The Trail of the Goldseekers: A Record of Travel in Prose and Verse Read online

  We reached Ashcroft (which was the beginning of the long trail) atsunrise. The town lay low on the sand, a spatter of little framebuildings, mainly saloons and lodging houses, and resembled anordinary cow-town in the Western States.

  Rivers of dust were flowing in the streets as we debarked from thetrain. The land seemed dry as ashes, and the hills which rose nearresembled those of Montana or Colorado. The little hotel swarmed withthe rudest and crudest types of men; not dangerous men, onlythoughtless and profane teamsters and cow-boys, who drank thirstilyand ate like wolves. They spat on the floor while at the table,leaning on their elbows gracelessly. In the bar-room they drank andchewed tobacco, and talked in loud voices upon nothing at all.

  Down on the flats along the railway a dozen camps of Klondikers wereset exposed to the dust and burning sun. The sidewalks swarmed withoutfitters. Everywhere about us the talk of teamsters and cattle menwent on, concerning regions of which I had never heard. Men spoke ofHat Creek, the Chilcoten country, Soda Creek, Lake La Hache, andLilloat. Chinamen in long boots, much too large for them, came andwent sombrely, buying gold sacks and picks. They were mining quietlyon the upper waters of the Fraser, and were popularly supposed to begetting rich.

  The townspeople were possessed of thrift quite American in quality,and were making the most of the rush over the trail. "The grass isimproving each day," they said to the goldseekers, who were disposedto feel that the townsmen were anything but disinterested, especiallythe hotel keepers. Among the outfitters of course the chiefbeneficiaries were the horse dealers, and every corral swarmed withmangy little cayuses, thin, hairy, and wild-eyed; while on thefences, in silent meditation or low-voiced conferences, the intendingpurchasers sat in rows like dyspeptic ravens. The wind stormcontinued, filling the houses with dust and making life intolerablein the camps below the town. But the crowds moved to and frorestlessly on the one wooden sidewalk, outfitting busily. Thecostumes were as various as the fancies of the men, but laced bootsand cow-boy hats predominated.

  As I talked with some of the more thoughtful and conscientiouscitizens, I found them taking a very serious view of our trip intothe interior. "It is a mighty hard and long road," they said, "and alot of those fellows who have never tried a trail of this kind willfind it anything but a picnic excursion." They had known a few menwho had been as far as Hazleton, and the tales of rain, flies, andmosquitoes which these adventurers brought back with them, theyrepeated in confidential whispers.

  However, I had determined to go, and had prepared myself for everyemergency. I had designed an insect-proof tent, and was provided witha rubber mattress, a down sleeping-bag, rain-proof clothing, andstout shoes. I purchased, as did many of the others, two bills ofgoods from the Hudson Bay Company, to be delivered at Hazleton on theSkeena, and at Glenora on the Stikeen. Even with this arrangement itwas necessary to carry every crumb of food, in one case three hundredand sixty miles, and in the other case four hundred miles. However,the first two hundred and twenty miles would be in the nature of apractice march, for the trail ran through a country with occasionalranches where feed could be obtained. We planned to start with fourhorses, taking on others as we needed them. And for one week wescrutinized the ponies swarming around the corrals, in an attempt tofind two packhorses that would not give out on the trail, or bucktheir packs off at the start.

  "We do not intend to be bothered with a lot of mean broncos," I said,and would not permit myself to be deceived. Before many days hadpassed, we had acquired the reputation of men who thoroughly knewwhat they wanted. At least, it became known that we would not buywild cayuses at an exorbitant price.

  All the week long we saw men starting out with sore-backed or blindor weak or mean broncos, and heard many stories of their troubles andtrials. The trail was said to be littered for fifty miles with allkinds of supplies.

  One evening, as I stood on the porch of the hotel, I saw a man ridinga spirited dapple-gray horse up the street. As I watched the splendidfling of his fore-feet, the proud carriage of his head, the splendidnostrils, the deep intelligent eyes, I said: "There is my horse! Iwonder if he is for sale."

  A bystander remarked, "He's coming to see you, and you can have thehorse if you want it."

  The rider drew rein, and I went out to meet him. After looking thehorse all over, with a subtle show of not being in haste, I asked,"How much will you take for him?"

  "Fifty dollars," he replied, and I knew by the tone of his voice thathe would not take less.

  I hemmed and hawed a decent interval, examining every limb meanwhile;finally I said, "Get off your horse."

  With a certain sadness the man complied. I placed in his hand afifty-dollar bill, and took the horse by the bridle. "What is hisname?"

  "I call him Prince."

  "He shall be called Prince Ladrone," I said to Burton, as I led thehorse away.

  Each moment increased my joy and pride in my dapple-gray gelding. Icould scarcely convince myself of my good fortune, and concludedthere must be something the matter with the horse. I was afraid ofsome trick, some meanness, for almost all mountain horses are"streaky," but I could discover nothing. He was quick on his feet asa cat, listened to every word that was spoken to him, and obeyed asinstantly and as cheerfully as a dog. He took up his feet at request,he stood over in the stall at a touch, and took the bit readily (asevere test). In every way he seemed to be exactly the horse I hadbeen waiting for. I became quite satisfied of his value the followingmorning, when his former owner said to me, in a voice of sadness,"Now treat him well, won't you?"

  "He shall have the best there is," I replied.

  My partner, meanwhile, had rustled together three packhorses, whichwere guaranteed to be kind and gentle, and so at last we were readyto make a trial. It was a beautiful day for a start, sunny, silent,warm, with great floating clouds filling the sky.

  We had tried our tent, and it was pronounced a "jim-cracker-jack" byall who saw it, and exciting almost as much comment among the nativesas my Anderson pack-saddles. Our "truck" was ready on the platform ofthe storehouse, and the dealer in horses had agreed to pack theanimals in order to show that they were "as represented." The wholetown turned out to see the fun. The first horse began bucking beforethe pack-saddle was fairly on, to the vast amusement of thebystanders.

  "That will do for that beast," I remarked, and he was led away."Bring up your other candidate."

  The next horse seemed to be gentle enough, but when one of the mentook off his bandanna and began binding it round the pony's head, Iinterrupted.

  "That'll do," I said; "I know that trick. I don't want a horse whoseeyes have to be blinded. Take him away."

  This left us as we were before, with the exception of Ladrone. AnIndian standing near said to Burton, "I have gentle horse, no buck,all same like dog."

  "All right," said partner, with a sigh, "let's see him."

  The "dam Siwash" proved to be more reliable than his white detractor.His horses turned out to be gentle and strong, and we made a bargainwithout noise. At last it seemed we might be able to get away."To-morrow morning," said I to Burton, "if nothing furtherintervenes, we hit the trail a resounding whack."

  All around us similar preparations were going on. Half-breeds werebreaking wild ponies, cow-boys were packing, roping, and instructingthe tenderfoot, the stores swarmed with would-be miners fitting out,while other outfits already supplied were crawling up the distanthill like loosely articulated canvas-colored worms. Outfits fromSpokane and other southern towns began to drop down into the valley,and every train from the East brought other prospectors to standdazed and wondering before the squalid little camp. Each day, eachhour, increased the general eagerness to get away.

  FROM PLAIN TO PEAK

  From hot low sands aflame with heat, From crackling cedars dripping odorous gum, I ride to set my burning feet On heights whence Uncompagre's waters hum, From rock to rock, and run As white as wool.

  My panting horse sniffs on the breeze The
water smell, too faint for me to know; But I can see afar the trees, Which tell of grasses where the asters blow, And columbines and clover bending low Are honey-full.

  I catch the gleam of snow-fields, bright As burnished shields of tempered steel, And round each sovereign lonely height I watch the storm-clouds vault and reel, Heavy with hail and trailing Veils of sleet.

  "Hurrah, my faithful! soon you shall plunge Your burning nostril to the bit in snow; Soon you shall rest where foam-white waters lunge From cliff to cliff, and you shall know No more of hunger or the flame of sand Or windless desert's heat!"

  CHAPTER III

  ON THE STAGE ROAD

  On the third day of May, after a whole forenoon of packing and"fussing," we made our start and passed successfully over somefourteen miles of the road. It was warm and beautiful, and we feltgreatly relieved to escape from the dry and dusty town with itsconscienceless horse jockeys and its bibulous teamsters.

  As we mounted the white-hot road which climbed sharply to thenortheast, we could scarcely restrain a shout of exultation. It wasperfect weather. We rode good horses, we had chosen our companions,and before us lay a thousand miles of trail, and the mysterious goldfields of the far-off Yukon. For two hundred and twenty miles theroad ran nearly north toward the town of Quesnelle, which was thetrading camp for the Caribou Mining Company. This highway was filledwith heavy teams, and stage houses were frequent. We might have goneby the river trail, but as the grass was yet young, many of theoutfits decided to keep to the stage road.

  We made our first camp beside the dusty road near the stage barn, inwhich we housed our horses. A beautiful stream came down from thehills near us. A little farther up the road a big and hairyCalifornian, with two half-breed assistants, was struggling withtwenty-five wild cayuses. Two or three campfires sparkled near.

  There was a vivid charm in the scene. The poplars were in tenderleaf. The moon, round and brilliant, was rising just above themountains to the east, as we made our bed and went to sleep with thesinging of the stream in our ears.

  While we were cooking our breakfast the next morning the bigCalifornian sauntered by, looking at our little folding stove, ourtent, our new-fangled pack-saddles, and our luxurious beds, andremarked:--

  "I reckon you fellers are just out on a kind of little hunting trip."

  We resented the tone of derision in his voice, and I replied:--

  "We are bound for Teslin Lake. We shall be glad to see you any timeduring the coming fall."

  He never caught up with us again.

  We climbed steadily all the next day with the wind roaring over ourheads in the pines. It grew much colder and the snow covered thenear-by hills. The road was full of trampers on their way to themines at Quesnelle and Stanley. I will not call them _tramps_, forevery man who goes afoot in this land is entitled to a certainmeasure of respect. We camped at night just outside the littlevillage called Clinton, which was not unlike a town in Vermont, andwas established during the Caribou rush in '66. It lay in a lovelyvalley beside a swift, clear stream. The sward was deliciously greenwhere we set our tent.

  Thus far Burton had wrestled rather unsuccessfully with thecrystallized eggs and evaporated potatoes which made up a part of ouroutfit. "I don't seem to get just the right twist on 'em," he said.

  "You'll have plenty of chance to experiment," I remarked. However,the bacon was good and so was the graham bread which he turned outpiping hot from the little oven of our folding stove.

  Leaving Clinton we entered upon a lonely region, a waste of woodedridges breaking illimitably upon the sky. The air sharpened as werose, till it seemed like March instead of April, and our overcoatswere grateful.

  Somewhere near the middle of the forenoon, as we were jogging along,I saw a deer standing just at the edge of the road and looking acrossit, as if in fear of its blazing publicity. It seemed for a moment asif he were an optical illusion, so beautiful, so shapely, and sopalpitant was he. I had no desire to shoot him, but, turning toBurton, called in a low voice, "See that deer."

  He replied, "Where is your gun?"

  Now under my knee I carried a new rifle with a quantity of smokelesscartridges, steel-jacketed and soft-nosed, and yet I was disposed toargue the matter. "See here, Burton, it will be bloody business if wekill that deer. We couldn't eat all of it; you wouldn't want to skinit; I couldn't. You'd get your hands all bloody and the memory ofthat beautiful creature would not be pleasant. Therefore I stand forletting him go."

  Burton looked thoughtful. "Well, we might sell it or give it away."

  Meanwhile the deer saw us, but seemed not to be apprehensive. Perhapsit was a thought-reading deer, and knew that we meant it no harm. AsBurton spoke, it turned, silent as a shadow, and running to the crestof the hill stood for a moment outlined like a figure of bronzeagainst the sky, then disappeared into the forest. He was so much apart of nature that the horses gave no sign of having seen him atall.

  At a point a few miles beyond Clinton most of the pack trains turnedsharply to the left to the Fraser River, where the grass was reportedto be much better. We determined to continue on the stage road,however, and thereafter met but few outfits. The road was by no meansempty, however. We met, from time to time, great blue or red wagonsdrawn by four or six horses, moving with pleasant jangle of bells andthe crack of great whips. The drivers looked down at us curiously andsomewhat haughtily from their high seats, as if to say, "We knowwhere we are going--do you know as much?"

  The landscape grew ever wilder, and the foliage each day spring-like.We were on a high hilly plateau between Hat Creek and the valley ofLake La Hache. We passed lakes surrounded by ghostly dead trees,which looked as though the water had poisoned them. There were noranches of any extent on these hills. The trail continued to befilled with tramping miners; several seemed to be without bedding orfood. Some drove little pack animals laden with blankets, and allwalked like fiends, pressing forward doggedly, hour after hour. Manyof them were Italians, and one group which we overtook went alongkilling robins for food. They were a merry and dramatic lot, makingthe silent forests echo with their chatter.

  I headed my train on Ladrone, who led the way with a fine statelytread, his deep brown eyes alight with intelligence, his sensitiveears attentive to every word. He had impressed me already by hislearning and gentleness, but when one of my packhorses ran aroundhim, entangling me in the lead rope, pulling me to the ground, thefinal test of his quality came. I expected to be kicked into shreds.But Ladrone stopped instantly, and looking down at me inquiringly,waited for me to scramble out from beneath his feet and drag thesaddle up to its place.

  With heart filled with gratitude, I patted him on the nose, and said,"Old boy, if you carry me through to Teslin Lake, I will take care ofyou for the rest of your days."

  At about noon the next day we came down off the high plateau, withits cold and snow, and camped in a sunny sward near a splendid ranchwhere lambs were at play on the green grass. Blackbirds were calling,and we heard our first crane bugling high in the sky. From theloneliness and desolation of the high country, with its sparse roadhouses, we were now surrounded by sunny fields mellow with thirtyseasons' ploughing.

  The ride was very beautiful. Just the sort of thing we had beenhoping for. All day we skirted fine lakes with grassy shores. Cranes,ducks, and geese filled every pond, the voice of spring in theirbrazen throats.

  Once a large flight of crane went sweeping by high in the sky, aroyal, swift scythe reaping the clouds. I called to them in their owntongue, and they answered. I called again and again, and they beganto waver and talk among themselves; and at last, having decided thatthis voice from below should be heeded, they broke rank and commencedsweeping round and round in great circles, seeking the lost one whosecry rose from afar. Baffled and angered, they rearranged themselvesat last in long regular lines, and swept on into the north.

  We camped on this, the sixth day, beside a fine strea
m which camefrom a lake, and here we encountered our first mosquitoes. Big, blackfellows they were, with a lazy, droning sound quite different fromany I had ever heard. However, they froze up early and did not botherus very much.

  At the one hundred and fifty-nine mile house, which was a stagetavern, we began to hear other bogie stories of the trail. We wereassured that horses were often poisoned by eating a certain plant,and that the mud and streams were terrible. Flies were a never endingtorment. All these I regarded as the croakings of men who had neverhad courage to go over the trail, and who exaggerated the accountsthey had heard from others.

  We were jogging along now some fifteen or twenty miles a day,thoroughly enjoying the trip. The sky was radiant, the aspens wereputting forth transparent yellow leaves. On the grassy slopes somesplendid yellow flowers quite new to me waved in the warm but strongbreeze. On the ninth day we reached Soda Creek, which is situated onthe Fraser River, at a point where the muddy stream is deep sunk inthe wooded hills.

  The town was a single row of ramshackle buildings, not unlike a smallMissouri River town. The citizens, so far as visible, formed a queercollection of old men addicted to rum. They all came out to admireLadrone and to criticise my pack-saddle, and as they stood aboutspitting and giving wise instances, they reminded me of the Jurors inMark Twain's "Puddin Head Wilson."

  One old man tottered up to my side to inquire, "Cap, where yougoing?"

  "To Teslin Lake," I replied.