The Passing of Marcus O'Brien
"It is the judgment of this court that you vamose the camp . . . inthe customary way, sir, in the customary way."Judge Marcus O'Brien was absent-minded, and Mucluc Charley nudged himin the ribs. Marcus O'Brien cleared his throat and went on -"Weighing the gravity of the offence, sir, and the extenuatingcircumstances, it is the opinion of this court, and its verdict, thatyou be outfitted with three days' grub. That will do, I think."Arizona Jack cast a bleak glance out over the Yukon. It was aswollen, chocolate flood, running a mile wide and nobody knew howdeep. The earth-bank on which he stood was ordinarily a dozen feetabove the water, but the river was now growling at the top of thebank, devouring, instant by instant, tiny portions of the top-standing soil. These portions went into the gaping mouths of theendless army of brown swirls and vanished away. Several inches more,and Red Cow would be flooded."It won't do," Arizona Jack said bitterly. "Three days' grub ain'tenough.""There was Manchester," Marcus O'Brien replied gravely. "He didn'tget any grub.""And they found his remains grounded on the Lower River an' halfeaten by huskies," was Arizona Jack's retort. "And his killin' waswithout provocation. Joe Deeves never did nothin', never warbledonce, an' jes' because his stomach was out of order, Manchester upsan' plugs him. You ain't givin' me a square deal, O'Brien, I tellyou that straight. Give me a week's grub, and I play even to winout. Three days' grub, an' I cash in.""What for did you kill Ferguson?" O'Brien demanded. "I haven't anypatience for these unprovoked killings. And they've got to stop.Red Cow's none so populous. It's a good camp, and there never usedto be any killings. Now they're epidemic. I'm sorry for you, Jack,but you've got to be made an example of. Ferguson didn't provokeenough for a killing.""Provoke!" Arizona Jack snorted. "I tell you, O'Brien, you don'tsavve. You ain't got no artistic sensibilities. What for did I killFerguson? What for did Ferguson sing 'Then I wisht I was a littlebird'? That's what I want to know. Answer me that. What for did hesing 'little bird, little bird'? One little bird was enough. Icould a-stood one little bird. But no, he must sing two littlebirds. I gave 'm a chanst. I went to him almighty polite andrequested him kindly to discard one little bird. I pleaded with him.There was witnesses that testified to that."An' Ferguson was no jay-throated songster," some one spoke up fromthe crowd.O'Brien betrayed indecision."Ain't a man got a right to his artistic feelin's?" Arizona Jackdemanded. "I gave Ferguson warnin'. It was violatin' my own natureto go on listening to his little birds. Why, there's music sharpsthat fine-strung an' keyed-up they'd kill for heaps less'n I did.I'm willin' to pay for havin' artistic feelin's. I can take mymedicine an' lick the spoon, but three days' grub is drawin' it ashade fine, that's all, an' I hereby register my kick. Go on withthe funeral."O'Brien was still wavering. He glanced inquiringly at MuclucCharley."I should say, Judge, that three days' grub was a mite severe," thelatter suggested; "but you're runnin' the show. When we elected youjudge of this here trial court, we agreed to abide by your decisions,an' we've done it, too, b'gosh, an' we're goin' to keep on doin' it.""Mebbe I've been a trifle harsh, Jack," O'Brien said apologetically--"I'm that worked up over those killings; an' I'm willing to make it aweek's grub." He cleared his throat magisterially and looked brisklyabout him. "And now we might as well get along and finish up thebusiness. The boat's ready. You go and get the grub, Leclaire.We'll settle for it afterward."Arizona Jack looked grateful, and, muttering something about "damnedlittle birds," stepped aboard the open boat that rubbed restlesslyagainst the bank. It was a large skiff, built of rough pine planksthat had been sawed by hand from the standing timber of LakeLinderman, a few hundred miles above, at the foot of Chilcoot. Inthe boat were a pair of oars and Arizona Jack's blankets. Leclairebrought the grub, tied up in a flour-sack, and put it on board. Ashe did so, he whispered--"I gave you good measure, Jack. You done itwith provocation.""Cast her off!" Arizona Jack cried.Somebody untied the painter and threw it in. The current gripped theboat and whirled it away. The murderer did not bother with the oars,contenting himself with sitting in the stern-sheets and rolling acigarette. Completing it, he struck a match and lighted up. Thosethat watched on the bank could see the tiny puffs of smoke. Theyremained on the bank till the boat swung out of sight around the bendhalf a mile below. Justice had been done.The denizens of Red Cow imposed the law and executed sentenceswithout the delays that mark the softness of civilization. There wasno law on the Yukon save what they made for themselves. They werecompelled to make it for themselves. It was in an early day that RedCow flourished on the Yukon--1887--and the Klondike and its populousstampedes lay in the unguessed future. The men of Red Cow did noteven know whether their camp was situated in Alaska or in the North-west Territory, whether they drew breath under the stars and stripesor under the British flag. No surveyor had ever happened along togive them their latitude and longitude. Red Cow was situatedsomewhere along the Yukon, and that was sufficient for them. So faras flags were concerned, they were beyond all jurisdiction. So faras the law was concerned, they were in No-Man's land.They made their own law, and it was very simple. The Yukon executedtheir decrees. Some two thousand miles below Red Cow the Yukonflowed into Bering Sea through a delta a hundred miles wide. Everymile of those two thousand miles was savage wilderness. It was true,where the Porcupine flowed into the Yukon inside the Arctic Circlethere was a Hudson Bay Company trading post. But that was manyhundreds of miles away. Also, it was rumoured that many hundreds ofmiles farther on there were missions. This last, however, was merelyrumour; the men of Red Cow had never been there. They had enteredthe lone land by way of Chilcoot and the head-waters of the Yukon.The men of Red Cow ignored all minor offences. To be drunk anddisorderly and to use vulgar language were looked upon as natural andinalienable rights. The men of Red Cow were individualists, andrecognized as sacred but two things, property and life. There wereno women present to complicate their simple morality. There wereonly three log-cabins in Red Cow--the majority of the population offorty men living in tents or brush shacks; and there was no jail inwhich to confine malefactors, while the inhabitants were too busydigging gold or seeking gold to take a day off and build a jail.Besides, the paramount question of grub negatived such a procedure.Wherefore, when a man violated the rights of property or life, he wasthrown into an open boat and started down the Yukon. The quantity ofgrub he received was proportioned to the gravity of the offence.Thus, a common thief might get as much as two weeks' grub; anuncommon thief might get no more than half of that. A murderer gotno grub at all. A man found guilty of manslaughter would receivegrub for from three days to a week. And Marcus O'Brien had beenelected judge, and it was he who apportioned the grub. A man whobroke the law took his chances. The Yukon swept him away, and hemight or might not win to Bering Sea. A few days' grub gave him afighting chance. No grub meant practically capital punishment,though there was a slim chance, all depending on the season of theyear.Having disposed of Arizona Jack and watched him out of sight, thepopulation turned from the bank and went to work on its claims--allexcept Curly Jim, who ran the one faro layout in all the Northlandand who speculated in prospect-holes on the sides. Two thingshappened that day that were momentous. In the late morning MarcusO'Brien struck it. He washed out a dollar, a dollar and a half, andtwo dollars, from three successive pans. He had found the streak.Curly Jim looked into the hole, washed a few pans himself, andoffered O'Brien ten thousand dollars for all rights--five thousand indust, and, in lieu of the other five thousand, a half interest in hisfaro layout. O'Brien refused the offer. He was there to make moneyout of the earth, he declared with heat, and not out of his fellow-men. And anyway, he didn't like faro. Besides, he appraised hisstrike at a whole lot more than ten thousand.The second event of moment occurred in the afternoon, when SiskiyouPearly ran his boat into the bank and tied up. He was fresh from theOutside, and had in his possession a four-months-old newspaper.Furthermore, he had half a dozen barrels of whisky, all consigned toCurly Jim. The men of Red Cow quit work. They sampled the whisky--at a dollar a drink, weighed out on Curly's scales; and theydiscussed the news. And all would have been well, had not Curly Jimconceived a nefarious scheme, which was, namely, first to get MarcusO'Brien drunk, and next, to buy his mine from him.The first half of the scheme worked beautifully. It began in theearly evening, and by nine o'clock O'Brien had reached the singingstage. He clung with one arm around Curly Jim's neck, and evenessayed the late lamented Ferguson's song about the little birds. Heconsidered he was quite safe in this, what of the fact that the onlyman in camp with artistic feelings was even then speeding down theYukon on the breast of a five-mile current.But the second half of the scheme failed to connect. No matter howmuch whisky was poured down his neck, O'Brien could not be brought torealize that it was his bounden and friendly duty to sell his claim.He hesitated, it is true, and trembled now and again on the verge ofgiving in. Inside his muddled head, however, he was chuckling tohimself. He was up to Curly Jim's game, and liked the hands thatwere being dealt him. The whisky was good. It came out of onespecial barrel, and was about a dozen times better than that in theother five barrels.Siskiyou Pearly was dispensing drinks in the bar-room to theremainder of the population of Red Cow, while O'Brien and Curly hadout their business orgy in the kitchen. But there was nothing smallabout O'Brien. He went into the bar-room and returned with MuclucCharley and Percy Leclaire."Business 'sociates of mine, business 'sociates," he announced, witha broad wink to them and a guileless grin to Curly. "Always trusttheir judgment, always trust 'em. They're all right. Give 'em somefire-water, Curly, an' le's talk it over."This was ringing in; but Curly Jim, making a swift revaluation of theclaim, and remembering that the last pan he washed had turned outseven dollars, decided that it was worth the extra whisky, even if itwas selling in the other room at a dollar a drink."I'm not likely to consider," O'Brien was hiccoughing to his twofriends in the course of explaining to them the question at issue."Who? Me?--sell for ten thousand dollars! No indeed. I'll dig thegold myself, an' then I'm goin' down to God's country--SouthernCalifornia--that's the place for me to end my declinin' days--an'then I'll start . . . as I said before, then I'll start . . . whatdid I say I was goin' to start?""Ostrich farm," Mucluc Charley volunteered."Sure, just what I'm goin' to start." O'Brien abruptly steadiedhimself and looked with awe at Mucluc Charley. "How did you know?Never said so. Jes' thought I said so. You're a min' reader,Charley. Le's have another."Curly Jim filled the glasses and had the pleasure of seeing fourdollars' worth of whisky disappear, one dollar's worth of which hepunished himself--O'Brien insisted that he should drink as frequentlyas his guests."Better take the money now," Leclaire argued. "Take you two years todig it out the hole, an' all that time you might be hatchin' teenylittle baby ostriches an' pulling feathers out the big ones."O'Brien considered the proposition and nodded approval. Curly Jimlooked gratefully at Leclaire and refilled the glasses."Hold on there!" spluttered Mucluc Charley, whose tongue wasbeginning to wag loosely and trip over itself. "As your fatherconfessor--there I go--as your brother--O hell!" He paused andcollected himself for another start. "As your frien'--businessfrien', I should say, I would suggest, rather--I would take theliberty, as it was, to mention--I mean, suggest, that there may bemore ostriches . . . O hell!" He downed another glass, and went onmore carefully. "What I'm drivin' at is . . . what am I drivin' at?"He smote the side of his head sharply half a dozen times with theheel of his palm to shake up his ideas. "I got it!" he criedjubilantly. "Supposen there's slathers more'n ten thousand dollarsin that hole!"O'Brien, who apparently was all ready to close the bargain, switchedabout."Great!" he cried. "Splen'd idea. Never thought of it all bymyself." He took Mucluc Charley warmly by the hand. "Good frien'!Good 's'ciate!" He turned belligerently on Curly Jim. "Maybehundred thousand dollars in that hole. You wouldn't rob your oldfrien', would you, Curly? Course you wouldn't. I know you--better'nyourself, better'n yourself. Le's have another: We're good frien's,all of us, I say, all of us."And so it went, and so went the whisky, and so went Curly Jim's hopesup and down. Now Leclaire argued in favour of immediate sale, andalmost won the reluctant O'Brien over, only to lose him to the morebrilliant counter-argument of Mucluc Charley. And again, it wasMucluc Charley who presented convincing reasons for the sale andPercy Leclaire who held stubbornly back. A little later it wasO'Brien himself who insisted on selling, while both friends, withtears and curses, strove to dissuade him. The more whiskey theydowned, the more fertile of imagination they became. For one soberpro or con they found a score of drunken ones; and they convinced oneanother so readily that they were perpetually changing sides in theargument.The time came when both Mucluc Charley and Leclaire were firmly setupon the sale, and they gleefully obliterated O'Brien's objections asfast as he entered them. O'Brien grew desperate. He exhausted hislast argument and sat speechless. He looked pleadingly at thefriends who had deserted him. He kicked Mucluc Charley's shins underthe table, but that graceless hero immediately unfolded a new andmost logical reason for the sale. Curly Jim got pen and ink andpaper and wrote out the bill of sale. O'Brien sat with pen poised inhand."Le's have one more," he pleaded. "One more before I sign away ahundred thousan' dollars."Curly Jim filled the glasses triumphantly. O'Brien downed his drinkand bent forward with wobbling pen to affix his signature. Before hehad made more than a blot, he suddenly started up, impelled by theimpact of an idea colliding with his consciousness. He stood uponhis feet and swayed back and forth before them, reflecting in hisstartled eyes the thought process that was taking place behind. Thenhe reached his conclusion. A benevolent radiance suffused hiscountenance. He turned to the faro dealer, took his hand, and spokesolemnly."Curly, you're my frien'. There's my han'. Shake. Ol' man, I won'tdo it. Won't sell. Won't rob a frien'. No son-of-a-gun will everhave chance to say Marcus O'Brien robbed frien' cause frien' wasdrunk. You're drunk, Curly, an' I won't rob you. Jes' had thought--never thought it before--don't know what the matter 'ith me, butnever thought it before. Suppose, jes' suppose, Curly, my ol'frien', jes' suppose there ain't ten thousan' in whole damn claim.You'd be robbed. No, sir; won't do it. Marcus O'Brien makes moneyout of the groun', not out of his frien's."Percy Leclaire and Mucluc Charley drowned the faro dealer'sobjections in applause for so noble a sentiment. They fell uponO'Brien from either side, their arms lovingly about his neck, theirmouths so full of words they could not hear Curly's offer to insert aclause in the document to the effect that if there weren't tenthousand in the claim he would be given back the difference betweenyield and purchase price. The longer they talked the more maudlinand the more noble the discussion became. All sordid motives werebanished. They were a trio of philanthropists striving to save CurlyJim from himself and his own philanthropy. They insisted that he wasa philanthropist. They refused to accept for a moment that therecould be found one ignoble thought in all the world. They crawledand climbed and scrambled over high ethical plateaux and ranges, ordrowned themselves in metaphysical seas of sentimentality.Curly Jim sweated and fumed and poured out the whisky. He foundhimself with a score of arguments on his hands, not one of which hadanything to do with the gold-mine he wanted to buy. The longer theytalked the farther away they got from that gold-mine, and at two inthe morning Curly Jim acknowledged himself beaten. One by one he ledhis helpless guests across the kitchen floor and thrust them outside.O'Brien came last, and the three, with arms locked for mutual aid,titubated gravely on the stoop."Good business man, Curly," O'Brien was saying. "Must say like yourstyle--fine an' generous, free-handed hospital . . . hospital . . .hospitality. Credit to you. Nothin' base 'n graspin' in your make-up. As I was sayin'--"But just then the faro dealer slammed the door.The three laughed happily on the stoop. They laughed for a longtime. Then Mucluc Charley essayed speech."Funny--laughed so hard--ain't what I want to say. My idea is . . .what wash it? Oh, got it! Funny how ideas slip. Elusive idea--chasin' elusive idea--great sport. Ever chase rabbits, Percy, myfrien'? I had dog--great rabbit dog. Whash 'is name? Don't knowname--never had no name--forget name--elusive name--chasin' elusivename--no, idea--elusive idea, but got it--what I want to say was--Ohell!"Thereafter there was silence for a long time. O'Brien slipped fromtheir arms to a sitting posture on the stoop, where he slept gently.Mucluc Charley chased the elusive idea through all the nooks andcrannies of his drowning consciousness. Leclaire hung fascinatedupon the delayed utterance. Suddenly the other's hand smote him onthe back."Got it!" Mucluc Charley cried in stentorian tones.The shock of the jolt broke the continuity of Leclaire's mentalprocess."How much to the pan?" he demanded."Pan nothin'!" Mucluc Charley was angry. "Idea--got it--got leg-hold--ran it down."Leclaire's face took on a rapt, admiring expression, and again hehung upon the other's lips." . . . O hell!" said Mucluc Charley.At this moment the kitchen door opened for an instant, and Curly Jimshouted, "Go home!""Funny," said Mucluc Charley. "Shame idea--very shame as mine. Le'sgo home."They gathered O'Brien up between them and started. Mucluc Charleybegan aloud the pursuit of another idea. Leclaire followed thepursuit with enthusiasm. But O'Brien did not follow it. He neitherheard, nor saw, nor knew anything. He was a mere wobbling automaton,supported affectionately and precariously by his two businessassociates.They took the path down by the bank of the Yukon. Home did not liethat way, but the elusive idea did. Mucluc Charley giggled over theidea that he could not catch for the edification of Leclaire. Theycame to where Siskiyou Pearly's boat lay moored to the bank. Therope with which it was tied ran across the path to a pine stump.They tripped over it and went down, O'Brien underneath. A faintflash of consciousness lighted his brain. He felt the impact ofbodies upon his and struck out madly for a moment with his fists.Then he went to sleep again. His gentle snore arose on the air, andMucluc Charley began to giggle."New idea," he volunteered, "brand new idea. Jes' caught it--notrouble at all. Came right up an' I patted it on the head. It'smine. 'Brien's drunk--beashly drunk. Shame--damn shame--learn'mlesshon. Trash Pearly's boat. Put 'Brien in Pearly's boat. Cashtoff--let her go down Yukon. 'Brien wake up in mornin'. Current toostrong--can't row boat 'gainst current--mush walk back. Come backmadder 'n hatter. You an' me headin' for tall timber. Learn 'mlesshon jes' shame, learn 'm lesshon."Siskiyou Pearly's boat was empty, save for a pair of oars. Itsgunwale rubbed against the bank alongside of O'Brien. They rolledhim over into it. Mucluc Charley cast off the painter, and Leclaireshoved the boat out into the current. Then, exhausted by theirlabours, they lay down on the bank and slept.Next morning all Red Cow knew of the joke that had been played onMarcus O'Brien. There were some tall bets as to what would happen tothe two perpetrators when the victim arrived back. In the afternoona lookout was set, so that they would know when he was sighted.Everybody wanted to see him come in. But he didn't come, though theysat up till midnight. Nor did he come next day, nor the next. RedCow never saw Marcus O'Brien again, and though many conjectures wereentertained, no certain clue was ever gained to dispel the mystery ofhis passing.Only Marcus O'Brien knew, and he never came back to tell. He awokenext morning in torment. His stomach had been calcined by theinordinate quantity of whisky he had drunk, and was a dry and ragingfurnace. His head ached all over, inside and out; and, worse thanthat, was the pain in his face. For six hours countless thousands ofmosquitoes had fed upon him, and their ungrateful poison had swollenhis face tremendously. It was only by a severe exertion of will thathe was able to open narrow slits in his face through which he couldpeer. He happened to move his hands, and they hurt. He squinted atthem, but failed to recognize them, so puffed were they by themosquito virus. He was lost, or rather, his identity was lost tohim. There was nothing familiar about him, which, by association ofideas, would cause to rise in his consciousness the continuity of hisexistence. He was divorced utterly from his past, for there wasnothing about him to resurrect in his consciousness a memory of thatpast. Besides, he was so sick and miserable that he lacked energyand inclination to seek after who and what he was.It was not until he discovered a crook in a little finger, caused byan unset breakage of years before, that he knew himself to be MarcusO'Brien. On the instant his past rushed into his consciousness.When he discovered a blood-blister under a thumb-nail, which he hadreceived the previous week, his self-identification became doublysure, and he knew that those unfamiliar hands belonged to MarcusO'Brien, or, just as much to the point, that Marcus O'Brien belongedto the hands. His first thought was that he was ill--that he had hadriver fever. It hurt him so much to open his eyes that he kept themclosed. A small floating branch struck the boat a sharp rap. Hethought it was some one knocking on the cabin door, and said, "Comein." He waited for a while, and then said testily, "Stay out, then,damn you." But just the same he wished they would come in and tellhim about his illness.But as he lay there, the past night began to reconstruct itself inhis brain. He hadn't been sick at all, was his thought; he hadmerely been drunk, and it was time for him to get up and go to work.Work suggested his mine, and he remembered that he had refused tenthousand dollars for it. He sat up abruptly and squeezed open hiseyes. He saw himself in a boat, floating on the swollen brown floodof the Yukon. The spruce-covered shores and islands were unfamiliar.He was stunned for a time. He couldn't make it out. He couldremember the last night's orgy, but there was no connection betweenthat and his present situation.He closed his eyes and held his aching head in his hands. What hadhappened? Slowly the dreadful thought arose in his mind. He foughtagainst it, strove to drive it away, but it persisted: he had killedsomebody. That alone could explain why he was in an open boatdrifting down the Yukon. The law of Red Cow that he had so longadministered had now been administered to him. He had killed someone and been set adrift. But whom? He racked his aching brain forthe answer, but all that came was a vague memory of bodies fallingupon him and of striking out at them. Who were they? Maybe he hadkilled more than one. He reached to his belt. The knife was missingfrom its sheath. He had done it with that undoubtedly. But theremust have been some reason for the killing. He opened his eyes andin a panic began to search about the boat. There was no grub, not anounce of grub. He sat down with a groan. He had killed withoutprovocation. The extreme rigour of the law had been visited uponhim.For half an hour he remained motionless, holding his aching head andtrying to think. Then he cooled his stomach with a drink of waterfrom overside and felt better. He stood up, and alone on the wide-stretching Yukon, with naught but the primeval wilderness to hear, hecursed strong drink. After that he tied up to a huge floating pinethat was deeper sunk in the current than the boat and thatconsequently drifted faster. He washed his face and hands, sat downin the stern-sheets, and did some more thinking. It was late inJune. It was two thousand miles to Bering Sea. The boat wasaveraging five miles an hour. There was no darkness in such highlatitudes at that time of the year, and he could run the river everyhour of the twenty-four. This would mean, daily, a hundred andtwenty miles. Strike out the twenty for accidents, and thereremained a hundred miles a day. In twenty days he would reach BeringSea. And this would involve no expenditure of energy; the river didthe work. He could lie down in the bottom of the boat and husbandhis strength.For two days he ate nothing. Then, drifting into the Yukon Flats, hewent ashore on the low-lying islands and gathered the eggs of wildgeese and ducks. He had no matches, and ate the eggs raw. They werestrong, but they kept him going. When he crossed the Arctic Circle,he found the Hudson Bay Company's post. The brigade had not yetarrived from the Mackenzie, and the post was completely out of grub.He was offered wild-duck eggs, but he informed them that he had abushel of the same on the boat. He was also offered a drink ofwhisky, which he refused with an exhibition of violent repugnance.He got matches, however, and after that he cooked his eggs. Towardthe mouth of the river head-winds delayed him, and he was twenty-fourdays on the egg diet. Unfortunately, while asleep he had drifted byboth the missions of St. Paul and Holy Cross. And he could sincerelysay, as he afterward did, that talk about missions on the Yukon wasall humbug. There weren't any missions, and he was the man to know.Once on Bering Sea he exchanged the egg diet for seal diet, and henever could make up his mind which he liked least. In the fall ofthe year he was rescued by a United States revenue cutter, and thefollowing winter he made quite a hit in San Francisco as a temperancelecturer. In this field he found his vocation. "Avoid the bottle"is his slogan and battle-cry. He manages subtly to convey theimpression that in his own life a great disaster was wrought by thebottle. He has even mentioned the loss of a fortune that was causedby that hell-bait of the devil, but behind that incident hislisteners feel the loom of some terrible and unguessed evil for whichthe bottle is responsible. He has made a success in his vocation,and has grown grey and respected in the crusade against strong drink.But on the Yukon the passing of Marcus O'Brien remains tradition. Itis a mystery that ranks at par with the disappearance of Sir JohnFranklin.
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