The Great Gold Rush.

by W. H. P. (William Henry Pope) Jarvis.

PREFACE

There is a freemasonry among Klondikers which rules that no tales shall be told out of school. If, therefore, this were an historical novel, if I were telling tales and seeking to escape censure by the subterfuge of changing names, I could hardly succeed. Let me take the case of Poo-Bah, for instance. The reader with a knowledge of the early days of Dawson accepting the story as historical, would fix as the original any one of half a dozen men indecently caricatured. But if he is told the character is a composite one, that it is the personification of Dawson graft, or, in other words, that it is the sum of a merger, he will understand and, I think, make no complaint.

Otherwise the story may be accepted as the author's best effort to convey a true account of the different phases of the world's most remarkable stampede. The stories of corruption among the officials in Dawson are those which a visitor would have heard on every hand, and at the present time there are many old-timers in the Yukon who will tell tales similar to the incidents I have introduced in my story.

When one of my characters speaks of the Dawson officials as petty larceny thieves and highway robbers, it is to be understood to be a sample of the phraseology in vogue at the time.

The different types of prospector I have attempted to portray are those I have met, lived with, and mixed with. Should it appear I have given too much s.p.a.ce to the humble economies of the miner's life, I shall advance as my excuse the lack of our literature in this particular.

I have also made a humble attempt to establish the respectability of the miner. So much has been written to compromise him, and so many imaginations have drawn lurid pictures of his morals, I feel it his due.

In a general way the reader may accept anything in my story which has none other than an historical interest as being accurate.

I am indebted to the Rev. Archdeacon Macdonald, now of Winnipeg, for the story of his first discovery of gold. For the story of the discovery of Franklin Gulch I am indebted to Mr. William Hartz, who also furnished the accounts of the finding of gold in the Stewart River. These accounts have never before been written.

W. H. P. J.

TORONTO, CANADA.

_January_ 1913.

THE GREAT GOLD RUSH

CHAPTER I

THE FORTUNE-SEEKERS

Those who join the stampede to a new goldfield may generally be divided into two cla.s.ses, the tenderfoot and the old-timer; otherwise, the novice and the experienced prospector.

The novice joins the stampede because he catches the "fever"--dreams dreams. The old-timer goes because the diggings he had last worked in proved of little good.

Were the sea-dogs of old--Drake, Raleigh, or Frobisher--born into the world to-day, their spirit would surely have impelled them to the mining camp, to seek fortune in the mountain fastnesses, and to wager years of effort on the chance of wresting from Nature her treasure stores.

On the steamship _Aleutian_, as she lay in the dock at Vancouver, British Columbia, one day in the March of 1898, there were many tenderfeet and a few old-timers. Amongst the experienced was John Berwick. About him surged the steamship's host of pa.s.sengers, waving their arms, and yelling answers to the cheer that went up from the great crowd upon the dock-side.

He and his fellows were bound for the Klondike goldfields. Before them lay adventures, toil, and danger; the adventurous will ever draw the tributes of goodwill from the mult.i.tude staying at home.

The air was chill and damp; and the increased speed of the steamer as she pa.s.sed from the harbour accentuated the effect of the breeze that blew against her, so that Berwick felt cold. He shivered, and half turned towards the door across the promenade; but the wavelets, flying by in their half-blue, half-grey ripples, fascinated him, and he lingered. Suddenly he was aroused--a hand was on his shoulder, and he heard a familiar voice say,

"Hullo, old chum!"

John swung round. He looked into the smiling face of his old-time mining-mate, George Bruce.

"George, by all the G.o.ds!" he cried. "Are you bound for the diggings, too?"

"Yes, and mighty glad to find an old mate. I told you, when you left Coolgardie, that you wouldn't stand civilization long, but had no idea of running across you in this rush."

The two turned and entered the saloon together. Neither mentioned it, but each knew that in the adventures before them their efforts and their fortunes would be joined. In the language of the Australian, they were mates, or, in the vernacular of their new surroundings, "partners."

George Bruce was tall and athletic, with golden hair. He was a jovial soul, blessed with a body of activity. He would go for the hardest work in a cheery way, and during the social hours of evening was the best of company. He was as liberal with his money and means as he was of good-nature.

The saloon was crowded with men, drifting about, staring at all they met, or talking in groups. On the lower deck dogs could be heard barking. The ship was tense with an atmosphere of excitement.

Berwick and his "pardner" went by a companion-way to the lower deck, where they found a pa.s.sage-way to the fore-part of the ship, and so came to the presence of the canine choir. Big dogs and little dogs, of every breed and colour, were there. All grades of canine society were represented, from the big and well-fed St. Bernard to the mongrel snared in the slums. Dogs were a safe investment in the towns on the Pacific Coast of North America, and unscrupulous humanity was actively at work capturing them and getting them there.

The portion of the deck to which the dogs were relegated was also set apart for the baggage, which was piled in heaps in the middle. A dozen men were diving into kit-bags, extracting necessary articles or packing them away. The inspiration of the last few minutes in Vancouver had prompted many to purchase odds and ends which had been forgotten in the general outfitting.

A tall, angular man was attending to three dogs of an uncommon breed.

Two of them were practically of the same size, which was that of an ordinary collie; the third was not so large. All had the same markings, black with tan about the face and neck, and a show of tan about the legs, but the hair on the two larger was longer than on the third. This couple also had bushy tails which curled over their backs, while the tail of the smaller dog was only a stump. John recognized them from their wolfish look as belonging to a Northern breed. George and he became interested.

After watching the dogs for a minute, John approached one of them and patted him, remarking to his owner, "Your dogs don't seem over-affectionate."

"No."

"They don't make much noise."

"These dogs never bark."

"Why is that?"

"Don't know; suppose it is because they have wolf in them; but they howl when the spirit moves them."

"Often?"

"Only when they are alone, and then generally at night."

The conversation was lapsing when the stranger turned and gazed at the mountains showing through the mist along the coast.

"Those mountains look kind o' cold," said he. "You fellows going inside?"

"Yes," answered John.

"Come from Australia?" The stranger had evidently been sizing them up.

"There are a whole lot going inside from Australia, I hear."