About noon of the fiftieth day out, we came down to the bank of a tremendously swift stream which we called the third south fork.  On a broken paddle stuck in the sand we found this notice:  “The trail crosses here.  Swim horses from the bar.  It is supposed to be about ninety miles to Telegraph Creek. ­(Signed) The Mules.”

We were bitterly disappointed to find ourselves so far from our destination, and began once more to calculate on the length of time it would take us to get out of the wilderness.

Partner showed me the flour-sack which he held in one brawny fist.  “I believe the dern thing leaks,” said he, and together we went over our store of food.  We found ourselves with an extra supply of sugar, condensed cream, and other things which our friends the Manchester boys needed, while they were able to spare us a little flour.  There was a tacit agreement that we should travel together and stand together.  Accordingly we began to plan for the crossing of this swift and dangerous stream.  A couple of canoes were found cached in the bushes, and these would enable us to set our goods across, while we forced our horses to swim from a big bar in the stream above.

While we were discussing these thing around our fires at night, another tramper, thin and weak, came into camp.  He was a little man with a curly red beard, and was exceedingly chipper and jocular for one in his condition.  He had been out of food for some days, and had been living on squirrels, ground-hogs, and such other small deer as he could kill and roast along his way.  He brought word of considerable suffering among the outfits behind us, reporting “The Dutchman” to be entirely out of beans and flour, while others had lost so many of their horses that all were in danger of starving to death in the mountains.

As he warmed up on coffee and beans, he became very amusing.

He was hairy and ragged, but neat, and his face showed a certain delicacy of physique.  He, too, was a marked example of the craze to “get somewhere where gold is.”  He broke off suddenly in the midst of his story to exclaim with great energy:  “I want to do two things, go back and get my boy away from my wife, and break the back of my brother-in-law.  He made all the trouble.”

Once and again he said, “I’m going to find the gold up here or lay my bones on the hills.”

In the midst of these intense phrases he whistled gayly or broke off to attend to his cooking.  He told of his hard experiences, with pride and joy, and said, “Isn’t it lucky I caught you just here?” and seemed willing to talk all night.

In the morning I went over to the campfire to see if he were still with us.  He was sitting in his scanty bed before the fire, mending his trousers.  “I’ve just got to put a patch on right now or my knee’ll be through,” he explained.  He had a neat little kit of materials and everything was in order.  “I haven’t time to turn the edges of the patch under,” he went on.  “It ought to be done ­you can’t make a durable patch unless you do.  This ‘housewife’ my wife made me when we was first married.  I was peddlin’ then in eastern Oregon.  If it hadn’t been for her brother ­oh, I’ll smash his face in, some day” ­he held up the other trouser leg:  “See that patch?  Ain’t that a daisy? ­that’s the way I ought to do.  Say, looks like I ought to rustle enough grub out of all these outfits to last me into Glenora, don’t it?”

We came down gracefully ­we could not withstand such prattle.  The blacksmith turned in some beans, the boys from Manchester divided their scanty store of flour and bacon, I brought some salt, some sugar, and some oatmeal, and as the small man put it away he chirped and chuckled like a cricket.  His thanks were mere words, his voice was calm.  He accepted our aid as a matter of course.  No perfectly reasonable man would ever take such frightful chances as this absurd little ass set his face to without fear.  He hummed a little tune as he packed his outfit into his shoulder-straps.  “I ought to rattle into Glenora on this grub, hadn’t I?” he said.

At last he was ready to be ferried across the river, which was swift and dangerous.  Burton set him across, and as he was about to depart I gave him a letter to post and a half-dollar to pay postage.  My name was written on the corner of the envelope.  He knew me then and said, “I’ve a good mind to stay right with you; I’m something of a writer myself.”

I hastened to say that he could reach Glenora two or three days in advance of us, for the reason that we were bothered with a lame horse.  In reality, we were getting very short of provisions and were even then on rations.  “I think you’ll overtake the Borland outfit,” I said.  “If you don’t, and you need help, camp by the road till we come up and we’ll all share as long as there’s anything to share.  But you are in good trim and have as much grub as we have, so you’d better spin along.”

He “hit the trail” with a hearty joy that promised well, and I never saw him again.  His cheery smile and unshrinking cheek carried him through a journey that appalled old packers with tents, plenty of grub, and good horses.  To me he was simply a strongly accentuated type of the goldseeker ­insanely persistent; blind to all danger, deaf to all warning, and doomed to failure at the start.

The next day opened cold and foggy, but we entered upon a hard day’s work.  Burton became the chief canoeman, while one of the Manchester boys, stripped to the undershirt, sat in the bow to pull at the paddle “all same Siwash.”  Burton’s skill and good judgment enabled us to cross without losing so much as a buckle.  Some of our poor lame horses had a hard struggle in the icy current.  At about 4 P.M. we were able to line up in the trail on the opposite side.  We pressed on up to the higher valleys in hopes of finding better feed, and camped in the rain about two miles from the ford.  The wind came from the northwest with a suggestion of autumn in its uneasy movement.  The boys were now exceedingly anxious to get into the gold country.  They began to feel most acutely the passing of the summer.  In the camp at night the talk was upon the condition of Telegraph Creek and the Teslin Lake Trail.

Rain, rain, rain!  It seemed as though no day could pass without rain.  And as I woke I heard the patter of fine drops on our tent roof.  The old man cursed the weather most eloquently, expressing the general feeling of the whole company.  However, we saddled up and pushed on, much delayed by the lame horses.

At about twelve o’clock I missed my partner’s voice and looking about saw only two of the packhorses following.  Hitching those beside the trail, I returned to find Burton seated beside the lame horse, which could not cross the slough.  I examined the horse’s foot and found a thin stream of arterial blood spouting out.

“That ends it, Burton,” I said.  “I had hoped to bring all my horses through, but this old fellow is out of the race.  It is a question now either of leaving him beside the trail with a notice to have him brought forward or of shooting him out of hand.”

To this partner gravely agreed, but said, “It’s going to be pretty hard lines to shoot that faithful old chap.”

“Yes,” I replied, “I confess I haven’t the courage to face him with a rifle after all these weeks of faithful service.  But it must be done.  You remember that horse back there with a hole in his flank and his head flung up?  We mustn’t leave this old fellow to be a prey to the wolves.  Now if you’ll kill him you can set your price on the service.  Anything at all I will pay.  Did you ever kill a horse?”

Partner was honest.  “Yes, once.  He was old and sick and I believed it better to put him out of his suffering than to let him drag on.”

“That settles it, partner,” said I.  “Your hands are already imbued with gore ­it must be done.”

He rose with a sigh.  “All right.  Lead him out into the thicket.”

I handed him the gun (into which I had shoved two steel-jacketed bullets, the kind that will kill a grizzly bear), and took the old horse by the halter.  “Come, boy,” I said, “it’s hard, but it’s the only merciful thing.”  The old horse looked at me with such serene trust and confidence, my courage almost failed me.  His big brown eyes were so full of sorrow and patient endurance.  With some urging he followed me into the thicket a little aside from the trail.  Turning away I mounted Ladrone in order that I might not see what happened.  There was a crack of a rifle in the bush ­the sound of a heavy body falling, and a moment later Burton returned with a coiled rope in his hand and a look of trouble on his face.  The horses lined up again with one empty place and an extra saddle topping the pony’s pack.  It was a sorrowful thing to do, but there was no better way.  As I rode on, looking back occasionally to see that my train was following, my heart ached to think of the toil the poor old horse had undergone ­only to meet death in the bush at the hands of his master.

Relieved of our wounded horse we made good time and repassed before nine o’clock several outfits that had overhauled us during our trouble.  We rose higher and higher, and came at last into a grassy country and to a series of small lakes, which were undoubtedly the source of the second fork of the Stikeen.  But as we had lost so much time during the day, we pushed on with all our vigor for a couple of hours and camped about nine o’clock of a beautiful evening, with a magnificent sky arching us as if with a prophecy of better times ahead.

The horses were now travelling very light, and our food supply was reduced to a few pounds of flour and bread ­we had no game and no berries.  Beans were all gone and our bacon reduced to the last shred.  We had come to expect rain every day of our lives, and were feeling a little the effects of our scanty diet of bread and bacon ­hill-climbing was coming to be laborious.  However, the way led downward most of the time, and we were able to rack along at a very good pace even on an empty stomach.

During the latter part of the second day the trail led along a high ridge, a sort of hog-back overlooking a small river valley on our left, and bringing into view an immense blue canyon far ahead of us.  “There lies the Stikeen,” I called to Burton.  “We’re on the second south fork, which we follow to the Stikeen, thence to the left to Telegraph Creek.”  I began to compose doggerel verses to express our exultation.

We were very tired and glad when we reached a camping-place.  We could not stop on this high ridge for lack of water, although the feed was very good.  We were forced to plod on and on until we at last descended into the valley of a little stream which crossed our path.  The ground had been much trampled, but as rain was falling and darkness coming on, there was nothing to do but camp.

Out of our last bit of bacon grease and bread and tea we made our supper.  While we were camping, “The Wild Dutchman,” a stalwart young fellow we had seen once or twice on the trail, came by with a very sour visage.  He went into camp near, and came over to see us.  He said:  “I hain’t had no pread for more dan a veek.  I’ve nuttin’ put péans.  If you can, let me haf a biscuit.  By Gott, how goot dat vould taste.”

I yielded up a small loaf and encouraged him as best I could:  “As I figure it, we are within thirty-five miles of Telegraph Creek; I’ve kept a careful diary of our travel.  If we’ve passed over the Dease Lake Trail, which is probably about four hundred miles from Hazleton to Glenora, we must be now within thirty-five miles of Telegraph Creek.”

I was not half so sure of this as I made him think; but it gave him a great deal of comfort, and he went off very much enlivened.

Sunday and no sun!  It was raining when we awoke and the mosquitoes were stickier than ever.  Our grub was nearly gone, our horses thin and weak, and the journey uncertain.  All ill things seemed to assemble like vultures to do us harm.  The world was a grim place that day.  It was a question whether we were not still on the third south fork instead of the second south fork, in which case we were at least one hundred miles from our supplies.  If we were forced to cross the main Stikeen and go down on the other side, it might be even farther.

The men behind us were all suffering, and some of them were sure to have a hard time if such weather continued.  At the same time I felt comparatively sure of our ground.

We were ragged, dirty, lame, unshaven, and unshorn ­we were fighting from morning till night.  The trail became more discouraging each moment that the rain continued to fall.  There was little conversation even between partner and myself.  For many days we had moved in perfect silence for the most part, though no gloom or sullenness appeared in Burton’s face.  We were now lined up once more, taking the trail without a word save the sharp outcry of the drivers hurrying the horses forward, or the tinkle of the bells on the lead horse of the train.

THE VULTURE

    He wings a slow and watchful flight,
    His neck is bare, his eyes are bright,
    His plumage fits the starless night.

    He sits at feast where cattle lie
    Withering in ashen alkali,
    And gorges till he scarce can fly.

    But he is kingly on the breeze! 
    On rigid wing, in careless ease,
    A soundless bark on viewless seas. 
    Piercing the purple storm cloud, he makes
    The sun his neighbor, and shakes
    His wrinkled neck in mock dismay,
    And swings his slow, contemptuous way
    Above the hot red lightning’s play.

    Monarch of cloudland ­yet a ghoul of prey.

CAMPFIRES

1. Popple

    A river curves like a bended bow,
    And over it winds of summer lightly blow;
    Two boys are feeding a flame with bark
    Of the pungent popple.  Hark! 
    They are uttering dreams.  “I
    Will go hunt gold toward the western sky,”
    Says the older lad; “I know it is there,
    For the rainbow shows just where
    It is.  I’ll go camping, and take a pan,
    And shovel gold, when I’m a man.”

2. Sage Brush

    The burning day draws near its end,
    And on the plain a man and his friend
    Sit feeding an odorous sage-brush fire. 
    A lofty butte like a funeral pyre,
    With the sun atop, looms high
    In the cloudless, windless, saffron sky. 
    A snake sleeps under a grease-wood plant;
    A horned toad snaps at a passing ant;
    The plain is void as a polar floe,
    And the limitless sky has a furnace glow. 
    The men are gaunt and shaggy and gray,
    And their childhood river is far away;
    The gold still hides at the rainbow’s tip,
    Yet the wanderer speaks with a resolute lip. 
    “I will seek till I find ­or till I die,”
    He mutters, and lifts his clenched hand high,
    And puts behind him love and wife,
    And the quiet round of a farmer’s life.

3. Pine

    The dark day ends in a bitter night. 
    The mighty mountains cold, and white,
    And stern as avarice, still hide their gold
    Deep in wild canyons fold on fold,
    Both men are old, and one is grown
    As gray as the snows around him sown. 
    He hovers over a fire of pine,
    Spicy and cheering; toward the line
    Of the towering peaks he lifts his eyes. 
    “I’d rather have a boy with shining hair,
    To bear my name, than all your share
    Of earth’s red gold,” he said;
    And died, a loveless, childless man,
    Before the morning light began.