CHAPTER XVI

ESQUIMAUX

"Hallo," shouted Clay from the motor. "Good morning to you."

"Same to you," called down the Kid. "Say, that little tub of yours makes better time than I thought she would. I thought we passed you during the night. By the way. I've got something for you fellows. I'll lower it down to you on a string."

"Come down yourself," Clay invited. "Just fasten a rope to the rail and shin down. I want to ask you a lot of questions and I can't hear you well above the din of the motor, and the thrashing of the paddle wheels."

The Kid hesitated. "I'm afraid you can't get me back alongside again," he shouted, "and I've got to be there with the mail on time."

"We'll get you aboard all right," Clay promised. "That is, if you are not afraid. It's a little risky for a tenderfoot."

No live young man could stand such a taunt to his courage before a pretty girl, and the Kid surrendered. "All right," he called down. "I'll see the captain and see if he'll promise to slow up a bit if we get too far behind." He looked around at the crowd on deck and finally beckoned to an old sour-dough to take his chair. The old-timer obeyed, although he nevertheless seemed in his nervousness, to experience great trouble in disposing of his hands and feet.

Clay smiled at the Kid's maneuvers. Evidently he was taking no chances.

Alex, up forward, secure in the fact that he could not be reached, was taking an impish delight in bantering the officer who had cursed so fluently. "Say, you snapping turtle of a log rider," he hailed. "What do you mean by using such language when a real sure enough boat comes alongside your old mud scow? Afraid we were going to smash your old hulk to pieces? Where did you learn that sort of language, anyway? I'll bet you used to raise mules down in Missouri."

"I did handle mules for a while," said the other with evident pride of his accomplishment. "That helped some. Then I mushed dog teams up here on the Yukon trail for four years and that sure taught me a lot. The rest is mostly Spanish I picked up here and there."

"Why, you can't swear at all," scoffed Alex.

"You're only an amateur. You just repeat words you have heard others use. You had ought to coin your words, have them nice and fresh and new all the time."

"That's a hard thing to do," said the officer, gloomily.

"Pshaw, it's easy," Alex declared. "Just buy an automobile and run it yourself for six months and you'll be a different man."

The roar of laughter from the crowd above was as incense to Alex's soul.

"The lad's right," said a serious-minded little man. "I used to own one in the States and I would hate to say half the things I used to think when I used to have to lay on my back under the car in maybe six inches of mud, wrastling away with a monkey wrench."

Just then the Kid slid nimbly down a rope to the _Rambler's_ deck. Clay shouted to Alex to steer off from the steamer and as soon as he saw the order was obeyed, he moved the timer ahead at full speed and the _Rambler_ shot away from her big, clumsy sister.

"Good-bye," shouted Alex to the officer. "We hate to leave you but we got tired of staying in one place all the time. We'll see you at Dawson if you're lucky enough to get up there before the river freezes over." But the officer was standing speechless, his mouth agape at the _Rambler's_ wonderful burst of speed.

As for the Yukon Kid, he slipped down on the deck and grabbed the funnel with both hands as though afraid the boat would slip out from under him. Gradually the startled look died out of his eyes to be replaced by a glint of humor. "This is one on me, boys," he acknowledged. "It's more than one, it's a full baker's dozen," he grinned. "Just think of my begging the captain to slow up until I got safe back aboard. And me being so sure that we must have passed you during the night. I never dreamed a boat so small could run so fast, but I must go back on the steamer. I've got the mail locked up in my cabin, but I am supposed to guard it all the time."

"Was that some mail you was guarding so close up there, Mr. Kid?" asked Ike, innocently.

The Kid ignored the question though he blushed deeply. "I've got something to give you that may be some use to you. I've got a copy of it at Nome so you needn't hesitate about taking it. It's pretty well thumbed and torn, but I guess you can make it out all right." He unrolled a stiff paper and spread it out on the deck. It was a complete map of the Yukon. "I made it and it's true to a hair," said the Kid with pride. "Take it and keep it. It can be trusted where the government charts can't. I've marked in red ink where the best Indian villages are."

Clay thanked him and bent over the chart thoughtfully. "Look's like clear water for a couple of hundred miles up." The Kid nodded. "Pretty smooth sailing until we get to the Upper Yukon. Then it's rapids after rapids, and some of them pretty fierce."

"I see an Indian village marked down about 110 miles above here," Clay remarked. "I believe we will run ahead and camp there tonight. We haven't seen a native village yet."

"This one is rather small. Most of its inhabitants died of famine last winter, and all the able bodied men and squaws are off on the long hunt now. You'll likely find only old men and old women there now. Well, I'll have a look at Friend Case and then I'll have to get back aboard. I've been gone too long already."

"Getting afraid your old-timer cannot hold down that chair?" smiled Clay with freedom of their quickly born liking for each other.

"Oh, Olson will keep that seat reserved all right," said the Kid confidently. "He's gun shy on women folks. What I am afraid of is that some chekako may try to take it away from him. If that happens there will sure be some blood spilled on deck, an' I don't reckon she's used to sights like that. Don't get me wrong. It's no case of spoons or anything like it. She's just an innocent girl with an old father and mother, and the poor innocents have got an idea that they are going to make a fortune by opening up a restaurant in Dawson. Think of it, boys. Those three poor innocents trying to stack up such a game in Dawson of all places on earth. They have brought in no supplies either, and even flour will be nearly worth its weight in gold dust before the winter is over. The chekakos are pouring in faster than the supplies. That's what makes me want to get back to the steamer quick. There is a crowd of greenhorns on board and some of them think they are mashers. If any of them try to get gay there will sure be something doing. Well, I'll just run down and see the invalid while you run me back to the steamer."

Case, suffering intently in his bunk, greeted the Kid with delight. His firm, friendly hand shake seemed to lessen his intense pains.

The air of strength, energy and power radiating from the Kid seemed to enthuse his own battered body with new strength. The Kid sat down on the edge of the bunk and with a touch as tender as a woman's, examined the deeper wounds. "You'll be fit as a fiddle in no time," he declared, cheerfully. The wounds are beginning to heal already. That's the reason they hurt so. I'll see you again tomorrow maybe. I've got to go now. Good-bye, keep as quiet as you can and don't fret."

Case, soothed and strangely comforted by the mighty magnetism of the man, snuggled down in his bunk and dropped off to sleep.

"He'll be all right if you take good care of him and fever does not set in," said the Kid as he came to deck. "But have one of you down with him all the time so as to keep him entertained and to wait on him. Just a simple little thing like his getting up to get a drink of water for himself might prove fatal to him in his present condition. At the best though, it will be a long long time before he will be completely well."

"I should have stayed right by him," Ike exclaimed with contrition. "I go right down now to him." He paused on the steps to add shyly, "I got so interested to see if that mail was still well guarded that I forgot. It's all right, Mr. Kid."

A playful kick from the Kid sent him tumbling down the balance of the stairs.

As they swept alongside the steamer, Clay noted with a grin that Olson was still holding down the chair, a heavy long-barreled revolver resting across his knees, while two of the detestable breed of mashers stood a ways off eyeing the coveted chair with glances in which desire and temerity were equally blended. Whatever of womanly shyness Olson had ever possessed must have melted away, for his wrinkled face was smiling and with evident enjoyment. "Yes, he was admitting, reluctantly, "It does get a wee bit cold up here now and then, say around December, but Lord, man, what a country she is."

The Kid grabbed the swinging rope and clambered up it like a monkey.

Olson gave up his seat with evident reluctance.

"Say, Kid," he whispered. "She's gold, pure gold, right down to bed rock."

"I knew it," replied the Kid, briefly. "Go and tell those two fresh young chekakos I want to see them in half an hour in my cabin on important business. I'm going to spank them both like their mothers used to do, only more so."

Olson departed well pleased with his errand and sought out the two offenders, taking great pleasure in impressing upon them the dire evil that always followed disobedience to the Yukon Kid's commands.

Later on he listened gleefully at a locked door from the other side of which came the sound of steady smacks laid on with a heavy hand. The heavy smacking was broken occasionally by subdued sobs.

While this little scene was being enacted, the _Rambler_ was miles away, headed for the Indian village. Once clear of the steamer, Clay shut down the hatch cover over the motor and joined Alex in the bow. "Let me take the wheel for a while," he offered kindly. "Take a rest while you can, you'll want to look over the village when we get there. You haven't got back your full strength yet. You look all played out. That motor will run itself now."

Alex meekly surrendered the wheel. "I do feel slim," he confessed. "I guess I'll stretch out and rest for a little while. But here comes Ike with some dinner for us. I guess I'll tuck some of that inside me first."

Ike stood beaming upon them while the two boys ate the dinner he had so thoughtfully prepared. As soon as they had finished he bore the empty dishes below while Alex stretched out on a seat and was soon asleep.

As the _Rambler_ dashed through the water. Clay frequently consulted the chart and compared it with the passing shores. It was accurate as the Kid had stated. Near the middle of the afternoon, he sighted the tall cliff just beyond which the Kid had said lay the little Indian village. He awakened Alex, and turning the wheel over to him, went back to the motor. As they passed the cliff they come into sight of the village, a miserable collection of anthill-like huts. As they eased the _Rambler_ to shore, their noses were greeted by a multitude of odors blended into one malodorous whole--the usual odor of an Esquimaux village. "You and Alex can go ashore and look around," Clay said. "I'll stay and look out for Case. I've got a hunch that there's fish lurking in this little cove and I'm going to have a try for them. Taste good for a change, wouldn't it?"

The village lay back a ways from the river on a high bank and this the boys scrambled up, to find themselves in the middle of the settlement. It was almost deserted, only a few old men and old women crouched in the warm sunshine in front of their wretched buildings. Only a very few children played solemnly in the sun and they looked wan and haggard. None of the faces looked attractive. They were broad, flat and stupid.

Ike, with true trader's instinct, had brought a pack with him and a glint of interest shone in the eyes of the old men. It might contain tobacco of which they had none in many weary moons. The one who seemed in authority, approached Alex. "How," he said.

"How yourself?" replied Alex. "Who is your chief?"

"I am a great man amongst my people," said the native. "I am Shaman, the medicine man. I protect my people from sickness and guard them from the evil spirits of the Yukon."

"Guess you got the wrong hunch last winter or else the Yukon spirit's out-wrestled you," said Alex lightly, as he glanced around at the empty huts. "Say, who's that chap with a face like an Indian's?"

The Shaman glanced at the still impassive face that Alex pointed out.

"Him Nichols, the story teller. He is a great man in the tribe. He keeps the people contented in the long winter's darkness by telling them wondrous tales about when the Northland was always green and the sun shone every day warm, and game was plenty in the land. Not like now when the cold pierces to the marrow and hunger gnaws always at the empty belly."

Alex was not taken much by the Shaman's looks, so leaving him to the tender mercies of Ike, who was undoing his pack, he strolled on through the little village, thrusting his little freckled face in here and there and noting everything with keen eyes.

There was little to be seen, however, and he soon returned to Ike, who was exultant over his bargain, conducted on both sides by many words and protests of being robbed. It ended by Ike becoming possessed of a silver fox skin worth many dollars--while the Shaman, smiling broadly over getting the best of the white man, was now the possessor of a one dollar watch, two plugs of tobacco, a ten cent looking glass, and a pair of green goggles.

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