V HANAFIN CITY

BONANZA

Before making our entry into Mosquito Pass, which was a passage through the cliff, worn probably by water in prehistoric times, we tried to fan a volume of smoke ahead of us, but the effort was useless, as the strong wind poured it back into our faces. Lowering ourselves to bed-rock, we began the advance, the glow from our lanterns falling upon the saltpetre that coated the rocks, and lighting the mazy clouds of insects that were always busy about our faces. The sides of the tunnel, which was some forty feet in length, were smooth and very wet; a few stalactites pointed from the unseen roof; bunches of moss and some pink fungus spread over the stones; around our feet were numbers of big-eyed frogs, bloated and too indifferent to move. The passage curved sharply at the finish, and we were short of breath by the time we saw the light.

The inspector, my partner, Akshelah, and myself stepped out into the sunlight which poured over the seamed rocks. The troopers and Morrison had been left behind to keep guard and to work. The blue sky ahead floated in vapour, but the tunnel brought out among a wilderness of huge rocks, so that we could see nothing of the unknown land.

“Frightful hole!” said Hanafin, looking back. “Anyhow, a big smudge this end will clean out the mosquitos, because the wind will carry the smoke through from end to end.”

“Where in Jerusalem does the wind come from?” said the factor.

The precipice leaned over slightly, as it towered away some hundreds of feet above us.

“This wall is the wind-break of the country,” said the inspector. “All the currents from the north concentrate here, and are forced through the vent-holes, to make a single volume in the canyon.”

We climbed upward for another hundred yards, and then entered a channel, about three-eighths of a mile long, with a circular dip in the centre. From the dip we descended, the channel curving every few yards.

“Columnar basalt,” Hanafin observed, indicating the perpendicular sides. “The dark grain is magnetic iron. Here we have hornblende. When I have found mercury I shall be content.”

“Platinum?” queried MacCaskill, whose knowledge of mining was equal to mine.

“Platinum and gold lie together,” said Hanafin.

Then the channel made its last curve. Below us, unpromising and bare, and pent in on all sides by chains of strong mountains, spread out—

Bonanza!

I noticed a stronger flush upon Hanafin’s face. He was thinking of that somebody at home! The muscles down my partner’s neck swelled out. Two of our small party were excited; two were not. I thought I had never looked upon a more desolate tract of country.

Away to the south-west went a narrow lake of a dirty-grey colour. A stream flowed into this lake, and had shoaled a large part of it near its mouth. Before us a dreary succession of rounded hills rose and fell, all of the same height, shape, and appearance, very thinly covered with scraggy spruce and a little black poplar, with some white birch and pitch-pine. In a very few spots we found a couple of inches of loam under the moss, the sub-soil being invariably gravel, but the surface was more usually composed of rock, with sand intervening.

A wide river cut its curving channel between the dreary hills and its own flats of beach. We could see that this river was very shallow, because long bars of gravel or silt lifted along mid-stream, and the “ripple” betrayed other spots where the wash had just sufficient depth to pass. The stream was reddish in places, probably owing to a rock bottom of granite, where the gravel had been washed away.

“Bad for boats,” said MacCaskill.

“Chiefly gravel,” said Hanafin. “Sand-bars shift, and gravel doesn’t. What would you call the temperature of that water?”

MacCaskill looked puzzled. It was a warm day, well over seventy in the shade. He hazarded:

“Sixty-four.”

“I’ll say fifty-three,” said Hanafin; and when he came to take the temperature with a little spirit thermometer, he found he was only one degree out.

Not a bird was to be sighted, not even a creeping thing upon the ground. It was a land of silence, and desolation, and hidden treasure.

Hanafin pointed out a clear-cut channel, which ran back from the river between the hills, curving south-easterly, and meeting a similar channel, which branched off sharply, and ran back, bending out of sight.

“Will you name the creek to the left?” he said, looking at me; then, seeing my puzzled expression, he added: “Will you give your name to it?”

I suggested that he should have it, but Hanafin replied:

“No. I am more ambitious.”

“Petrie Creek!” exclaimed MacCaskill. “I’ll have the other creek and valley. Golden gates! MacCaskill Gulch! What?”

“Am I to have nothing?” said Akshelah.

“You shall have the river, my girl,” said Hanafin kindly.

The features of the landscape began to stand out as we crossed the hills.

“MacCaskill is a great creek,” said Hanafin, with a trace of excitement; and the old man between us grinned foolishly in the delight of having his name recorded geographically.

“I don’t know the first thing ’bout minin’,” he admitted. “I guess I can wash out dirt, but any galoot can do that. What’s that you’ve picked up?”

“Galena,” said the inspector. “Lead ore.” He began to punish it with his little hammer, and indicated a tiny white seam with the word, “Silver.”

MacCaskill snatched at it.

“Let’s feel. How much is it worth?”

“Possibly two-thirds of one cent,” said Hanafin drily, and the factor flung away the lump in disgust.

While we were walking towards the Akshelah, Hanafin began to reply at length to one of MacCaskill’s questions.

“How to prospect, eh? Well, we have a theory that the deposits of gold are stored in certain unknown places, and are distributed about the main bed of a river by means of the creeks or gulches. When we have selected a creek, we look for the spot where it bends or slants under the side of the rock, because, if there is gold to be found in that particular creek, we shall find it there, though it does not by any means follow that the bend will prove to be the richest spot in the valley. We prospect at the angle merely to ascertain whether there is any gold in the creek or not. The next thing to do is to strike a hole to bed-rock, and that’s where the work begins. It is best done in the winter, when the water is frozen.”

Hanafin broke off, and looked straight ahead with anger upon his face.

We were close to the river, near a shallow part where a bar of gravel made a bridge across three-fourths of the stream. Hanafin turned to Akshelah.

“Do you see those stakes, my girl? There!”

“Yes,” said Akshelah, and when she spoke I saw them, too.

“They mean that we are not the first here. Some miner has been before us, and has staked out the claim below the forks.”

“Then we’ll get to work, and pull up his posts,” suggested MacCaskill.

“So there is at least one experienced miner already in Bonanza,” began Hanafin.

“And his name is Redpath,” I added.

“What an indomitable man!” exclaimed Hanafin. “Directly Petrie had opened the hole, he must have fought his passage through the mosquitos, and here he is, washing out for all he’s worth.”

“There are no men,” said Akshelah.

“Not likely. Directly they saw us come out of the channel they would have escaped into their holes,” said Hanafin. “Well, let’s make a raft.”

We cut down the three largest spruce trees we could find, lopped them, and dragged the logs thus made across the bar to the water. While I cut the notches in these logs, the others went for the smaller trees, and when we had sufficient, our raft was quickly afloat and across the narrow channel, which was nowhere more than four feet in depth, MacCaskill pushing with a white birch pole on one side and I upon the other. We went up to the side of the hill and down to where the creeks forked, until we reached the claim which had just been opened.

“Two men!” cried Akshelah, pointing out the tracks.

Hanafin measured the distance with his eye, saying:

“A gulch claim is two hundred and fifty feet from post to post. Redpath is no amateur. A legal post stands four feet above ground, and is flat on both sides for at least one foot from the top. You see, these posts are perfectly legal.”

“Can’t we pull ’em up?” asked the factor, and when the inspector had replied in the negative, he objected:

“They ain’t legal miners.”

“Can you give me proof that the men do not hold free miners’ certificates?” said Hanafin sharply. “This claim cannot be touched unless the miner who has staked assigns, or allows his ownership to lapse.”

“And by all the gold of Jerusalem, here he comes!” shouted MacCaskill.

Down the hillside Olaffson proceeded unconcernedly, making a straight line for us, and presently we could hear him whistling.

“Mornin’!” he called insolently, when half-a-dozen yards away.

“Well?” said Hanafin, fixing him with his keen glance. “What’s your business?”

“With you, mister. You’re mining recorder of the district, I guess?”

“Yes; until the Department makes an appointment.”

“I want to take out a miner’s certificate, an’ I want to record a claim.”

“You do, eh?” called MacCaskill, moving out menacingly. “And what you’ll get is an everlastin’ poundin’ with a spruce stick—”

“If there’s anything personal between you and this man, wait till I have done with him,” interrupted Hanafin curtly.

The factor turned to me, growling and fuming, and I was hot enough to say:

“We’ve got a lot against him. He burnt my house at Yellow Sands. He tried to settle me at Gull—”

“I’ve not fallen in love with the man,” interposed Hanafin. “Anyhow, the charges you bring are rather outside my jurisdiction. This man is merely an agent. He is repeating the lessons his principal has taught him. Did Redpath ask you to take out a certificate for him as well?” he asked ironically.

The stunted figure held its ground.

“Redpath’s gone.”

“Who’s been working this claim with you?”

“An old Indian.”

“Lift up your foot,” ordered Hanafin.

The Icelander looked startled, but thought it best to obey.

Hanafin called Akshelah.

“Look at that boot. Now will you find me one of his partner’s tracks?”

Akshelah found it immediately upon the hard sand. Hanafin knelt by the impression, took a little tape-measure from his pocket, and measured it every way. When he had finished, he consulted his pocket-book. Then he smiled.

“When Redpath escaped me that night he shot the trooper, I took the precaution of measuring a footprint he left in the mud before mounting. Now I am able to prove that this man is a liar!”

MacCaskill chuckled. The scoundrels had met more than their match.

“You may carry a message from me to your master,” went on Hanafin, and he scribbled upon a leaf of the ever-present pocket-book, and gave the note into the Icelander’s short hand. Then he said: “Give me ten dollars.”

“Yes, mister,” said Olaffson, and his face became almost cheerful as he handed over the money, which he had ready in bills crushed up in his hand. Hanafin began to write again, and he spoke each word aloud as he set it down:

“Dominion of Canada. Free miner’s certificate. Non-transferable. Date. Number One. Valid for one year only. This is to certify that—What’s your first name?”

“Don’t know.”

“Olaffson,” wrote down the inspector. “Where do you come from?”

“Anywhere.”

“Of Hanafin City,” wrote the owner of the name, a smile about his mouth, “has paid me this day the sum of ten dollars, and is entitled to all the rights and privileges of a free miner for one year from the date of this certificate.” He wrote his signature, tore out the leaf, and gave it to the applicant. “Come to my office after noon to-morrow to record your claim. A grant for placer-mining is too lengthy to make out here. The fee will be fifteen dollars.”

“Here it is, mister!” exclaimed the Icelander, holding out his other hand.

“You have learnt your lesson well. I cannot take the money now. Bring it to-morrow to my office in Front Street. And remember,” he added curtly, “this is your claim, and any other man who works upon it without your consent renders himself liable to be arrested.”

As we turned away, MacCaskill began to complain.

“Why did you want to use him so good?” he demanded.

Hanafin answered contentedly: “I think I have checkmated Redpath. Wait until you see how Olaffson’s noble character develops under what I have said to him.” His manner changed, and he went on briskly: “Let’s prospect. If there is gold in the creek, we shall find surface indications beneath yonder rocks. I’ll wash out the first pan for luck.”

He stopped just under the bank, where the creek bent obliquely, and taking MacCaskill’s shovel, rapidly cleared away the surface accumulations, and turned up the coarse gravel and stones, throwing this waste aside with quick, easy motions.

“Now for pay-dirt!”

He lifted a little of the finer gravel into the pan, which MacCaskill held out with nervous hands.

“First we strike our bar,” said Hanafin, as we went down to where the water ran to the river, “then wash out a few panfuls of the gravel or sand, and watch for the colours. By the number we find it becomes easy after a little experience to calculate how much in cold cash the bar will yield daily.”

“This dirt’s awful rich!” gasped MacCaskill, shifting the pan from side to side. “Look at the specks a-glitterin’!”

“Wait until the water goes in. Give me the pan.”

Hanafin took the shallow steel dish, and inserted it into the water with a deft side motion, bringing it out again with the same movement.

A cry of admiration broke from the mercurial factor when a host of sparklets sprang towards the surface of the pan, and settled down slowly through the water, turning over and over.

“Look at that, Rupe!” he shouted, hitting me with his elbow.

“No good,” said Hanafin grimly; and MacCaskill’s joy departed from him.

“What! Ain’t that gold?” he asked angrily.

“Flake gold. There’s less than one cent’s worth there. Those specks are flatter than gold-leaf. If there is pay-dirt, it will be among the black sand at the bottom.”

The inspector continued to whirl the pan, and then he inclined it, still shaking, with a more gentle and rotary movement, and we saw the gravel washed out into the water of the creek, until nothing was left except a deposit of black sand, which we learnt was pulverised magnetic iron ore.

“Fine or coarse, or none at all?” the inspector muttered, bending low.

“I suppose fine dirt ain’t no pay?” suggested MacCaskill morosely.

“Yes, but it involves slow and laborious methods,” replied the man who shook the pan. “We should have to introduce a little mercury to form an amalgam with the gold. This amalgam we should then heat on a shovel, until the mercury had been given off in vapour, and the gold would remain in a lump. Look there!”

He had washed away nearly all the black sand, and now pointed to some tiny specks nestling by themselves in a corner of the pan.

“Coarse—ten cents at the least.”

“Golden gates!” exclaimed MacCaskill. “You call this gold-minin’! I wouldn’t a-troubled to have picked out that little bit of stuff.”

“Ten cents to one pan is excellent pay. Far less than that gives a grub stake,” said Hanafin. Then he looked up at MacCaskill’s dissatisfied countenance. “Nobody who has not been a miner understands anything about this business. Whenever the discovery cry gets heard, thousands come racing out of the world full of the idea that they are just going to stake, record, dig and pick out lumps of solid gold, which they will exchange for cash, and return to the world with a fortune. This is the reality. This is a rich country, boys, which is going to make millionaires. Now I’ll show you where to stake.”

We followed Hanafin to where the creeks joined, and below this junction, going in the direction of the running water, between Olaffson’s claim and the river, he stopped.

“The gold from both creeks should be held here. Number One claim may be the richest, as Redpath guessed. Cut your stakes, and I’ll measure out.”

When we had staked out Number Three, which was the factor’s, I went back to my own. On the flatted side of the post I saw that Hanafin had fastened a piece of paper, and I found to my great delight that I was able to read what he had written. The paper bore the name of my claim, “Number Two MacCaskill,” its length, the date, and my name in full.

But “Number Four MacCaskill” was being staked, and Hanafin smiled mysteriously as he affixed its description on the flat side of the near post.

“Mr. John Smith!” exclaimed MacCaskill, after reading. “Who in Jerusalem’s he?”

Hanafin’s mysterious smile continued.

“He’s something by necessity out of red-tape,” he said. “It’s not for me to break the letter of the law, but a man must help himself when he has nothing beyond his pay. I know, anyhow, that you won’t give ‘Mr. Smith’ away.”

“Good luck to ye!” exclaimed the factor heartily, and I endorsed his cry.

We ferried back across the Akshelah, climbed up the channel, and so back towards Mosquito Hole.

MacCaskill had one question to ask:

“What might that message have been you sent to Redpath?”

Hanafin replied:

“The man has gone too far. I am after him for the shooting of one of my own boys, and he stakes out a claim under my nose, and sends his partner to me to record for him. The message I sent was that I had given instructions for him to be shot on sight.”

And MacCaskill chuckled delightedly.

We reached the brow, where we could take our last look over Bonanza, and here Akshelah called out. Two pigmy figures were to be seen toiling and sweating upon “Number One MacCaskill.”

Hanafin broke the silence.

“One can’t help admiring sheer perseverance. We will leave him to his treasure-hunting now, but to-morrow we shall all be down there, and then—exit Redpath.”

We descended the canyon, but by the time we regained the defile, old friends were awaiting us—Lennie, Pete, Dave, and company, all with great packs containing supplies they had taken from the Carillon. They greeted us loudly, and not without a certain amount of chaff.

“So you have got here, you crowd!” said MacCaskill, very morosely.

“And we ain’t here for our health either,” piped Lennie joyously. “The ole boat can lie on the mud while I stake out me claim. I ain’t cheatin’ anyone. See? She belongs to rich companies, an’ ye can’t cheat companies.”

“Say! ain’t you ben hustlin’?” exclaimed Pete admiringly. “Run a big buildin’ up in jest no time, ye have!”

The soldiers had done their work quickly, and the log-house looked well upon the long green slope.

Suddenly Hanafin stepped out of the aperture left for the door, and fastened a notice outside.

We all gathered round to read:—

“Temporary Barracks and City Hall, Hanafin City.

Inspector, Henry P. Hanafin, (North-West Mounted Police), Temporary Acting Gold Commissioner and Mining Recorder.”

The men took off their hats and gave three wild cheers for Hanafin City.

We had guarded our secret well, MacCaskill and I; and yet, despite our care, the population on the day of our arrival had numbered ten. Already it was eighteen.

DISQUALIFIED

It was noon, and there was not a sound in the city. Front Street consisted as yet of the log-built town hall, our own unfinished residence, and a tent brought from the mud-held ship. The population had gone through the tunnel into Bonanza, with the exception of Hanafin, Akshelah, and myself. MacCaskill had gone early to his claim, having the night before improvised, with Norman’s aid, a marvellous rocker. Even the uncouth Morrison had gone after the dirt. He had passed me earlier, and I had asked him whether he felt lonely now that justice had overtaken his late associate, only to receive the reply, which I might have looked for:

“Sure! Ye see, he owed me fourteen dollars.”

I had arranged with my partner to stay and complete our shanty, so that we might have shelter in case of bad weather. I had worked all morning, and had finished everything, except the thatching, when Hanafin came up and handed me the first official documents I had ever received, one being my free miner’s certificate, the other a grant for placer-mining over “Number Two MacCaskill.”

“How old is mademoiselle?” asked the handsome soldier, turning to the girl with a smile, which, from some cause known only to herself, did not appear to fascinate her.

I happened to know, and replied for her that she would be eighteen at the beginning of winter.

“Ah, that’s a pity!” said Hanafin sincerely. “Eighteen is the age-limit. Had you been a few months older I could have given you a certificate also.”

“I do not want the yellow dirt,” said Akshelah, quite angrily.

The inspector laughed, and muttering “Happy girl!” walked back to what he called his office.

“Tell me what is written there,” said Akshelah, eyeing the sheet suspiciously.

I was not sure whether I could read it, but I tried, and made a wonderful success. Slowly, and with not a little blundering over the harder words, I made out the following:—

“No. 2. Department of the Interior.

“Agency, Hanafin City, North-west Athabasca (?), July, 1895.

“In consideration of the payment of the prescribed fee by Rupert Petrie, of Yellow Sands, the Minister of the Interior hereby grants to the said Rupert Petrie, for the term of one year from the date hereof, the exclusive right of entry upon the claim registered as Number Two, MacCaskill Gulch, Akshelah River district, in the country called Bonanza, for the miner-like working thereof, and the construction of a residence thereon; and the exclusive right to all the proceeds realised therefrom, upon which, however, the royalty prescribed by the regulations (to be approved of by Order in Council) shall be paid.

“The said Rupert Petrie shall be entitled to the use of so much of the water naturally flowing through or past his claim, and not already lawfully appropriated, as shall be necessary for the due working thereof, and to drain his claim free of charge.

“This grant does not convey to the said Rupert Petrie any right of ownership in the soil covered by the said claim; and the said grant shall lapse and be forfeited unless the claim is continuously, and in good faith, worked by the said Rupert Petrie or his associates.

“Henry P. Hanafin, “(Acting) Mining Recorder.”

Akshelah sighed.

“And you are going to look for the yellow dirt, too?” she said lingeringly.

“That’s what I came away for,” I answered her lightly.

“He made you come.” She meant MacCaskill. “You did not want to come away. You were happy beside the bright waters, and I was very happy. We caught the fish, and we hunted.” Her eyes were full of tears. “You have forgotten all that, and you never laugh with me now.”

She was partly right. I was growing worldly-wise, but I did not forget. I could not forget the walks with Akshelah over the rolling grass-hills, among the tall sulphur-lilies, and those idle paddles on my own little laughing water. I did not forget the hunting expeditions, and those songs and stories we had sung and told to each other, and those foolish kisses under the sunshine, and sometimes under the moon. How could I forget those happiest days? All had been so peaceful in that life which seemed so far away, until Redpath, the destroyer of trust, had come to link my quiet world with his, and all since then had been fighting and deceit. Had not this place and its gold ruined my father?

The voice of Akshelah was in my ears.

“We shall stay here, and Pepooa will creep up around us, and Mispoor will fall and hold us. The long night will come, and the ghost-lights will whisper always in the sky.” She shuddered. “And there will be beast-men! I see them coming, the men who will drink hot waters, and fight one another through the long night, and they will take me away from you, and I shall die—far from my own people and my own land. And you will learn the ways of that world; you—you will drink hot waters, and fight too.”

Had my poor maid gone on in that strain, I think she would have prevailed upon me to have taken her home; but the figure of Hanafin stood out, and I heard his voice shouting to me.

“Be brave, little squirrel,” I said, taking her two small hands. Then I hurriedly kissed her wet eyes, and obeyed the inspector’s call.

Olaffson was inside the office, sitting upon a log, his white face malevolent and hungry-looking.

Hanafin turned to me, and spoke at once.

“You told me, Petrie, that the late Leblanc upon a certain occasion accused this man of being the murderer of old Fagge. I want this matter cleared up finally, both for your sake and for the sake of the old man’s connections south. I understand you have accused the late Mr. Petrie of being the murderer,” he went on, addressing the Icelander, who broke in at once:

“That was Redpath. He thought Petrie done it, I guess. I know now Petrie didn’t, but I never thought ’twas Leblanc till t’other night. He ’cused me, ’cause he hated me bad. I took a knife to him one time, but he druve me to it.” He paused, and wiped his mouth. “Now, Jim Morrison mighter told ye quite a bit. They was pards, an’ Gedeon was man to ole Fagge for quite a while. The ole chap was moony.” The Icelander’s voice grew louder with confidence. “Ole man struck a wonderful rich find right here. Right here! A reg’lar hole of dirt, coarse dirt, an’ nothing but dirt.”

Perspiration started out upon his slimy forehead, and he paused for breath, blinking at us.

“Get along,” said Hanafin quietly.

“Leblanc knew of it, an’ no one ’cept him an’ ole man did know of it. So Leblanc got to work, an’ fixed ole man late one night when he was asleep, an’ when Petrie was asleep. Ye see, he reckoned to come back one time, an’ open up that hole. P’r’aps he never split to Jim. P’r’aps he was hidin’ it from Jim.”

“Stay a bit,” said Hanafin. “How did you find out this?”

The Icelander grinned.

“The night he an’ Jim got here, I come around to try an’ level up things wi’ Leblanc. Jim had lef’ him, an’ gone to Mister Petrie’s camp. Gedeon was a-sittin’ by a rock, sorter stupid wi’ hunger, an’ a-talkin’ to hisself, so pleased to have got here. I set beside that rock, an’ listened to his talk. That’s how I found out. I might a-been his priest, an’ him a-confessin’.”

“You tried to kill him,” I interjected.

“He shifted hisself by accident, an’ I scarce touched him. He was a dirty murderer, anyhow,” said the little wretch, unabashed.

“You told this to Redpath?” questioned Hanafin.

“Had to,” admitted Olaffson, though he had only yesterday sworn that Redpath was not in the district. “Ye see, Gedeon never let out jest where the place was, an’ I don’t know the first thing ’bout prospectin’. It was somewhere near where them two creeks jined, an’ I told Redpath, an’ he staked out that claim at the forks.” He spat a chew upon the ground, and got up, smacking his two stunted hands together. “An’ now I’ve beat him. Gol’ darn it, but I’ve beat him every way!”

“Now we understand why Redpath stops here,” said Hanafin to me. “Now we understand the reason for that haste of his.” He added still more slowly: “Now you understand how I have checkmated Redpath.”

“How?” I exclaimed.

“Listen,” said Hanafin.

The Icelander was raving in his triumph.

“What’s his price, inspector? What’s the Government figure for Redpath? I’ve got him for sale. Ye shall have him. I’ve got no more use for him. I’ll sell him, body an’ blood an’ bones.”

The little miscreant shivered with his excitement.

“How about the claim?” suggested Hanafin.

“It’s mine,” slobbered the Icelander. “Redpath paid the ten dollars for the certificate an’ the fifteen for the grant. Redpath found the claim, an’ measured it, an’ staked it out, an’ showed me what to do. But I’m certified owner, an’ he ain’t allowed on that claim. The claim is registered to me; Redpath can’t come upon it. He don’t dare look upon it. He don’t dare come outer his dug-out, ’cause he’ll be shot on sight, ’cause he’s wanted for murder. You’re right, mister; you’re right all the way. You’ve beat him; an’ the claim’s mine, an’ all the gold in it’s mine, an’ I’m a-goin’ to dig for it right now. Jest gimme me claim, mister; jest gimme the grant what you promised me. Number One MacCaskill. That’s the hole. Here’s the fifteen dollars—Redpath’s fifteen—mister inspector. You’ve beat Redpath, an’ I’ll give him away to ye, ’cause he’s no more bit of use. I’ll sell him to ye cheap, body an’ clothes an’ big talk.”

Breathless and panting, he pushed the money out towards the inspector, but Hanafin did not take it.

Hanafin had beaten Redpath. That was true; but was it true that Olaffson had beaten the inspector? Was the Icelander even then playing his part, and speaking the words taught him by Redpath? My eyes were upon Hanafin, and it appeared to me that a sense of failure was set upon his face. Presently he stirred.

“Carey!” he called.

After a pause of intense silence, broken by Olaffson’s excited breathing, he called again:

“Carey!”

“Here, sir!”

The soldier-policeman appeared at the door, struggling into his tight jacket.

“This man, Carey, this Icelander—his name is Olaffson—has, I find, an exceedingly bad record, and I have just discovered that he is guilty, upon his own confession, of attempting murder within the city limits. Take him a mile along the defile, set him south, and instruct him to continue in that direction. If you find him about the city or Bonanza after to-day, arrest him at once, and bring him before me. If he should, on any such occasion, attempt to escape, you may shoot.”

“Yes, sir.”

The next minute Hanafin was speaking to me in his usual pleasant manner.

“You must abandon your present claim, Petrie, and take Number One MacCaskill, which is at present vacant. I will alter the description in your grant, if you will give it me. No! It is not allowed to argue with a superior officer. There’s a miner’s motto, which you will do well to remember, and it is this, ‘Never be satisfied with a grub stake.’”

THAT PRIEST AGAIN!

On a certain evening, about eleven o’clock, when the sun was setting reluctantly over the western end of the defile, a lone stranger came into the line of vision of MacCaskill and myself, an elderly man, thin and grizzled, sweating under the weight of a heavy pack. Once he stopped to shade his eyes and peer about, then, having probably caught sight of the log buildings, he tramped on and approached us as we sat outside our shanty. MacCaskill had been grumbling, because he had not yet grown accustomed to ten-cent pans.

“I want to pick it up in lumps,” he growled, pinching his little buckskin bag, which was rapidly becoming fat. Then he, too, caught sight of the stranger, who came up to us, as though to greet old friends. “See there!” exclaimed the factor hoarsely, “here comes another! Another damned sooner!”

The elderly man let down his pack, and nodded very gravely.

“How are ye?” he said, in a high nasal voice, proceeding to mop his face with a dirty shirt-sleeve. “How do I come, eh? One of the first, I guess. No big crowd ben before me, eh?” he said, mouthing each word slowly. “What’s yer population, pard?”

MacCaskill enlightened him. The grizzled man appeared to be incapable of smiling, but he gave me the impression of being satisfied.

“Well,” he said, “I’m always right on time. That’s me, pards! If I don’t come in wi’ the first, I don’t come in at all. I’m Moccasin Bill, pards. That’s me. What are ye callin’ the place?”

“Hanafin City,” I replied, as MacCaskill was relighting his stone pipe.

“Well, an’ a vurry nice city,” said Moccasin Bill, allowing his eye to roam along the defile, where the shadows were beginning to gather. “Pards, I’ll jest set right down, an’ get some supper acrost me. Ain’t got a saloon here yet?”

“We’re only startin’,” admitted MacCaskill.

The old man opened his pack, and produced some fat bacon and a fry-pan.

“Tell ye,” he said profoundly, “the hull world’ll be on a buzz be now, I guess. The Noo York papers, an’ the London papers, an’ the whole durned rest uv ’em will be jest runnin’ over ’bout this place.”

MacCaskill growled out his anger.

“How the Jerusalem have they come to know?”

Grizzled Bill’s bacon began to hiss in the pan. He turned his solemn face towards us.

“Ye ain’t reg’lars. No offence, pards. Can see ye ain’t. What’s the use o’ tryin’ to explain things what can’t be explained?”

“If it hadn’t been for me, this place wouldn’t ever a-been discovered,” boasted MacCaskill falsely.

The new-comer was as cool as ice.

“Listen-a-here.” He turned his bacon, and sniffed hungrily at the greasy steam. “I ben in South Africa a-minin’, an’ I ben in West Australy a-minin’, and I ben in Californy a-minin’.” He paused, then added: “Now I come here a-minin’. I’m a lone hand. I allus have been a lone hand.”

“Ain’t ye got any relations?” asked MacCaskill, when the miner stopped.

“The world’s a-crawlin’ wi’ ’em. I was a-goin’ to say this, pard, jest this: I’ve packed along one time wi’ me ole ox, or me ole hoss, an’ maybe I’d see a pesky vulture a-comin’ away off, just like a bug en the sky, an’ then another, an’ then another, an’ lots uv ’em, all like bits o’ bugs. They’d be coming my way, see, an’ I’d say to meself, ‘There’s a funeral.’ Me ole ox, or me ole hoss, would pack along right as right, good an’ strong; but the bugs would get bigger, an’ turn inter big bugs, and the big bugs would get bigger yet, and black, an’ they’d come around, a-flappin’, an’ a-callin’, an’ a-rubber-neckin’ wi’ their ugly bare necks. Then down would go me ole ox or me ole hoss, wi’ staggers, or fly, or pissen-grass, an’ then the vultures would sorter chuckle, jest like, ‘Told ye there was a blow-out a-comin’ to us.’ An’ down they’d come, an’ I’d know that the ole pack-ox or the ole pack-hoss would have to go. I can’t tell ye how them vultures knew, ’cause I wouldn’t know meself, that the ole beast was a-goin’ to break. But I says this to ye, that if a pesky bird can do that, a worldful o’ pesky men oughter be able to do as good.

“If a man gets to find gold, he ain’t a-goin’ to keep it to hisself. No, sir! ’Tain’t in nature. Other men are a-comin’ up to have their bite. They smells it en the air. They feels it en their innards. The wind whistles uv it, an’ off they start, a-sniffin’ to find the place, like half a million dogs. They’ll be comin’ in be scores every day. I passed quite a few on me way. They’re comin’ in be boat mostly, an’ I come in be land. Me ole pack-hoss played out yesterday, an’ I come on wi’ me own trotters. Moccasin Bill ain’t never a-goin’ to get left. Not him!”

The professional miner spoke deliberately, pausing often to find the word he wanted. When he had done this lengthy speech he started upon his supper. After the arrival of Moccasin Bill an endless stream of miners, and those who live upon them, came in; one week of such an inrush caused the very characteristics of the place to change. Log buildings sprang up with inconceivable rapidity along both sides of the defile, making Hanafin City a fact as well as a name. A large store became under course of erection, and across its unfinished front suspended a huge canvas, bearing the inscription, “The Bonanza Trading and Supply Association.” Bales and boxes of such supplies were packed by oxen over the Bad Lands from Lake Peace. The men of the Association drew the Carillon off the mud-flats, patched her up, and steamed her away south, to report how they had discovered her, wrecked and deserted. Lennie and his men kept their own counsel. Two saloons were erected. One roulette table had already arrived, and was working day and night. A branch of one of the leading banks had been established. A detachment of police arrived, and a Government representative to assume the functions of Gold Commissioner.

The Government were hard at work defining that portion of the north-west territory which we had named Bonanza, and great power was given to Inspector Hanafin to adjust the mining law, and to administer the same. He was instructed to meet any difficulties that might occur by the exercise of his own judgment, without waiting for authority. He assumed the local rank of Commissioner, and later a post from Ottawa awarded this rank to him absolutely. A mail service into the interior was inaugurated, police stations were established, and patrols traversed the country. Quite at the end of August the flag of the Hudson Bay Company went up, and Fort Hanafin became marked upon the map. By that date a theatre had been built upon Front Street, and performances, known as variety shows, were given nightly. After supper the city was alive with lights and singing, with drunkenness and gambling, and there were women in the place.

Mosquito Pass had been blown up, and a great rent appeared in the cliffs where the miners passed to and from Bonanza. The spruce bluff had vanished, the trees having been cut down for use, and the graves of Joe Fagge and Leblanc, his murderer, had been trampled out. The opening of the cliffs made the canyon far less of a blow-pipe, and I missed the wild music, which only became sonorous in times of storm. Along both sides of the Akshelah numbers of tents showed, with heaps of dump, scores of rockers and sluice boxes, shining picks and spades, and clumsy barrows, and all around figures of men, running, stooping, shovelling, washing out, apparently never at rest. “MacCaskill” and “Petrie” creeks were staked out for miles back. River claims and hill claims were also staked out, every alternate ten claims being reserved for the Government. A royalty of ten per cent. was levied by the Gold Commissioner, and collected, in spite of loud grumblings from the miners, on the gross output of every claim.

Number One MacCaskill was my claim; Number Two was occupied by the “Athabasca Mining Syndicate, Limited”; Number Three was leased to MacCaskill; Numbers Four to Eight to Lennie and Company; Number Nine to Moccasin Bill; Number Ten to one Jake Peterssen; while Numbers Eleven to Twenty, both inclusive, belonged to the Dominion Government.

It will be remembered that Hanafin had staked out a claim under the style of Mr. John Smith, because, owing to something he called “red-tape,” his position debarred him from working as a miner, or holding a claim. When he had made me shift my stakes, after the ejection of Olaffson, he had himself come into Number Two, and had recorded this claim to the Athabasca Mining Syndicate, which was himself. He hired two Swedes, who had come in, like so many, without supplies, to work the claim for him as agent of the company, at a remuneration of five dollars and food per day. When these assistants had made sufficient money they started mining on their own account, and then Hanafin simply hired two more improvident hands, and thus the work of the Company proceeded.

Claim Number Ten was worked by my former opponent, Jake Peterssen. The tidings of Bonanza had quickly reached Gull in that inexplicable manner which Hanafin named “wireless telegraphy,” and many of the men threw up their work upon the lumber and “came in,” Peterssen among them. He told me that I had spoilt his right arm, and that he was no good for lumbering; but when he gripped my hand in greeting, I felt glad that I should never be called upon to stand up to him again.

By the end of August all these things had come to pass, and still people were flocking in every day, despite the fact that the night began to threaten, and that winter was near. To show how the camp was governed by Hanafin, I narrate the following incident:—

A gang of bullies arrived, with no intention of mining or doing honest trade, but simply bent upon ruling the place by fear, and living by means of terrorism. These foul-mouthed beast-men, as Akshelah rightly named them, spent most of the day in the principal saloon, drinking at the expense of others, and when satisfied for the time, came out upon Front Street, and, having captured a certain honest little character, Jimmy Carruthers by name, proceeded to haze him in front of the saloon. The little man, who had come into town to purchase supplies, took the treatment good-naturedly at first, but presently one of the bullies ordered him to dance for their edification. When he did not come up to expectation, the brute poked at his ribs with a pointed stake, thereby reaching the limits of Jim’s endurance. He refused to gratify his tormentors further, thereupon the chief bully pulled out a revolver, and shouted:

“Dance, ye little cuss, or I’ll make a hole through ye!”

Hanafin proceeded up the street with Norman at his side, but the disturbers of the city’s peace did not see them. I noticed that the Commissioner quickened his walk. Jimmy Carruthers was blenching from the revolver, because it was obvious that the half-drunken bully was no respecter of life, and was calling out for mercy, when Hanafin pushed him aside.

“Norman!” exclaimed the Commissioner, “arrest that man.”

The bully went dark with anger.

“Arrest me, ye skunk! Arrest me—”

There he stopped, threw up his arms, coughed once, choked, and fell forward. An angry little curl of smoke floated away down Front Street, to the accompaniment of a few sharp echoes among the cliffs. The bully had drawn upon Norman, and the Commissioner shot him dead at once.

Then he rounded upon the others, who snarled menacingly, and advanced in a half-circle, brave because of their numbers. The Commissioner whipped out his long sword, and the bullies stopped, more, I fancy, because of the cold light in Hanafin’s eyes than for fear of the cold steel.

“Put up your hands,” said the Commissioner quietly, “else I’ll have the crowd of you hanged before supper. This mining camp is in British territory, I’ll make you remember, and I am the representative of the Queen.”

He removed his little forage cap, and Norman followed the example of his chief. The bullies weakened, and obeyed with surly oaths. Norman was ordered to search each one, and the majority were found to be carrying secret weapons. These were marched off to the barracks, and sentenced to one month’s imprisonment. That same evening a proclamation was issued and posted about the city.

After the date of that proclamation, any man found carrying hidden weapons, either in the town or about Bonanza, would be fined one hundred and fifty dollars for a first offence. For a second, he would be deprived of all miner’s privileges, and be dismissed from the district. The miners read, and realised what sort of a representative they had over them.

Hanafin City became the capital of the most law-abiding mining country that the world has ever seen; so said the old miners. Yet when I went to visit the man who had done this, I found him soaking his hands in hot water, to prevent his fingers from losing their delicate shape and whiteness. I am never likely to know whether Hanafin, who was a combination of cleverness, coolness, courage, and conceit, was a typical Englishman, but I like to think he was. I would have done anything for that man.

“Commissioner,” I said, on the night following the affair with the bullies, but he interrupted me—“My name is Hanafin.” This was merely one out of many instances in which he tried to set me at my ease.

“You called yourself to-day the representative of the Queen,” I went on. “An old man, who found me when Redpath put me away to starve off the coast of Gull, sang ‘God save the Queen.’ Who is this Queen?”

I thought Hanafin was about to laugh, then he went grave.

“Is it possible?” I heard him murmur, before he said profoundly, “Boy! you have been buried!”

“I have lived at Yellow Sands since my babyhood,” I said.

“Of course,” said he, “you could not know. But you are an Englishman, and that makes your question sound more than ever strange to my English ears. Well, listen! I’ll tell you something about our Empress and her Empire.”

He proceeded to give me a startling description of the world, of its rulers, its politics, and its universal unrest—a description which caused my mind to expand, if not to respond, and my brain whirled when I walked home.

MacCaskill I mention to say that we were partners only in name—that is to say, we still lived together, Akshelah cooking for us and minding us; but that was all. We were separated in work and in recreation. It was my pleasure to watch the life and activity of the ever-growing population of the city, but always at a distance. MacCaskill loved life, too, but he liked to be a part of it, and it was the life of the saloon and the gambling-den that he loved. The factor ran against congenial spirits, who had knocked about the world; they suited him better than the ignorant youth who, though born inside the world, had been bred and brought up upon the outside.

We came to the beginning of September, when the population of Hanafin City, the wind-crossed defile of the former month, was over five thousand souls. One night I was teaching Akshelah to read, and proud indeed to find myself in the position of schoolmaster, when a message summoned me to the chief.

Hanafin was pushing himself to and fro in a rocking-chair beside his table—luxuries which had just reached the city—and Carey stood beside him. I imagined that something must have gone wrong, for the Commissioner’s face was angry.

“Petrie,” he said at once, “have you heard anything of Redpath?”

When I had replied in the negative Hanafin mused for a few moments, watching me, then said:

“Father Lacombe has arrived in the city.”

I gave a great start, and Hanafin went on:

“Father Lacombe is a noted missionary. He could hardly find the leisure to come here, and if he had been thinking of doing so I should have heard. It certainly is possible for him to have come from Three Points by river and portage, then by lake, and so over the flats; but in that case the patrol would have seen him and reported. Repeat your statement, Carey.”

“It is said that the priest was paddled along the shore by Indians, who also packed his things on from the beach. No one saw him on the route. He arrived yesterday, and has a tent in West Hanafin; but he has not been seen to-day. I am told he is unwell after his journey. The Indians declare he is Father Lacombe, of Three Points—”

“Their word goes for nothing. Because I have not succeeded in finding Redpath’s hiding-place, he has come out into the open again, and defies me. I’ll teach him his last lesson to-night.”

Hanafin pulled his fur-lined cloak about him with angry movements, and we three left headquarters, and made towards the western annex.

“Redpath would never have taken that name,” I began, when Hanafin, who was decidedly out of temper, took me up sharply.

“If it had been Father Jones, or Father Anybody, I might have suspected nothing. The blind is obvious. Redpath knows he has me to deal with. He thinks he will be safe under the name which I must regard as the most unlikely for him to select.”

We came up and saw the solitary tent, glowing with a light inside. Outside an Indian was chopping wood. We were quite away from the noise and rush of Front Street. A big shadow was moving inside the tent. It stopped, and suddenly settled down to half its former height. The Commissioner went to the Indian, and summarily dismissed him on some mission. Then he and I approached the tent-flap, and Carey followed. I whispered:

“Shall we cut the ropes?”

“I mark my game before I shoot,” said Hanafin, and he put out his hand to the tent-flap.

Then I noticed that this was one of the tents made with a window—that is, a detachable piece of canvas about five feet above ground, which could be lowered to enable the occupant to see out; the hole was covered with a piece of fine gauze to keep out the mosquitos. I drew my companion’s attention to this, and we went up silently, and together looked into the tent.

The priest was upon his knees, his face buried in his hands.

Hanafin’s face seemed to tighten, and his lips twitched.

A lamp hung from the tent-pole. The priest knelt before a box, upon which were arranged a few books, and in the centre a curious device of wood and ivory.

“What is that?” I whispered.

“They call it a crucifix,” came the answer, which told me nothing.

We expected to see the face of a villain, the loose face and flabby skin, the cold eyes and the smooth smile of Redpath. It was a firm face that we saw when the head came up and the hands lowered and clasped each other, a kind, even a noble face; and the eyes, when they opened, were deep and grey. It was a face that I could have gazed at for a long time, because I had seen nothing like it before, but Hanafin was pulling my arm.

“Come away,” he whispered hoarsely.

I watched lingeringly, and the priest, raising his right hand, touched his wide forehead, and then traced his long fingers down and across his chest. My untaught mind awoke and responded to the act, and began to seek in its ignorance for more knowledge.

The strong-minded Commissioner was positively trembling.

“Heaven be thanked that I did not cut those ropes! My reputation would have gone for ever.”

“Who is he?” I said, the glamour of the scene impressed upon my struggling mind.

“He is the Reverend Gabriel Lacombe, who, I believe, could be a cardinal if he chose, but who prefers to serve in the solitude reclaiming Indians. The great Lacombe, who has refused an archbishopric! And I was going to jump upon him for a murderer! Carey, not a word, if you desire mentioning!”