The Stampede to Squaw Creek

by Jack London

I.Two months after Smoke Bellew and Shorty went after moose for agrubstake, they were back in the Elkhorn saloon at Dawson. Thehunting was done, the meat hauled in and sold for two dollars and ahalf a pound, and between them they possessed three thousand dollarsin gold dust and a good team of dogs. They had played in luck.Despite the fact that the gold rush had driven the game a hundredmiles or more into the mountains, they had, within half thatdistance, bagged four moose in a narrow canyon.The mystery of the strayed animals was no greater than the luck oftheir killers, for within the day four famished Indian familiesreporting no game in three days' journey back, camped beside them.Meat was traded for starving dogs, and after a week of feeding,Smoke and Shorty harnessed the animals and began freighting the meatto the eager Dawson market.The problem of the two men now, was to turn their gold-dust intofood. The current price for flour and beans was a dollar and a halfa pound, but the difficulty was to find a seller. Dawson was in thethroes of famine. Hundreds of men, with money but no food, had beencompelled to leave the country. Many had gone down the river on thelast water, and many more with barely enough food to last, hadwalked the six hundred miles over the ice to Dyea.Smoke met Shorty in the warm saloon, and found the latter jubilant."Life ain't no punkins without whiskey an' sweetenin'," was Shorty'sgreeting, as he pulled lumps of ice from his thawing moustache andflung them rattling on the floor. "An' I sure just got eighteenpounds of that same sweetenin'. The geezer only charged threedollars a pound for it. What luck did you have?""I, too, have not been idle," Smoke answered with pride. "I boughtfifty pounds of flour. And there's a man up on Adam Creek sayshe'll let me have fifty pounds more to-morrow.""Great! We'll sure live till the river opens. Say, Smoke, themdogs of ourn is the goods. A dog-buyer offered me two hundredapiece for the five of them. I told him nothin' doin'. They suretook on class when they got meat to get outside of; but it goesagainst the grain feedin' dog-critters on grub that's worth two anda half a pound. Come on an' have a drink. I just got to celebratethem eighteen pounds of sweetenin'."Several minutes later, as he weighed in on the gold-scales for thedrinks, he gave a start of recollection."I plum forgot that man I was to meet in the Tivoli. He's got somespoiled bacon he'll sell for a dollar an' a half a pound. We canfeed it to the dogs an' save a dollar a day on each's board bill.So long.""So long," said Smoke. "I'm goin' to the cabin an' turn in."Hardly had Shorty left the place, when a fur-clad man enteredthrough the double storm-doors. His face lighted at sight of Smoke,who recognized him as Breck, the man whose boat he had run throughthe Box Canyon and White Horse rapids."I heard you were in town," Breck said hurriedly, as they shookhands. "Been looking for you for half an hour. Come outside, Iwant to talk with you."Smoke looked regretfully at the roaring, red-hot stove."Won't this do?""No; it's important. Come outside."As they emerged, Smoke drew off one mitten, lighted a match, andglanced at the thermometer that hung beside the door. He re-mittened his naked hand hastily as if the frost had burnt him.Overhead arched the flaming aurora borealis, while from all Dawsonarose the mournful howling of thousands of wolf-dogs."What did it say?" Breck asked."Sixty below." Kit spat experimentally, and the spittle crackled inthe air. "And the thermometer is certainly working. It's fallingall the time. An hour ago it was only fifty-two. Don't tell meit's a stampede.""It is," Breck whispered back cautiously, casting anxious eyes aboutin fear of some other listener. "You know Squaw Creek?--empties inon the other side the Yukon thirty miles up?""Nothing doing there," was Smoke's judgment. "It was prospectedyears ago.""So were all the other rich creeks. Listen! It's big. Only eightto twenty feet to bedrock. There won't be a claim that don't run tohalf a million. It's a dead secret. Two or three of my closefriends let me in on it. I told my wife right away that I was goingto find you before I started. Now, so long. My pack's hidden downthe bank. In fact, when they told me, they made me promise not topull out until Dawson was asleep. You know what it means if you'reseen with a stampeding outfit. Get your partner and follow. Youought to stake fourth or fifth claim from Discovery. Don't forget--Squaw Creek. It's the third after you pass Swede Creek."II.When Smoke entered the little cabin on the hillside back of Dawson,he heard a heavy familiar breathing."Aw, go to bed," Shorty mumbled, as Smoke shook his shoulder. "I'mnot on the night shift," was his next remark, as the rousing handbecame more vigorous. "Tell your troubles to the bar-keeper.""Kick into your clothes," Smoke said. "We've got to stake a coupleof claims."Shorty sat up and started to explode, but Smoke's hand covered hismouth."Ssh!" Smoke warned. "It's a big strike. Don't wake theneighbourhood. Dawson's asleep.""Huh! You got to show me. Nobody tells anybody about a strike, ofcourse not. But ain't it plum amazin' the way everybody hits thetrail just the same?""Squaw Creek," Smoke whispered. "It's right. Breck gave me thetip. Shallow bedrock. Gold from the grass-roots down. Come on.We'll sling a couple of light packs together and pull out."Shorty's eyes closed as he lapsed back into sleep. The next momenthis blankets were swept off him."If you don't want them, I do," Smoke explained.Shorty followed the blankets and began to dress."Goin' to take the dogs?" he asked."No. The trail up the creek is sure to be unbroken, and we can makebetter time without them.""Then I'll throw 'em a meal, which'll have to last 'em till we getback. Be sure you take some birch-bark and a candle."Shorty opened the door, felt the bite of the cold, and shrank backto pull down his ear-flaps and mitten his hands.Five minutes later he returned, sharply rubbing his nose."Smoke, I'm sure opposed to makin' this stampede. It's colder thanthe hinges of hell a thousand years before the first fire waslighted. Besides, it's Friday the thirteenth, an' we're goin' totrouble as the sparks fly upward."With small stampeding packs on their backs, they closed the doorbehind them and started down the hill. The display of the auroraborealis had ceased, and only the stars leaped in the great cold,and by their uncertain light made traps for the feet. Shortyfloundered off a turn of the trail into deep snow, and raised hisvoice in blessing of the date of the week and month and year."Can't you keep still?" Smoke chided. "Leave the almanac alone.You'll have all Dawson awake and after us.""Huh! See the light in that cabin? And in that one over there?An' hear that door slam? Oh, sure Dawson's asleep. Them lights?Just buryin' their dead. They ain't stampedin', betcher life theyain't."By the time they reached the foot of the hill and were fairly inDawson, lights were springing up in the cabins, doors were slamming,and from behind came the sound of many moccasins on the hard-packedsnow. Again Shorty delivered himself."But it beats hell the amount of mourners there is."They passed a man who stood by the path and was calling anxiously ina low voice: "Oh, Charley; get a move on.""See that pack on his back, Smoke? The graveyard's sure a long waysoff when the mourners got to pack their blankets."By the time they reached the main street a hundred men were in linebehind them, and while they sought in the deceptive starlight forthe trail that dipped down the bank to the river, more men could beheard arriving. Shorty slipped and shot down the thirty-foot chuteinto the soft snow. Smoke followed, knocking him over as he wasrising to his feet."I found it first," he gurgled, taking off his mittens to shake thesnow out of the gauntlets.The next moment they were scrambling wildly out of the way of thehurtling bodies of those that followed. At the time of the freeze-up, a jam had occurred at this point, and cakes of ice were up-endedin snow-covered confusion. After several hard falls, Smoke drew outhis candle and lighted it. Those in the rear hailed it withacclaim. In the windless air it burned easily, and he led the waymore quickly."It's a sure stampede," Shorty decided. "Or might all them besleep-walkers?""We're at the head of the procession at any rate," was Smoke'sanswer."Oh, I don't know. Mebbe that's a firefly ahead there. Mebbethey're all fireflies--that one, an' that one. Look at 'em.Believe me, they is whole strings of processions ahead."It was a mile across the jams to the west bank of the Yukon, andcandles flickered the full length of the twisting trail. Behindthem, clear to the top of the bank they had descended, were morecandles."Say, Smoke, this ain't no stampede. It's a exode-us. They must bea thousand men ahead of us an' ten thousand behind. Now, you listento your uncle. My medicine's good. When I get a hunch it's sureright. An' we're in wrong on this stampede. Let's turn back an'hit the sleep.""You'd better save your breath if you intend to keep up," Smokeretorted gruffly."Huh! My legs is short, but I slog along slack at the knees an'don't worry my muscles none, an' I can sure walk every piker hereoff the ice."And Smoke knew he was right, for he had long since learned hiscomrade's phenomenal walking powers."I've been holding back to give you a chance," Smoke jeered."An' I'm plum troddin' on your heels. If you can't do better, letme go ahead and set pace."Smoke quickened, and was soon at the rear of the nearest bunch ofstampeders."Hike along, you, Smoke," the other urged. "Walk over them unburieddead. This ain't no funeral. Hit the frost like you was goin'somewheres."Smoke counted eight men and two women in this party, and before theway across the jam-ice was won, he and Shorty had passed anotherparty twenty strong. Within a few feet of the west bank, the trailswerved to the south, emerging from the jam upon smooth ice. Theice, however, was buried under several feet of fine snow. Throughthis the sled-trail ran, a narrow ribbon of packed footing barelytwo feet in width. On either side one sank to his knees and deeperin the snow. The stampeders they overtook were reluctant to giveway, and often Smoke and Shorty had to plunge into the deep snow,and by supreme efforts flounder past.Shorty was irrepressible and pessimistic. When the stampedersresented being passed, he retorted in kind."What's your hurry?" one of them asked."What's yours?" he answered. "A stampede come down from IndianRiver yesterday afternoon an' beat you to it. They ain't no claimsleft.""That being so, I repeat, what's your hurry?""WHO? Me? I ain't no stampeder. I'm workin' for the government.I'm on official business. I'm just traipsin' along to take thecensus of Squaw Creek."To another, who hailed him with: "Where away, little one? Do youreally expect to stake a claim?" Shorty answered:"Me? I'm the discoverer of Squaw Creek. I'm just comin' back fromrecordin' so as to see no blamed chechaquo jumps my claim."The average pace of the stampeders on the smooth going was threemiles and a half an hour. Smoke and Shorty were doing four and ahalf, though sometimes they broke into short runs and went faster."I'm going to travel your feet clean off, Shorty," Smoke challenged."Huh! I can hike along on the stumps an' wear the heels off yourmoccasins. Though it ain't no use. I've ben figgerin'. Creekclaims is five hundred feet. Call 'em ten to the mile. They's athousand stampeders ahead of us, an' that creek ain't no hundredmiles long. Somebody's goin' to get left, an' it makes a noise likeyou an' me."Before replying, Smoke let out an unexpected link that threw Shortyhalf a dozen feet in the rear."If you saved your breath and kept up, we'd cut down a few of thatthousand," he chided."Who? Me? If you's get outa the way I'd show you a pace what is."Smoke laughed, and let out another link. The whole aspect of theadventure had changed. Through his brain was running a phrase ofthe mad philosopher--"the transvaluation of values." In truth, hewas less interested in staking a fortune than in beating Shorty.After all, he concluded, it wasn't the reward of the game but theplaying of it that counted. Mind, and muscle, and stamina, andsoul, were challenged in a contest with this Shorty, a man who hadnever opened the books, and who did not know grand opera from rag-time, nor an epic from a chilblain."Shorty, I've got you skinned to death. I've reconstructed everycell in my body since I hit the beach at Dyea. My flesh is asstringy as whipcords, and as bitter and mean as the bite of arattlesnake. A few months ago I'd have patted myself on the back towrite such words, but I couldn't have written them. I had to livethem first, and now that I'm living them there's no need to writethem. I'm the real, bitter, stinging goods, and no scrub of amountaineer can put anything over on me without getting it backcompound. Now, you go ahead and set pace for half an hour. Do yourworst, and when you're all in I'll go ahead and give you half anhour of the real worst.""Huh!" Shorty sneered genially. "An' him not dry behind the earsyet. Get outa the way an' let your father show you some goin'."Half-hour by half-hour they alternated in setting pace. Nor didthey talk much. Their exertions kept them warm, though their breathfroze on their faces from lips to chin. So intense was the coldthat they almost continually rubbed their noses and cheeks withtheir mittens. A few minutes cessation from this allowed the fleshto grow numb, and then most vigorous rubbing was required to producethe burning prickle of returning circulation.Often they thought they had reached the lead, but always theyovertook more stampeders who had started before them. Occasionally,groups of men attempted to swing in behind to their pace, butinvariably they were discouraged after a mile or two, anddisappeared in the darkness to the rear."We've been out on trail all winter," was Shorty's comment. "An'them geezers, soft from laying around their cabins, has the nerve tothink they can keep our stride. Now, if they was real sour-doughsit'd be different. If there's one thing a sour-dough can do it'ssure walk."Once, Smoke lighted a match and glanced at his watch. He neverrepeated it, for so quick was the bite of the frost on his baredhands, that half an hour passed before they were again comfortable."Four o'clock," he said, as he pulled on his mittens, "and we'vealready passed three hundred.""Three hundred and thirty-eight," Shorty corrected. "I ben keepin'count. Get outa the way, stranger. Let somebody stampede thatknows how to stampede."The latter was addressed to a man, evidently exhausted, who could nomore than stumble along, and who blocked the trail. This, and oneother, were the only played-out men they encountered, for they werevery near to the head of the stampede. Nor did they learn tillafterwards the horrors of that night. Exhausted men sat down torest by the way, and failed to get up. Seven were frozen to death,while scores of amputations of toes, feet, and fingers wereperformed in the Dawson hospitals on the survivors. For of allnights for a stampede, the one to Squaw Creek occurred on thecoldest night of the year. Before morning, the spirit thermometersat Dawson registered seventy degrees below zero. The men composingthe stampede, with few exceptions, were new-comers in the countrywho did not know the way of the cold.The other played-out man they found a few minutes later, revealed bya streamer of aurora borealis that shot like a searchlight fromhorizon to zenith. He was sitting on a piece of ice beside thetrail."Hop along, sister Mary," Shorty gaily greeted him. "Keep movin'.If you sit there you'll freeze stiff."The man made no response, and they stopped to investigate."Stiff as a poker," was Shorty's verdict. "If you tumbled him overhe'd break.""See if he's breathing," Smoke said, as, with bared hands, he soughtthrough furs and woollens for the man's heart.Shorty lifted one ear-flap and bent to the iced lips."Nary breathe," he reported."Nor heart-beat," said Smoke.He mittened his hand and beat it violently for a minute beforeexposing it to the frost to strike a match. It was an old man,incontestably dead. In the moment of illumination, they saw a longgrey beard, massed with ice to the nose, cheeks that were white withfrost, and closed eyes with frost-rimmed lashes frozen together.Then the match went out."Come on," Shorty said, rubbing his ear. "We can't do nothing forthe old geezer. An' I've sure frosted my ear. Now all the blamedskin'll peel off and it'll be sore for a week."A few minutes later, when a flaming ribbon spilled pulsating fireover the heavens, they saw on the ice a quarter of a mile ahead twoforms. Beyond, for a mile, nothing moved."They're leading the procession," Smoke said, as darkness fellagain. "Come on, let's get them."At the end of half an hour, not yet having overtaken the two infront, Shorty broke into a run."If we catch 'em we'll never pass 'em," he panted. "Lord, what apace they're hittin'. Dollars to doughnuts they're no chechaquos.They're the real sour-dough variety, you can stack on that."Smoke was leading when they finally caught up, and he was glad toease to a walk at their heels. Almost immediately he got theimpression that the one nearer him was a woman. How this impressioncame, he could not tell. Hooded and furred, the dark form was asany form; yet there was a haunting sense of familiarity about it.He waited for the next flame of the aurora, and by its light saw thesmallness of the moccasined feet. But he saw more--the walk; andknew it for the unmistakable walk he had once resolved never toforget."She's a sure goer," Shorty confided hoarsely. "I'll bet it's anIndian.""How do you do, Miss Gastell," Smoke addressed."How do you do," she answered, with a turn of the head and a quickglance. "It's too dark to see. Who are you?""Smoke,"She laughed in the frost, and he was certain it was the prettiestlaughter he had ever heard."And have you married and raised all those children you were tellingme about?" Before he could retort, she went on. "How manychechaquos are there behind?""Several thousand, I imagine. We passed over three hundred. Andthey weren't wasting any time.""It's the old story," she said bitterly. "The new-comers get in onthe rich creeks, and the old-timers who dared and suffered and madethis country, get nothing. Old-timers made this discovery on SquawCreek--how it leaked out is the mystery--and they sent word up toall the old-timers on Sea Lion. But it's ten miles farther thanDawson, and when they arrive they'll find the creek staked to theskyline by the Dawson chechaquos. It isn't right, it isn't fair,such perversity of luck.""It is too bad," Smoke sympathized. "But I'm hanged if I know whatyou're going to do about it. First come, first served, you know.""I wish I could do something," she flashed back at him. "I'd liketo see them all freeze on the trail, or have everything terriblehappen to them, so long as the Sea Lion stampede arrived first.""You've certainly got it in for us, hard," he laughed."It isn't that," she said quickly. "Man by man, I know the crowdfrom Sea Lion, and they are men. They starved in this country inthe old days, and they worked like giants to develop it. I wentthrough the hard times on the Koyokuk with them when I was a littlegirl. And I was with them in the Birch Creek famine, and in theForty Mile famine. They are heroes, and they deserve some reward,and yet here are thousands of green softlings who haven't earned theright to stake anything, miles and miles ahead of them. And now, ifyou'll forgive my tirade, I'll save my breath, for I don't know whenyou and all the rest may try to pass dad and me."No further talk passed between Joy and Smoke for an hour or so,though he noticed that for a time she and her father talked in lowtones."I know'm now," Shorty told Smoke. "He's old Louis Gastell, an' thereal goods. That must be his kid. He come into this country solong ago they ain't nobody can recollect, an' he brought the girlwith him, she only a baby. Him an' Beetles was tradin' partners an'they ran the first dinkey little steamboat up the Koyokuk.""I don't think we'll try to pass them," Smoke said. "We're at thehead of the stampede, and there are only four of us."Shorty agreed, and another hour of silence followed, during whichthey swung steadily along. At seven o'clock, the blackness wasbroken by a last display of the aurora borealis, which showed to thewest a broad opening between snow-clad mountains."Squaw Creek!" Joy exclaimed."Goin' some," Shorty exulted. "We oughtn't to ben there for anotherhalf hour to the least, accordin' to my reckonin'. I must a' benspreadin' my legs."It was at this point that the Dyea trail, baffled by ice-jams,swerved abruptly across the Yukon to the east bank. And here theymust leave the hard-packed, main-travelled trail, mount the jams,and follow a dim trail, but slightly packed, that hovered the westbank.Louis Gastell, leading, slipped in the darkness on the rough ice,and sat up, holding his ankle in both his hands. He struggled tohis feet and went on, but at a slower pace and with a perceptiblelimp. After a few minutes he abruptly halted."It's no use," he said to his daughter. "I've sprained a tendon.You go ahead and stake for me as well as yourself.""Can't we do something?" Smoke asked.Louis Gastell shook his head."She can stake two claims as well as one. I'll crawl over to thebank, start a fire, and bandage my ankle. I'll be all right. Goon, Joy. Stake ours above the Discovery claim; it's richer higherup.""Here's some birch bark," Smoke said, dividing his supply equally."We'll take care of your daughter."Louis Gastell laughed harshly."Thank you just the same," he said. "But she can take care ofherself. Follow her and watch her.""Do you mind if I lead?" she asked Smoke, as she headed on. "I knowthis country better than you.""Lead on," Smoke answered gallantly, "though I agree with you it's adarned shame all us chechaquos are going to beat that Sea Lion bunchto it. Isn't there some way to shake them?"She shook her head."We can't hide our trail, and they'll follow it like sheep."After a quarter of a mile, she turned sharply to the west. Smokenoticed that they were going through unpacked snow, but neither henor Shorty observed that the dim trail they had been on still ledsouth. Had they witnessed the subsequent procedure of LouisGastell, the history of the Klondike would have been writtendifferently; for they would have seen that old-timer, no longerlimping, running with his nose to the trail like a hound, followingthem. Also, they would have seen him trample and widen the turnthey had made to the west. And, finally, they would have seen himkeep on the old dim trail that still led south.A trail did run up the creek, but so slight was it that theycontinually lost it in the darkness. After a quarter of an hour,Joy Gastell was willing to drop into the rear and let the two mentake turns in breaking a way through the snow. This slowness of theleaders enabled the whole stampede to catch up, and when daylightcame, at nine o'clock, as far back as they could see was an unbrokenline of men. Joy's dark eyes sparkled at the sight."How long since we started up the creek?" she asked."Fully two hours," Smoke answered."And two hours back makes four," she laughed. "The stampede fromSea Lion is saved."A faint suspicion crossed Smoke's mind, and he stopped andconfronted her."I don't understand," he said."You don't. Then I'll tell you. This is Norway Creek. Squaw Creekis the next to the south."Smoke was for the moment, speechless."You did it on purpose?" Shorty demanded."I did it to give the old-timers a chance."She laughed mockingly. The men grinned at each other and finallyjoined her."I'd lay you across my knee an' give you a wallopin', if womenfolkwasn't so scarce in this country," Shorty assured her."Your father didn't sprain a tendon, but waited till we were out ofsight and then went on?" Smoke asked.She nodded."And you were the decoy."Again she nodded, and this time Smoke's laughter rang out clear andtrue. It was the spontaneous laughter of a frankly beaten man."Why don't you get angry with me?" she queried ruefully. "Or--orwallop me?""Well, we might as well be starting back," Shorty urged. "My feet'sgettin' cold standin' here."Smoke shook his head."That would mean four hours lost. We must be eight miles up thisCreek now, and from the look ahead Norway is making a long swingsouth. We'll follow it, then cross over the divide somehow, and tapSquaw Creek somewhere above Discovery." He looked at Joy. "Won'tyou come along with us? I told your father we'd look after you.""I--" She hesitated. "I think I shall, if you don't mind." Shewas looking straight at him, and her face was no longer defiant andmocking. "Really, Mr Smoke, you make me almost sorry for what Ihave done. But somebody had to save the old-timers.""It strikes me that stampeding is at best a sporting proposition.""And it strikes me you two are very game about it," she went on,then added with the shadow of a sigh: "What a pity you are not old-timers."For two hours more they kept to the frozen creek-bed of Norway, thenturned into a narrow and rugged tributary that flowed from thesouth. At midday they began the ascent of the divide itself.Behind them, looking down and back, they could see the long line ofstampeders breaking up. Here and there, in scores of places, thinsmoke-columns advertised the making of camps.As for themselves, the going was hard. They wallowed through snowto their waists, and were compelled to stop every few yards tobreathe. Shorty was the first to call a halt."We ben hittin' the trail for over twelve hours," he said. "Smoke,I'm plum willin' to say I'm good an' tired. An' so are you. An'I'm free to shout that I can sure hang on to this here pascar like astarvin' Indian to a hunk of bear-meat. But this poor girl herecan't keep her legs no time if she don't get something in herstomach. Here's where we build a fire. What d'ye say?"So quickly, so deftly and methodically, did they go about making atemporary camp, that Joy, watching with jealous eyes, admitted toherself that the old-timers could not do it better. Spruce boughs,with a spread blanket on top, gave a foundation for rest and cookingoperations. But they kept away from the heat of the fire untilnoses and cheeks had been rubbed cruelly.Smoke spat in the air, and the resultant crackle was so immediateand loud that he shook his head."I give it up," he said. "I've never seen cold like this.""One winter on the Koyokuk it went to eighty-six below," Joyanswered. "It's at least seventy or seventy-five right now, and Iknow I've frosted my cheeks. They're burning like fire."On the steep slope of the divide there was no ice, while snow, asfine and hard and crystalline as granulated sugar, was poured intothe gold-pan by the bushel until enough water was melted for thecoffee. Smoke fried bacon and thawed biscuits. Shorty kept thefuel supplied and tended the fire, and Joy set the simple tablecomposed of two plates, two cups, two spoons, a tin of mixed saltand pepper, and a tin of sugar. When it came to eating, she andSmoke shared one set between them. They ate out of the same plateand drank from the same cup.It was nearly two in the afternoon when they cleared the crest ofthe divide and began dropping down a feeder of Squaw Creek. Earlierin the winter some moose-hunter had made a trail up the canyon--thatis, in going up and down he had stepped always in his previoustracks. As a result, in the midst of soft snow, and veiled underlater snow falls, was a line of irregular hummocks. If one's footmissed a hummock, he plunged down through unpacked snow and usuallyto a fall. Also, the moose-hunter had been an exceptionally long-legged individual. Joy, who was eager now that the two men shouldstake, and fearing that they were slackening pace on account of herevident weariness, insisted on taking the lead. The speed andmanner in which she negotiated the precarious footing, called outShorty's unqualified approval."Look at her!" he cried. "She's the real goods an' the red meat.Look at them moccasins swing along. No high-heels there. She usesthe legs God gave her. She's the right squaw for any bear-hunter."She flashed back a smile of acknowledgment that included Smoke. Hecaught a feeling of chumminess, though at the same time he wasbitingly aware that it was very much of a woman who embraced him inthat comradely smile.Looking back, as they came to the bank of Squaw Creek, they couldsee the stampede, strung out irregularly, struggling along thedescent of the divide.They slipped down the bank to the creek bed. The stream, frozensolidly to bottom, was from twenty to thirty feet wide and ranbetween six- and eight-foot earth banks of alluvial wash. No recentfeet had disturbed the snow that lay upon its ice, and they knewthey were above the Discovery claim and the last stakes of the SeaLion stampeders."Look out for springs," Joy warned, as Smoke led the way down thecreek. "At seventy below you'll lose your feet if you breakthrough."These springs, common to most Klondike streams, never ceased at thelowest temperatures. The water flowed out from the banks and lay inpools which were cuddled from the cold by later surface-freezingsand snow falls. Thus, a man, stepping on dry snow, might breakthrough half an inch of ice-skin and find himself up to the knees inwater. In five minutes, unless able to remove the wet gear, theloss of one's foot was the penalty.Though only three in the afternoon, the long grey twilight of theArctic had settled down. They watched for a blazed tree on eitherbank, which would show the centre-stake of the last claim located.Joy, impulsively eager, was the first to find it. She darted aheadof Smoke, crying: "Somebody's been here! See the snow! Look forthe blaze! There it is! See that spruce!"She sank suddenly to her waist in the snow."Now I've done it," she said woefully. Then she cried: "Don't comenear me! I'll wade out."Step by step, each time breaking through the thin skin of iceconcealed under the dry snow, she forced her way to solid footing.Smoke did not wait, but sprang to the bank, where dry and seasonedtwigs and sticks, lodged amongst the brush by spring freshets,waited the match. By the time she reached his side, the firstflames and flickers of an assured fire were rising."Sit down!" he commanded.She obediently sat down in the snow. He slipped his pack from hisback, and spread a blanket for her feet.From above came the voices of the stampeders who followed them."Let Shorty stake," she urged"Go on, Shorty," Smoke said, as he attacked her moccasins, alreadystiff with ice. "Pace off a thousand feet and place the two centre-stakes. We can fix the corner-stakes afterwards."With his knife Smoke cut away the lacings and leather of themoccasins. So stiff were they with ice that they snapped andcrackled under the hacking and sawing. The Siwash socks and heavywoollen stockings were sheaths of ice. It was as if her feet andcalves were encased in corrugated iron."How are your feet?" he asked, as he worked."Pretty numb. I can't move nor feel my toes. But it will be allright. The fire is burning beautifully. Watch out you don't freezeyour own hands. They must be numb now from the way you'refumbling."He slipped his mittens on, and for nearly a minute smashed the openhands savagely against his sides. When he felt the blood-prickles,he pulled off the mittens and ripped and tore and sawed and hackedat the frozen garments. The white skin of one foot appeared, thenthat of the other, to be exposed to the bite of seventy below zero,which is the equivalent of one hundred and two below freezing.Then came the rubbing with snow, carried on with an intensity ofcruel fierceness, till she squirmed and shrank and moved her toes,and joyously complained of the hurt.He half-dragged her, and she half-lifted herself, nearer to thefire. He placed her feet on the blanket close to the flesh-savingflames."You'll have to take care of them for a while," he said.She could now safely remove her mittens and manipulate her own feet,with the wisdom of the initiated, being watchful that the heat ofthe fire was absorbed slowly. While she did this, he attacked hishands. The snow did not melt nor moisten. Its light crystals werelike so much sand. Slowly the stings and pangs of circulation cameback into the chilled flesh. Then he tended the fire, unstrappedthe light pack from her back, and got out a complete change of foot-gear.Shorty returned along the creek-bed and climbed the bank to them."I sure staked a full thousan' feet," he proclaimed. "Numbertwenty-seven and number twenty-eight, though I'd only got the upperstake of twenty-seven, when I met the first geezer of the bunchbehind. He just straight declared I wasn't goin' to stake twenty-eight. An' I told him . . . .""Yes, yes," Joy cried. "What did you tell him?""Well, I told him straight that if he didn't back up plum fivehundred feet I'd sure punch his frozen nose into ice-cream an'chocolate eclaires. He backed up, an' I've got in the centre-stakesof two full an' honest five-hundred-foot claims. He staked next,and I guess by now the bunch has Squaw Creek located to head-watersan' down the other side. Ourn is safe. It's too dark to see now,but we can put out the corner-stakes in the mornin'."III.When they awoke, they found a change had taken place during thenight. So warm was it, that Shorty and Smoke, still in their mutualblankets, estimated the temperature at no more than twenty below.The cold snap had broken. On top their blankets lay six inches offrost crystals."Good morning! how's your feet?" was Smoke's greeting across theashes of the fire to where Joy Gastell, carefully shaking aside thesnow, was sitting up in her sleeping furs.Shorty built the fire and quarried ice from the creek, while Smokecooked breakfast. Daylight came on as they finished the meal."You go an' fix them corner-stakes, Smoke," Shorty said. "There's agravel under where I chopped ice for the coffee, an' I'm goin' tomelt water and wash a pan of that same gravel for luck."Smoke departed, axe in hand, to blaze the stakes. Starting from thedown-stream centre-stake of 'twenty-seven,' he headed at rightangles across the narrow valley towards its rim. He proceededmethodically, almost automatically, for his mind was alive withrecollections of the night before. He felt, somehow, that he hadwon to empery over the delicate lines and firm muscles of those feetand ankles he had rubbed with snow, and this empery seemed to extendto all women. In dim and fiery ways a feeling of possessionmastered him. It seemed that all that was necessary was for him towalk up to this Joy Gastell, take her hand in his, and say "Come."It was in this mood that he discovered something that made himforget empery over the white feet of woman. At the valley rim heblazed no corner-stake. He did not reach the valley rim, but,instead, he found himself confronted by another stream. He lined upwith his eye a blasted willow tree and a big and recognizablespruce. He returned to the stream where were the centre stakes. Hefollowed the bed of the creek around a wide horseshoe bend throughthe flat, and found that the two creeks were the same creek. Next,he floundered twice through the snow from valley rim to valley rim,running the first line from the lower stake of 'twenty-seven,' thesecond from the upper stake of 'twenty-eight,' and he found that THEUPPER STAKE OF THE LATTER WAS LOWER THAN THE LOWER STAKE OF THEFORMER. In the gray twilight and half-darkness Shorty had locatedtheir two claims on the horseshoe.Smoke plodded back to the little camp. Shorty, at the end ofwashing a pan of gravel, exploded at sight of him."We got it!" Shorty cried, holding out the pan. "Look at it! Anasty mess of gold. Two hundred right there if it's a cent. Sheruns rich from the top of the wash-gravel. I've churned aroundplacers some, but I never got butter like what's in this pan."Smoke cast an incurious glance at the coarse gold, poured himself acup of coffee at the fire, and sat down. Joy sensed something wrongand looked at him with eagerly solicitous eyes. Shorty, however,was disgruntled by his partner's lack of delight in the discovery."Why don't you kick in an' get excited?" he demanded. "We got ourpile right here, unless you're stickin' up your nose at two-hundred-dollar pans."Smoke took a swallow of coffee before replying."Shorty, why are our two claims here like the Panama Canal?""What's the answer?""Well, the eastern entrance of the Panama Canal is west of thewestern entrance, that's all.""Go on," Shorty said. "I ain't seen the joke yet.""In short, Shorty, you staked our two claims on a big horseshoebend."Shorty set the gold pan down in the snow and stood up."Go on," he repeated."The upper stake of twenty-eight is ten feet below the lower stakeof twenty-seven.""You mean we ain't got nothin', Smoke?""Worse than that; we've got ten feet less than nothing."Shorty departed down the bank on the run. Five minutes later hereturned. In response to Joy's look, he nodded. Without speech, hewent over to a log and sat down to gaze steadily at the snow infront of his moccasins."We might as well break camp and start back for Dawson," Smoke said,beginning to fold the blankets."I am sorry, Smoke," Joy said. "It's all my fault.""It's all right," he answered. "All in the day's work, you know.""But it's my fault, wholly mine," she persisted. "Dad's staked forme down near Discovery, I know. I'll give you my claim."He shook his head."Shorty," she pleaded.Shorty shook his head and began to laugh. It was a colossal laugh.Chuckles and muffled explosions yielded to hearty roars."It ain't hysterics," he explained, "I sure get powerful amused attimes, an' this is one of them."His gaze chanced to fall on the gold pan. He walked over andgravely kicked it, scattering the gold over the landscape."It ain't ourn," he said. "It belongs to the geezer I backed upfive hundred feet last night. An' what gets me is four hundred an'ninety of them feet was to the good . . . his good. Come on, Smoke.Let's start the hike to Dawson. Though if you're hankerin' to killme I won't lift a finger to prevent."

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