CHAPTER VI
A crowd filled the Tivoli--the old crowd that had seen Daylight departtwo months before; for this was the night of the sixtieth day, andopinion was divided as ever as to whether or not he would compass theachievement. At ten o'clock bets were still being made, though theodds rose, bet by bet, against his success. Down in her heart theVirgin believed he had failed, yet she made a bet of twenty ounces withCharley Bates, against forty ounces, that Daylight would arrive beforemidnight.
She it was who heard the first yelps of the dogs.
"Listen!" she cried. "It's Daylight!"
There was a general stampede for the door; but where the doublestorm-doors were thrown wide open, the crowd fell back. They heard theeager whining of dogs, the snap of a dog-whip, and the voice ofDaylight crying encouragement as the weary animals capped all they haddone by dragging the sled in over the wooden floor. They came in witha rush, and with them rushed in the frost, a visible vapor of smokingwhite, through which their heads and backs showed, as they strained inthe harness, till they had all the seeming of swimming in a river.Behind them, at the gee-pole, came Daylight, hidden to the knees by theswirling frost through which he appeared to wade.
He was the same old Daylight, withal lean and tired-looking, and hisblack eyes were sparkling and flashing brighter than ever. His parka ofcotton drill hooded him like a monk, and fell in straight lines to hisknees. Grimed and scorched by camp-smoke and fire, the garment initself told the story of his trip. A two-months' beard covered hisface; and the beard, in turn, was matted with the ice of his breathingthrough the long seventy-mile run.
His entry was spectacular, melodramatic; and he knew it. It was hislife, and he was living it at the top of his bent. Among his fellowshe was a great man, an Arctic hero. He was proud of the fact, and itwas a high moment for him, fresh from two thousand miles of trail, tocome surging into that bar-room, dogs, sled, mail, Indian,paraphernalia, and all. He had performed one more exploit that wouldmake the Yukon ring with his name--he, Burning Daylight, the king oftravelers and dog-mushers.
He experienced a thrill of surprise as the roar of welcome went up andas every familiar detail of the Tivoli greeted his vision--the long barand the array of bottles, the gambling games, the big stove, theweigher at the gold-scales, the musicians, the men and women, theVirgin, Celia, and Nellie, Dan MacDonald, Bettles, Billy Rawlins, OlafHenderson, Doc Watson,--all of them.
It was just as he had left it, and in all seeming it might well be thevery day he had left. The sixty days of incessant travel through thewhite wilderness suddenly telescoped, and had no existence in time.They were a moment, an incident. He had plunged out and into themthrough the wall of silence, and back through the wall of silence hehad plunged, apparently the next instant, and into the roar and turmoilof the Tivoli.
A glance down at the sled with its canvas mail-bags was necessary toreassure him of the reality of those sixty days and the two thousandmiles over the ice. As in a dream, he shook the hands that were thrustout to him. He felt a vast exaltation. Life was magnificent. Heloved it all. A great sense of humanness and comradeship swept overhim. These were all his, his own kind. It was immense, tremendous.He felt melting in the heart of him, and he would have liked to shakehands with them all at once, to gather them to his breast in one mightyembrace.
He drew a deep breath and cried: "The winner pays, and I'm the winner,ain't I? Surge up, you-all Malemutes and Siwashes, and name yourpoison! There's your Dyea mail, straight from Salt Water, and nohornswogglin about it! Cast the lashings adrift, you-all, and wadeinto it!"
A dozen pairs of hands were at the sled-lashings, when the young LeBarge Indian, bending at the same task, suddenly and limplystraightened up. In his eyes was a great surprise. He stared abouthim wildly, for the thing he was undergoing was new to him.
He was profoundly struck by an unguessed limitation. He shook as witha palsy, and he gave at the knees, slowly sinking down to fall suddenlyacross the sled and to know the smashing blow of darkness across hisconsciousness.
"Exhaustion," said Daylight. "Take him off and put him to bed, some ofyou-all. He's sure a good Indian."
"Daylight's right," was Doc Watson's verdict, a moment later. "Theman's plumb tuckered out."
The mail was taken charge of, the dogs driven away to quarters and fed,and Bettles struck up the paean of the sassafras root as they lined upagainst the long bar to drink and talk and collect their debts.
A few minutes later, Daylight was whirling around the dance-floor,waltzing with the Virgin. He had replaced his parka with his fur capand blanket-cloth coat, kicked off his frozen moccasins, and wasdancing in his stocking feet. After wetting himself to the knees latethat afternoon, he had run on without changing his foot-gear, and tothe knees his long German socks were matted with ice. In the warmth ofthe room it began to thaw and to break apart in clinging chunks. Thesechunks rattled together as his legs flew around, and every little whilethey fell clattering to the floor and were slipped upon by the otherdancers. But everybody forgave Daylight. He, who was one of the fewthat made the Law in that far land, who set the ethical pace, and byconduct gave the standard of right and wrong, was nevertheless abovethe Law. He was one of those rare and favored mortals who can do nowrong. What he did had to be right, whether others were permitted ornot to do the same things. Of course, such mortals are so favored byvirtue of the fact that they almost always do the right and do it infiner and higher ways than other men. So Daylight, an elder hero inthat young land and at the same time younger than most of them, movedas a creature apart, as a man above men, as a man who was greatly manand all man. And small wonder it was that the Virgin yielded herselfto his arms, as they danced dance after dance, and was sick at heart atthe knowledge that he found nothing in her more than a good friend andan excellent dancer. Small consolation it was to know that he hadnever loved any woman. She was sick with love of him, and he dancedwith her as he would dance with any woman, as he would dance with a manwho was a good dancer and upon whose arm was tied a handkerchief toconventionalize him into a woman.
One such man Daylight danced with that night. Among frontiersmen ithas always been a test of endurance for one man to whirl another down;and when Ben Davis, the faro-dealer, a gaudy bandanna on his arm, gotDaylight in a Virginia reel, the fun began. The reel broke up and allfell back to watch. Around and around the two men whirled, always inthe one direction. Word was passed on into the big bar-room, and barand gambling tables were deserted. Everybody wanted to see, and theypacked and jammed the dance-room. The musicians played on and on, andon and on the two men whirled. Davis was skilled at the trick, and onthe Yukon he had put many a strong man on his back. But after a fewminutes it was clear that he, and not Daylight, was going.
For a while longer they spun around, and then Daylight suddenly stoodstill, released his partner, and stepped back, reeling himself, andfluttering his hands aimlessly, as if to support himself against theair. But Davis, a giddy smile of consternation on his face, gavesideways, turned in an attempt to recover balance, and pitched headlongto the floor. Still reeling and staggering and clutching at the airwith his hands, Daylight caught the nearest girl and started on in awaltz. Again he had done the big thing. Weary from two thousand milesover the ice and a run that day of seventy miles, he had whirled afresh man down, and that man Ben Davis.
Daylight loved the high places, and though few high places there werein his narrow experience, he had made a point of sitting in the highesthe had ever glimpsed. The great world had never heard his name, but itwas known far and wide in the vast silent North, by whites and Indiansand Eskimos, from Bering Sea to the Passes, from the head reaches ofremotest rivers to the tundra shore of Point Barrow. Desire formastery was strong in him, and it was all one whether wrestling withthe elements themselves, with men, or with luck in a gambling game. Itwas all a game, life and its affairs. And he was a gambler to thecore. Risk and chance were meat and drink. True, it was nota
ltogether blind, for he applied wit and skill and strength; but behindit all was the everlasting Luck, the thing that at times turned on itsvotaries and crushed the wise while it blessed the fools--Luck, thething all men sought and dreamed to conquer. And so he. Deep in hislife-processes Life itself sang the siren song of its own majesty, evera-whisper and urgent, counseling him that he could achieve more thanother men, win out where they failed, ride to success where theyperished. It was the urge of Life healthy and strong, unaware offrailty and decay, drunken with sublime complacence, ego-mad, enchantedby its own mighty optimism.
And ever in vaguest whisperings and clearest trumpet-calls came themessage that sometime, somewhere, somehow, he would run Luck down, makehimself the master of Luck, and tie it and brand it as his own. Whenhe played poker, the whisper was of four aces and royal flushes. Whenhe prospected, it was of gold in the grass-roots, gold on bed-rock, andgold all the way down. At the sharpest hazards of trail and river andfamine, the message was that other men might die, but that he wouldpull through triumphant. It was the old, old lie of Life foolingitself, believing itself--immortal and indestructible, bound to achieveover other lives and win to its heart's desire.
And so, reversing at times, Daylight waltzed off his dizziness and ledthe way to the bar. But a united protest went up. His theory that thewinner paid was no longer to be tolerated. It was contrary to customand common sense, and while it emphasized good-fellowship,nevertheless, in the name of good-fellowship it must cease. The drinkswere rightfully on Ben Davis, and Ben Davis must buy them.Furthermore, all drinks and general treats that Daylight was guilty ofought to be paid by the house, for Daylight brought much custom to itwhenever he made a night. Bettles was the spokesman, and his argument,tersely and offensively vernacular, was unanimously applauded.
Daylight grinned, stepped aside to the roulette-table, and bought astack of yellow chips. At the end of ten minutes he weighed in at thescales, and two thousand dollars in gold-dust was poured into his ownand an extra sack. Luck, a mere flutter of luck, but it was his.Elation was added to elation. He was living, and the night was his.He turned upon his well-wishing critics.
"Now the winner sure does pay," he said.
And they surrendered. There was no withstanding Daylight when hevaulted on the back of life, and rode it bitted and spurred.
At one in the morning he saw Elijah Davis herding Henry Finn and JoeHines, the lumber-jack, toward the door. Daylight interfered.
"Where are you-all going?" he demanded, attempting to draw them to thebar.
"Bed," Elijah Davis answered.
He was a lean tobacco-chewing New Englander, the one daring spirit inhis family that had heard and answered the call of the West shoutingthrough the Mount Desert back odd-lots. "Got to," Joe Hines addedapologetically. "We're mushing out in the mornin'."
Daylight still detained them. "Where to? What's the excitement?"
"No excitement," Elijah explained. "We're just a-goin' to play yourhunch, an' tackle the Upper Country. Don't you want to come along?"
"I sure do," Daylight affirmed.
But the question had been put in fun, and Elijah ignored the acceptance.
"We're tacklin' the Stewart," he went on. "Al Mayo told me he seensome likely lookin' bars first time he come down the Stewart, and we'regoin' to sample 'em while the river's froze. You listen, Daylight, an'mark my words, the time's comin' when winter diggin's'll be all the go.There'll be men in them days that'll laugh at our summer stratchin' an'ground-wallerin'."
At that time, winter mining was undreamed of on the Yukon. From themoss and grass the land was frozen to bed-rock, and frozen gravel, hardas granite, defied pick and shovel. In the summer the men stripped theearth down as fast as the sun thawed it. Then was the time they didtheir mining. During the winter they freighted their provisions, wentmoose-hunting, got all ready for the summer's work, and then loafed thebleak, dark months through in the big central camps such as Circle Cityand Forty Mile.
"Winter diggin's sure comin'," Daylight agreed. "Wait till that bigstrike is made up river. Then you-all'll see a new kind of mining.What's to prevent wood-burning and sinking shafts and drifting alongbed-rock? Won't need to timber. That frozen muck and gravel'll standtill hell is froze and its mill-tails is turned to ice-cream. Why,they'll be working pay-streaks a hundred feet deep in them days that'scomin'. I'm sure going along with you-all, Elijah."
Elijah laughed, gathered his two partners up, and was making a secondattempt to reach the door.
"Hold on," Daylight called. "I sure mean it."
The three men turned back suddenly upon him, in their faces surprise,delight, and incredulity.
"G'wan, you're foolin'," said Finn, the other lumberjack, a quiet,steady, Wisconsin man.
"There's my dawgs and sled," Daylight answered. "That'll make twoteams and halve the loads--though we-all'll have to travel easy for aspell, for them dawgs is sure tired."
The three men were overjoyed, but still a trifle incredulous.
"Now look here," Joe Hines blurted out, "none of your foolin, Daylight.We mean business. Will you come?"
Daylight extended his hand and shook.
"Then you'd best be gettin' to bed," Elijah advised. "We're mushin' outat six, and four hours' sleep is none so long."
"Mebbe we ought to lay over a day and let him rest up," Finn suggested.
Daylight's pride was touched.
"No you don't," he cried. "We all start at six. What time do you-allwant to be called? Five? All right, I'll rouse you-all out."
"You oughter have some sleep," Elijah counselled gravely. "You can'tgo on forever."
Daylight was tired, profoundly tired. Even his iron body acknowledgedweariness. Every muscle was clamoring for bed and rest, was appalledat continuance of exertion and at thought of the trail again. All thisphysical protest welled up into his brain in a wave of revolt. Butdeeper down, scornful and defiant, was Life itself, the essential fireof it, whispering that all Daylight's fellows were looking on, that nowwas the time to pile deed upon deed, to flaunt his strength in the faceof strength. It was merely Life, whispering its ancient lies. And inleague with it was whiskey, with all its consummate effrontery andvain-glory.
"Mebbe you-all think I ain't weaned yet?" Daylight demanded. "Why, Iain't had a drink, or a dance, or seen a soul in two months. You-allget to bed. I'll call you-all at five."
And for the rest of the night he danced on in his stocking feet, and atfive in the morning, rapping thunderously on the door of his newpartners' cabin, he could be heard singing the song that had given himhis name:--
"Burning daylight, you-all Stewart River hunchers! Burning daylight!Burning daylight! Burning daylight!"