H.A. Cody

The Frontiersman

A Tale of the Yukon

Warsaw 2019

Contents

I. Night in the Wilderness

II. Abandoned

III. The Grave in the Snow

IV. "Where Is My Flock?"

V. "For My Mother's Sake"

VI. A Trick of Cowards

VII. God's Gentlemen

VIII. A Surprise

IX. The Night Watch

X. Constance Makes a Discovery

XI. The Shot in the Night

XII. The Uplift

XIII. Pritchen Gets Busy

XIV. The Unexpected Happens

XV. The Summons

XVI. The Miners' Meeting

XVII. The Search

XVIII. Yukon Jennie

XIX. Caribou Sol

XX. The Old Chief's Messenger

XXI. Constance's Venture

XXII. Old Pete

XXIII. The Rumbling of the Storm

XXIV. The Council

XXV. The Light of the Cross

XXVI. Guarded

XXVII. Guided

XXVIII. The Shadowed Glen

XXIX. The Shining Trail

XXX. The Consecration

CHAPTER I

NIGHT IN THE WILDERNESS

Creek, swish! Creek, swish! hour after hour sounded forth the yielding snowshoes as Keith Steadman, hardy northman and trailsman, strode rapidly forward. For days he had listened to their monotonous music, as he wound his devious way over valleys, plains, and mountain passes, down toward the mighty Yukon River, pulsing on to the sea through the great white silence.

There was snow everywhere. Snow on the river, sparkling like a million diamonds; snow on the lakes, lying smooth and white. Snow on the trees, hanging in beautiful, fairy-like clusters; snow on the sun-kissed mountains, fleecy, golden, drifting. Snow, frosty, hard, surrounding the traveller, pouring into his lungs at every breath, clinging to his eyebrows, whitening his unkempt beard, and decorating the furry fringes of his loose parka.

“Cold night,” he muttered to himself, as he paused to readjust the rope of the small sled he was drawing, to the right shoulder.

Then he glanced back over the trail, and a dark object arrested his attention, drawing nearer and nearer.

“A wolf! and on my track, too! I expected as much in this desolate spot,” and the traveller unslung the small rifle from his back and stood ready for action.

For some time the animal did not look up, but kept its nose close to the ground, and trotted steadily on. Then it lifted its head, slowed down to a walk, and at length stopped.

“I don’t like that brute on my track at this time of the day,” thought Keith. “Perhaps a leaden message may give it a hint to travel elsewhere.”

He raised his rifle to his shoulder and took aim. Then he lowered it, moved by some sudden impulse. “Why, I believe it’s a dog, not a wolf at all,” and he gave a sharp whistle to the watching animal.

The dog, for so it was, pricked up its ears, moved forward, and stopped; but no coaxing on the traveller’s part could induce it to advance any further. After trying in vain for some time to make friends with the cur, Keith resumed his weary walk.

The short winter day was drawing to a close, and the sun had dipped behind a tall, hoary peak. The shadows stealing over the land warned him that night was shutting down, and camping time was near.

Ahead lay a clump of thick fir trees, which promised shelter and an abundance of wood. Toward this he moved, the dog following some distance behind. Reaching the place, it did not take him long to clear away the snow from a suitable spot, using one of his narrow snow-shoes as a shovel. This done, he built a fire from the dead trees standing close by, and prepared a generous supply of fuel to last during the cold night. With much skill, acquired through long practice, he soon fashioned a cosy little nest on one side of the fire, from the richly-scented fir boughs. To make the shelter more complete, he erected in the background a brush barricade in the form of a semi-circle, a few feet high. In front of this he spread a wolf-skin robe.

“A palace fit for a king,” he remarked, half aloud, as he glanced around upon his handiwork. “Now for supper.”

A little bacon, a few beans, a taste of sourdough bread, with some black tea for a relish, formed the humble repast.

In the meantime the dog had crept close, attracted by the warm, bright fire, and stood looking wistfully upon the bacon lying before him.

“Hungry, old boy, eh?” asked Keith. “You look as if you had eaten nothing for a month. Well, then, here’s a piece of bacon and bread. To-morrow I’ll try to snip a rabbit for you.”

The ravenous beast seized eagerly the precious morsels, devoured them with a gulp or two, and looked longingly for more.

“Can’t do it, doggie,” said Keith, noticing the animal’s beseeching eyes, “I’ve only a little left, and a hard trail lies ahead.”

Then something around the dog’s neck arrested his attention. It was a small object fastened to a rude collar. What could it be?

“Come here, laddie,” he called, “and let me see what you’ve got there.”

The cur, however, kept at a safe distance, but showed a degree of friendliness by short jerks of his tail.

“Perhaps a piece of bacon will bring him,” and Keith held a portion temptingly before his view.

The dog pricked up his ears, advanced, drew back, and looked around. Then, squatting down upon his haunches, he lifted his nose into the air and gave vent to a most doleful howl.

“Come on, old boy,” encouraged Keith, still holding the bacon between his fingers.

Little by little the dog approached, and with much coaxing was induced to draw near, and after a time nestled by the man’s side, where he quickly devoured the coveted morsel of food.

“Now, let’s see what you’ve got here,” and Keith examined the object attached to the collar.

It was a piece of brown paper, old and soiled, and evidently it had seen hard usage. It was carefully folded, and tied with twine made up of several short pieces. With the point of his hunting knife, Keith cut the string, and when he had opened the paper he beheld a number of words, scrawled with some red material, which looked much like blood. By the flickering camp fire he managed with difficulty to decipher the following startling message:

“For God’s sake, help. I’m dying.”

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