Trust
All lines had been cast off, and the Seattle No. 4 was pulling slowlyout from the shore. Her decks were piled high with freight andbaggage, and swarmed with a heterogeneous company of Indians, dogs,and dog-mushers, prospectors, traders, and homeward-bound gold-seekers. A goodly portion of Dawson was lined up on the bank, sayinggood-bye. As the gang-plank came in and the steamer nosed into thestream, the clamour of farewell became deafening. Also, in thateleventh moment, everybody began to remember final farewell messagesand to shout them back and forth across the widening stretch ofwater. Louis Bondell, curling his yellow moustache with one hand andlanguidly waving the other hand to his friends on shore, suddenlyremembered something and sprang to the rail."Oh, Fred!" he bawled. "Oh, Fred!The "Fred" desired thrust a strapping pair of shoulders through theforefront of the crowd on the bank and tried to catch Louis Bondell'smessage. The latter grew red in the face with vain vociferation.Still the water widened between steamboat and shore."Hey, you, Captain Scott!" he yelled at the pilot-house. "Stop theboat!"The gongs clanged, and the big stern wheel reversed, then stopped.All hands on steamboat and on bank took advantage of this respite toexchange final, new, and imperative farewells. More futile than everwas Louis Bondell's effort to make himself heard. The Seattle No. 4lost way and drifted down-stream, and Captain Scott had to go aheadand reverse a second time. His head disappeared inside the pilot-house, coming into view a moment later behind a big megaphone.Now Captain Scott had a remarkable voice, and the "Shut up!" helaunched at the crowd on deck and on shore could have been heard atthe top of Moosehide Mountain and as far as Klondike City. Thisofficial remonstrance from the pilot-house spread a film of silenceover the tumult."Now, what do you want to say?" Captain Scott demanded."Tell Fred Churchill--he's on the bank there--tell him to go toMacdonald. It's in his safe--a small gripsack of mine. Tell him toget it and bring it out when he comes."In the silence Captain Scott bellowed the message ashore through themegaphone"You, Fred Churchill, go to Macdonald--in his safe--small gripsack--belongs to Louis Bondell--important! Bring it out when you come!Got it!"Churchill waved his hand in token that he had got it. In truth, hadMacdonald, half a mile away, opened his window, he'd have got it,too. The tumult of farewell rose again, the gongs clanged, and theSeattle No. 4 went ahead, swung out into the stream, turned on herheel, and headed down the Yukon, Bondell and Churchill wavingfarewell and mutual affection to the last.That was in midsummer. In the fall of the year, the W. H. Willisstarted up the Yukon with two hundred homeward-bound pilgrims onboard. Among them was Churchill. In his state-room, in the middleof a clothes-bag, was Louis Bondell's grip. It was a small, stoutleather affair, and its weight of forty pounds always made Churchillnervous when he wandered too far from it. The man in the adjoiningstate-room had a treasure of gold-dust hidden similarly in a clothes-bag, and the pair of them ultimately arranged to stand watch andwatch. While one went down to eat, the other kept an eye on the twostate-room doors. When Churchill wanted to take a hand at whist, theother man mounted guard, and when the other man wanted to relax hissoul, Churchill read four-months' old newspapers on a camp stoolbetween the two doors.There were signs of an early winter, and the question that wasdiscussed from dawn till dark, and far into the dark, was whetherthey would get out before the freeze-up or be compelled to abandonthe steamboat and tramp out over the ice. There were irritatingdelays. Twice the engines broke down and had to be tinkered up, andeach time there were snow flurries to warn them of the imminence ofwinter. Nine times the W. H. Willis essayed to ascend the Five-Finger Rapids with her impaired machinery, and when she succeeded,she was four days behind her very liberal schedule. The questionthat then arose was whether or not the steamboat Flora would wait forher above the Box Canon. The stretch of water between the head ofthe Box Canon and the foot of the White Horse Rapids was unnavigablefor steamboats, and passengers were transhipped at that point,walking around the rapids from one steamboat to the other. Therewere no telephones in the country, hence no way of informing thewaiting Flora that the Willis was four days late, but coming.When the W. H. Willis pulled into White Horse, it was learned thatthe Flora had waited three days over the limit, and had departed onlya few hours before. Also, it was learned that she would tie up atTagish Post till nine o'clock, Sunday morning. It was then fouro'clock, Saturday afternoon. The pilgrims called a meeting. Onboard was a large Peterborough canoe, consigned to the police post atthe head of Lake Bennett. They agreed to be responsible for it andto deliver it. Next, they called for volunteers. Two men wereneeded to make a race for the Flora. A score of men volunteered onthe instant. Among them was Churchill, such being his nature that hevolunteered before he thought of Bondell's gripsack. When thisthought came to him, he began to hope that he would not be selected;but a man who had made a name as captain of a college footballeleven, as a president of an athletic club, as a dog-musher and astampeder in the Yukon, and, moreover, who possessed such shouldersas he, had no right to avoid the honour. It was thrust upon him andupon a gigantic German, Nick Antonsen.While a crowd of the pilgrims, the canoe on their shoulders, startedon a trot over the portage, Churchill ran to his state-room. Heturned the contents of the clothes-bag on the floor and caught up thegrip, with the intention of entrusting it to the man next door. Thenthe thought smote him that it was not his grip, and that he had noright to let it out of his possession. So he dashed ashore with itand ran up the portage changing it often from one hand to the other,and wondering if it really did not weigh more than forty pounds.It was half-past four in the afternoon when the two men started. Thecurrent of the Thirty Mile River was so strong that rarely could theyuse the paddles. It was out on one bank with a tow-line over theshoulders, stumbling over the rocks, forcing a way through theunderbrush, slipping at times and falling into the water, wadingoften up to the knees and waist; and then, when an insurmountablebluff was encountered, it was into the canoe, out paddles, and a wildand losing dash across the current to the other bank, in paddles,over the side, and out tow-line again. It was exhausting work.Antonsen toiled like the giant he was, uncomplaining, persistent, butdriven to his utmost by the powerful body and indomitable brain ofChurchill. They never paused for rest. It was go, go, and keep ongoing. A crisp wind blew down the river, freezing their hands andmaking it imperative, from time to time, to beat the blood back intothe numbed fingers.As night came on, they were compelled to trust to luck. They fellrepeatedly on the untravelled banks and tore their clothing to shedsin the underbrush they could not see. Both men were badly scratchedand bleeding. A dozen times, in their wild dashes from bank to bank,they struck snags and were capsized. The first time this happened,Churchill dived and groped in three feet of water for the gripsack.He lost half an hour in recovering it, and after that it was carriedsecurely lashed to the canoe. As long as the canoe floated it wassafe. Antonsen jeered at the grip, and toward morning began to curseit; but Churchill vouchsafed no explanations.Their delays and mischances were endless. On one swift bend, aroundwhich poured a healthy young rapid, they lost two hours, making ascore of attempts and capsizing twice. At this point, on both banks,were precipitous bluffs, rising out of deep water, and along whichthey could neither tow nor pole, while they could not gain with thepaddles against the current. At each attempt they strained to theutmost with the paddles, and each time, with heads nigh to burstingfrom the effort, they were played out and swept back. They succeededfinally by an accident. In the swiftest current, near the end ofanother failure, a freak of the current sheered the canoe out ofChurchill's control and flung it against the bluff. Churchill made ablind leap at the bluff and landed in a crevice. Holding on with onehand, he held the swamped canoe with the other till Antonsen draggedhimself out of the water. Then they pulled the canoe out and rested.A fresh start at this crucial point took them by. They landed on thebank above and plunged immediately ashore and into the brush with thetow-line.Daylight found them far below Tagish Post. At nine o'clock Sundaymorning they could hear the Flora whistling her departure. And when,at ten o'clock, they dragged themselves in to the Post, they couldbarely see the Flora's smoke far to the southward. It was a pair ofworn-out tatterdemalions that Captain Jones of the Mounted Policewelcomed and fed, and he afterward averred that they possessed two ofthe most tremendous appetites he had ever observed. They lay downand slept in their wet rags by the stove. At the end of two hoursChurchill got up, carried Bondell's grip, which he had used for apillow, down to the canoe, kicked Antonsen awake, and started inpursuit of the Flora."There's no telling what might happen--machinery break down, orsomething," was his reply to Captain Jones's expostulations. "I'mgoing to catch that steamer and send her back for the boys."Tagish Lake was white with a fall gale that blew in their teeth.Big, swinging seas rushed upon the canoe, compelling one man to baleand leaving one man to paddle. Headway could not be made. They ranalong the shallow shore and went overboard, one man ahead on the tow-line, the other shoving on the canoe. They fought the gale up totheir waists in the icy water, often up to their necks, often overtheir heads and buried by the big, crested waves. There was no rest,never a moment's pause from the cheerless, heart-breaking battle.That night, at the head of Tagish Lake, in the thick of a drivingsnow-squall, they overhauled the Flora. Antonsen fell on board, laywhere he had fallen, and snored. Churchill looked like a wild man.His clothes barely clung to him. His face was iced up and swollenfrom the protracted effort of twenty-four hours, while his hands wereso swollen that he could not close the fingers. As for his feet, itwas an agony to stand upon them.The captain of the Flora was loth to go back to White Horse.Churchill was persistent and imperative; the captain was stubborn.He pointed out finally that nothing was to be gained by going back,because the only ocean steamer at Dyea, the Athenian, was to sail onTuesday morning, and that he could not make the back trip to WhiteHorse and bring up the stranded pilgrims in time to make theconnection."What time does the Athenian sail?" Churchill demanded."Seven o'clock, Tuesday morning.""All right," Churchill said, at the same time kicking a tattoo on theribs of the snoring Antonsen. "You go back to White Home. We'll goahead and hold the Athenian."Antonsen, stupid with sleep, not yet clothed in his waking mind, wasbundled into the canoe, and did not realize what had happened till hewas drenched with the icy spray of a big sea, and heard Churchillsnarling at him through the darkness:-"Paddle, can't you! Do you want to be swamped?"Daylight found them at Caribou Crossing, the wind dying down, andAntonsen too far gone to dip a paddle. Churchill grounded the canoeon a quiet beach, where they slept. He took the precaution oftwisting his arm under the weight of his head. Every few minutes thepain of the pent circulation aroused him, whereupon he would look athis watch and twist the other arm under his head. At the end of twohours he fought with Antonsen to rouse him. Then they started. LakeBennett, thirty miles in length, was like a millpond; but, half wayacross, a gale from the south smote them and turned the water white.Hour after hour they repeated the struggle on Tagish, over the side,pulling and shoving on the canoe, up to their waists and necks, andover their heads, in the icy water; toward the last the good-naturedgiant played completely out. Churchill drove him mercilessly; butwhen he pitched forward and bade fair to drown in three feet ofwater, the other dragged him into the canoe. After that, Churchillfought on alone, arriving at the police post at the head of Bennettin the early afternoon. He tried to help Antonsen out of the canoe,but failed. He listened to the exhausted man's heavy breathing, andenvied him when he thought of what he himself had yet to undergo.Antonsen could lie there and sleep; but he, behind time, must go onover mighty Chilcoot and down to the sea. The real struggle laybefore him, and he almost regretted the strength that resided in hisframe because of the torment it could inflict upon that frame.Churchill pulled the canoe up on the beach, seized Bondell's grip,and started on a limping dog-trot for the police post."There's a canoe down there, consigned to you from Dawson," he hurledat the officer who answered his knock. "And there's a man in itpretty near dead. Nothing serious; only played out. Take care ofhim. I've got to rush. Good-bye. Want to catch the Athenian."A mile portage connected Lake Bennett and Lake Linderman, and hislast words he flung back after him as he resumed the trot. It was avery painful trot, but he clenched his teeth and kept on, forgettinghis pain most of the time in the fervent heat with which he regardedthe gripsack. It was a severe handicap. He swung it from one handto the other, and back again. He tucked it under his arm. He threwone hand over the opposite shoulder, and the bag bumped and poundedon his back as he ran along. He could scarcely hold it in hisbruised and swollen fingers, and several times he dropped it. Once,in changing from one hand to the other, it escaped his clutch andfell in front of him, tripped him up, and threw him violently to theground.At the far end of the portage he bought an old set of pack-straps fora dollar, and in them he swung the grip. Also, he chartered a launchto run him the six miles to the upper end of Lake Linderman, where hearrived at four in the afternoon. The Athenian was to sail from Dyeanext morning at seven. Dyea was twenty-eight miles away, and betweentowered Chilcoot. He sat down to adjust his foot-gear for the longclimb, and woke up. He had dozed the instant he sat down, though hehad not slept thirty seconds. He was afraid his next doze might belonger, so he finished fixing his foot-gear standing up. Even thenhe was overpowered for a fleeting moment. He experienced the flashof unconsciousness; becoming aware of it, in mid-air, as his relaxedbody was sinking to the ground and as he caught himself together, hestiffened his muscles with a spasmodic wrench, and escaped the fall.The sudden jerk back to consciousness left him sick and trembling.He beat his head with the heel of his hand, knocking wakefulness intothe numbed brain.Jack Burns's pack-train was starting back light for Crater Lake, andChurchill was invited to a mule. Burns wanted to put the gripsack onanother animal, but Churchill held on to it, carrying it on hissaddle-pommel. But he dozed, and the grip persisted in dropping offthe pommel, one side or the other, each time wakening him with asickening start. Then, in the early darkness, Churchill's mulebrushed him against a projecting branch that laid his cheek open. Tocap it, the mule blundered off the trail and fell, throwing rider andgripsack out upon the rocks. After that, Churchill walked, orstumbled rather, over the apology for a trail, leading the mule.Stray and awful odours, drifting from each side of the trail, told ofthe horses that had died in the rush for gold. But he did not mind.He was too sleepy. By the time Long Lake was reached, however, hehad recovered from his sleepiness; and at Deep Lake he resigned thegripsack to Burns. But thereafter, by the light of the dim stars, hekept his eyes on Burns. There were not going to be any accidentswith that bag.At Crater Lake, the pack-train went into camp, and Churchill,slinging the grip on his back, started the steep climb for thesummit. For the first time, on that precipitous wall, he realizedhow tired he was. He crept and crawled like a crab, burdened by theweight of his limbs. A distinct and painful effort of will wasrequired each time he lifted a foot. An hallucination came to himthat he was shod with lead, like a deep-sea diver, and it was all hecould do to resist the desire to reach down and feel the lead. Asfor Bondell's gripsack, it was inconceivable that forty pounds couldweigh so much. It pressed him down like a mountain, and he lookedback with unbelief to the year before, when he had climbed that samepass with a hundred and fifty pounds on his back. If those loads hadweighed a hundred and fifty pounds, then Bondell's grip weighed fivehundred.The first rise of the divide from Crater Lake was across a smallglacier. Here was a well-defined trail. But above the glacier,which was also above timber-line, was naught but a chaos of nakedrock and enormous boulders. There was no way of seeing the trail inthe darkness, and he blundered on, paying thrice the ordinaryexertion for all that he accomplished. He won the summit in thethick of howling wind and driving snow, providentially stumbling upona small, deserted tent, into which he crawled. There he found andbolted some ancient fried potatoes and half a dozen raw eggs.When the snow ceased and the wind eased down, he began the almostimpossible descent. There was no trail, and he stumbled andblundered, often finding himself, at the last moment, on the edge ofrocky walls and steep slopes the depth of which he had no way ofjudging. Part way down, the stars clouded over again, and in theconsequent obscurity he slipped and rolled and slid for a hundredfeet, landing bruised and bleeding on the bottom of a large shallowhole. From all about him arose the stench of dead horses. The holewas handy to the trail, and the packers had made a practice oftumbling into it their broken and dying animals. The stenchoverpowered him, making him deadly sick, and as in a nightmare hescrambled out. Half-way up, he recollected Bondell's gripsack. Ithad fallen into the hole with him; the pack-strap had evidentlybroken, and he had forgotten it. Back he went into the pestilentialcharnel-pit, where he crawled around on hands and knees and gropedfor half an hour. Altogether he encountered and counted seventeendead horses (and one horse still alive that he shot with hisrevolver) before he found Bondell's grip. Looking back upon a lifethat had not been without valour and achievement, he unhesitatinglydeclared to himself that this return after the grip was the mostheroic act he had ever performed. So heroic was it that he was twiceon the verge of fainting before he crawled out of the hole.By the time he had descended to the Scales, the steep pitch ofChilcoot was past, and the way became easier. Not that it was aneasy way, however, in the best of places; but it became a reallypossible trail, along which he could have made good time if he hadnot been worn out, if he had had light with which to pick his steps,and if it had not been for Bondell's gripsack. To him, in hisexhausted condition, it was the last straw. Having barely strengthto carry himself along, the additional weight of the grip wassufficient to throw him nearly every time he tripped or stumbled.And when he escaped tripping, branches reached out in the darkness,hooked the grip between his shoulders, and held him back.His mind was made up that if he missed the Athenian it would be thefault of the gripsack. In fact, only two things remained in hisconsciousness--Bondell's grip and the steamer. He knew only thosetwo things, and they became identified, in a way, with some sternmission upon which he had journeyed and toiled for centuries. Hewalked and struggled on as in a dream. As part of the dream was hisarrival at Sheep Camp. He stumbled into a saloon, slid his shouldersout of the straps, and started to deposit the grip at his feet. Butit slipped from his fingers and struck the floor with a heavy thudthat was not unnoticed by two men who were just leaving. Churchilldrank a glass of whisky, told the barkeeper to call him in tenminutes, and sat down, his feet on the grip, his head on his knees.So badly did his misused body stiffen, that when he was called itrequired another ten minutes and a second glass of whisky to unbendhis joints and limber up the muscles."Hey not that way!" the barkeeper shouted, and then went after himand started him through the darkness toward Canyon City. Some littlehusk of inner consciousness told Churchill that the direction wasright, and, still as in a dream, he took the canon trail. He did notknow what warned him, but after what seemed several centuries oftravelling, he sensed danger and drew his revolver. Still in thedream, he saw two men step out and heard them halt him. His revolverwent off four times, and he saw the flashes and heard the explosionsof their revolvers. Also, he was aware that he had been hit in thethigh. He saw one man go down, and, as the other came for him, hesmashed him a straight blow with the heavy revolver full in the face.Then he turned and ran. He came from the dream shortly afterward, tofind himself plunging down the trail at a limping lope. His firstthought was for the gripsack. It was still on his back. He wasconvinced that what had happened was a dream till he felt for hisrevolver and found it gone. Next he became aware of a sharp stingingof his thigh, and after investigating, he found his hand warm withblood. It was a superficial wound, but it was incontestable. Hebecame wider awake, and kept up the lumbering run to Canyon City.He found a man, with a team of horses and a wagon, who got out of bedand harnessed up for twenty dollars. Churchill crawled in on thewagon-bed and slept, the gripsack still on his back. It was a roughride, over water-washed boulders down the Dyea Valley; but he rousedonly when the wagon hit the highest places. Any altitude of his bodyabove the wagon-bed of less than a foot did not faze him. The lastmile was smooth going, and he slept soundly.He came to in the grey dawn, the driver shaking him savagely andhowling into his ear that the Athenian was gone. Churchill lookedblankly at the deserted harbour."There's a smoke over at Skaguay," the man said.Churchill's eyes were too swollen to see that far, but he said:"It's she. Get me a boat."The driver was obliging and found a skiff, and a man to row it forten dollars, payment in advance. Churchill paid, and was helped intothe skiff. It was beyond him to get in by himself. It was six milesto Skaguay, and he had a blissful thought of sleeping those sixmiles. But the man did not know how to row, and Churchill took theoars and toiled for a few more centuries. He never knew six longerand more excruciating miles. A snappy little breeze blew up theinlet and held him back. He had a gone feeling at the pit of thestomach, and suffered from faintness and numbness. At his command,the man took the baler and threw salt water into his face.The Athenian's anchor was up-and-down when they came alongside, andChurchill was at the end of his last remnant of strength."Stop her! Stop her!" he shouted hoarsely."Important message! Stop her!"Then he dropped his chin on his chest and slept. When half a dozenmen started to carry him up the gang-plank, he awoke, reached for thegrip, and clung to it like a drowning man.On deck he became a centre of horror and curiosity. The clothing inwhich he had left White Horse was represented by a few rags, and hewas as frayed as his clothing. He had travelled for fifty-five hoursat the top notch of endurance. He had slept six hours in that time,and he was twenty pounds lighter than when he started. Face andhands and body were scratched and bruised, and he could scarcely see.He tried to stand up, but failed, sprawling out on the deck, hangingon to the gripsack, and delivering his message."Now, put me to bed," he finished; "I'll eat when I wake up."They did him honour, carrying him down in his rags and dirt anddepositing him and Bondell's grip in the bridal chamber, which wasthe biggest and most luxurious state-room in the ship. Twice heslept the clock around, and he had bathed and shaved and eaten andwas leaning over the rail smoking a cigar when the two hundredpilgrims from White Horse came alongside.By the time the Athenian arrived in Seattle, Churchill had fullyrecuperated, and he went ashore with Bondell's grip in his hand. Hefelt proud of that grip. To him it stood for achievement andintegrity and trust. "I've delivered the goods," was the way heexpressed these various high terms to himself. It was early in theevening, and he went straight to Bondell's home. Louis Bondell wasglad to see him, shaking hands with both hands at the same time anddragging him into the house."Oh, thanks, old man; it was good of you to bring it out," Bondellsaid when he received the gripsack.He tossed it carelessly upon a couch, and Churchill noted with anappreciative eye the rebound of its weight from the springs. Bondellwas volleying him with questions."How did you make out? How're the boys? What became of BillSmithers? Is Del Bishop still with Pierce? Did he sell my dogs?How did Sulphur Bottom show up? You're looking fine. What steamerdid you come out on?"To all of which Churchill gave answer, till half an hour had gone byand the first lull in the conversation had arrived."Hadn't you better take a look at it?" he suggested, nodding his headat the gripsack"Oh, it's all right," Bondell answered. "Did Mitchell's dump turnout as much as he expected?""I think you'd better look at it," Churchill insisted. "When Ideliver a thing, I want to be satisfied that it's all right. There'salways the chance that somebody might have got into it when I wasasleep, or something.""It's nothing important, old man," Bondell answered, with a laugh."Nothing important," Churchill echoed in a faint, small voice. Thenhe spoke with decision: "Louis, what's in that bag? I want toknow."Louis looked at him curiously, then left the room and returned with abunch of keys. He inserted his hand and drew out a heavy Colt'srevolver. Next came out a few boxes of ammunition for the revolverand several boxes of Winchester cartridges.Churchill took the gripsack and looked into it. Then he turned itupside down and shook it gently."The gun's all rusted," Bondell said. "Must have been out in therain.""Yes," Churchill answered. "Too bad it got wet. I guess I was a bitcareless."He got up and went outside. Ten minutes later Louis Bondell went outand found him on the steps, sitting down, elbows on knees and chin onhands, gazing steadfastly out into the darkness.
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