At dawn of day the white land lay all gruesome-like and grim,
When Bill Mc’Gee he says to me: “We’ve GOT to do it, Jim.
We’ve got to make Fort Liard quick. I know the river’s bad,
But, oh! the little woman’s sick . . . why! don’t you savvy, lad?”
And me! Well, yes, I must confess it wasn’t hard to see
Their little family group of two would soon be one of three.
And so I answered, careless-like: “Why, Bill! you don’t suppose
I’m scared of that there ‘babbling brook’? Whatever you say goes.”

A real live man was Barb-wire Bill, with insides copper-lined;
For “barb-wire” was the brand of “hooch” to which he most inclined.
They knew him far; his igloos are on Kittiegazuit strand.
They knew him well, the tribes who dwell within the Barren Land.
From Koyokuk to Kuskoquim his fame was everywhere;
And he did love, all life above, that little Julie Claire,
The lithe, white slave-girl he had bought for seven hundred skins,
And taken to his wickiup to make his moccasins.

We crawled down to the river bank and feeble folk were we,
That Julie Claire from God-knows-where, and Barb-wire Bill and me.
From shore to shore we heard the roar the heaving ice-floes make,
And loud we laughed, and launched our raft, and followed in their wake.
The river swept and seethed and leapt, and caught us in its stride;
And on we hurled amid a world that crashed on every side.
With sullen din the banks caved in; the shore-ice lanced the stream;
The naked floes like spooks arose, all jiggling and agleam.
Black anchor-ice of strange device shot upward from its bed,
As night and day we cleft our way, and arrow-like we sped.

But “Faster still!” cried Barb-wire Bill, and looked the live-long day
In dull despair at Julie Claire, as white like death she lay.
And sometimes he would seem to pray and sometimes seem to curse,
And bent above, with eyes of love, yet ever she grew worse.
And as we plunged and leapt and lunged, her face was plucked with pain,
And I could feel his nerves of steel a-quiver at the strain.
And in the night he gripped me tight as I lay fast asleep:
“The river’s kicking like a steer . . . run out the forward sweep!
That’s Hell-gate Canyon right ahead; I know of old its roar,
And . . . I’ll be damned! THE ICE IS JAMMED! We’ve GOT to make the shore.”

With one wild leap I gripped the sweep. The night was black as sin.
The float-ice crashed and ripped and smashed, and stunned us with its din.
And near and near, and clear and clear I heard the canyon boom;
And swift and strong we swept along to meet our awful doom.
And as with dread I glimpsed ahead the death that waited there,
My only thought was of the girl, the little Julie Claire;
And so, like demon mad with fear, I panted at the oar,
And foot by foot, and inch by inch, we worked the raft ashore.

The bank was staked with grinding ice, and as we scraped and crashed,
I only knew one thing to do, and through my mind it flashed:
Yet while I groped to find the rope, I heard Bill’s savage cry:
“That’s my job, lad! It’s me that jumps. I’ll snub this raft or die!”
I saw him leap, I saw him creep, I saw him gain the land;
I saw him crawl, I saw him fall, then run with rope in hand.
And then the darkness gulped him up, and down we dashed once more,
And nearer, nearer drew the jam, and thunder-like its roar.

Oh God! all’s lost . . . from Julie Claire there came a wail of pain,
And then the rope grew sudden taut, and quivered at the strain;
It slacked and slipped, it whined and gripped, and oh, I held my breath!
And there we hung and there we swung right in the jaws of death.

A little strand of hempen rope, and how I watched it there,
With all around a hell of sound, and darkness and despair;
A little strand of hempen rope, I watched it all alone,
And somewhere in the dark behind I heard a woman moan;
And somewhere in the dark ahead I heard a man cry out,
Then silence, silence, silence fell, and mocked my hollow shout.
And yet once more from out the shore I heard that cry of pain,
A moan of mortal agony, then all was still again.

That night was hell with all the frills, and when the dawn broke dim,
I saw a lean and level land, but never sign of him.
I saw a flat and frozen shore of hideous device,
I saw a long-drawn strand of rope that vanished through the ice.
And on that treeless, rockless shore I found my partner dead.
No place was there to snub the raft, so HE HAD SERVED INSTEAD;
And with the rope lashed round his waist, in last defiant fight,
He’d thrown himself beneath the ice, that closed and gripped him tight;
And there he’d held us back from death, as fast in death he lay. . . .
Say, boys! I’m not the pious brand, but I just tried to pray.
And then I looked to Julie Claire, and sore abashed was I,
For from the robes that covered her, I HEARD A BABY CRY. . . .

Thus was Love conqueror of death, and life for life was given;
And though no saint on earth, d’ye think
Bill’s squared hisself with Heaven?