"Must I, then, must I, then, now leave this town -And you, my love, stay here?"--Schwabian Folk-song.
The singer, clean-faced and cheery-eyed, bent over and added water to a pot of simmering beans, and then, rising, a stick of firewood in hand, drove back the circling dogs from the grub-box and cooking-gear.He was blue of eye, and his long hair was golden, and it was a pleasure to look upon his lusty freshness.A new moon was thrusting a dim horn above the white line of close-packed snow-capped pines which ringed the camp and segregated it from all the world.Overhead, so clear it was and cold, the stars danced with quick, pulsating movements.To the southeast an evanescent greenish glow heralded the opening revels of the aurora borealis.
Two men, in the immediate foreground, lay upon the bearskin which was their bed.Between the skin and naked snow was a six-inch layer of pine boughs.The blankets were rolled back.For shelter, there was a fly at their backs,--a sheet of canvas stretched between two trees and angling at forty-five degrees.
This caught the radiating heat from the fire and flung it down upon the skin.Another man sat on a sled, drawn close to the blaze, mending moccasins.To the right, a heap of frozen gravel and a rude windlass denoted where they toiled each day in dismal groping for the pay-streak.To the left, four pairs of snowshoes stood erect, showing the mode of travel which obtained when the stamped snow of the camp was left behind.
That Schwabian folk-song sounded strangely pathetic under the cold northern stars, and did not do the men good who lounged about the fire after the toil of the day.It put a dull ache into their hearts, and a yearning which was akin to belly-hunger, and sent their souls questing southward across the divides to the sun-lands.
"For the love of God, Sigmund, shut up!" expostulated one of the men.His hands were clenched painfully, but he hid them from sight in the folds of the bearskin upon which he lay.
"And what for, Dave Wertz?" Sigmund demanded."Why shall I not sing when the heart is glad?""Because you've got no call to, that's why.Look about you, man, and think of the grub we've been defiling our bodies with for the last twelvemonth, and the way we've lived and worked like beasts!"Thus abjured, Sigmund, the golden-haired, surveyed it all, and the frost-rimmed wolf-dogs and the vapor breaths of the men."And why shall not the heart be glad?" he laughed."It is good; it is all good.As for the grub--" He doubled up his arm and caressed the swelling biceps."And if we have lived and worked like beasts, have we not been paid like kings? Twenty dollars to the pan the streak is running, and we know it to be eight feet thick.It is another Klondike--and we know it--Jim Hawes there, by your elbow, knows it and complains not.And there's Hitchcock! He sews moccasins like an old woman, and waits against the time.Only you can't wait and work until the wash-up in the spring.Then we shall all be rich, rich as kings, only you cannot wait.You want to go back to the States.So do I, and I was born there, but Ican wait, when each day the gold in the pan shows up yellow as butter in the churning.But you want your good time, and, like a child, you cry for it now.Bah! Why shall I not sing:
"In a year, in a year, when the grapes are ripe, I shall stay no more away.
Then if you still are true, my love, It will be our wedding day.
In a year, in a year, when my time is past, Then I'll live in your love for aye.
Then if you still are true, my love, It will be our wedding day."The dogs, bristling and growling, drew in closer to the firelight.
There was a monotonous crunch-crunch of webbed shoes, and between each crunch the dragging forward of the heel of the shoe like the sound of sifting sugar.Sigmund broke off from his song to hurl oaths and firewood at the animals.Then the light was parted by a fur-clad figure, and an Indian girl slipped out of the webs, threw back the hood of her squirrel-skin parka, and stood in their midst.Sigmund and the men on the bearskin greeted her as "Sipsu," with the customary "Hello," but Hitchcock made room on the sled that she might sit beside him.
"And how goes it, Sipsu?" he asked, talking, after her fashion, in broken English and bastard Chinook."Is the hunger still mighty in the camp? and has the witch doctor yet found the cause wherefore game is scarce and no moose in the land?""Yes; even so.There is little game, and we prepare to eat the dogs.Also has the witch doctor found the cause of all this evil, and to-morrow will he make sacrifice and cleanse the camp.""And what does the sacrifice chance to be?--a new-born babe or some poor devil of a squaw, old and shaky, who is a care to the tribe and better out of the way?""It chanced not that wise; for the need was great, and he chose none other than the chief's daughter; none other than I, Sipsu.""Hell!" The word rose slowly to Hitchcock's lips, and brimmed over full and deep, in a way which bespoke wonder and consideration.
"Wherefore we stand by a forking of the trail, you and I," she went on calmly, "and I have come that we may look once more upon each other, and once more only."She was born of primitive stock, and primitive had been her traditions and her days; so she regarded life stoically, and human sacrifice as part of the natural order.The powers which ruled the day-light and the dark, the flood and the frost, the bursting of the bud and the withering of the leaf, were angry and in need of propitiation.This they exacted in many ways,--death in the bad water, through the treacherous ice-crust, by the grip of the grizzly, or a wasting sickness which fell upon a man in his own lodge till he coughed, and the life of his lungs went out through his mouth and nostrils.Likewise did the powers receive sacrifice.It was all one.And the witch doctor was versed in the thoughts of the powers and chose unerringly.It was very natural.Death came by many ways, yet was it all one after all,--a manifestation of the all-powerful and inscrutable.