The God of His Fathers

J >> Jack London >> The God of His Fathers


"Ah! But when this mans with the wife which is Indian, this mans
McCormack, when him discovaire the Klondike, you go not. Odder mans go;
odder mans now rich."

"You know I was prospecting over on the head-reaches of the Tanana,"
Harrington protested, "and knew nothing of the Eldorado or Bonanza until
it was too late."

"That is deeferent; only you are--what you call way off."

"What?"

"Way off. In the--yes--in the dark. It is nevaire too late. One vaire
rich mine is there, on the creek which is Eldorado. The mans drive the
stake and him go 'way. No odddr mans know what of him become. The mans,
him which drive the stake, is nevaire no more. Sixty days no mans on
that claim file the papaire. Then odder mans, plentee odder mans--what
you call--jump that claim. Then they race, O so queek, like the wind, to
file the papaire. Him be vaire rich. Him get grub for famine."

Harrington hid the major portion of his interest.

"When's the time up?" he asked. "What claim is it?"

"So I speak Louis Savoy last night," she continued, ignoring him. "Him I
think the winnaire."

"Hang Louis Savoy!"

"So Louis Savoy speak in my cabin last night. Him say, 'Joy, I am strong
mans. I haf good dogs. I haf long wind. I will be winnaire. Then you
will haf me for hoosband?' And I say to him, I say--"

"What'd you say?"

"I say, 'If Louis Savoy is winnaire, then will he haf me for wife.'"

"And if he don't win?"

"Then Louis Savoy, him will not be--what you call--the father of my
children."

"And if I win?"

"You winnaire? Ha! ha! Nevaire!"

Exasperating as it was, Joy Molineau's laughter was pretty to hear.
Harrington did not mind it. He had long since been broken in. Besides,
he was no exception. She had forced all her lovers to suffer in kind.
And very enticing she was just then, her lips parted, her color
heightened by the sharp kiss of the frost, her eyes vibrant with the lure
which is the greatest of all lures and which may be seen nowhere save in
woman's eyes. Her sled-dogs clustered about her in hirsute masses, and
the leader, Wolf Fang, laid his long snout softly in her lap.

"If I do win?" Harrington pressed.

She looked from dog to lover and back again.

"What you say, Wolf Fang? If him strong mans and file the papaire, shall
we his wife become? Eh? What you say?"

Wolf Fang picked up his ears and growled at Harrington.

"It is vaire cold," she suddenly added with feminine irrelevance, rising
to her feet and straightening out the team.

Her lover looked on stolidly. She had kept him guessing from the first
time they met, and patience had been joined unto his virtues.

"Hi! Wolf Fang!" she cried, springing upon the sled as it leaped into
sudden motion. "Ai! Ya! Mush-on!"

From the corner of his eye Harrington watched her swinging down the trail
to Forty Mile. Where the road forked and crossed the river to Fort
Cudahy, she halted the dogs and turned about.

"O Mistaire Lazy Mans!" she called back. "Wolf Fang, him say yes--if you
winnaire!"

* * * * *

But somehow, as such things will, it leaked out, and all Forty Mile,
which had hitherto speculated on Joy Molineau's choice between her two
latest lovers, now hazarded bets and guesses as to which would win in the
forthcoming race. The camp divided itself into two factions, and every
effort was put forth in order that their respective favorites might be
the first in at the finish. There was a scramble for the best dogs the
country could afford, for dogs, and good ones, were essential, above all,
to success. And it meant much to the victor. Besides the possession of
a wife, the like of which had yet to be created, it stood for a mine
worth a million at least.

That fall, when news came down of McCormack's discovery on Bonanza, all
the Lower Country, Circle City and Forty Mile included, had stampeded up
the Yukon,--at least all save those who, like Jack Harrington and Louis
Savoy, were away prospecting in the west. Moose pastures and creeks were
staked indiscriminately and promiscuously; and incidentally, one of the
unlikeliest of creeks, Eldorado. Olaf Nelson laid claim to five hundred
of its linear feet, duly posted his notice, and as duly disappeared. At
that time the nearest recording office was in the police barracks at Fort
Cudahy, just across the river from Forty Mile; but when it became bruited
abroad that Eldorado Creek was a treasure-house, it was quickly
discovered that Olaf Nelson had failed to make the down-Yukon trip to
file upon his property. Men cast hungry eyes upon the ownerless claim,
where they knew a thousand-thousand dollars waited but shovel and sluice-
box. Yet they dared not touch it; for there was a law which permitted
sixty days to lapse between the staking and the filing, during which time
a claim was immune. The whole country knew of Olaf Nelson's
disappearance, and scores of men made preparation for the jumping and for
the consequent race to Fort Cudahy.

But competition at Forty Mile was limited. With the camp devoting its
energies to the equipping either of Jack Harrington or Louis Savoy, no
man was unwise enough to enter the contest single-handed. It was a
stretch of a hundred miles to the Recorder's office, and it was planned
that the two favorites should have four relays of dogs stationed along
the trail. Naturally, the last relay was to be the crucial one, and for
these twenty-five miles their respective partisans strove to obtain the
strongest possible animals. So bitter did the factions wax, and so high
did they bid, that dogs brought stiffer prices than ever before in the
annals of the country. And, as it chanced, this scramble for dogs turned
the public eye still more searchingly upon Joy Molineau. Not only was
she the cause of it all, but she possessed the finest sled-dog from
Chilkoot to Bering Sea. As wheel or leader, Wolf Fang had no equal. The
man whose sled he led down the last stretch was bound to win. There
could be no doubt of it. But the community had an innate sense of the
fitness of things, and not once was Joy vexed by overtures for his use.
And the factions drew consolation from the fact that if one man did not
profit by him, neither should the other.

However, since man, in the individual or in the aggregate, has been so
fashioned that he goes through life blissfully obtuse to the deeper
subtleties of his womankind, so the men of Forty Mile failed to divine
the inner deviltry of Joy Molineau. They confessed, afterward, that they
had failed to appreciate this dark-eyed daughter of the aurora, whose
father had traded furs in the country before ever they dreamed of
invading it, and who had herself first opened eyes on the scintillant
northern lights. Nay, accident of birth had not rendered her less the
woman, nor had it limited her woman's understanding of men. They knew
she played with them, but they did not know the wisdom of her play, its
deepness and its deftness. They failed to see more than the exposed
card, so that to the very last Forty Mile was in a state of pleasant
obfuscation, and it was not until she cast her final trump that it came
to reckon up the score.

Early in the week the camp turned out to start Jack Harrington and Louis
Savoy on their way. They had taken a shrewd margin of time, for it was
their wish to arrive at Olaf Nelson's claim some days previous to the
expiration of its immunity, that they might rest themselves, and their
dogs be fresh for the first relay. On the way up they found the men of
Dawson already stationing spare dog teams along the trail, and it was
manifest that little expense had been spared in view of the millions at
stake.

A couple of days after the departure of their champions, Forty Mile began
sending up their relays,--first to the seventy-five station, then to the
fifty, and last to the twenty-five. The teams for the last stretch were
magnificent, and so equally matched that the camp discussed their
relative merits for a full hour at fifty below, before they were
permitted to pull out. At the last moment Joy Molineau dashed in among
them on her sled. She drew Lon McFane, who had charge of Harrington's
team, to one side, and hardly had the first words left her lips when it
was noticed that his lower jaw dropped with a celerity and emphasis
suggestive of great things. He unhitched Wolf Fang from her sled, put
him at the head of Harrington's team, and mushed the string of animals
into the Yukon trail.

"Poor Louis Savoy!" men said; but Joy Molineau flashed her black eyes
defiantly and drove back to her father's cabin.

* * * * *

Midnight drew near on Olaf Nelson's claim. A few hundred fur-clad men
had preferred sixty below and the jumping, to the inducements of warm
cabins and comfortable bunks. Several score of them had their notices
prepared for posting and their dogs at hand. A bunch of Captain
Constantine's mounted police had been ordered on duty that fair play
might rule. The command had gone forth that no man should place a stake
till the last second of the day had ticked itself into the past. In the
northland such commands are equal to Jehovah's in the matter of potency;
the dum-dum as rapid and effective as the thunderbolt. It was clear and
cold. The aurora borealis painted palpitating color revels on the sky.
Rosy waves of cold brilliancy swept across the zenith, while great
coruscating bars of greenish white blotted out the stars, or a Titan's
hand reared mighty arches above the Pole. And at this mighty display the
wolf-dogs howled as had their ancestors of old time.

A bearskin-coated policeman stepped prominently to the fore, watch in
hand. Men hurried among the dogs, rousing them to their feet, untangling
their traces, straightening them out. The entries came to the mark,
firmly gripping stakes and notices. They had gone over the boundaries of
the claim so often that they could now have done it blindfolded. The
policeman raised his hand. Casting off their superfluous furs and
blankets, and with a final cinching of belts, they came to attention.

"Time!"

Sixty pairs of hands unmitted; as many pairs of moccasins gripped hard
upon the snow.

"Go!"

They shot across the wide expanse, round the four sides, sticking notices
at every corner, and down the middle where the two centre stakes were to
be planted. Then they sprang for the sleds on the frozen bed of the
creek. An anarchy of sound and motion broke out. Sled collided with
sled, and dog-team fastened upon dog-team with bristling manes and
screaming fangs. The narrow creek was glutted with the struggling mass.
Lashes and butts of dog-whips were distributed impartially among men and
brutes. And to make it of greater moment, each participant had a bunch
of comrades intent on breaking him out of jam. But one by one, and by
sheer strength, the sleds crept out and shot from sight in the darkness
of the overhanging banks.

Jack Harrington had anticipated this crush and waited by his sled until
it untangled. Louis Savoy, aware of his rival's greater wisdom in the
matter of dog-driving, had followed his lead and also waited. The rout
had passed beyond earshot when they took the trail, and it was not till
they had travelled the ten miles or so down to Bonanza that they came
upon it, speeding along in single file, but well bunched. There was
little noise, and less chance of one passing another at that stage. The
sleds, from runner to runner, measured sixteen inches, the trail
eighteen; but the trail, packed down fully a foot by the traffic, was
like a gutter. On either side spread the blanket of soft snow crystals.
If a man turned into this in an endeavor to pass, his dogs would wallow
perforce to their bellies and slow down to a snail's pace. So the men
lay close to their leaping sleds and waited. No alteration in position
occurred down the fifteen miles of Bonanza and Klondike to Dawson, where
the Yukon was encountered. Here the first relays waited. But here,
intent to kill their first teams, if necessary, Harrington and Savoy had
had their fresh teams placed a couple of miles beyond those of the
others. In the confusion of changing sleds they passed full half the
bunch. Perhaps thirty men were still leading them when they shot on to
the broad breast of the Yukon. Here was the tug. When the river froze
in the fall, a mile of open water had been left between two mighty jams.
This had but recently crusted, the current being swift, and now it was as
level, hard, and slippery as a dance floor. The instant they struck this
glare ice Harrington came to his knees, holding precariously on with one
hand, his whip singing fiercely among his dogs and fearsome abjurations
hurtling about their ears. The teams spread out on the smooth surface,
each straining to the uttermost. But few men in the North could lift
their dogs as did Jack Harrington. At once he began to pull ahead, and
Louis Savoy, taking the pace, hung on desperately, his leaders running
even with the tail of his rival's sled.

Midway on the glassy stretch their relays shot out from the bank. But
Harrington did not slacken. Watching his chance when the new sled swung
in close, he leaped across, shouting as he did so and jumping up the pace
of his fresh dogs. The other driver fell off somehow. Savoy did
likewise with his relay, and the abandoned teams, swerving to right and
left, collided with the others and piled the ice with confusion.
Harrington cut out the pace; Savoy hung on. As they neared the end of
the glare ice, they swept abreast of the leading sled. When they shot
into the narrow trail between the soft snowbanks, they led the race; and
Dawson, watching by the light of the aurora, swore that it was neatly
done.

When the frost grows lusty at sixty below, men cannot long remain without
fire or excessive exercise, and live. So Harrington and Savoy now fell
to the ancient custom of "ride and run." Leaping from their sleds, tow-
thongs in hand, they ran behind till the blood resumed its wonted
channels and expelled the frost, then back to the sleds till the heat
again ebbed away. Thus, riding and running, they covered the second and
third relays. Several times, on smooth ice, Savoy spurted his dogs, and
as often failed to gain past. Strung along for five miles in the rear,
the remainder of the race strove to overtake them, but vainly, for to
Louis Savoy alone was the glory given of keeping Jack Harrington's
killing pace.

As they swung into the seventy-five-mile station, Lon McFane dashed
alongside; Wolf Fang in the lead caught Harrington's eye, and he knew
that the race was his. No team in the North could pass him on those last
twenty-five miles. And when Savoy saw Wolf Fang heading his rival's
team, he knew that he was out of the running, and he cursed softly to
himself, in the way woman is most frequently cursed. But he still clung
to the other's smoking trail, gambling on chance to the last. And as
they churned along, the day breaking in the southeast, they marvelled in
joy and sorrow at that which Joy Molineau had done.

* * * * *

Forty Mile had early crawled out of its sleeping furs and congregated
near the edge of the trail. From this point it could view the up-Yukon
course to its first bend several miles away. Here it could also see
across the river to the finish at Fort Cudahy, where the Gold Recorder
nervously awaited. Joy Molineau had taken her position several rods back
from the trail, and under the circumstances, the rest of Forty Mile
forbore interposing itself. So the space was clear between her and the
slender line of the course. Fires had been built, and around these men
wagered dust and dogs, the long odds on Wolf Fang.

"Here they come!" shrilled an Indian boy from the top of a pine.

Up the Yukon a black speck appeared against the snow, closely followed by
a second. As these grew larger, more black specks manifested themselves,
but at a goodly distance to the rear. Gradually they resolved themselves
into dogs and sleds, and men lying flat upon them. "Wolf Fang leads," a
lieutenant of police whispered to Joy. She smiled her interest back.

"Ten to one on Harrington!" cried a Birch Creek King, dragging out his
sack.

"The Queen, her pay you not mooch?" queried Joy.

The lieutenant shook his head.

"You have some dust, ah, how mooch?" she continued.

He exposed his sack. She gauged it with a rapid eye.

"Mebbe--say--two hundred, eh? Good. Now I give--what you call--the tip.
Covaire the bet." Joy smiled inscrutably. The lieutenant pondered. He
glanced up the trail. The two men had risen to their knees and were
lashing their dogs furiously, Harrington in the lead.

"Ten to one on Harrington!" bawled the Birch Creek King, flourishing his
sack in the lieutenant's face.

"Covaire the bet," Joy prompted.

He obeyed, shrugging his shoulders in token that he yielded, not to the
dictate of his reason, but to her charm. Joy nodded to reassure him.

All noise ceased. Men paused in the placing of bets.

Yawing and reeling and plunging, like luggers before the wind, the sleds
swept wildly upon them. Though he still kept his leader up to the tail
of Harrington's sled, Louis Savoy's face was without hope. Harrington's
mouth was set. He looked neither to the right nor to the left. His dogs
were leaping in perfect rhythm, firm-footed, close to the trail, and Wolf
Fang, head low and unseeing, whining softly, was leading his comrades
magnificently.

Forty Mile stood breathless. Not a sound, save the roar of the runners
and the voice of the whips.

Then the clear voice of Joy Molineau rose on the air. "Ai! Ya! Wolf
Fang! Wolf Fang!"

Wolf Fang heard. He left the trail sharply, heading directly for his
mistress. The team dashed after him, and the sled poised an instant on a
single runner, then shot Harrington into the snow. Savoy was by like a
flash. Harrington pulled to his feet and watched him skimming across the
river to the Gold Recorder's. He could not help hearing what was said.

"Ah, him do vaire well," Joy Molineau was explaining to the lieutenant.
"Him--what you call--set the pace. Yes, him set the pace vaire well."




AT THE RAINBOW'S END


I


It was for two reasons that Montana Kid discarded his "chaps" and Mexican
spurs, and shook the dust of the Idaho ranges from his feet. In the
first place, the encroachments of a steady, sober, and sternly moral
civilization had destroyed the primeval status of the western cattle
ranges, and refined society turned the cold eye of disfavor upon him and
his ilk. In the second place, in one of its cyclopean moments the race
had arisen and shoved back its frontier several thousand miles. Thus,
with unconscious foresight, did mature society make room for its
adolescent members. True, the new territory was mostly barren; but its
several hundred thousand square miles of frigidity at least gave
breathing space to those who else would have suffocated at home.

Montana Kid was such a one. Heading for the sea-coast, with a haste
several sheriff's posses might possibly have explained, and with more
nerve than coin of the realm, he succeeded in shipping from a Puget Sound
port, and managed to survive the contingent miseries of steerage
sea-sickness and steerage grub. He was rather sallow and drawn, but
still his own indomitable self, when he landed on the Dyea beach one day
in the spring of the year. Between the cost of dogs, grub, and outfits,
and the customs exactions of the two clashing governments, it speedily
penetrated to his understanding that the Northland was anything save a
poor man's Mecca. So he cast about him in search of quick harvests.
Between the beach and the passes were scattered many thousands of
passionate pilgrims. These pilgrims Montana Kid proceeded to farm. At
first he dealt faro in a pine-board gambling shack; but disagreeable
necessity forced him to drop a sudden period into a man's life, and to
move on up trail. Then he effected a corner in horseshoe nails, and they
circulated at par with legal tender, four to the dollar, till an
unexpected consignment of a hundred barrels or so broke the market and
forced him to disgorge his stock at a loss. After that he located at
Sheep Camp, organized the professional packers, and jumped the freight
ten cents a pound in a single day. In token of their gratitude, the
packers patronized his faro and roulette layouts and were mulcted
cheerfully of their earnings. But his commercialism was of too lusty a
growth to be long endured; so they rushed him one night, burned his
shanty, divided the bank, and headed him up the trail with empty pockets.

Ill-luck was his running mate. He engaged with responsible parties to
run whisky across the line by way of precarious and unknown trails, lost
his Indian guides, and had the very first outfit confiscated by the
Mounted Police. Numerous other misfortunes tended to make him bitter of
heart and wanton of action, and he celebrated his arrival at Lake Bennett
by terrorizing the camp for twenty straight hours. Then a miners'
meeting took him in hand, and commanded him to make himself scarce. He
had a wholesome respect for such assemblages, and he obeyed in such haste
that he inadvertently removed himself at the tail-end of another man's
dog team. This was equivalent to horse-stealing in a more mellow clime,
so he hit only the high places across Bennett and down Tagish, and made
his first camp a full hundred miles to the north.

Now it happened that the break of spring was at hand, and many of the
principal citizens of Dawson were travelling south on the last ice. These
he met and talked with, noted their names and possessions, and passed on.
He had a good memory, also a fair imagination; nor was veracity one of
his virtues.



II


Dawson, always eager for news, beheld Montana Kid's sled heading down the
Yukon, and went out on the ice to meet him. No, he hadn't any
newspapers; didn't know whether Durrant was hanged yet, nor who had won
the Thanksgiving game; hadn't heard whether the United States and Spain
had gone to fighting; didn't know who Dreyfus was; but O'Brien? Hadn't
they heard? O'Brien, why, he was drowned in the White Horse; Sitka
Charley the only one of the party who escaped. Joe Ladue? Both legs
frozen and amputated at the Five Fingers. And Jack Dalton? Blown up on
the "Sea Lion" with all hands. And Bettles? Wrecked on the
"Carthagina," in Seymour Narrows,--twenty survivors out of three hundred.
And Swiftwater Bill? Gone through the rotten ice of Lake LeBarge with
six female members of the opera troupe he was convoying. Governor Walsh?
Lost with all hands and eight sleds on the Thirty Mile. Devereaux? Who
was Devereaux? Oh, the courier! Shot by Indians on Lake Marsh.

So it went. The word was passed along. Men shouldered in to ask after
friends and partners, and in turn were shouldered out, too stunned for
blasphemy. By the time Montana Kid gained the bank he was surrounded by
several hundred fur-clad miners. When he passed the Barracks he was the
centre of a procession. At the Opera House he was the nucleus of an
excited mob, each member struggling for a chance to ask after some absent
comrade. On every side he was being invited to drink. Never before had
the Klondike thus opened its arms to a che-cha-qua. All Dawson was
humming. Such a series of catastrophes had never occurred in its
history. Every man of note who had gone south in the spring had been
wiped out. The cabins vomited forth their occupants. Wild-eyed men
hurried down from the creeks and gulches to seek out this man who had
told a tale of such disaster. The Russian half-breed wife of Bettles
sought the fireplace, inconsolable, and rocked back and forth, and ever
and anon flung white wood-ashes upon her raven hair. The flag at the
Barracks flopped dismally at half-mast. Dawson mourned its dead.

Why Montana Kid did this thing no man may know. Nor beyond the fact that
the truth was not in him, can explanation be hazarded. But for five
whole days he plunged the land in wailing and sorrow, and for five whole
days he was the only man in the Klondike. The country gave him its best
of bed and board. The saloons granted him the freedom of their bars. Men
sought him continuously. The high officials bowed down to him for
further information, and he was feasted at the Barracks by Constantine
and his brother officers. And then, one day, Devereaux, the government
courier, halted his tired dogs before the gold commissioner's office.
Dead? Who said so? Give him a moose steak and he'd show them how dead
he was. Why, Governor Walsh was in camp on the Little Salmon, and
O'Brien coming in on the first water. Dead? Give him a moose steak and
he'd show them.

And forthwith Dawson hummed. The Barracks' flag rose to the masthead,
and Bettles' wife washed herself and put on clean raiment. The community
subtly signified its desire that Montana Kid obliterate himself from the
landscape. And Montana Kid obliterated; as usual, at the tail-end of
some one else's dog team. Dawson rejoiced when he headed down the Yukon,
and wished him godspeed to the ultimate destination of the case-hardened
sinner. After that the owner of the dogs bestirred himself, made
complaint to Constantine, and from him received the loan of a policeman.