The dissipated men around camp, idle and drunken most of the time, with nothing to occupy their attention after the long, tedious winter, still spend their hours in gossiping, swearing, drinking, and gambling, knowing no day and no night, but making both hideous to those around them. As a destroyer of man's self-respect, independence, and dignity, there is nothing to compare with the accursed liquor. There are numbers of instances in camp proving the truth of this statement. There is the English clergyman's tall and handsome son, well educated, musical and of agreeable manners—fitted to grace the best society, but—liquor is to blame for his present condition, which is about as low as man can sink.

It is ten in the evening and I am in my little room upstairs, the only white woman in the camp except Mellie and two like her. Down stairs in the bar-room the men are singing, first coon songs and then church hymns, with all the drunken energy they can muster. The crash of broken glass, angry oaths, and the slamming of doors reaches my ears so frequently as to cause little surprise, the French cooks in the kitchen adding their share to the disturbance. In a distant part of the hotel lies the little sick girl, her cot rolled each night close to the bedside of her mother, who tries to soothe her in her pain, Mollie and the wicked little Eskimo servant being the only women besides myself in the house. The noise and confusion increases down stairs, and I shall sleep little tonight. I will look at my revolver and see that its contents have not been removed.

May fifteenth: Here I am alone with the little children, a bad native girl, and a gang of the worst men in Alaska, Mollie having gone out hunting. At midnight Sim, Mellie and several others left for a dance at White Mountain, but it was two o'clock in the morning before the house was quiet. While I lay perfectly still, and trying to sleep, a man's stealthy footstep passed my door. He walked in his stocking feet—bare floors and walls echo the slightest sound, and my ears are keen. Was it a friend or foe? What was his object? My heart beat with a heavy thud, but I remembered the loaded revolver under my bed, and thanked God for it.

After a long time I slept a fitful, uneasy sleep for an hour, and dressed myself as usual at half-past six o'clock, feeling badly for want of needed sleep. Afterwards I washed, dressed and fed the children, amusing and entertaining them in my accustomed way. Ageetuk's house being closed, little Charlie is kept here all the time, Polly looking after him nights. A saloon keeper named Fitts, villainous in reality as well as in looks, is hanging around continually, wearing the blackest of looks at every one, having been in trouble nearly all winter, and closing out his saloon a few weeks ago. A big Dutchman, burly as a blacksmith and well soaked in whiskey, lounges about in blue denim and skull cap, winking his bleared eyes at Polly and swearing soundly at his native wife when she steps inside the doors to look after him.

All went well for a while today after Mollie's leaving, Jennie coaxing to be carried to her grandmother's for a visit, to which I consented, until Charlie and I sat down to supper, which I had spread, as is my habit, in the living room. During the day I had turned matters well over in mind, and decided, with Mollie's advice, to sleep in her bed alongside of Jennie's cot, and to have grandmother stay with us, locking the doors of the rooms, as they should be. To my consternation, when I chanced to look for the keys in the doors, there were none, showing plainly that they had been removed.

This looked like a trap. There was nothing to do, much as I disliked it, but to ask for the keys, as I would never spend the night in the house without them. Soon afterward the steward entered, and I very calmly and politely asked for the door keys of the two rooms, saying that I would spend the night with Jennie. With cool insolence he replied that he would lock them himself.

Again the trap. I made no reply. I saw that he had been drinking—that he was not himself, and that it was useless to argue with him.

After waiting for an answer, and getting none, the man went out carelessly, leaving the door ajar behind him. At that moment the supper bell rang and he, with others, sat down to the table.

"She wants the keys to the doors, she says," drawled the man I had spoken with regarding them.

"What did ye tell her?" demanded one of the ruffians.

"I told her I would lock the doors myself," said the fellow.

"What does she want of keys? Who is she afraid of? It must be you, Bub; 'tain't me," said one.

"You're a liar!" shouted Bub. "It's the genial dispenser of booze here beside me she's afraid of."

"I'll see to her after supper, you bet!" shouted an official voice, at which I shuddered. A general hubbub now ensued; among others I could distinguish the word "black-snake whip," but I had heard enough.

I was planning as I listened. Leaning forward I kissed the little child beside me, and said softly, "Eat all your supper, dear, and then go to Polly. 'Sully' is going to grandma's."

Throwing a light wrap over my head, I ran out of the front door, and around the west end of the house, careful not to pass the dining-room windows, where the men would see me, and hastened to grandmother's cabin, knowing that I should there find Jennie. Grandmother lived alone except for O Duk Dok, the deaf girl, and they must give me shelter for the night.

Here I found Jennie quite happy, with her deaf friend sitting on the edge of the bed beside her, while her grandmother was busy with her work.

In a few words I explained to the old woman the situation, and I was made welcome, Jennie being pleased to remain in the cabin all night. I knew Polly would put Charlie to bed when the time came, and the boy was safe enough where he was. I did not believe the gang would disturb me in grandmothers' cabin, but I feared they would loot my room in my absence.

Here Jennie could assist me. I now asked her to have O Duk Dok go out for the native named Koki, and bring him to me, which she did, the deaf girl understanding by the motion of the child's lips what was being said.

O Duk Dok then drew on her parkie, and went out.

"Koki," said I, when the native had entered the room a few minutes later, and closed the door behind him, "will you go to my room—Number three—in the hotel, and get some things for me?"

"Yes," was the laconic reply of the man.

"Here is the key of the door. Between the mattresses of the bed you will find two books, and in the shoe box on the floor there is a revolver. Bring them to me under your parkie so no one shall see what you have. Take this little key, lock my trunk and be sure you fasten the door behind you. You won't forget?"

"All right. I no forget," and Koki grinned, and went out.

He did not forget. In about twenty minutes he returned, bringing the keys, revolver, and diaries which I had kept hidden for fear the lawless fellows might find and destroy them.

I now felt much relieved. I did not think the gang would come to the cabin, but in case they did there was the revolver, and grandmother's two doors had locks, which if not the very strongest, were better than none, and I fastened them immediately after Koki's departure.

May eighteenth: The night I slept in grandmother's cabin with Jennie passed quietly for us. I slept in my clothes and muckluks, an old quilt and fur parkie on some boards being my bed, though grandmother finally gave me a double blanket for covering when I asked for it.

It was long past midnight before we slept. The child was restless, and urged her grandmother to tell her Eskimo stories. O Duk Dok slept heavily, unconscious of all around her. My own senses were on the alert. I listened intently to catch every sound, but we were too far away from the hotel to hear the carousal that I well knew was there in progress. The mushers from the dance were hourly expected home, and would then add their part to the midnight orgies. The low droning of the old Eskimo woman, telling her tales of the Innuits, of the Polar bear, the seal and the walrus, of the birds, their habits and nestlings; this was the only sound I heard.

After a time the others slept and I went to the window and looked out. At my right, only a stone's throw away, was the Mission, its windows and doors all fastened, and its occupants gone. I felt a heart-sinking sensation as I thought of the friends who were there lately. Across the way was the old schoolhouse, in which were the musician, his partner and the deaf man, who had been bitten by the mad dog. They were within calling distance, and for that I felt thankful. I had dreaded the night in the cabin for fear that I should suffer for fresh air, but seeing a broken pane of glass into which some cloth had been stuffed, I removed the latter, and allowed the pure air to enter. Of course the place was scented with seal oil, but grandmother's cabin was comparatively tidy and clean.

Next morning, when we knew that breakfast was over, we went in a body to the hotel, grandmother carrying Jennie on her back, according to Eskimo custom. Some of the men were still sleeping off their dissipation of the night before. Nothing was said about our remaining away, and the Eskimo women spent the day with us. Others also came, called quietly in to see Jennie, and remained to the meals I was glad to give them for their company.

When six o'clock arrived, and still we saw nothing of Mollie, I felt anxious. If she did not return it meant another night in the native hut for us. Eight, nine, ten o'clock—thank God! She had come at last. I could have hugged her for joy. She had nearly one hundred ptarmigan, enough to last till the captain came home, and would not leave us again alone.

Later: The captain returned from Nome, having made the trip of eighty-five miles and back by dog-team in four days and nights, a very quick trip indeed. The "toughs" have subsided, and are on their good behavior for the present, at least, fearing what the captain will say and do when their last doings are reported, but I understand that most of them are mortally offended at my remaining at grandmother's, as no one takes offense so easily as a rogue when his honesty is doubted.



CHAPTER XXV.

STONES AND DYNAMITE.

The last week of May has finally come, and with it real spring weather. The children play out in the sand heap on the south side of the house for hours together, enjoying the warm sunshine and pleasant air, the little girl clothed from head to foot in furs. Never has a springtime been so welcome to me, perhaps because in striking contrast to the long, cold winter through which we have just passed. From the hillside behind the Mission, the snow is slowly disappearing, first from the most exposed spots and rocks, the gullies keeping their drifts and ice longer. Mosses are everywhere peeping cheerfully up at me in all their tints of gorgeous green, some that I found recently being tipped with the daintiest of little red cups. This, with other treasures, I brought in my basket to Jennie when I returned from my daily walk upon the hill, and together we studied them closely under the magnifying glass.

To examine the treasures brought in by Mollie, however, we needed no glass. They are sand-pipers, ptarmigan, squirrels, and occasionally a wild goose, shot, perhaps, in the act of flying over the hunter's head, as these birds are now often seen and heard going north. In the evening I see from my window the neighboring Eskimo children playing with their sleds, and sometimes they light a bonfire, shouting and chattering in their own unique way. All "mushers" now travel at night when the trail is frozen, as it is too soft in the daytime, and the glare of the sun often causes snow-blindness. Then, too, there is water on the ice in places, which we are glad to see, and pools of the same are standing around the Mission and schoolhouse. I can no longer go out in my muckluks, but must wear my long rubber boots and short skirts.

Today I went out for an hour, walking to Chinik Creek over the tundra, from which the snow has almost disappeared, and returned by the hill-top path. The tundra was beautiful with mosses, birds were singing, and the rushing and roaring of the creek waters fairly made my head swim, they were such unusual sounds. The water was cutting a channel in the sands where it empties into the bay. Here it was flowing over the ice, helping to loosen the edge and allow it to drift out to sea.

There is little change in the manners and dispositions of the rough men in camp. There are the same things with which to contend day after day, the same annoyances and trials to endure, with new ones in addition quite frequently.

June has come at last, and all the world should be happy, but, alas, there is always some worm in the bud to do the blasting. This morning about three o'clock I was wakened by the sound of drunken voices outside my window, followed by stones hurled against the side of the house. Quickly rising, I cautiously peeped out from behind the curtain, but was not surprised at what I saw. There, about a hundred feet away, were four men, all well known to me as members of the gang, and all in the most advanced stages of intoxication. On the step of a neighboring cabin sat the murderer, Ford, hugging in a maudlin way a big black bottle.

On the ground, in the dirt, there rolled two young men, the Englishman underneath, and Big Bub over him. Sim, the leader, had aimed four stones at my window, but missed it, and felt the need of more stimulant, so he took the bottle from Ford, carried it to the lumber pile, a few feet away, sat down, put it to his lips and drank heavily. Again and again he tipped up the bottle while he drank, but finally threw it away empty. Then, with much exertion, he stooped to pick up a stone.

He was aiming at my window. I dodged into a corner, but the box washstand stood partly in my way. Would he hit his mark? I did not believe it. He was too drunk. Crack! came the stone against the house.

I waited. Another followed. In the meantime the other men had paid no attention to him, as Ford was watching the two tumblers, the lumber pile being between them and Sim; and the three started for the front door around the south side of the house. Sim followed them. I now hoped he would forget his stone throwing. When they were all out of sight I breathed more freely. Surely now the trouble was over, I thought, and I threw off my fur coat which I had hastily pulled on over my wrapper, crept into bed and covered my head with the blankets.

I now thought quickly. Even if Sim should forget to throw more stones, would he not soon come upstairs and perhaps give me more trouble? Would it not be better to dress myself and be prepared for any emergency? I was hurriedly deliberating upon the matter—my head still covered with the blankets—when there was a loud crash and shivered glass covered the floor and the bed clothes. Instantly throwing the latter back, I looked around me. I could see no stone, and I had heard none fall upon the floor, but it must be there somewhere.

I now stepped carefully out of bed, in order to avoid the glass, my feet being already in knit, wool slippers, with thick, warm soles—and again looked out.

There was no one to be seen. Sim had done his dastardly work, and gone indoors. Would this end it? My teeth shattered, and I felt cold. I must keep my nerve, however, and I did so, dressing myself carefully even to my stout shoes which I laced up in front and tied. Then I drew on my fur coat and sat down to wait.

Below the four men were poking around in the kitchen, trying to find something to eat or drink. It was not long before I heard them coming upstairs, and all tumbled into the next room, which was occupied by Ford.

If they came to molest me further there was yet one way of escape which I would try before using my revolver. The weapon I did not want to use unless driven to it. There was the staging outside my window which had never been removed since the house was built, the year before. I could very easily step out upon it, and walk to the end of the house, but then I must either jump or remain, for there was no ladder. This staging was, perhaps, twenty feet from the ground, and the latter frozen. To slide down a post would tear my hands fearfully.

I had not long to wait. To go peaceably to bed seemed to be the last thing these men thought of, and one picked up a gun, which, for hunting purposes, every man in the house kept close at hand.

"I zay, now, Bub, put up zat gun. Zis ain't no place for shootin'," drawled a thick, sleepy voice which I recognized instantly.

"Shut yer gab! Who's hurtin' you?" answered Bub, the biggest of the four, and one of the ugliest when intoxicated.

"Mrs. Sullivan's in the next room. You wouldn't shoot her, would you?" asked Sim sneeringly in a loud tone, for he could stand up under great quantities of liquor.

"Sh! Keep still a minute, you fool!" in a harsh whisper from Bub.

I was now thankful that I was dressed. I waited no longer. Opening the door I ran down stairs to Mollie and the captain, knocking loudly upon their door.

"Hang those brutes!" exclaimed the captain angrily, when I had finished telling him what had happened. "What is the matter with them, any way?"

"Whiskey," said I. "They are all as drunk as pirates."

"Show me your room and window," demanded the captain, who by this time had gotten into some of his clothing, and stepped into the living room where I was.

I then led the way upstairs, and threw open my door. What a sight! Broken glass covered the floor and bed, the cool morning air pouring in through the broken pane of which there was little left in the sash.

That was enough for the captain. He made straight for the next room, where all was now perfectly still, only Ford remaining in it, the others having had sense enough to sneak off to their own places, after hearing me run down stairs to report.

Seizing my blankets I closed and locked the door and made my way down stairs to Mollie. Above we could hear the captain's voice in angry altercation with the men, they denying everything, of course, even the stone throwing, with the window as evidence against them. It was half-past four and I had slept little. There was no fire in the house, and I was cold; so, throwing down a few skins in a corner of the sewing-room, with my blankets upon them, I covered myself to get warm.

At last the house was once more quiet, and I slept for an hour, only to meet black and angry looks from the men all day, accompanied by threats and curses, though I said nothing to them. I picked up the stone from my reindeer rug, where it had fallen after shattering the window pane, and it lay only two feet from my head. It was about the size of an egg.

Of course it is impossible for me to leave Chinik, as the winter trails are broken up, the ice has not left the bay, and no steamers can enter; so we are practically prisoners. O, how I long to get away from this terrible place! Never since I came to Chinik have I given these men one cross word, and yet they hate me with a bitter, jealous hatred, such as I have never before seen. Some weeks ago I pinned a slip of paper into my Bible, upon which I have written the address of my parents, in case anything should happen to me. O, to be once more safe at home with them! God grant that I may be before many months shall have passed.

A splendid warm, bright day, June thirteenth, the most of which the children and I have spent upon the sandy beach in front of the hotel. Little Jennie lies and plays on the warm, dry sand, though, of course, she does not stand on her feet nor walk. Other small Eskimos come to play with them, for Charlie is always on hand for a play spell on the sand, and I doze and read under my umbrella in the meantime, with an eye always upon them. They make sand pies, native igloos, and many imaginary things and places, but more than any other thing is my mind upon the coming of the steamers, when I hope to get away.

Mollie came in last night from a seal hunt upon the ice, and she, with the three native boys, secured a white seal, and eight others, but did not bring all with them. There is a great deal of water on the ice at this time, and none but natives like to travel upon it. Ducks and geese are flying northward in flocks above our heads, and we feast daily upon them. They are very large and tasty, and the cook knows well how to serve them.

We now see a line of blue water out beyond the ice, and even distinguish white breakers in the distance. Today I took a field glass, and climbing the hill behind the Mission to look as far out as possible, strained my eyes to see a steamer. As I stood upon the point to get a better view, the whole world around seemed waking from a long, long sleep.

At my left was Chinik Creek, pouring its rushing waters out over the bay ice with a cheerful, rapid roaring. Farther away south stretched the Darby Cape into blue water which looked like indigo, surmounted by long rolling breakers with combs of white, all being fully fourteen miles away. To the northwest of the sand-spit upon which Chinik is built, and which cuts Golovin Bay almost in two, the Fish River is also emptying itself, as is Keechawik Creek and other smaller streams. Over all the welcome sunshine is flooded, warming the buds and roots on the hillside, and making all beautiful.

June seventeenth: This is Bunker Hill Day in New England, and the men have been celebrating on their own account, setting off a fifty pounds box of dynamite in the neighborhood to frighten the women, I suppose. The shock was terrific, breaking windows, lamp shades, and jarring bottles and other articles off the shelves. Jennie was dreadfully frightened, and screamed for a few minutes, while the living room soon filled with men inquiring the cause of the explosion. By and by a man came in saying that another box of giant powder would be set off, but with that the Marshal left the room with a determined face, and we heard no more dynamiting. The men, as usual, were intoxicated.

I have just had a pleasant little outing at the Home, going with Mollie, who invited me to go with her. She was going out seal hunting on the ice, would leave me at the Home for a short visit, and pick me up on her return. Ageetuk and grandmother would take good care of Jennie for so short a time, and I needed the change, so I ran up to my room, threw some things hastily into a small bag to take with me, locked my trunk, (I had long ago put a package consisting of papers and diaries into the safe in the kind storekeeper's care), dressed myself in my shortest skirts and longest rubber boots, and we started. The weather was too warm for furs in sunshine, or while running behind a sled, so I wore a thick jacket, black straw hat with thick veil, and kid gloves.

We left the hotel about half-past seven o'clock in the evening, but with the sun still high and warm. Mollie had her small sled and three dogs, with Muky and Punni Churah and their guns. The other sled was a large one, and to it were hitched seven good dogs, accompanied by Ituk and Koki. Upon the sleds were furs, guns, bags and fishing tackle. Along shore there was considerable water on the ice, in a few spots the latter had disappeared, and we could see the sandy beach, but farther east the ice was firmer, and Mollie, who made for the best looking places, led the way, I running closely in her footsteps.

Behind us came the men and teams, the calls of the Eskimos to their dogs sounding musically on the quiet evening air. Mollie and I were now leaping over water-filled cracks or lanes in the ice, she having assured me that after getting away from the shore it would be better traveling, and we could ride on the sleds when we were tired, but I felt considerable pride in keeping up with her, and soon grew very warm from the stiff exercise, unaccustomed as I was, while she was well used to it.

After we had left the shore some distance behind us we halted for the sleds to come up, Mollie seating herself upon the small one, I waiting for the other a little later. There I ran at the handle-bars for a time, but at last I threw myself upon the sled among the furs, and pulled a parkie over me. We were now in the water a foot deep most of the time, the dogs picking their way along over the narrowest water lanes, Ituk and Koki shouting to them to gee and haw, and with Eskimo calls and whip-snapping, urging them on continually.

Soon we left the smaller sled behind; Mollie, Muky and Punni making the air ring with laughter and Eskimo songs. As we started out from home the sun shone brightly upon us, but as we left the land at our backs, and made our way farther out upon the bay, the sun dropped lower and lower, the sky became a mass of crimson and yellow, and the whole world seemed modestly blushing.

Along the east shore the rolling hills lay almost bare of snow, the brown tundra appearing softly and most artistically colored. To the north the mountains were still tipped with snow, as was also the promontory—Cape Darby, at the extreme southeast point. This was spotted and streaked with white, its rocky cliff black in shadow by contrast. Our eyes eagerly scanned the horizon for steamers, and a schooner had been reported off Darby loaded with fresh fruits and vegetables, but we could not see it.

By and by we were past most of the water lanes, and the ice was better. At half-past nine o'clock in the evening the sky was exceedingly grand, and a song of gratitude welled up in my heart, for this was another world from the one we had just left, and I no longer wondered at Mollie's love of hunting in the fresh air, under the beautiful skies, and with her freedom to travel wherever she liked.

With her I felt perfectly safe. No harm could come to me when Mollie led the way, and my confidence in the native men was equally strong; for were they not as familiar with ice and water as with land? I soon saw that we were headed toward the island, though I did not know why, and by this time Mollie was far ahead, also that we were being followed by a dog-team from Chinik, which puzzled me, for I had not heard that others were going out hunting for seal, or starting for the Home, which was my destination.

When we reached the north end of the small island Mollie ran up the path like a deer, I following, as did the natives, leaving the dogs to rest upon the ice. From a hole in the rocks Koki now hauled his kyak or small skin boat, where he had left it from a former trip, and dragging it down upon the ice, he lashed it upon the small sled to be carried still farther.

The dog-team, which I had seen following in the distance, had now come up with us, and I heard one man say to the other: "There is Mrs. Sullivan," but I did not recognize the voice. When they came nearer, we found it to be two men from camp who were going out to the schooners to buy fruit and vegetables, and they wanted to get a dog belonging to them which Mollie had borrowed and had hitched into her team. A change of dogs was then made, and we started—Mollie and I on her big sled, the other two following.

We now skirted the rocky cliffs, and found the ice hummocky between great, deep cracks where the water was no longer white, but dark and forbidding. Sometimes Koki suddenly started the dogs to one side to avoid dark-looking holes in the ice, the dogs leaping over seams which quickly lay beneath us as the fore and hinder parts of our sled bridged the crevasse of ugly water.

Now the sled swayed from side to side as the dogs made sudden curves or dashes, then a big hummock of ice and snow had to be crossed, and one end of the sled went up while the other went down. I was holding to the side rails with both hands, and knowing that the sled was a good, strong one, I had no fear of its breaking, but my feet were cold in my rubber boots, and I had drawn some furs over me.

Mollie is not a great talker, she seldom explains anything, and one has only to wait and see the outcome of her movements, and this I did, when she suddenly with Ituk left the sleds and climbed the rocks of the island again on the south side. Then I saw them gathering sticks and small driftwood, and knew that they would make a fire upon the ice at midnight, while preparing to hunt for seals.

Coming to a rough place, with high-piled ice between great, ugly seams over which the sagacious dogs dragged the sleds always in a straight line, not slantwise, I climbed out, and Mollie and Ituk came with their driftwood, which they threw upon the sled; the two men making for the schooner forging ahead in the direction of Cape Darby.

Ituk and Muky now made ready to go with me to the Home, a half mile away to the east where they were also to get some bread, this important item having been forgotten in the hurry of departure from Chinik. In the meantime Mollie, not to lose a moment of time, as is her method, had gotten out her fishing tackle and was already fishing for tom-cod through a hole in the ice. Bidding her Beoqua (good-bye), we started for the Home, Ituk politely taking my little bag, and Muky leaping lightly over the rocks toward the mainland. Along the shore of the island I was fearful of cutting my boots on the jagged rocks and rubble thickly strewn over the sands, and had to proceed cautiously for a time, but Ituk, perceiving my difficulty, led to a smoother path, and we were soon on the mainland, and upon the soft tundra, when it was only a few minutes walk to the Home.

It was eleven o'clock in the evening, and we found the missionaries just returned from a trip to the schooner, where they had secured fresh potatoes and onions. The smell and taste of an onion was never so good to me before, and the potatoes were the first we had seen in six months.

I had been in the Home in the early spring for a day, and now, as then, met with a warm welcome from the missionaries. They now had double the number of native children they had in Chinik, and their house is large and commodious, though unfinished.

I was assigned the velvet couch upon which I had spent a good many nights, and the two natives returned to Mollie after securing some bread from Miss E. for their lunches.

Next day we visited, and I rested considerably, finding again how good it was to be in a safe and quiet place with no fear of stone throwers or giant powder.

About half-past ten o'clock in the evening, just after the sun had set, we started on our return trip, Mollie having arrived with her dog-teams and natives. The sunset sky was exceedingly beautiful, but beneath our feet we had only very bad ice and water. Near the island great ice cakes were floating, interspersed with dark seams and lanes wider than we had before seen. Sometimes I rode on one of the sleds or walked, ran or leaped over the water holes to keep up with the rest until too tired and heated, when I threw myself upon a sled again; but as we proceeded we found firmer ice and less water. Mollie and I had both to ride upon one sled now, for Ituk had lashed the kyak upon the little one, and they were one dog short, as an animal had run away while they were eating supper at the Home. Finally, pitying the dogs upon the large sled, who seemed to have a heavy load (although only one seal, as they had met with little success in hunting), I motioned to Ituk to wait for me, which he did.

"Ituk," I called, as I came nearer, "let me ride in the kyak, will you?"

"You ride in kyak?" asked the man in surprise.

"Yes, let me get in, I will hold on tight," and, as he made no objection, I climbed upon the boat, crept into the hole made for that purpose and sat down.

"All right, Ituk; I am ready," I said.

The man laughed, cracked his whip, and the dogs started.

I had not before realized that I would be sitting so high up, and that at each dip in a crack or depression of the ice, when the sled runner ran a little higher than the other, I should stand a grand chance of being spilled into the water, but my feet were so cold in my rubber boots that I was thinking to get them under cover would be agreeable, and though Ituk probably well knew what the outcome of my ride would be, he very patiently agreed to allow me to try it.

We had not gone far when our dogs made a sudden dash or turn, the right-hand runner slipped lengthwise into a seam, and over we went, sled, kyak, woman and all upon the ice in a sorry heap. The dogs halted instantly, and Ituk, who had been running on the left-hand side of them, came back at my call.

"O, Ituk, come here and help me! I cannot get out of the kyak," I cried lustily. "I will not get into it again," and I rubbed my wrist upon which the skin had been slightly bruised, and he assisted me to my feet.

The native laughed.

"Kyak no good—riding—heap better run," he said.

"That's so, Ituk, but my feet are very cold."

"Get warm quick—you running," was his reply, and we started on again.

When five or six miles from Chinik the water became more troublesome, and our progress was slow. We were wading through holes, leaping over seams, and treading through slush and water. It was colder than the night before, a thin skin of ice was forming, but not firm enough to hold one up. I was cold and cuddled into the sled with Mollie, but the two natives running alongside were continually sitting upon the rail to get a short ride instead of walking, thus loading the sled too heavily upon one side, and we were soon all tumbled into water a foot deep.

As I went over I threw out my arm to save myself, and my sleeve was soaked through in an instant. Koki and Muky thought it great fun, and laughed and shouted in glee, but to me it was a little too serious. My clothes were wet through on my right side, and I was now obliged to run whether I wanted to do so or not, for we were fully a mile from home. My gloves and handkerchief were soaked with water, and I threw them away, thrusting my hands into my jacket pockets and running to keep up with the others.

We were now wading and leaping across frequent lanes, and were more in the water than upon the ice. The sharp eyes of the natives had discerned the shore line well bordered by open water, and they were wondering how they would get across. Finally we could get no farther, and were a hundred feet from the beach.

"Dogs can swim," said Mollie, sententiously, as was her habit.

"How will you and I get on shore, Mollie?" I asked anxiously.

"Ituk, big man,—he carry you, may be," answered Mollie, roguishly, with a twinkle.

"But," I continued seriously, "how deep is the water, anyway, Koki?" seeing that he had been wading in to find out.

"Him not much deep. We walk all right,—'bout up here," and the native placed his hand half way between his knee and thigh to show the depth, then walking a little farther down towards the hotel he seemed to find a better place, and called for all to follow, which we did.

The men waded across to the shore, stepping upon stones which now and then, at this point, were embedded in the sand, Mollie boldly following their example. All wore high-skin boots, coming far above their knees, and water-tight, but my rubber-boots had never been put to a test like this, only coming a little above my knees, where the soft tops were confined by a drawstring, and this water was very cold, as I had good reason to know.

However, there was nothing to do but go on, first watching the others, and then plunging boldly in. I drew my boot-tops higher, fastened the strings securely, picked up my short skirts and wound them closely about me, but not in a manner to impede my progress, and stepped in.

By this time the dogs and men were upon the sands, and making for home, only a few rods away, but I took my time, walking slowly in order that the water should not slop over the tops of my boots, and we finally reached the beach and the house safely.



CHAPTER XXVI.

GOOD-BYE TO GOLOVIN BAY.

On the morning of the twenty-sixth of June I awoke to find that the ice had drifted out to sea in the night, eight days after Mollie and I had taken our twelve miles trip across the bay and return. Then came hard rain and wind, that, for several days, blew the ice back into the bay, first to one side, and then to the other, so that the steamers waiting to come in could not do so for fear of the drifting floes. By the thirtieth of June schooners were coming into the bay with passengers and freight, and the coast steamers, "Elmore" and "Dora," had begun to make regular trips to and from Nome.

With them came mails from the outside, with newspapers and tidings of friends in the States. Then our fingers trembled at opening our letters until we found that all our dear ones were well, and we heartily thanked the Lord. There were other white women in camp by this time, and many strangers at the hotel, among others, officials, and those in authority.

Since the stone-throwing episode the Marshal had been doing duty as watchman, sleeping during the day and guarding the house nights, the heavy iron "bracelets" in his inner coat pocket weighing scarcely more than the loaded revolver in his belt.

Our little sick girl being obliged now to keep her bed continually, with no more playing in the sand and sunshine, although her cough had left her, was still the same sweet, patient child she had been through all her illness, and my whole time was given to her. Before one of the sunny south windows of the living room we placed her cot each morning, and here she received her numerous friends, both Eskimo and white, and their names were legion. They came from the east, west, north and south, all sorry to know of her illness, and bringing presents with them.

Sometimes it was a little live bird or squirrel, a delicious salmon trout or wild fowl for her supper; sometimes it was candy, nuts, or fresh fruit from Nome, and with everything she was well pleased and joyous. Friends soon came in from the outside, bringing city dolls dressed in ribbons and laces; there were tiny dishes, chairs, tables,—a hundred things dear to a little girl's heart, and all pleased her immensely, but all were laid quickly aside for a basket of wild flowers or mosses, for a fish, bird, animal or baby, showing plainly her taste for the things of nature in preference to art. Her love for her birthplace, with its hills, streams and ocean is a sincere one, and, young as she is, and having seen the great city by the Golden Gate, with many of its wonders, she is happiest in Chinik.

Here lives her dear, old grandmother, her cousins and aunts, not to mention the little calico-capped baby belonging to Apuk, for which she has a whole heartful of love, and the sight of which is better to her than medicine.

During the month of July we eagerly watched the incoming steamers, and welcomed all new comers who landed in Chinik. Many were simply passing through on their way up Fish River to the mines, and praise of the land of the "Ophir" gold was sung on all sides. A few remained for the summer. Here men built boats, and rowed away to Keechawik and Neukluk, carrying supplies for hunting or prospecting.

The captain's vegetable garden in the sand was growing rapidly, and was watched with eager eyes by everyone. We ate lettuce and radishes, picked fresh from the garden beds where they had been sown by the captain's own hands, and we found Ageetuk and Mollie to be quite famous cooks. Nothing so delicious as their salads (for the French cooks had long ago gone, the hotel management being changed, and Mollie had a nice little kitchen of her own), and with fresh salmon trout, wild fowl, fresh meats and vegetables, we made up for many months of winter dieting.

All this time I longed to get away. I was going each day to the hill-top to watch for the steamers which would bring the letters for which I waited. Affairs connected with my gold claims were, with much anxiety and trouble, arranged as well as possible, and when I boarded the steamer, I would carry with me, at least, three deeds to as many claims, with a fair prospect of others; but I could not decide to remain another winter. I was determined to go to St. Michael, up the Yukon to Dawson, and "outside," and laid my plans accordingly. Letters from my father and brother in Dawson had been received.



How my heart ached when I thought of leaving the little sick girl and Charlie, the latter now grown wilful, but still so bright and pretty. I wanted to take both with me, but, no, I could not.

The little girl's work was not ended. Hers is a wonderful mission, and she is surely about to fulfill it. Born as she was in a rough mining camp at the foot of the barren hills, she was given the Eskimo name of Yahkuk, meaning a little hill, and she, like an oasis in a desert place, is left here to cheer, love, and help others.

Many times I have seen evidence of the sweet and gentle influences going out from the life of little Yahkuk as she lies upon her cot of pain. A tall, brown miner enters the living room, goes to the little bed by the window, speaks softly, and, bending over the tiny girl, kisses her. Then her big, black eyes glance brightly into blue ones looking down from above, full red lips part in a cordial smile, while the one solitary dimple in the smooth, round cheek pricks its way still deeper, and small arms go up around his neck. When the man turns, his face wears a soft and tender expression as though he were looking at some beautiful sight far away, and, perhaps, he is. God grant that the sweet memory of that little child's kiss may be so lasting that all their lives, he and others, may be purer and better men.

When August came I sailed away. The "Dora" had entered the bay in the morning and found my trunk packed and waiting; it was then only the work of a little time to make ready to leave. To my good missionary friends I had already said good-bye, and the captain and Mollie were kindly regretful. With tears in my eyes, but with real pain in my heart I bade Jennie good-bye, and stepped into the little boat which was to carry me to the "Dora."

Farewell, then, to Chinik, the home of the north wind and blizzard. Farewell to the ice fields of Golovin, so tardy in leaving in summer, and to Keechawik and Chinik, whose clear rushing waters so cheered us in spring time. Farewell to the moss-covered hills and paths thickly bordered with blossoms. Farewell to my white-faced friends, and to the dark-skinned ones, "Beoqua."



CHAPTER XXVII.

GOING OUTSIDE.

"Do I sleep? Do I dream? Do I wonder and doubt? Are things what they seem? Or are visions about?"

I was now actually on my way home. It was not a dream, for here I was on board the snug little ocean steamer "Dora," belonging to the Alaska Commercial Company, and I was on my way to St. Michael and Dawson. For ocean travel our steamer was a perfect one in all its appointments, being staunch and reliable, with accommodating officers. After taking a last look at Chinik, I went to my stateroom. Only one stop was made before we reached St. Michael, that being at Port Denbeigh, a new mining camp where for some hours freight was unloaded. In about twenty-two hours from the time we left Chinik we were in St. Michael harbor, climbing down upon a covered barge which took us ashore.

It was nearly two years since I had first landed at this dock,—then in a snow storm, now in the rain,—then with my brother, now alone. Not at all like Nome is this quiet little hamlet of St. Michael by the sea. Neither saloons nor disorderly places are allowed upon the island. What was formerly a canteen for soldiers was now a small but tidy restaurant, where I ate a good dinner of beef-steak with an appetite allowable in Alaska.

Upon the streets and about the barracks were many boys in blue, while the hotel parlors swarmed at dinner time with officers and their wives and daughters, all richly and fashionably attired. At the parlor piano two ladies performed a duet, while the silken skirts of others rustled in an aristocratic manner over the thick carpet, and gentlemen in dress suits and gold-laced uniforms gracefully posed and chatted.

For my own part, a little homesick feeling had to be resolutely put down as I pulled on my old rain coat, and with umbrella and handbag trudged out in the darkness and rain to look for my baggage. I had already secured my transportation at the steamship office, where, at the hands of the kindly manager of the Alaska Commercial Company's affairs in this country I had received the most courteous treatment I could desire. With little delay I found my trunk and went on board the Yukon steamer T. C. Power.

Some months before a consolidation of the three largest transportation companies in Alaska had been effected, including the Alaska Commercial Company, and I was now traveling with the latter under the name of the Northern Commercial Company, but I felt a security like that of being in charge of an old and trustworthy friend, and was quite content.

I had a long journey before me. We should reach Dawson in fourteen days unless we met with delays, but a fast rising wind warned us that we might encounter something of the sort where we were, and we did. For two days and nights our steamer lay under the lee of the island, not daring to venture out in the teeth of the gale which buffeted us. Straining, creaking, swaying, first one way and then the other, we lay waiting for the storm to abate. No river steamer with stern wheel and of shallow draught, could safely weather the rough sea for sixty miles to the Yukon's mouth, and we tried to be patient.

Early on the morning of the third day we started, and for twelve hours we ploughed our way through the waters with bow now deep in the trough of the sea, now lifted high in mid-air, to be met the next moment by an uprising roller, which, with a boom and a jar, sent a quiver through the whole vessel.

When at last the Yukon was reached, another obstacle appeared and we stuck fast on a sand bar. Soon two other steamers lay alongside, waiting, as did we, for a high tide to float us.

By night we lay in a dead calm. Indians in canoes came with fish and curios to sell, and we watched the lights of the other steamers.

When the high tide came, we floated off the bar, but the scene was one of dull monotony, and it was not until the day following that we came into the hill country, and I was permitted to again see the dear trees I loved so well, not one of which I had seen since leaving California.

At Anvik there came on board a little missionary teacher bound for Philadelphia, who had spent seven years with the natives in this Episcopal Mission without a vacation, and her stories were interesting in the extreme.

Our days were uneventful. A broken stern wheel, enforced rests upon sand bars, frequent stops at wood yards with a few moments run upon shore in which to gather autumn leaves, and get a sniff of the woods, this was our life upon the Yukon steamer for many days. After a while the nights grew too dark for safe progress, and the boat was tied up until daylight.

Russian Mission, Tanana, Rampart, Fort Yukon and the Flats were passed, and the days wore tediously on. We were literally worming our way up stream, with low water and dark nights to contend with, but a second summer was upon us with warm, bright sunshine, and the hills were brilliantly colored.

One morning we approached the towering Roquett Rock, so named by Lieutenant Frederick Schwatka in his explorations down the Yukon years before, and connected with which is an Indian legend of some interest.

This immense rock (so the story runs) once formed a part of the western shore of the Yukon, and was one of a pair of towering cliffs of about the same size, and with similar characteristics. Here the two huge cliffs lived for many geological periods in wedded bliss as man and wife, until finally family dissensions invaded the rocky household, and ended by the stony-hearted husband kicking his wrangling wife into the distant plain, and changing the course of the great river so that it flowed between them, to emphasize the perpetual divorce. The cliff and the rock are still known as "the old man" and "the old woman," the latter standing in isolation upon a low, flat island with the muddy Yukon flowing on both sides.

At this time of the year the days in Alaska grow perceptibly shorter, and we were not surprised to find dusky twilight at five in the afternoon, and to notice the eerie loneliness of the dark, sweet scented woods a few hours later, when the steamer lay tied to the river's bank.

One night after dinner a number of passengers sat idly about in the saloon of our steamer. Many had grown tired of cards, or had lost their money, and, finding themselves pitted against more lucky players, had called a halt and looked for other occupation. Miners lounged about, chatting of the gold mines, their summer's work and experiences. Big Curly and his little black-eyed wife listened attentively for a time.

The old miner was a born story teller, and knew a good yarn when he heard it. The boat was tied up for the night, and all was quiet around us. It was the time and place for a story.

At last Big Curly hitched his chair out farther from the wall, and placed his feet comfortably upon the rungs; then, shifting his tobacco from one cheek to the other, he asked if any one present had heard the story of Nelson and the ghost. No one had heard it, and, after some coaxing, this is the tale he told.

The Ghost of Forty Mile.

Alaska has long smiled over old Indian legends, but Yukon men are still puzzling over the nocturnal rambles of the ghost of a murdered man in the Forty Mile District. Following the excitement of the discovery of Bonanza Bar and the sensational riches of Franklin Gulch came the murder of an old Frenchman named La Salle. Tanana Indians committed the crime in 1886. They crossed the mountains to Forty Mile, and killed La Salle in his cabin at the mouth of O'Brian Creek. With axes and bludgeons the old Frenchman's head was crushed beyond recognition.

Three months later the snow lay thick upon the ground. Upon the branches of trees it persistently hung, each added layer clinging tenaciously because there was no breath of wind to send it to the ground. Occasionally a dead twig, weighted too heavily by the increasing fall of snow, broke suddenly and dropped noiselessly into a bed of feathery flakes, thus joining its sleeping companions, the leaves.



It was in January that two men might have been seen following their dog-teams down a frozen stream emptying into Forty Mile River. They wished to reach the mouth of the creek before they halted for the night. They had heard of a cabin in which they planned to spend the night, although it was a deserted one, and they were almost at the desired point.

The men were Swedes. They were strong and hardy fellows, and although frost covered their clothing and hung in icicles about their faces, they ran contentedly behind the dog-teams in the semi-darkness, as only the snow-light remained.

"Hello!" called out Swanson finally to his companion. "Is that the place, do you think?" pointing to the dim shape of a log cabin a little ahead.

"Guess it is, but we'll find out. I'm nearly starved, and must stop soon, any way," said Nelson decidedly. "It's no use for us to travel further tonight."

"So I think," was the reply, as the dogs halted before the door, and the men entered the cabin. Here they found a good-sized room, containing one window. There was evidently a room on the other side, but with no connecting door, the two cabins having been built together to save laying one wall.

"This is good enough for me, and much warmer than a tent—we'll stay here till morning, and take the dogs inside," said kind-hearted Nelson, already unhitching the dogs from a sled.

Swanson did the same. The next moment their small store was carried into the cabin, wood was collected, and a cheery fire soon roared up the chimney.

After the men had eaten their supper and the dogs had been fed, pipes were brought out; and, stretching themselves upon their fur sleeping bags before the fire, the miners smoked and chatted while resting their weary limbs.

Suddenly, in the midnight stillness they heard a strange noise in the other part of the cabin. Some one was moaning and crying for help. There was no mistaking the sound, and both men were wide awake and intently listening.

It was the cry of some one in distress. The sounds grew more blood curdling. Nelson, unable to restrain himself longer, ran outside to investigate. Going to the window he looked inside. The sight he beheld congealed his blood, and fastened him to the spot as in a trance. This was the image of a man surrounded by a cloud of white, mist-like phosphorescent light, a deep scar standing out like a bleeding gash down the side of the head. Then the forgotten story of the murdered La Salle came to his mind, and for several minutes he was chained to the spot by the terror of the spectacle.

The apparition was half lying upon the floor, with arm uplifted, as if warding off a blow from some deadly instrument. Finally, in the desperation of his terror, Nelson called his partner to come to his assistance. Upon the approach of his companion he summoned enough courage to step to the door at the other end of the cabin, and try to open it. It was held fast by some superhuman agency, which allowed the door to be only partly opened.

Swanson, at sight of the ghostly visitor, was not so badly overcome as his friend, and having an inquisitive turn of mind, wished to find if the apparition really existed. He called out, demanding to be told who was there, but no answer came.

Still the mysterious, unearthly noises came through the cabin door. No soughing of the wind could make such sounds had a tempest been blowing, but a deathly stillness prevailed, and no breath of air stirred.

Then it was that Swanson gathered all that was left of his fast disappearing courage, and said: "In the name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit, are you demon, man or ghost?"

Suddenly the door opened and in the uncertain, misty light the apparition raised its hands to the stars as if in prayer, then it grew dark and the ghostly visitor vanished as if the earth had engulfed it forever.

While turning this tale over in mind later, I came to the conclusion, which seems a reasonable one, that some fortunate miner had, in all probability, hidden an amount of golden treasure in or about the cabin on the creek, and wishing to keep others away, had circulated the ghost story with good effect.

When Eagle City was reached I telegraphed my brother to meet me at the steamer's dock in Dawson, and my message was sent by one of Uncle Sam's boys in blue in charge of the office.

The town had grown considerably in the two years since I visited it, and now boasted new government buildings, officer's quarters, and a Presbyterian church, besides new stores and shops.

After Cudahy and Forty Mile, came Dawson, and we steamed up to the city's dock in the morning fog, and were met by the usual multitude of people, I having been seventeen days out from Golovin Bay. There, among others, waited my brother and his little son, and my joy at meeting them was great. Landing, it was only a walk of a few minutes to my kind old father, and my brother's wife was not far away.

I was now practically at home, for home is where our dear ones are, and surroundings are matters of small moment.

Three happy weeks followed, I went everywhere and noted well the improvements in the camp since I last saw it. It was now a cleaner town every way, with better order, good roads and bridges, new government buildings, post-office and fine large schoolhouse. New frame churches replaced the old log ones in most cases. There was the governor's new palatial residence which would never be graced by the presence of its mistress as she and her babe had gone down to death a few weeks before in the Islander disaster in Lynn Canal; and there was the same steady stream of gold from the wondrous Klondyke Creeks, which I was now determined to visit.



One bright, warm day, taking the hand of the small boy of the family, my sister and I started for Bonanza Creek. We were bound for the house of a friend who had invited us, and we would remain over night, as the distance was five miles. My kodak and three big red apples weighed little in our hands, and we turned toward the Klondyke River in high spirits.

For a mile the road was bordered with log cabins on the hillside, with the famous little river flowing on the other. We crossed the fine Ogilvie Bridge, and soon found ourselves upon Bonanza Creek, the stream which, with the Eldorado, had given to the world perhaps the major part of golden Klondyke treasure up to this date. Following the trail by a short cut we crossed shaky foot bridges, rested upon logs along the trail, and picked our way over boggy spots until our limbs were weary.

Everywhere there were evidences of the industry of the miners, but the claims and cabins looked deserted. Only in a few instances were men at work near the mouth of the creek. Many people were going to and from Dawson, and bicycles and wagons were numerous.

When we reached our destination we had walked five miles in the hot sunshine, and were hungry and warm, but a warm welcome from Mr. and Mrs. M., as well as a good dinner, awaited us.

After resting a while we were shown around the premises. Three log cabins were being built in a row upon the hillside, the one finished being already occupied by the M. family. Tunnels were being made in the mountain by Mr. M., as well as other claim owners near by, and across the gulch mining operations were in full blast. On the M. claim preparations were being made for winter work, and it was expected that a valuable dump would be taken out before spring. For three hundred feet one tunnel entered the mountain back of the cabins, and we were invited to go into it.

Putting on our warmest wraps, with candles in hand, we followed our guide, the proprietor, for some distance. It was like walking in a refrigerator, for the walls and floor of the tunnel were solidly frozen and sparkled with ice. Whether the bright specks we saw were always frost, we did not enquire, etiquette forbidding too much curiosity, but from the satisfied nods and smiles we understood that it was a good claim, though only recently purchased by Mr. M., a handful of pudgy gold nuggets being shown us which fairly made our eyes water (because they did not belong to us).

Here we lodged all night, enjoying a graphophone entertainment in the evening. The next morning my kodak was brought out, and before leaving for home I had several views to carry with me.

Our walk back to Dawson was much easier than the one out to the claim.

From this on, we made ready to leave Dawson for Seattle, and were soon upon our way. Again I was forced to say good-bye to my father and brother, though they would follow us a month later, and together, my sister and I, stood with the little boy on the deck of the steamer, waving our good-byes.

We now traveled in luxury. We occupied a large and elegant stateroom, ate first-class meals, and had nothing to do but enjoy ourselves. To change from steamer to steam cars at White Horse, which was now a good mining town, was the work of an hour's time, while a day's ride to Bennett and over the White Pass to Skagway was a real pleasure.

We found the quiet little port of Skagway swarming with people rushing for the steamers, and as if to give us variety we had considerable difficulty in finding our trunks in the custom's house, and in getting upon the steamer in the darkness of the late evening; but at last it was all successfully accomplished, and we took our last look at Skagway.

Eleven days after leaving Dawson we reached our journey's end, and landed in Seattle, our home coming being a source of delight to our dear waiting ones, as well as to ourselves; our safe arrival being another positive proof of the mercy and goodness of God.

[Decoration]

THE END