The Trail of 98 (23 page)

"Come on, boys," he would shout; "make the dirt fly. 'Taint every part of the
world you fellers can make your ten bucks a day."

And it can be said that never labourer proved himself more worthy of his hire
than the pick-and-shovel man of those early days. Few could stand it long
without resting. They were lean as wolves those men of the dump and drift, and
their faces were gouged and grooved with relentless toil.

Well, for three days I made the dirt fly; but towards quitting time, I must
say, its flight was a very uncertain one. Again I suffered all the tortures of
becoming toil-broken, the old aches and pains of the tunnel and the gravel-pit.
Towards evening every shovelful of dirt seemed to weigh as much as if it was
solid gold; indeed, the stuff seemed to get richer and richer as the day
advanced, and during the last half-hour I judged it must be nearly all nuggets.
The constant hoisting into the overhead sluice-box somehow worked muscles that
had never gone into action before, and I ached elaborately.

In the morning the pains were fiercest. How I groaned until the muscles
became limber. I found myself using very rough language, groaning, gritting my
teeth viciously. But I stayed with the work and
held up my end, while the laymen watched us
sedulously, and seemed to grudge us even a moment to wipe the sweat out of our
blinded eyes.

I was glad, indeed, when, on the evening of the third day, Ribwood came to me
and said:

"I guess you'd better work up at the shaft to-morrow. We want a man to wheel
muck."

They had a shaft sunk on the hillside. They were down some forty feet and
were drifting in, wheeling the pay-dirt down a series of planks placed on
trestles to the dump. I gripped the handles of a wheelbarrow loaded to
overspilling, and steered it down that long, unsteady gangway full of uneven
joins and sudden angles. Time and again I ran off the track, but after the first
day I became quite an expert at the business. My spirits rose. I was on the way
of becoming a miner.

Turning the windlass over the shaft was a little, tough mud-rat, who excited
in me the liveliest sense of aversion. Pat Doogan was his name, but I will call
him the "Worm."

The Worm was the foulest-mouthed specimen I have yet met. He had the lowest
forehead I have ever seen in a white man, and such a sharp, ferrety little face.
His reddish hair had the prison clip, and his little reddish eyes were alive
with craft and cruelty. I noticed he always regarded me with a peculiarly evil
grin, that wrinkled up his cheeks and revealed his hideously blackened teeth.
From the first he gave me a creepy feeling, a disgust as if I were near some
slimy reptile.

Yet the Worm tried to make up to me. He would tell me stories blended of the
horrible and the grotesque. One in particular I remember.

"Youse wanta know how I lost me last job. I'll tell youse. You see, it was
like dis. Dere was two Blackmoor guys dat got into de country dis Spring; came
by St. Michaels; Hindoos dey was. One of dem 'Sicks' (an' dey looked sick, dey
was so loose an' weary in der style) got a job from old man Gustafson down de
shaft muckin' up and fillin' de buckets.

"Well, dere was dat Blackmoor down in de deep
hole one day when I comes along, an' strikes old Gus
for a job. So, seein' as de man on de windlass wanted to quit, he passed it up
to me, an' I took right hold an' started in.

"Say, I was feelin' powerful mean. I'd just finished up a two weeks' drunk,
an' you tink de booze wasn't workin' in me some. I was seein' all kinds of funny
t'ings. Why, as I was a-turnin' away at dat ol' windlass dere was red spiders
crawlin' up me legs. But I was wise. I wouldn't look at dem, give dem de go-by.
Den a yeller rat got gay wid me an' did some stunts on me windlass. But still I
wouldn't let on. Den dere was some green snakes dat wriggled over de platform
like shiny streaks on de water. Sure, I didn't like dat one bit, but I says,
'Dere ain't no snakes in de darned country, Pat, and you knows it. It's just a
touch of de horrors, dat's all. Just pass 'em up, boy; don't take no notice of
dem.'

"Well, dis went on till I begins to get all shaky an' jumpy, an' I was mighty
glad when de time came to quit, an' de boys down below gives me de holler to
pull dem up.

"So I started hoistin' wid dose snakes an' spiders an' rats jus' cavortin'
round me like mad, when all to once who should I hoist outa de bowels of de
earth but de very devil himself.

"His face was black. I could see de whites of his eyes, an' he had a big
dirty towel tied round his head. Well, say, it was de limit. At de sight of dat
ferocious monster comin' after old Pat I gives one yell,
drops de crank-handle of de windlass,
an' makes a flyin' leap down de dump. I hears an awful shriek, an' de bucket an'
de devil goes down smash to de bottom of de shaft, t'irty-five feet. But I kep'
on runnin'. I was so scared.

"Well, how was I to know dey had a Blackmoor down dere? He was a stiff when
dey got him up, but how was I to know? So I lost me job."

On another occasion he told me:

"Say, kid, youse didn't know as I was liable to fits, did youse? Dat's so;
eppylepsy de doctor tells me. Dat's what I am scared of. You see, it's like dis:
if one of dem fits should hit me when I'm hoistin' de boys outer de shaft, den
it would be a pity. I would sure lose me job like de oder time."

He was the most degraded type of man I had yet met on my travels, a typical
degenerate, dirty, drunken, diseased. He had three suits of underclothing, which
he never washed. He would wear through all three in succession, and when the
last got too dirty for words he would throw it under his trunk and sorrowfully
go back to the first, keeping up this rotation, till all were worn out.

One day Hoofman told me he wanted me to go down the shaft and work in the
drift. Accordingly, next morning I and a huge Slav, by name Dooley Rileyvich,
were lowered down into the darkness.

The Slav initiated me. Every foot of dirt had to be thawed out by means of
wood fires. We built a fire at the far end of the drift every night, covering
the face we were working. First we would lay
kindling, then dry spruce lying lengthways, then a
bank of green wood standing on end to keep in the heat and shed the dirt that
sloughed down from the roof. In the morning our fire would be burned out, and
enough pay-dirt thawed to keep us picking all day.

Down there I found it the hardest work of all. We had to be careful that the
smoke had cleared from the drift before we ventured in, for frequently miners
were asphyxiated. Indeed, the bad air never went entirely away. It made my eyes
sore, my head ache. Yet, curiously enough, so long as you were below it did not
affect you so much. It was when you stepped out of the bucket and struck the
pure outer air that you reeled and became dizzy. It was blinding, too. Often at
supper have my eyes been so blurred and sore I had to grope around uncertainly
for the sugar bowl and the tin of cream.

In the drift it was always cool. The dirt kept sloughing down on us, and we
had really gone in too far for our own safety, but the laymen cared little for
that. At the end of the drift the roof was so low we were bent almost double,
picking at the face in all kinds of cramped positions, and dragging after us the
heavy bucket. To the big Slav it was all in the day's work, but to me it was
hard, hard.

The shaft was almost forty feet deep. For the first ten feet a ladder ran
down it, then stopped suddenly as if the excavators had decided to abandon it. I
often looked at this useless bit of ladder and wondered why it had been left
unfinished.

Every morning the
Worm hoisted us down into the darkness, and at night drew us up. Once he said to
me:

"Say, wouldn't it be de tough luck if I was to take a fit when I was hoistin'
youse up? Such a nice bit of a boy, too, an' I guess I'd lose my job over de
head of it."

I said: "Cut that out, or you'll have me so scared I won't go down."

He grinned unpleasantly and said nothing more. Yet somehow he was getting on
my nerves terribly.

It was one evening we had banked our fires and were ready to be hoisted up.
Dooley Rileyvich went first, and I watched him blot out the bit of blue for a
while. Then, slowly, down came the bucket for me.

I got in. I was feeling uneasy all of a sudden, and devoutly wished I were
anywhere else but in that hideous hole. I felt myself leave the ground and rise
steadily. The walls of the shaft glided past me. Up, up I went. The bit of blue
sky grew bigger, bigger. There was a star shining there. I watched it. I heard
the creak, creak of the windlass crank. Somehow it seemed to have a sinister
sound. It seemed to say: "Have a care, have a care, have a care." I was now ten
feet from the top. The bucket was rocking a little, so I put out my hand and
grasped the lowest rung of the ladder to steady myself.

Then, at that instant, it seemed the weight of the bucket pressing up against
my feet was suddenly removed, and my arm was nigh jerked out of its socket.
There I was hanging
desperately on the lowest rung of the ladder, while, with a crash that made my
heart sick, the bucket dashed to the bottom. At last, I realised, the Worm had
had his fit.

Quickly I gripped with both hands. With a great effort I raised myself rung
by rung on the ladder. I was panic-stricken, faint with fear; but some instinct
had made me hold on desperately. Dizzily I hung all a-shudder, half-sobbing. A
minute seemed like a year.

Ah! there was the face of Dooley looking down on me. He saw me clinging
there. He was anxiously shouting to me to come up. Mastering an overpowering
nausea I raised myself. At last I felt his strong arm around me, and here I
swear it on a stack of Bibles that brutish Slav seemed to me like one of God's
own angels.

I was on firm ground once more. The Worm was lying stiff and rigid. Without a
word the stalwart Slav took him on his brawny shoulder. The creek was downhill
but fifty yards. Ere we reached it the Worm had begun to show signs of reviving
consciousness. When we got to the edge of the icy water he was beginning to
groan and open his eyes in a dazed way.

"Leave me alone," he says to Rileyvich; "you Slavonian swine, lemme go."

Not so the Slav. Holding the wriggling, writhing little man in his powerful
arms he plunged him heels over head in the muddy current of the creek.

"I guess I cure dose fits anyway," he said grimly.

Struggling,
spluttering, blaspheming, the little man freed himself at last and staggered
ashore. He cursed Rileyvich most comprehensively. He had not yet seen me, and I
heard him wailing:

"Sure de boy's a stiff. Just me luck; I've lost me job."

"You'd better quit," said the Prodigal.

It was the evening of my mishap, and he had arrived unexpectedly from
town.

"Yes, I mean to," I answered. "I wouldn't go down there again for a farm. I
feel as weak as a sick baby. I couldn't stay another day."

"Well, that goes," said he. "It just fits in with my plans. I'm getting Jim
to come in, too. I've realised on that stuff I bought, made over three thousand
clear profit, and with it I've made a dicker for a property on the bench above
Bonanza, Gold Hill they call it. I've a notion it's all right. Anyway, we'll
tunnel in and see. You and Jim will have a quarter share each for your work,
while I'll have an extra quarter for the capital I've put in. Is it a go?"

I said it was.

"Thought it would be. I've had the papers made out; you can sign right
now."

So I signed, and next day found us all three surveying our claim. We put up a
tent, but the first thing to do was to build a cabin. Right away we began to
level off the ground. The work was pleasant, and conducted in such friendship
that the time passed most happily. Indeed, my only worry was about Berna. She
had never ceased to be at the forefront of my mind. I schooled myself into the
belief
that she was all
right, but, thank God, every moment was bringing her nearer to me.

One morning, when we were out in the woods cutting timber for the cabin, I
said to Jim:

"Did you ever hear anything more about that man Mosely?"

He stopped chopping, and lowered the axe he had poised aloft.

"No, boy; I've had no mail at all. Wait awhile."

He swung his axe with viciously forceful strokes. His cheery face had become
so downcast that I bitterly blamed myself for my want of tact. However, the
cloud soon passed.

About two days after that the Prodigal said to me:

"I saw your little guttersnipe friend to-day."

"Indeed, where?" I asked; for I had often thought of the Worm, thought of him
with fear and loathing.

"Well, sir, he was just getting the grandest dressing-down I ever saw a man
get. And do you know who was handing it to himLocasto, no less."

He lit a cigarette and inhaled the smoke.

"I was just coming along the trail from the Forks when I suddenly heard
voices in the bush. The big man was saying:

"'Lookee here, Pat, you know if I just liked to say half a dozen words I
could land you in the penitentiary for the rest of your days.'

"Then the little man's wheedling voice:

"'Well, I did me best, Jack. I know I bungled the job, but youse don't want
to cast dem t'ings up
to me. Dere's more dan me orter be in de pen. Dere's no good
in de pot callin' de kettle black, is dere?'

"Then Black Jack flew off the handle. You know he's got a system of
manhandling that's near the record in these parts. Well, he just landed on the
little man. He got him down and started to lambast the Judas out of him. He gave
him the 'leather,' and then some. I guess he'd have done him to a finish hadn't
I been Johnnie on the spot. At sight of me he gives a curse, jumps on his horse
and goes off at a canter. Well, I propped the little man against a tree, and
then some fellows came along, and we got him some brandy. But he was badly done
up. He kept saying: 'Oh, de devil, de big devil, sure I'll give him his before I
get t'rough.' Funny, wasn't it?"