Connie Morgan with the Mounted/Chapter 5
CHAPTER V
WHAT HAPPENED ON CAMERON CREEK
Connie Morgan laid aside his year-old magazine and stepped to the door of the little police cabin, perched upon the verge of a high bank of the Yukon. At the foot of the steep descent Sergeant McKeever stood in a canoe and finished buttoning the canvas cover over the deck of the light speed boat that lay anchored a few feet out from the bank. Then, still standing, he paddled ashore and drew the canoe from the water.
Connie thrust a pan of baking-powder biscuits into the oven of the sheet-iron stove, drew the coffee-pot forward, poked some bull-pine sticks into the stove, and sliced bacon into a blackened frying-pan.
A few moments later, through a blue haze of bacon-smoke, he greeted the officer who stooped to enter the low door:
"Hi, Dan! Just in time for supper—didn't expect you till midnight."
The Sergeant grinned: "Can't make me mad with supper—I'm hungry as a grizzly—Come clean through from Dawson without a stop."
"What's your hurry? But, come on, let's eat first. You can tell me the news later."
The two ate heartily, and in silence. For, with the men of the open places, a meal is a matter of serious business, rather than a social event. Also, in silence, they washed the dishes, and sought the log that answered the double purpose of door-step and chopping-block. The scene before them was one of infinite grandeur. The long-gathering twilight of an early summer night enfolded the wide valley of the Yukon in a mantle of exquisite softness. Beyond, jumbled and blurred in the indistinct half-light, rose the dark, timbered foot-hills of the great white range to the eastward. And still beyond, rearing its naked crags and gilded pinnacles above the shadowed foreground, rose the great range itself—all bright and flashing many-coloured lights—like the turrets, and spires, and battlements of a wonderful city of gold. For the rays of the low-swung sun, withdrawn a full two hours from the valley, shone directly upon the ice-peaks, so that fairyland seemed to leap in full glory from the black pall of night. For many minutes the two officers of the Mounted gazed, speechless, upon the sight.
"Oh, isn't it wonderful!" breathed the boy.
"Yes, son, it's wonderful," answered Sergeant McKeever, softly. "Us—up here in the North—we ain't got many of what you might call luxuries, but, son—" he pointed toward the gilded mountains, "seems like God more'n makes it up to us, with sights like that, an' the aurora, an'"
"I love it all!" exclaimed the boy, "it's so big, and free, and grand! I love even the cold, and the white snow-levels, and the roaring rapids, and the grinding ice! Why, I wouldn't live back there," his hand swept the southern horizon, "for all the money in the world!"
"No, son—you won't go back," said McKeever, gravely, "the big North has got you. You're a sure enough tillicum—an' you can't go back!" The Sergeant paused, and his next observation drew the boy's mind from the beauties of nature to the affairs of the world of men.
"I seen Bill Cosgrieve in Dawson."
Now, Bill Cosgrieve was known as "The King of Cameron Creek," and Cameron Creek enjoyed an unsavoury reputation among the law-abiding—and, the more unsavoury became its reputation, the more Cameron Creek enjoyed it.
In the days of the great gold rush, the camp of Two Prong flourished on the site of old Jimmie Ferguson's rich placer strike. But the sand was only shallow drift, the placers ran out, and, as a disgruntled miner told it: "Two Prong jes' na'ch'ly flourished itself plumb down to bed rock, an' blow'd up." One by one, the cabins were deserted as their owners sought other fields, or followed fresh stampedes. Freight-loaded poling-boats, and light bark canoes no longer ascended the creek, and in the winter, snow lay deep over its valley. But Cameron Creek was not entirely deserted. Two or three of the rotting cabins of Two Prong were still tenanted, and in the long, log room that had once been the N. C. Company's store, old Jap Kinkade kept a few shelves of canned goods, and a dejected assortment of mittens, tobacco, and clothing. And, above Two Prong, strung along the whole length of its hundred miles of mountain windings, were the isolated cabins of trappers, and old-time prospectors who may be found in the hills about the head- waters of any placer creek, hammering and chipping their lives away in vain search for that will-o'-the-wisp of the prospector's dreams—the mother lode.
Possibly twenty white men, all told, and a band of half-starved Indians, who dwelt near the head waters, comprised the population of Cameron Creek—and these were they who enjoyed, and encouraged the disrepute into which the valley had fallen. For the trappers of fur desire solitude and bear no love for the miners, whose noisy camps, detonating blasts, and creaking windlasses drive the fur-bearers to the fastness of far hills. The lean, distant-eyed prospectors for the mother lode desire solitude. And the Indians upon the head-waters—well, nobody cares what they desire. So Cameron Creek enjoyed her unsavoury repute.
"What was Bill Cosgrieve doing in Dawson?" asked Connie, as the big Sergeant showed no disposition to further enlighten him.
"Spendin' money."
"Wonder if he's made a strike. Guess not, though. When Cameron Creek blew up, she blew right."
"I said money," affirmed the Sergeant, "not dust."
The boy's shoulders straightened with interest. "You mean—treaty money?"
The older man shrugged: "It was paid on the first. Guess you an' me'd better jest slip up Cameron Creek an' have a look at them there aborigines."
Although Constable Morgan and Sergeant McKeever left the speed boat anchored in front of the little police cabin, crossed the river, and slipped down the ten intervening miles to the mouth of Cameron Creek in a canoe, under cover of darkness, they knew before they had proceeded five miles up the creek, that word of their coming had preceded them. A mile in advance, a couple of eagles rose in swift spirals, and numerous flocks of startled ducks whizzed past in their flight to the big river. Also, the path of a short portage across the neck of a horseshoe bend was wet, where a canoe had been dragged from the water, and the scar of its relaunching was plain in the clay of the upriver end.
"Moccasin telegraph!" growled McKeever, "can you beat it?"
Twelve miles above the mouth, where the deserted cabins of Two Prong straggled along the bank, the officers landed and banged upon the door of old Jap Kinkade's store.
"Constable Morgan and Sergeant McKeever knew that word of their coming had preceded them."
"What's wanted?" queried a petulant voice. "Can't ye give a man time to git up?"
"Oh, can that rot, Jap! I'm hep to you—I'm McKeever." The door opened and the ill-kempt old man blinked sleepily.
"Somethin' ye wanted?" he inquired, sourly.
"Breakfast," answered McKeever.
"This ain't no hotel. This here's a store," growled the proprietor.
"Never you mind about that. You cook breakfast—an' do it pronto. An' while you're doin' it you can tell me who's be'n here this mornin'."
"Wha' d' ye mean—be'n here? Ain't I jes' got up? Youse is the firs' ones I've see. 'Pears to me ye're almighty early, too. What's up?" The little eyes of the old man leered wickedly, as he threw some bacon into a frying-pan.
"You're lyin', Jap. Some day I'm goin' to have the fun of squintin' at you through the bars, at Dawson"
"'Tain't no crime to lay a-bed till four in the mornin'. Not as I've heerd tell, it ain't," sneered the man.
"Who's be'n here, I said?" snapped McKeever, ignoring the interruption.
"Ef any one's be'n here, they've passed on. I ain't saw no one—but my eyesight ain't no good no more—'special, when I'm asleep."
"Where's Cosgrieve?"
Again the little eyes leered wickedly: "Ef ye don't know, ye mout step acrost to his cabin, an' ef he ain't there, ye mout take a guess at it. How'd ye s'pose I know where Cosgrieve*s at. Dang him! He"
"He, what?" asked McKeever, quickly. But the other only eyed him insolently.
"He what! He what!" mocked the old man. "Ye talk like a jackass. He what—he what—he haw—he haw!"
McKeever curbed his wrath, and the two officers ate in silence, while old Jap glared malevolently from his seat on the pine counter. When they arose to go the old man followed them to the door: "Toddle along up the crick an' have a look at ye're dear Injuns. See ef some of 'em's be'n stole by us Cameron Crickers. An' then toddle back an' climb in ye're canoe an' report to Dawson that all's well—like ye allus do. Ye're a smart bunch—youse Mounteds is—but ye ain't the ondly smart folks in the world— Ta-ta!"
"I'll get that old scoundrel yet!" gritted McKeever. "They's somethin' crooked about this whole blame creek—but we've never be'n able to hang anythin' on 'em."
Above Two Prong the water was too fast for canoe work, so the officers took the foot trail that followed its banks. For three days they pushed onward and upward, stopping in every cabin along the trail for a chat with the surly, close-mouthed trappers and prospectors. But nothing did they see that could possibly be construed as "crooked," except the interminable windings of the creek, itself, and so they came to the camp of the Indians. The chief, a lazy, ragged, no-account, who went by the name of Four-Bits-And-A-Thin-Dime, greeted the policemen civilly enough, and motioned them to a seat upon a bearskin in front of his tepee.
"Any complaints?" asked McKeever. The Indian shook his head.
"No."
"Get your treaty money all right?"
The chief nodded: "Um-hum."
"Where is it?" This last question came as a surprise. The chief looked nonplussed for a moment.
"Got some lef'. De young men, she tak' de res' down to buy de grub."
"Where?"
"Me not know—mebbe-so, Coal Creek—Buxton—Forty-mile—mebbe-so Jap Kinkade."
"What's the use of lyin'? Get up! I'm goin' to search every tepee in the village. The young men bought fire-water with it—an' you did, too! An' you bought it of Cosgrieve!"
The Indian smiled and shrugged, and followed behind while McKeever and Connie searched the lodges and found nothing.
"Wish I could talk to them squaws," mused McKeever, "but they can't understand no English—let alone talk it. I guess it's goin' to be the same old story. It's the moccasin telegraph does it—everyone on Cameron knows we're comin' soon as we hit the mouth, an' time we get to Two Prong, the whole creek's good as a Sunday-school before Christmas."
In silence, the two made their way out of the encampment and down the creek. At the end of an hour, Connie spoke:
"Dan, you've always used this trail, haven't you—and the rest of the boys, too—when they've visited Cameron Creek?"
"Sure, it's the only trail they is."
"Well, maybe," assented Connie, "but suppose it isn't? The valley is anywhere from a quarter- to a half-mile wide. Maybe there is something we might find along the edges. We've got lots of time, let's each take a side and work along the foot of the hills"
"Time!" exclaimed McKeever, "I'd stay here all summer, if I thought we could clean up this gang! That's a good idee. The goin's a-goin' to be rough, an' it mightn't do no good—but it won't do no harm. The first one to get to Jap's waits for the other. An' if we want one another, here's the signals: two quick shots an' one fifteen seconds later means, come a-runnin'. One shot first, an' then two quick ones means, come cautious, look for trouble."
"I got you," assented Connie; "I'll tackle the left bank, and you take the right—So long!"
"So long!" cried McKeever, and both turned from the trail.
The valley was a quarter of a mile wide at the point where they separated, the ground rising gently from the bed of the creek to the base of almost perpendicular rock walls. Connie worked his way to the foot of the rock ledge and headed down stream, picking his way among boulders and through thickets of spruce and of aspen, and tangles of underbrush which, in many places, grew so thick that the boy was forced to chop his way through with his camp axe, to emerge onto a stretch of bare rock where the footing was good. But, on rock or in the timber, Connie's eyes were always busy, searching the ground for sign, and the timber and rock wall for a hidden cache or a trail leading into the hills. It was slow, hard work, darkness overtook him upon the edge of a thin strip of stunted timber, and he spread his blankets beside a tiny spring that welled up between the roots of a banskian. He made no fire, but ate charqui and cold biscuits which he washed down with water from the spring.
It was darker here than in the wide valley of the Yukon, and the high walls shut out the view of the sunshine on distant peaks. Suddenly, the boy's eyes caught the flicker of a light through the trees. All thought of sleep vanished and, looking to his Service revolver in its holster at his belt, he gripped his camp axe, threw himself face downward, and began to wriggle toward the light, pausing every few seconds to listen. But the valley was silent as the grave, and presently, peering through the underbrush, he made out the outlines of a cabin, from whose uncurtained window shone a bright square of candlelight. Slowly and cautiously, he edged forward: "If they've got dogs I'm up against it," he muttered, and tightened his grip on his axe. A small clearing surrounded the cabin—so small that although Connie lay concealed by the underbrush, the window was only twenty-five feet distant. "If there are dogs, so much the worse for the dogs," he gritted, and crawling into the open, wriggled swiftly to the wall of the cabin. From within came the voices of men, but strain his ears as he would, he could not catch their words, and dared not risk showing his face at the window. Cautiously he explored the wall with his fingers. The rough logs were chinked with moss, and Connie drew the sheath knife from his belt. Carefully he picked and prodded at the moss chinking, removing it shred by shred from between the logs. Being ignorant of the positions of the men, he did not dare punch the moss inward. As the chinking thinned, the voices became more distinct, and at length the boy placed his eye to a tiny hole through which filtered a single ray of candlelight. There were two men in the room—one he could not see, the other was a shaggy man who sat beside the stove and smoked a pipe. The man out of line was speaking and Connie applied his ear to the crevice.
"—never found out nawthin' yet, an' they never won't, neither. Bill Cosgrieve's a heap too smart fer them geezers."
"Ye say they searched the Injin camp, an' went on down the crick?"
"Searched every blame wigwam, an' nary a find. Bowen an' the Swede had the stuff an' the young bucks cached up a branch where they c'd a scattered to the high places if needful."
"When'd th' p'lice hike back?"
"This mornin'. Ort to fetch Split Rock tonight, an' Jap's place tomorry. Ol' Jap's sore on Bill Cosgrieve."
"So much the worse f'r Jap, then. He better haul in his horns an' not crowd Bill too fer. Bill'll croak him, like he done th' German"
"Shet up! Each one of them two has got enough on t'other to swing 'em both. Jap ort to know Bill ain't a-goin' to leave him grab no more'n what the rest of us gits—" The speaker paused abruptly.
"What's ailin' ye? Hear sunthin'?" Connie's heart thumped almost audibly as the man delayed his reply.
"Naw, I wuz a-thinkin'. How much stuff has Ol' Jap got in th' shaft?"
"'Bout two hundred gallon."
"Ef we c'd git red of it fer him—unbeknownst to Bill—gimlet it off, so's he'd think it leaked out"
"Be y'u a plumb fool?" The voice of the man by the stove held a note of fear. "Don't y'u never try to double-cross Bill Cosgrieve. Y'u won't git away with it—an' they'll be another shaft to cave in down to Two Prong."
"Guess y'u're right—but"
"Bill, he'll be back tomorry, an' we'll hev a hard day, totin' that stuff up to th' cache. He'll likely fetch four-hundred gallon—them Injins has got jes' about enough left to pay fer it. I'm a-goin' to roll in." The shaggy man unlaced a hobnailed boot. The other crossed to the bunk, and Connie recognized him as Crane, whom Corporal Rickey had once pointed out to him in Dawson, as a member of the Cameron Creek gang.
"Bill, he's a wise ol' owl," grinned Crane; "with two of the Mounted scourin' Cameron Crick, he's a-keepin' the rest a-watchin' him in Dawson, whilst McCarty an' High Light Hank runs the cargo up Henderson to the divide. Beats all they ain't no one tumbled to th' Henderson Crick racket"
"It's so durn little an' puny lookin'—'tain't more'n eight foot wide at the mouth—an' comin' out th' way it does, behine that shoulder of rock. It ain't on no map that I ever see—but she shore is deep!" The shaggy man blew out the candle, and Connie Morgan wriggled back into the timber and sought his blanket beside the spring.