Smoke Bellew by Jack London (chrome ebook reader txt) đ
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Half an hour afterwards Shorty appeared at the Elkhorn. From his bleeding knuckles and the skin off one cheek, it was evident that he had given Stine and Sprague what was coming.
âYou ought to see that cabin,â he chuckled, as they stood at the bar. âRough-house ainât no name for it. Dollars to doughnuts nary one of âem shows up on the street for a week. Anâ now itâs all figgered out for you anâ me. Grubâs a dollar anâ a half a pound. They ainât no work for wages without you have your own grub. Moose-meatâs sellinâ for two dollars a pound anâ they ainât none. We got enough money for a monthâs grub anâ ammunition, anâ we hike up the Klondike to the back country. If they ainât no moose, we go anâ live with the Indians. But if we ainât got five thousand pounds of meat six weeks from now, IâllâIâll sure go back anâ apologize to our bosses. Is it a go?â
Kitâs hand went out, and they shook. Then he faltered. âI donât know anything about hunting,â he said.
Shorty lifted his glass.
âBut youâre a sure meat-eater, anâ Iâll learn you.â
III. THE STAMPEDE TO SQUAW CREEK.
Two months after Smoke Bellew and Shorty went after moose for a grub-stake, they were back in the Elkhorn saloon at Dawson. The hunting was done, the meat hauled in and sold for two dollars and a half a pound, and between them they possessed three thousand dollars in gold dust and a good team of dogs. They had played in luck. Despite the fact that the goldrush had driven the game a hundred miles or more into the mountains, they had, within half that distance, bagged four moose in a narrow canyon.
The mystery of the strayed animals was no greater than the luck of their killers, for within the day four famished Indian families, reporting no game in three daysâ 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 meat to the eager Dawson market.
The problem of the two men now was to turn their gold-dust into food. The current price for flour and beans was a dollar and a half a pound, but the difficulty was to find a seller. Dawson was in the throes of famine. Hundreds of men, with money but no food, had been compelled to leave the country. Many had gone down the river on the last water, and many more, with barely enough food to last, had walked the six hundred miles over the ice to Dyea.
Smoke met Shorty in the warm saloon, and found the latter jubilant.
âLife ainât no punkins without whiskey anâ sweeteninâ,â was Shortyâs greeting, as he pulled lumps of ice from his thawing moustache and flung them rattling on the floor. âAnâ I sure just got eighteen pounds of that same sweeteninâ. The geezer only charged three dollars a pound for it. What luck did you have?â
âI, too, have not been idle,â Smoke answered with pride. âI bought fifty pounds of flour. And thereâs a man up on Adam Creek who says heâll let me have fifty pounds more to-morrow.â
âGreat! Weâll sure live till the river opens. Say, Smoke, them dogs of ourn is the goods. A dog-buyer offered me two hundred apiece for the five of them. I told him nothinâ doinâ. They sure took on class when they got meat to get outside of; but it goes against the grain, feedinâ dog-critters on grub thatâs worth two anâ a half a pound. Come on anâ have a drink. I just got to celebrate them eighteen pounds of sweeteninâ.â
Several minutes later, as he weighed in on the gold-scales for the drinks, he gave a start of recollection.
âI plum forgot that man I was to meet in the Tivoli. Heâs got some spoiled bacon heâll sell for a dollar anâ a half a pound. We can feed it to the dogs anâ save a dollar a day on eachâs board-bill. So long.â
âSo long,â said Smoke. âIâm goinâ to the cabin anâ turn in.â
Hardly had Shorty left the place, when a fur-clad man entered through the double storm-doors. His face lighted at sight of Smoke, who recognized him as Breck, the man whose boat they had run through the Box Canyon and White Horse Rapids.
âI heard you were in town,â Breck said hurriedly, as they shook hands. âBeen looking for you for half an hour. Come outside, I want to talk with you.â
Smoke looked regretfully at the roaring, red-hot stove.
âWonât this do?â
âNo; itâs important. Come outside.â
As they emerged, Smoke drew off one mitten, lighted a match, and glanced at the thermometer that hung beside the door. He remittened his naked hand hastily as if the frost had burned him. Overhead arched the flaming aurora borealis, while from all Dawson arose the mournful howling of thousands of wolf-dogs.
âWhat did it say?â Breck asked.
âSixty below.â Kit spat experimentally, and the spittle crackled in the air. âAnd the thermometer is certainly working. Itâs falling all the time. An hour ago it was only fifty-two. Donât tell me itâs a stampede.â
âIt is,â Breck whispered back cautiously, casting anxious eyes about in fear of some other listener. âYou know Squaw Creek?âempties in on the other side of the Yukon thirty miles up?â
âNothing doing there,â was Smokeâs judgment. âIt was prospected years ago.â
âSo were all the other rich creeks. Listen! Itâs big. Only eight to twenty feet to bedrock. There wonât be a claim that donât run to half a million. Itâs a dead secret. Two or three of my close friends let me in on it. I told my wife right away that I was going to find you before I started. Now, so long. My packâs hidden down the bank. In fact, when they told me, they made me promise not to pull out until Dawson was asleep. You know what it means if youâre seen with a stampeding outfit. Get your partner and follow. You ought to stake fourth or fifth claim from Discovery. Donât forgetâSquaw Creek. Itâs the third after you pass Swede Creek.â
When Smoke entered the little cabin on the hillside back of Dawson, he heard a heavy familiar breathing.
âAw, go to bed,â Shorty mumbled, as Smoke shook his shoulder. âIâm not on the night shift,â was his next remark, as the rousing hand became more vigorous. âTell your troubles to the barkeeper.â
âKick into your clothes,â Smoke said. âWeâve got to stake a couple of claims.â
Shorty sat up and started to explode, but Smokeâs hand covered his mouth.
âSsh!â Smoke warned. âItâs a big strike. Donât wake the neighborhood. Dawsonâs asleep.â
âHuh! You got to show me. Nobody tells anybody about a strike, of course not. But ainât it plum amazinâ the way everybody hits the trail just the same?â
âSquaw Creek,â Smoke whispered. âItâs right. Breck gave me the tip. Shallow bedrock. Gold from the grass-roots down. Come on. Weâll sling a couple of light packs together and pull out.â
Shortyâs eyes closed as he lapsed back into sleep. The next moment his blankets were swept off him.
âIf you donât want them, I do,â Smoke explained.
Shorty followed the blankets and began to dress.
âGoinâ to take the dogs?â he asked.
âNo. The trail up the creek is sure to be unbroken, and we can make better time without them.â
âThen Iâll throw âem a meal, whichâll have to last âem till we get back. Be sure you take some birch-bark and a candle.â
Shorty opened the door, felt the bite of the cold, and shrank back to pull down his ear-flaps and mitten his hands.
Five minutes later he returned, sharply rubbing his nose.
âSmoke, Iâm sure opposed to makinâ this stampede. Itâs colder than the hinges of hell a thousand years before the first fire was lighted. Besides, itâs Friday the thirteenth, anâ weâre goinâ to trouble as the sparks fly upward.â
With small stampeding-packs on their backs, they closed the door behind them and started down the hill. The display of the aurora borealis had ceased, and only the stars leaped in the great cold and by their uncertain light made traps for the feet. Shorty floundered off a turn of the trail into deep snow, and raised his voice in blessing of the date of the week and month and year.
âCanât you keep still?â Smoke chided. âLeave the almanac alone. Youâll have all Dawson awake and after us.â
âHuh! See the light in that cabin? Anâ in that one over there? Anâ hear that door slam? Oh, sure Dawsonâs asleep. Them lights? Just buryinâ their dead. They ainât stampedinâ, betcher life they ainât.â
By the time they reached the foot of the hill and were fairly in Dawson, lights were springing up in the cabins, doors were slamming, and from behind came the sound of many moccasins on the hard-packed snow. Again Shorty delivered himself.
âBut it beats hell the amount of mourners there is.â
They passed a man who stood by the path and was calling anxiously in a low voice: âOh, Charley; get a move on.â
âSee that pack on his back, Smoke? The graveyardâs sure a long ways off when the mourners got to pack their blankets.â
By the time they reached the main street a hundred men were in line behind them, and while they sought in the deceptive starlight for the trail that dipped down the bank to the river, more men could be heard arriving. Shorty slipped and shot down the thirty-foot chute into the soft snow. Smoke followed, knocking him over as he was rising to his feet.
âI found it first,â he gurgled, taking off his mittens to shake the snow out of the gauntlets.
The next moment they were scrambling wildly out of the way of the hurtling bodies of those that followed. At the time of the freeze-up, a jam had occurred at this point, and cakes of ice were upended in snow-covered confusion. After several hard falls, Smoke drew out his candle and lighted it. Those in the rear hailed it with acclaim. In the windless air it burned easily, and he led the way more quickly.
âItâs a sure stampede,â Shorty decided. âOr might all them be sleep-walkers?â
âWeâre at the head of the procession at any rate,â was Smokeâs answer.
âOh, I donât know. Mebbe thatâs a firefly ahead there. Mebbe theyâre all firefliesâthat one, anâ that one. Look at âem! Believe me, they is a whole string of processions ahead.â
It was a mile across the jams to the west bank of the Yukon, and candles flickered the full length of the twisting trail. Behind them, clear to the top of the bank they had descended, were more candles.
âSay, Smoke, this ainât no stampede. Itâs a exode-us. They must be a thousand men ahead of us anâ ten thousand behind. Now, you listen to your uncle. My medicineâs good. When I get a hunch itâs sure right. Anâ weâre in wrong on this stampede. Letâs turn back anâ hit the sleep.â
âYouâd better save your breath if you intend to keep up,â Smoke retorted gruffly.
âHuh! My legs is short, but I slog along slack at the knees anâ donât worry my muscles none, anâ I can sure walk every piker here off the ice.â
And Smoke knew he was right, for he had long since learned his comradeâs phenomenal walking powers.
âIâve been holding back to give you a chance,â Smoke jeered.
âAnâ Iâm plum
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