Berna Wilovich. That's my grandfather's name. My mother ran away from home. Two years later she came back--with me. Soon after she died of consumption. She would never tell my father's name, but said he was a
60
gutenberg
twg_000012933422
Christian, and of good family. My grandfather tried to find out. He would have killed the man. So, you see, I am nameless, a child of shame and sorrow. And you are a gentleman, and proud of your family. Now, see the kind of friend you've made. You don't want to make friends with such as I." "I want to
60
gutenberg
twg_000012933423
make friends with such as need my friendship. What is going to happen to you, Berna?" "Happen! God knows! It doesn't matter. Oh, I've always been in trouble. I'm used to it. I never had a really happy day in my life. I never expect to. I'll just go on to the end, enduring patiently, and getting what comfort I
60
gutenberg
twg_000012933424
can out of things. It's what I was made for, I suppose." She shrugged her shoulders and shivered a little. "Let me go now, my friend. It's cold up here; I'm chilled. Don't look so terribly downcast. I expect I'll come out all right. Something may happen. Cheer up! Maybe you'll see me a Klondike queen yet." I could see
60
gutenberg
twg_000012933425
that her sudden brightness but hid a black abyss of bitterness and apprehension. What she had told me had somehow stricken me dumb. There seemed a stark sordidness in the situation that repelled me. She had arisen and was about to step over the fluke of the great anchor, when I aroused myself. "Berna," I said, "what you have told
60
gutenberg
twg_000012933426
me wrings my heart. I can't tell you how terribly sorry I feel. Is there nothing I can do for you, nothing to show I am not a mere friend of words and phrases? Oh, I hate to let you go like this." The moon had gone behind a cloud. We were in a great shadow. She halted, so that,
60
gutenberg
twg_000012933427
as we stood, we were touching each other. Her voice was full of pathetic resignation. "What can you do? If we were going in together it might be different. When I met you at first I hoped, oh, I hoped--well, it doesn't matter what I hoped. But, believe me, I'll be all right. You won't forget me, will you?" "Forget
60
gutenberg
twg_000012933428
you! No, Berna, I'll never forget you. It cuts me to the heart I can do nothing now, but we'll meet up there. We can't be divided for long. And you'll be all right, believe me too, little girl. Be good and sweet and true and every one will love and help you. Ah, you must go. Well, well--God bless
60
gutenberg
twg_000012933429
you, Berna." "And I wish you happiness and success, dear friend of mine." Her voice trembled. Something seemed to choke her. She stood a moment as if reluctant to go. Suddenly a great impulse of tenderness and pity came over me, and before I knew it, my arms were around her. She struggled faintly, but her face was uplifted, her
60
gutenberg
twg_000012933430
eyes starlike. Then, for a moment of bewildering ecstasy, her lips lay on mine, and I felt them faintly answer. Poor yielding lips! They were cold as ice. Never shall I forget the last I saw of her, a forlorn, pathetic figure in black, waving a farewell to me as I stood on the wharf. She wore, I remember, a
60
gutenberg
twg_000012933431
low collar, and well do I mind the way it showed off the slim whiteness of her throat; well do I mind the high poise of her head, and the silken gloss of her hair. The grey eyes were clear and steady as she bade good-bye to me, and from where we stood apart, her face had all the pathetic
60
gutenberg
twg_000012933432
sweetness of a Madonna. Well, she was going, and sad enough her going seemed to me. They were all for Dyea, and the grim old Chilcoot, with its blizzard-beaten steeps, while we had chosen the less precipitous, but more drawn-out, Skagway trail. Among them I saw the inseparable twins; the grim Hewson, the silent Mervin, each quiet and watchful, as
60
gutenberg
twg_000012933433
if storing up power for a tremendous effort. There was the large unwholesomeness of Madam Winklestein, all jewellery, smiles and coarse badinage, and near her, her perfumed husband, squinting and smirking abominably. There was the old man, with his face of a Hebrew Seer, his visionary eye now aglow with fanatical enthusiasm, his lips ever muttering: "Klondike, Klondike"; and lastly,
60
gutenberg
twg_000012933434
by his side, with a little wry smile on her lips, there was the white-faced girl. How my heart ached for her! But the time for sentiment was at an end. The clarion call to action rang out. Inflexibly the trail was mustering us. The hour was come for every one to give of the best that was in him,
60
gutenberg
twg_000012933435
even as he had never given it before. The reign of peace was over; the fight was on. On all sides were indescribable bustle, confusion and excitement; men shouting, swearing, rushing hither, thither; wrangling, anxious-eyed and distracted over their outfits. A mood of unsparing energy dominated them. Their only thought was to get away on the gold-trail. A frantic eagerness
60
gutenberg
twg_000012933436
impelled them; insistent, imperative; the trail called to them, and the light of the gold-lust smouldered and flamed in their uneasy eyes. Already the spirit of the gold-trail was awakening. Hundreds of scattered tents; a few frame buildings, mostly saloons, dance-halls and gambling joints; an eager, excited mob crowding on the loose sidewalks, floundering knee-deep in the mire of the
60
gutenberg
twg_000012933437
streets, struggling and squabbling and cursing over their outfits--that is all I remember of Skagway. The mountains, stark and bare to the bluff, seemed to overwhelm the flimsy town, and between them, like a giant funnel, a great wind was roaring. Lawlessness was rampant, but it did not touch us. The thugs lay in wait for the men with pokes
60
gutenberg
twg_000012933438
from the "inside." To the great Cheechako army, they gave little heed. They were captained by one Smith, known as "Soapy," whom I had the fortune to meet. He was a pleasant-appearing, sociable man, and no one would have taken him for a desperado, a killer of men. One picture of Skagway is still vivid in my memory. The scene
60
gutenberg
twg_000012933439
is a saloon, and along with the Prodigal, I am having a glass of beer. In a corner sits a befuddled old man, half asleep. He is long and lank, with a leathery face and a rusty goatee beard--as ragged, disreputable an old sinner as ever bellied up to a bar. Suddenly there is a sound of shooting. We rush
60
gutenberg
twg_000012933440
out and there are two toughs blazing away at each other from the sheltering corners of an opposite building. "Hey, Dad! There's some shootin' goin' on," says the barkeeper. The old man rouses and cocks up a bleary, benevolent eye. "Shooting', did ye say? Pshaw! Them fellers don't know how to shoot. Old Dad'll show 'em how to shoot." He
60
gutenberg
twg_000012933441
comes to the door, and lugging out a big rusty revolver, blazes away at one of the combatants. The man, with a howl of surprise and pain, limps away. The old man turns to the other fellow. Bang! We see splinters fly, and a man running for dear life. "Told you I'd show 'em how to shoot," remarks old Dad
60
gutenberg
twg_000012933442
to us. "Thanks, I'll have a gin-fizz for mine." The Prodigal developed a wonderful executive ability about this time; he was a marvel of activity, seemed to think of everything and to glory in his responsibility as a leader. Always cheerful, always thoughtful, he was the brains of our party. He never abated in his efforts a moment, and was
60
gutenberg
twg_000012933443
an example and a stimulus to us all. I say "all," for we had added the "Jam-wagon"[A] to our number. It was the Prodigal who discovered him. He was a tall, dissolute Englishman, gaunt, ragged and verminous, but with the earmarks of a gentleman. He seemed indifferent to everything but whiskey and only anxious to hide himself from his friends.
60
gutenberg
twg_000012933444
I discovered he had once been an officer in a Hussar regiment, but he was obviously reluctant to speak of his past. A lost soul in every sense of the word, the North was to him a refuge and an unrestricted stamping-ground. So, partly in pity, partly in hope of winning back his manhood, we allowed him to join the
60
gutenberg
twg_000012933445
party. Pack animals were in vast demand, for it was considered a pound of grub was the equal of a pound of gold. Old horses, fit but for the knacker's yard, and burdened till they could barely stand, were being goaded forward through the mud. Any kind of a dog was a prize, quickly stolen if left unwatched. Sheep being
60
gutenberg
twg_000012933446
taken in for the butcher were driven forward with packs on their backs. Even was there an effort to make pack animals out of pigs, but they grunted, squealed and rolled their precious burdens in the mire. What crazy excitement, what urging and shouting, what desperate device to make a start! We were lucky in buying a yoke of oxen
60
gutenberg
twg_000012933447
from a packer for four hundred dollars. On the first day we hauled half of our outfit to Canyon City, and on the second we transferred the balance. This was our plan all through, though in bad places we had to make many relays. It was simple enough, yet, oh, the travail of it! Here is an extract from my
60
gutenberg
twg_000012933448
diary of these days. "Turn out at A.M. Breakfasted on flapjacks and coffee. Find one of our oxen dying. Dies at seven o'clock. Harness remaining ox and start to remove goods up Canyon. Find trail in awful condition, yet thousands are struggling to get through. Horses often fall in pools of water ten to fifteen feet deep, trying to haul
60
gutenberg
twg_000012933449
loads over the boulders that render trail almost impassable. Drive with sleigh over places that at other times one would be afraid to walk over without any load. Two feet of snow fell during the night, but it is now raining. Rains and snows alternately. At night bitterly cold. Hauled five loads up Canyon to-day. Finished last trip near midnight
60
gutenberg
twg_000012933450
and turned in, cold, wet and played out." The above is a fairly representative day and of such days we were to have many ere we reached the water. Slowly, with infinite effort, with stress and strain to every step of the way, we moved our bulky outfit forward from camp to camp. All days were hard, all exasperating, all
60
gutenberg
twg_000012933451
crammed with discomfort; yet, bit by bit, we forged ahead. The army before us and the army behind never faltered. Like a stream of black ants they were, between mountains that reared up swiftly to storm-smitten palisades of ice. In the darkness of night the army rested uneasily, yet at the first streak of dawn it was in motion. It
60
gutenberg
twg_000012933452
was an endless procession, in which every man was for himself. I can see them now, bent under their burdens, straining at their hand-sleighs, flogging their horses and oxen, their faces crimped and puckered with fatigue, the air acrid with their curses and heavy with their moans. Now a horse stumbles and slips into one of the sump-holes by the
60
gutenberg
twg_000012933453
trail side. No one can pass, the army is arrested. Frenzied fingers unhitch the poor frozen brute and drag it from the water. Men, frantic with rage, beat savagely at their beasts of burden to make up the precious time lost. There is no mercy, no humanity, no fellowship. All is blasphemy, fury and ruthless determination. It is the spirit
60
gutenberg
twg_000012933454
of the gold-trail. At the canyon head was a large camp, and there, very much in evidence, the gambling fraternity. Dozens of them with their little green tables were doing a roaring business. On one side of the canyon they had established a camp. It was evening and we three, the Prodigal, Salvation Jim and myself, strolled over to where
60
gutenberg
twg_000012933455
a three-shell man was holding forth. "Hullo!" says the Prodigal. "It's our old friend Jake. Jake skinned me out of a hundred on the boat. Wonder how he's making out?" It was Mosher, with his bald head, his crafty little eyes, his flat nose, his black beard. I saw Jim's face harden. He had always shown a bitter hatred of
60
gutenberg
twg_000012933456
this man, and often I wondered why. We stood a little way off. The crowd thinned and filtered away until but one remained, one of the tall young men from Minnesota. We heard Mosher's rich voice. "Say, pard, bet ten dollars you can't place the bean. See! I put the little joker under here, right before your eyes. Now, where
60
gutenberg
twg_000012933457
is it?" "Here," said the man, touching one of the shells. "Right you are, my hearty! Well, here's your ten." The man from Minnesota took the money and was going away. "Hold on," said Mosher; "how do I know you had the money to cover that bet?" The man laughed and took from his pocket a wad of bills an
60
gutenberg
twg_000012933458
inch thick. "Guess that's enough, ain't it?" Quick as lightning Mosher had snatched the bills from him, and the man from Minnesota found himself gazing into the barrel of a six-shooter. "This here's my money," said Mosher; "now you _git_." A moment only--a shot rang out. I saw the gun fall from Mosher's hand, and the roll of bills drop
60
gutenberg
twg_000012933459
to the ground. Quickly the man from Minnesota recovered them and rushed off to tell his party. Then the men from Minnesota got their Winchesters, and the shooting began. From their camp the gamblers took refuge behind the boulders that strewed the sides of the canyon, and blazed away at their opponents. A regular battle followed, which lasted till the
60
gutenberg
twg_000012933460
fall of night. As far as I heard, only one casualty resulted. A Swede, about half a mile down the trail, received a spent bullet in the cheek. He complained to the Deputy Marshal. That worthy, sitting on his horse, looked at him a moment. Then he spat comprehensively. "Can't do anything, Ole. But I'll tell you what. Next time
60
gutenberg
twg_000012933461
there's bullets flying round this section of the country, don't go sticking your darned whiskers in the way. See!" That night I said to Jim: "How did you do it?" He laughed and showed me a hole in his coat pocket which a bullet had burned. "You see, having been in the game myself, I knew what was comin' and
60
gutenberg
twg_000012933462
acted accordin'." "Good job you didn't hit him worse." "Wait a while, sonny, wait a while. There's something mighty familiar about Jake Mosher. He's mighty like a certain Sam Mosely I'm interested in. I've just written a letter outside to see, an' if it's him--well, I'm saved; I'm a good Christian, but--God help him!" "And who was Sam Mosely, Jim?"
60
gutenberg
twg_000012933463
"Sam Mosely? Sam Mosely was the skunk that busted up my home an' stole my wife, blast him!" [A: A Jam-wagon was the general name given to an Englishman on the trail.] Day after day, each man of us poured out on the trail the last heel-tap of his strength, and the coming of night found us utterly played out.
60
gutenberg
twg_000012933464
Salvation Jim was full of device and resource, the Prodigal, a dynamo of eager energy; but it was the Jam-wagon who proved his mettle in a magnificent and relentless way. Whether it was from a sense of gratitude, or to offset the cravings that assailed him, I know not, but he crammed the days with merciless exertion. A curious man
60
gutenberg
twg_000012933465
was the Jam-wagon, Brian Wanless his name, a world tramp, a derelict of the Seven Seas. His story, if ever written, would be a human document of moving and poignant interest. He must once have been a magnificent fellow, and even now, with strength and will-power impaired, he was a man among men, full of quick courage and of a
60
gutenberg
twg_000012933466
haughty temper. It was ever a word and a blow with him, and a fight to the desperate finish. He was insular, imperious and aggressive, and he was always looking for trouble. Though taciturn and morose with men, the Jam-wagon showed a tireless affection for animals. From the first he took charge of our ox; but it was for horses
60
gutenberg
twg_000012933467
his fondness was most expressed, so that on the trail, where there was so much cruelty, he was constantly on the verge of combat. "That's a great man," said the Prodigal to me, "a fighter from heel to head. There's one he can't fight, though, and that's old man Booze." But on the trail every man was a fighter. It
60
gutenberg
twg_000012933468
was fight or fall, for the trail would brook no weaklings. Good or bad, a man must be a man in the primal sense, dominant, savage and enduring. The trail was implacable. From the start it cried for strong men; it weeded out its weaklings. I had seen these fellows on the ship feed their vanity with foolish fancies; kindled
60
gutenberg
twg_000012933469
to ardours of hope, I had seen debauch regnant among them; now I was to see them crushed, cowed, overwhelmed, realising each, according to his kind, the menace and antagonism of the way. I was to see the weak falter and fall by the trail side; I was to see the fainthearted quail and turn back; but I was to
60
gutenberg
twg_000012933470
see the strong, the brave, grow grim, grow elemental in their desperate strength, and tightening up their belts, go forward unflinchingly to the bitter end. Thus it was the trail chose her own. Thus it was, from passion, despair and defeat, the spirit of the trail was born. The spirit of the Gold Trail, how shall I describe it? It
60
gutenberg
twg_000012933471
was based on that primal instinct of self-preservation that underlies our thin veneer of humanity. It was rebellion, anarchy; it was ruthless, aggressive, primitive; it was the man of the stone age in modern garb waging his fierce, incessant warfare with the forces of nature. Spurred on by the fever of the gold-lust, goaded by the fear of losing in
60
gutenberg
twg_000012933472
the race; maddened by the difficulties and obstacles of the way, men became demons of cruelty and aggression, ruthlessly thrusting aside and trampling down the weaker ones who thwarted their progress. Of pity, humanity, love, there was none, only the gold-lust, triumphant and repellent. It was the survival of the fittest, the most tenacious, the most brutal. Yet there was
60
gutenberg
twg_000012933473
something grandly terrible about it all. It was a barbaric invasion, an army, each man fighting for his own hand under the banner of gold. It was conquest. Every day, as I watched that human torrent, I realised how vast, how irresistible it was. It was Epic, it was Historical. Many pitiful things I saw--men with haggard, hopeless faces, throwing
60
gutenberg
twg_000012933474
their outfits into the snow and turning back broken-hearted; men staggering blindly on, exhausted to despair, then dropping wearily by the trail side in the bitter cold and sinister gloom; weaklings, every one. Many terrible things I saw--men cursing each other, cursing the trail, cursing their God, and in the echo of their curses, grinding their teeth and stumbling on.
60
gutenberg
twg_000012933475
Then they would vent their fury and spite on the poor dumb animals. Oh, what cruelty there was! The life of the brute was as nothing; it was the tribute of the trail; it was a sacrifice on the altar of human greed. Long before dawn the trail awakened and the air was full of breakfast smells, chiefly that of
60
gutenberg
twg_000012933476
burnt porridge: for pots were seldom scraped, neither were dishes washed. Soon the long-drawn-out army was on the march, jaded animals straining at their loads, their drivers reviling and beating them. All the men were bearded, and many of them wore parkas. As many of the women had discarded petticoats, it was often difficult at a short distance to tell
60
gutenberg
twg_000012933477
the sex of a person. There were tents built on sleighs, with faces of women and children peering out from behind. It was a wonderful procession, all classes, all nationalities, greybeards and striplings, parsons and prostitutes, rich and poor, filing past in their thousands, drawn desperately on by the golden magnet. One day we were making a trip with a
60
gutenberg
twg_000012933478
load of our stuff when, just ahead, there was a check in the march, so I and the Jam-wagon went forward to investigate. It was our old friend Bullhammer in difficulties. He had rather a fine horse, and in passing a sump-hole, his sled had skidded and slipped downhill into the water. Now he was belabouring the animal unmercifully, acting
60
gutenberg
twg_000012933479
like a crazy man, shouting in a frenzy of rage. The horse was making the most gallant efforts I ever saw, but, with every fresh attempt, its strength weakened. Time and again it came down on its knees, which were raw and bleeding. It was shining with sweat so that there was not a dry hair on its body, and
60
gutenberg
twg_000012933480
if ever a dumb brute's eyes spoke of agony and fear, that horse's did. But Bullhammer grew every moment more infuriated, wrenching its mouth and beating it over the head with a club. It was a sickening sight and, used as I was to the inhumanity of the trail, I would have interfered had not the Jam-wagon jumped in. He
60
gutenberg
twg_000012933481
was deadly pale and his eyes burned. "You infernal brute! If you strike that horse another blow, I'll break your club over your shoulders." Bullhammer turned on him. Surprise paralysed the man, rage choked him. They were both big husky fellows, and they drew up face to face. Then Bullhammer spoke. "Curse you, anyway. Don't interfere with me. I'll beat
60
gutenberg
twg_000012933482
bloody hell out of the horse if I like, an' you won't say one word, see?" With that he struck the horse another vicious blow on the head. There was a quick scuffle. The club was wrenched from Bullhammer's hand. I saw it come down twice. The man sprawled on his back, while over him stood the Jam-wagon, looking very
60
gutenberg
twg_000012933483
grim. The horse slipped quietly back into the water. "You ugly blackguard! I've a good mind to beat you within an ace of your life. But you're not worth it. Ah, you cur!" He gave Bullhammer a kick. The man got on his feet. He was a coward, but his pig eyes squinted in impotent rage. He looked at his
60
gutenberg
twg_000012933484
horse lying shivering in the icy water. "Get the horse out yourself, then, curse you. Do what you please with him. But, mark you--I'll get even with you for this--I'll--get--even." He shook his fist and, with an ugly oath, went away. The block in the traffic was relieved. The trail was again in motion. When we got abreast of the
60
gutenberg
twg_000012933485
submerged horse, we hitched on the ox and hastily pulled it out, and (the Jam-wagon proving to have no little veterinary skill) in a few days it was fit to work again. * * * * * Another week had gone and we were still on the trail, between the head of the canyon and the summit of the Pass.
60
gutenberg
twg_000012933486
Day after day was the same round of unflinching effort, under conditions that would daunt any but the stoutest hearts. The trail was in a terrible condition, sometimes well-nigh impassable, and many a time, but for the invincible spirit of the Prodigal, would I have turned back. He had a way of laughing at misfortune and heartening one when things
60
gutenberg
twg_000012933487
seemed to have passed the limit of all endurance. Here is another day selected from my diary: "Rose at : A.M. and started for summit with load. Trail all filled in with snow, and had dreadful time shovelling it out. Load upsets number of times. Got to summit at three o'clock. Ox almost played out. Snowing and blowing fearfully on
60
gutenberg
twg_000012933488
summit. Ox tired; tries to lie down every few yards. Bitterly cold and have hard time trying to keep hands and feet from freezing. Keep on going to make Balsam City. Arrived there about ten o'clock at night. Clothing frozen stiff. Snow from seven to one hundred feet deep. No wood within a quarter mile and then only soft balsam.
60
gutenberg
twg_000012933489
Had to go for wood. Almost impossible to start fire. Was near midnight when I had fire going well and supper cooked. Eighteen hours on the trail without a square meal. The way of the Klondike is hard, hard." And yet I believe, compared with others, we were getting along finely. Every day, as the difficulties of the trail increased,
60
gutenberg
twg_000012933490
I saw more and more instances of suffering and privation, and to many the name of the White Pass was the death-knell of hope. I could see their faces blanch as they gazed upward at that white immensity; I could see them tighten their pack-straps, clench their teeth and begin the ascent; could see them straining every muscle as they
60
gutenberg
twg_000012933491
climbed, the grim lines harden round their mouths, their eyes full of hopeless misery and despair; I could see them panting at every step, ghastly with fatigue, lurching and stumbling on under their heavy packs. These were the weaker ones, who, sooner or later, gave up the struggle. Then there were the strong, ruthless ones, who had left humanity at
60
gutenberg
twg_000012933492
home, who flogged their staggering skin-and-bone pack animals till they dropped, then, with a curse, left them to die. Far, far above us the monster mountains nuzzled among the clouds till cloud and mountain were hard to tell apart. These were giant heights heaved up to the stars, where blizzards were cradled and the storm-winds born, stupendous horrific familiars of
60
gutenberg
twg_000012933493
the tempest and the thunder. I was conscious of their absolute sublimity. It was like height piled on height as one would pile up sacks of flour. As Jim remarked: "Say, wouldn't it give you crick in the neck just gazin' at them there mountains?" How ant-like seemed the black army crawling up the icy pass, clinging to its slippery
60
gutenberg
twg_000012933494
face in the blinding buffet of snow and rain! Men dropped from its ranks uncared for and unpitied. Heedless of those that fell, the gap closed up, the march went on. The great army crawled up and over the summit. Far behind could we see them, hundreds, thousands, a countless host, all with "Klondike" on their lips and the lust
60
gutenberg
twg_000012933495
of the gold-lure in their hearts. It was the Great Stampede. "Klondike or bust," was the slogan. It was ever on the lips of those bearded men. "Klondike or bust"--the strong man, with infinite patience, righted his overturned sleigh, and in the face of the blinding blizzard, pushed on through the clogging snow. "Klondike or bust"--the weary, trail-worn one raised
60
gutenberg
twg_000012933496
himself from the hole where he had fallen, and stiff, cold, racked with pain, gritted his teeth doggedly and staggered on a few feet more. "Klondike or bust"--the fanatic of the trail, crazed with the gold-lust, performed mad feats of endurance, till nature rebelled, and raving and howling, he was carried away to die. "'Member Joe?" some one would say,
60
gutenberg
twg_000012933497
as a pack-horse came down the trail with, strapped on it, a dead, rigid shape. "Joe used to be plumb-full of fun; always joshin' or takin' some guy off; well--that's Joe." Two weary, woe-begone men were pulling a hand-sleigh down from the summit. On it was lashed a man. He was in a high fever, raving, delirious. Half-crazed with suffering
60
gutenberg
twg_000012933498
themselves, his partners plodded on unheedingly. I recognised in them the Bank clerk and the Professor, and I hailed them. From black hollows their eyes stared at me unrememberingly, and I saw how emaciated were their faces. "Spinal meningitis," they said laconically, and they were taking him down to the hospital. I took a look and saw in that mask
60
gutenberg
twg_000012933499
of terror and agony the familiar face of the Wood-carver. He gazed at me eagerly, wildly: "I'm rich," he cried, "rich. I've found it--the gold--in millions, millions. Now I'm going outside to spend it. No more cold and suffering and poverty. I'm going down there to _live_, thank God, to live." Poor Globstock! He died down there. He was buried
60
gutenberg