<h2>CHAPTER II</h2>
<h3>MR. ZACHARY SMITH</h3>
<p>“Rot, man, rot! I’ve been up here long enough
to know my way about this devil’s country. No
confounded neche can teach me. The trail forked at
that bush we passed three days back. We’re all
right. I wish I felt as sure about the weather.”</p>
<p>Leslie Grey broke off abruptly. His tone was
resentful, as well as dictatorial. He was never what
one might call an easy man. He was always headstrong,
and never failed to resent interference on the
smallest provocation. Perhaps these things were in
the nature of his calling. He was one of the head
Customs officials on the Canadian side of the Alaskan
boundary. His companion was a subordinate.</p>
<p>The latter was a man of medium height, and from
the little that could be seen of his face between the
high folds of the storm-collar of his buffalo coat, he
possessed a long nose and a pair of dark, keen, yet
merry eyes. His name was Robb Chillingwood. The
two men were tramping along on snow-shoes in the
rear of a dog-train. An Indian was keeping pace
with the dogs in front; the latter, five in number,
harnessed in the usual tandem fashion to a heavily-laden
sled.</p>
<div><span class='pagenum pncolor'><SPAN name='page_16' name='page_16'></SPAN>16</span></div>
<p>“It’s no use anticipating bad weather,” replied
Chillingwood, quietly. “But as to the question of
the trail–––”</p>
<p>“There’s no question,” interrupted Grey, sharply.</p>
<p>“Ah, the map shows two clumps of bush. The trail
turns off at one of them. My chart says the second.
I studied it carefully. The ‘confounded neche,’ as
you call him, says ‘not yet.’ Which means that he
considers it to be the second bush. You say no.”</p>
<p>“The neche only knows the trail by repute. You
have never been over it before. I have travelled it
six times. You make me tired. Give it a rest.
Perhaps you can make something of those nasty,
sharp puffs of wind which keep lifting the ground
snow at intervals.”</p>
<p>Robb shrugged his fur-coated shoulders, and glanced
up at the sun. It seemed to be struggling hard to
pierce a grey haze which hung over the mountains.
The sundogs, too, could be seen, but, like the sun
itself, they were dim and glowed rather than shone.
That patchy wind, so well known in the west of
Canada, was very evident just then. It seemed to
hit the snow-bound earth, slither viciously along the
surface, sweep up a thin cloud of loose surface snow,
then drop in an instant, but only to operate in the
same manner at some other spot. This was going on
spasmodically in many directions, the snow brushing
up in hissing eddies at each attack. And slowly the
grey mist on the hills was obscuring the sun.</p>
<p>Robb Chillingwood was a man of some experience
on the prairie, although, as his companion had said, he
was new to this particular mountain trail. To his
trained eye the outlook was not encouraging.</p>
<div><span class='pagenum pncolor'><SPAN name='page_17' name='page_17'></SPAN>17</span></div>
<p>“Storm,” he observed shortly.</p>
<p>“That’s my opinion,” said Grey definitely.</p>
<p>“According to calculations, if we have not got off
the trail,” Chillingwood went on, with a sly look at
his superior, “we should reach Dougal’s roadside
hostelry in the Pass by eight o’clock––well before
dark. We ought to escape the storm.”</p>
<p>“You mean we shall,” said Grey pointedly.</p>
<p>“If––”</p>
<p>“Bunkum!”</p>
<p>The two men relapsed into silence. They were
very good friends these two. Both were used to
the strenuous northern winter. Both understood the
dangers of a blizzard. Their argument about the
trail they were on was quite a friendly one. It was
only the dictatorial manner of Leslie Grey which
gave it the appearance of a quarrel. Chillingwood
understood him, and took no notice of his somewhat
irascible remarks, whilst, for himself, he remained of
opinion that he had read his Ordnance chart aright.</p>
<p>They tramped on. Each man, with a common
thought, was watching the weather indications. As
the time passed the wind “patches” grew in size, in
force, and in frequency of recurrence. The haze upon
the surrounding hills rapidly deepened, and the air
was full of frost particles. A storm was coming on
apace. Nor was Dougal’s wayside hostelry within
sight.</p>
<p>“It’s a rotten life on the boundary,” said Robb, as
though continuing a thought aloud.</p>
<p>“It’s not so much the life,” replied Grey vindictively,
“it’s the d–––d red tape that demands the half-yearly
journey down country. That’s the dog’s part
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><SPAN name='page_18' name='page_18'></SPAN>18</span>
of our business. Why can’t they establish a branch
bank up here for the bullion and send all ‘returns’ by
mail? There is a postal service––of a kind. It’s a
one-horsed lay out––Government work. There’ll come
a rush to the Yukon valley this year, and when there’s
a chance of doing something for ourselves––having
done all we can for the Government––I suppose they’ll
shift us. It’s the way of Governments. I’m sick of it.
I draw four thousand dollars a year, and I earn every
cent of it. You––”</p>
<p>“Draw one thousand, and think myself lucky if I
taste fresh vegetables once a week during the summer.
Say, Leslie, do you think it’s possible to assimilate
the humble but useful hog by means of a steady diet
of ‘sour-belly’?”</p>
<p>Grey laughed.</p>
<p>“If that were possible I guess we ought to make
the primest bacon. Hallo, here comes the d–––d
neche. What’s up now, I wonder? Well, Rainy-Moon,
what is it?”</p>
<p>The Indian had stopped his dogs and now turned
back to speak to the two men. His face was expressionless.
He was a tall specimen of the Cree Indian.</p>
<p>“Ugh,” he grunted, as he came to a standstill.
Then he stretched out his arm with a wide sweep in
the direction of the mountains. “No good, white-men––coyote,
yes. So,” and he pointed to the south
and made a motion of running, “yes. Plenty beef,
plenty fire-water. White-man store.” His face slowly
expanded into a smile. Then the smile died out
suddenly and he turned to the north and made a long
‘soo-o-o-sh’ with rising intonation, signifying the rising
wind. “Him very bad. White-man sleep––sleep.
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><SPAN name='page_19' name='page_19'></SPAN>19</span>
Wake––no.” And he finished up with a shake of the
head.</p>
<p>Then his arm dropped to his side, and he waited
for Grey to speak. For a moment the Customs
officer remained silent. Chillingwood waited anxiously.
Both men understood the Indian’s meaning.
Chillingwood believed the man to be right about
the trail. As to the coming storm, and the probable
consequences if they were caught in it, that
was patent to all three.</p>
<p>But Grey, with characteristic pig-headedness, gave
no heed to the superior intelligence of the Indian
where matters of direction in a wild country were
concerned. He <i>knew</i> he was on the right trail. That
was sufficient for him. But he surveyed the surrounding
mountains well before he spoke. They had
halted in a sort of cup-like hollow, with towering sides
surmounted by huge glaciers down which the wind
was now whistling with vicious force. There were
only two exits from this vast arena. The one by
which the travellers had entered it, and the other
directly ahead of them; the latter was only to be
approached by a wide ledge which skirted one of the
mountains and inclined sharply upwards. Higher up
the mountain slope was a belt of pinewoods, close to
which was a stubbly growth of low bush. This was
curiously black in contrast with the white surroundings,
for no snow was upon its weedy branches and
shrivelled, discoloured leaves. Suddenly, while Grey
was looking out beyond the dog-train, he observed the
impress of snow-shoes in the snow. He pointed to
them and drew his companion’s attention.</p>
<p>“You see,” he said triumphantly, “there has been
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><SPAN name='page_20' name='page_20'></SPAN>20</span>
some one passing this way just ahead of us. Look
here, neche, you just get right on and don’t let me
have any more nonsense about the trail.”</p>
<p>The Indian shook his head.</p>
<p>“Ow,” he grunted. “This little––just little.”
Then he pointed ahead. “Big, white––all white.
No, no; white-man no come dis way. Bimeby neche
so,” and Rainy-Moon made a motion of lying down
and sleeping. He meant that they would get lost and
die in the snow.</p>
<p>Grey became angry.</p>
<p>“Get on,” he shouted. And Rainy-Moon reluctantly
turned and started his dogs afresh.</p>
<p>The little party ascended the sloping path. The
whipping snow lashed their faces as the wind rushed
it up from the ground in rapidly thickening clouds. The
fierce gusts were concentrating into a steady shrieking
blast. A grey cloud of snow, thin as yet, but
plainly perceptible, was in the air. The threat it conveyed
was no idle one. The terror of the blizzard
was well known to those people. And they knew
that in a short space they would have to seek what
shelter they might chance to find upon these almost
barren mountains.</p>
<p>The white-men tightened the woollen scarves about
the storm-collars of their coats, and occasionally
beat their mitted hands against their sides. The
gathering wind was intensifying the cold.</p>
<p>“If this goes on we shall have to make that belt of
pinewoods for shelter,” observed Robb Chillingwood
practically. “It won’t do to take chances of losing
the dogs––and their load––in the storm. What say?”</p>
<p>They had rounded a bend and Grey was watchfully
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><SPAN name='page_21' name='page_21'></SPAN>21</span>
gazing ahead. He did not seem to hear his companion’s
question. Suddenly he pointed directly
along the path towards a point where it seemed to
vanish between two vast crags.</p>
<p>“Smoke,” he said. And his tone conveyed that he
wished his companion to understand that he, Grey,
had been right about the trail, and that Robb had
been wrong. “That’s Dougal’s store,” he went on,
after a slight pause.</p>
<p>Chillingwood looked as directed. He saw the rush
of smoke which, in the rising storm, was ruthlessly
swept from the mouth of a piece of upright stove-pipe,
which in the now grey surroundings could just be
distinguished.</p>
<p>“But I thought there was a broad, open trail at
Dougal’s,” he said, at last, after gazing for some
moments at the tiny smoke-stack.</p>
<p>“Maybe the road opens out here,” answered Grey
weakly.</p>
<p>But it didn’t. Instead it narrowed. And as they
ascended the slope it became more and more precipitous.
The storm was now beating up, seemingly from
every direction, and it was with difficulty that the five
great huskies hauled their burden in the face of it.
However, Rainy-Moon urged them to their task with
no light hand, and just as the storm settled down to
its work in right good earnest they drew up abreast
of a small dugout. The path had narrowed down to
barely six feet in width, bordered on the left hand by
a sharp slope upwards towards the pinewood belt
above, and on the right by a sheer precipice; whilst
fifty feet further on there was no more path––just
space. As this became apparent to him, Robb Chillingwood
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><SPAN name='page_22' name='page_22'></SPAN>22</span>
could not help wondering what their fate
might have been had the storm overtaken them earlier,
and they had not come upon the dugout. However,
he had no time for much speculation on the subject,
for, as the dogs came to a stand, the door of the dugout
was thrown back and a tall, cadaverous-looking
man stood framed in the opening.</p>
<p>“Kind o’ struck it lucky,” he observed, without any
great show of enthusiasm. “Come right in. The
neche can take the dogs round the side there,”
pointing to the left of the dugout. “There’s a
weatherproof shack there where I keep my kindling.
Guess he can fix up in that till this d–––d breeze
has blown itself out. You’ve missed the trail, I take
it. Come right in.”</p>
<p>Half-an-hour later the two Customs officers were
seated with their host round the camp-stove which
stood hissing and spluttering in the centre of the
hut. The dogs and Rainy-Moon were housed in the
woodshed.</p>
<p>Now that the travellers were divested of their
heavy furs, their appearance was less picturesque but
more presentable. Robb Chillingwood was about
twenty-five; his whole countenance indexed a sturdy
honesty of thought and a merry disposition. There
was considerable strength too about brow and jaw.
Leslie Grey was shorter than his companion. A man
of dapper, sturdy figure, and with a face good-looking,
obstinate, and displaying as much sense of
humour as a barbed-wire fence post. He was fully
thirty years of age.</p>
<p>Their host possessed a long, attenuated, but powerful
figure, and a face chiefly remarkable for its
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><SPAN name='page_23' name='page_23'></SPAN>23</span>
cadaverous hollows and a pair of hungry eyes and a
dark chin-whisker.</p>
<p>“Yes, sir,” this individual was saying, “she’s goin’
to howl good and hard for the next forty-eight hours,
or I don’t know these parts. Maybe you’re from the
valley?”</p>
<p>Chillingwood shook his head.</p>
<p>“No. Fort Cudahy way,” he said. “My name’s
Chillingwood––Robb Chillingwood. This is Mr.
Leslie Grey, Customs officer. I am his assistant.”</p>
<p>The long man glanced slowly at his guests. His
great eyes seemed to take in the details of each man’s
appearance with solemn curiosity. Then he twisted
slowly upon the upturned box on which he was
seated and crossed his legs.</p>
<p>“I’m pleased to meet you, gentlemen. It’s lonely
in these parts––lonely.” He shuddered as though
with cold. “I’ve been trapping in these latitudes for
a considerable period, and it’s––lonely. My name is
Zachary Smith.”</p>
<p>As the trapper pronounced his name he glanced
keenly from one to the other of the two men beside
him. His look was suggestive of doubt. He seemed
to be trying to re-assure himself that he had never
before crossed the paths of these chance guests of
his. After a moment of apprehensive silence he
went on slowly, like one groping in darkness. His
confidence was not fully established.</p>
<p>“You can make up your minds to a couple of days
in this shanty––anyhow. I mostly live on ‘sour-belly’
and ‘hard tack.’ Don’t sound inviting,
eh?”</p>
<p>Chillingwood laughed pleasantly.</p>
<div><span class='pagenum pncolor'><SPAN name='page_24' name='page_24'></SPAN>24</span></div>
<p>“We’re Government officials,” he said with meaning.</p>
<p>“Yes,” put in Grey. “But we’ve got plenty of
canned truck in our baggage. I’m thinking you may
find our supplies a pleasant change.”</p>
<p>“No doubt––no doubt whatever. Cat’s meat would
be a delicacy after––months of tallowy pork.”</p>
<p>This slow-spoken trapper surveyed his guests
thoughtfully. The travellers were enjoying the comforting
shelter and warmth. Neither of them seemed
particularly talkative.</p>
<p>Presently Grey roused himself. Extreme heat
after extreme cold always has a somnolent effect on
those who experience it.</p>
<p>“We’d best get the––stuff off the sleigh, Chillingwood,”
said he. “Rainy-Moon’s above the average
Indian for honesty, but, nevertheless, we don’t need
to take chances. And,” as the younger man rose
and stretched himself, “food is good on occasions.
What does Mr. Zachary Smith say?”</p>
<p>“Ay, let’s sample some white-man’s grub. Gentlemen,
this is a fortunate meeting––all round.”</p>
<p>Chillingwood passed out of the hut. As he opened
the door a vindictive blast of wind swept a cloud of
snow in, and the frozen particles fell crackling and
hissing upon the glowing stove.</p>
<p>“And they call this a white-man’s country,” observed
Mr. Smith pensively, as the door closed again. He
opened the stove and proceeded to knock the embers
together preparatory to stoking up afresh.</p>
<p>“Guess you were making for the Pass,” he said
conversationally.</p>
<p>“Yes,” replied Grey.</p>
<p>“Missed the trail,” the other said, pitching a cord-wood
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><SPAN name='page_25' name='page_25'></SPAN>25</span>
stick accurately into the centre of the glowing
embers.</p>
<p>Grey made no answer.</p>
<p>“’Tisn’t in the way of Governments to show consideration
to their servants,” Mr. Smith went on,
filling the stove with fuel to the limit of its holding
capacity. “It’s a deadly season to be forced to
travel about in.”</p>
<p>“Consideration,” said Grey bitterly. “I’m forced
to undertake this journey twice a year. Which
means I am on the road the best part of my time.
And merely because there is no bank or authorized
place for depositing–––”</p>
<p>“Ah, gold,” put in Mr. Zachary Smith quietly.</p>
<p>“And reams of ‘returns.’”</p>
<p>“They reckon that the ‘rush’ to the Yukon’ll come
next year. Maybe things will alter then.”</p>
<p>Smith straightened himself up from his occupation.
His face displayed but the most ordinary interest in
the conversation.</p>
<p>At that moment Chillingwood returned bearing
two small brass-bound chests. The Indian followed
him bringing a number of packages of tinned food.
Smith glanced from the chests––which were as much
as Chillingwood could carry––to the angular proportions
of the Indian’s burden, then back again to
the chests. He watched furtively as the officer
deposited the latter; then he turned back to the
stove and opened the damper.</p>
<p>Then followed a meal of which all three partook
with that heartiness which comes of an appetite
induced by a hardy open-air life. They talked but
little while they ate, and that little was of the
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><SPAN name='page_26' name='page_26'></SPAN>26</span>
prospects of the new Eldorado. Leslie Grey spoke
with the bitterness of a disappointed man. In reality
he had been successful in the business he had adopted.
But some men are born grumblers, and he was one.
It is probable that had he been born a prince he
would have loudly lamented the fact that he was not
a king. Chillingwood was different; he accepted the
situation and enjoyed his life. He was unambitious
whilst faithfully doing that which he regarded as his
duty, first to himself, then to his employers. His
method of life was something like that of the sailor.
He fully appreciated the motto of the seafaring
gentry––one hand for himself and one for his
employers. When in doubt both hands for self.
He meant to break away from his present employment
when the Yukon “rush” came. In the meantime
he was on the spot. Mr. Zachary Smith chiefly
listened. He could eat and watch his guests. He
could study them. And he seemed in no way
inclined to waste his time on words when he could
do the other two things. He said little about himself,
and was mainly contented with comprehensive nods
and grunts, whilst he devoured huge portions of
tinned tongue and swallowed bumpers of scalding
tea.</p>
<p>After dinner the travellers produced their pipes.
Grey offered his tobacco to their host. Mr. Zachary
Smith shook his head.</p>
<p>“Given up tobacco––mostly,” he said, glancing in
the direction of the door, which groaned under a
sudden attack from the storm which was now howling
with terrible force outside. “It isn’t that I don’t
like it. But when a man gets cooped up in these
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><SPAN name='page_27' name='page_27'></SPAN>27</span>
hills he’s like to run out of it, and then it’s uncomfortable.
I’ve taken on a native weed which does me
for smoking when I need it––which isn’t often. It
grows hereabouts and isn’t likely to give out. Guess
I won’t smoke now.”</p>
<p>Grey shrugged and lit his pipe. If any man could
be fool enough to reject tobacco, Leslie Grey was
not the sort of man to press him. He was intolerant
of ideas in any one but himself. Chillingwood
sucked luxuriously at his pipe and thought big
things.</p>
<p>The blue smoke clouds curled insinuatingly about
the heads of the smokers, and rose heavily upon the
dense atmosphere of the hut. The two men stretched
themselves indolently upon the ground, sometimes
speaking, but, for the most part, silent. These wayfarers
thought little of time. They had a certain
task to perform which, the elements permitting, they
would carry out in due course. In the meantime it
was storming, and they had been fortunate in finding
shelter in these wastes of snow and ice; they were
glad to accept what comfort came their way. This
enforced delay would find a simple record in Leslie
Grey’s report to his superiors. “Owing to a heavy
storm, etc.” They were Government servants. The
routine of these men’s lives was all very monotonous,
but they were used to it, and use is a wonderful
thing. It so closely borders on content.</p>
<p>Cards were produced later on. Mr. Zachary Smith
resisted the blandishments of “cut-throat” euchre.
He had no money to spare for gambling, he informed
his guests; he would look on. He sat over the stove
whilst the others played. Later on the cards were
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><SPAN name='page_28' name='page_28'></SPAN>28</span>
put away, and the travellers, curling themselves into
their blankets, composed themselves to sleep.</p>
<p>The lean figure sat silently blinking at the red sides
of the fire-box. His legs were crossed, and he nursed
his knee in a restful embrace. For nearly an hour he
sat thus, and only the slow movement of his great
rolling eyes, and an occasional inclination of his head
told of the active thought which was passing behind
his mask-like features.</p>
<p>As he sat there he looked older by half a score of
years than either of his companions, but, in reality,
he was a young man. The furrows and hollows upon
his face were the marks of privation and exposure,
not of age. His bowed figure was not the result of
weakness or senility, it was chiefly the result of
great height and the slouching gait of one who has
done much slow tramping. Mr. Zachary Smith made
an interesting study as he sat silently beside his
stove.</p>
<p>His face was the face of an honest man––when his
eyes were concealed beneath their heavy lids. It was
a good face, and refined; tough, vigorous, honest,
until the eyelids were raised. Then the expression
was utterly changed. A something looked out from
those great rolling eyeballs which was furtive, watchful,
doubtful. They were eyes one sometimes sees in
a madman or a great criminal. And now, as he sat
absorbed in his own reflections, their gaze alternated
between the two brass-bound chests and the recumbent
figure of Leslie Grey.</p>
<p>So he sat, this self-styled Zachary Smith, trapper.</p>
<hr class='toprule' />
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><SPAN name='page_29' name='page_29'></SPAN>29</span>
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