<h2><SPAN name="CHAPTER_XXVII" id="CHAPTER_XXVII"></SPAN>CHAPTER XXVII.</h2>
<h3>GOING OUTSIDE.</h3>
<div class="cpoem">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">"Do I sleep? Do I dream?<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Do I wonder and doubt?<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Are things what they seem?<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Or are visions about?"<br/></span></div>
</div></div>
<div class="figleft"> <ANTIMG src="images/di.png" width-obs="56" height-obs="150" alt="I" title="I" /></div>
<p class="firstp"> 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.</p>
<p>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.<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_380" id="Page_380"></SPAN></span>
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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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,<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_381" id="Page_381"></SPAN></span>
but I felt a security like that of being in
charge of an old and trustworthy friend, and was
quite content.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>When the high tide came, we floated off the bar,<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_382" id="Page_382"></SPAN></span>
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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_383" id="Page_383"></SPAN></span></p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_384" id="Page_384"></SPAN></span></p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<h4>The Ghost of Forty Mile.</h4>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_385" id="Page_385"></SPAN></span>
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.</p>
<div class="figcenter"><SPAN name="i407" id="i407"></SPAN> <SPAN href="images/407.jpg"><ANTIMG src="images/407t.jpg" width-obs="232" height-obs="400" alt="" title="" /></SPAN> ON BONANZA CREEK.</div>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"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.</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"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<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_386" id="Page_386"></SPAN></span>
cabins having been built together to save laying
one wall.</p>
<p>"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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_387" id="Page_387"></SPAN></span>
came to his mind, and for several minutes he was
chained to the spot by the terror of the spectacle.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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?"</p>
<p>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<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_388" id="Page_388"></SPAN></span>
ghostly visitor vanished as if the earth had engulfed
it forever.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>I was now practically at home, for home is
where our dear ones are, and surroundings are
matters of small moment.</p>
<p>Three happy weeks followed, I went everywhere<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_389" id="Page_389"></SPAN></span>
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.</p>
<div class="figcenter"><SPAN name="i412" id="i412"></SPAN> <SPAN href="images/412.jpg"><ANTIMG src="images/412t.jpg" width-obs="337" height-obs="400" alt="" title="" /></SPAN> SKAGWAY RIVER, FROM THE TRAIN.</div>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_390" id="Page_390"></SPAN></span>
picked our way over boggy spots until our limbs
were weary.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_391" id="Page_391"></SPAN></span>
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).</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>Our walk back to Dawson was much easier than
the one out to the claim.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>We found the quiet little port of Skagway
swarming with people rushing for the steamers,<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_392" id="Page_392"></SPAN></span>
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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p> </p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/392.png" width-obs="150" height-obs="75" alt="Decoration" title="" /></div>
<div style="break-after:column;"></div><br />