# The Strand Magazine/Volume 36/Issue 211/The Monster of ‘“Partridge Creek.”

Stories Strange and True.
V.—The Monster of ‘“Partridge Creek.”
By Georges Dupuy.
[M. Georges Dupuy, the well-known French writer and traveller, who has made many explorations in the Polar regions, here relates a most experience him in the frozen steppes of Alaska. M. Dupuy, whose good faith is beyond question, takes full responsibility for his narrative, which is, it may be noted, however remarkable, in no way contradicted by known scientific facts. The drawings which accompany this article have been made from sketches and descriptions supplied by M. Dupuy.]
The story which follows is in no sense a romance. I wish, in the first place, to ask the readers of the following narrative to believe that I am in no way attempting to impose upon their credulity. Concerning the amazing spectacle I am about to describe, I report nothing but plain facts, however astounding and apparently incredible they may seem at first glance, precisely as they appeared to my own eyes—and I am possessed of excellent sight—and to those of my three companions —all three white men—without counting five Indians of the Klayakuk tribe, who have their camps on the shores of the River Stewart.
The following are the names of the three ocular witnesses who are ready to testify to the truth of my assertions: the first is my hunting companion for many years, Mr. James Lewis Buttler, banker, of San Francisco; the second is Mr. Tom Leemore, miner, from McQuesten River, in the Yukon Territory; and lastly, the Reverend Father Pierre Lavagneux, a Canadian Frenchman and missionary at the Indian village of Armstrong Creek, not far from McQuesten.
In the course of ten years’ rambling in the four quarters of the world it has been my lot to witness a great number of amazing spectacles, and the strange experience of which I speak had become no more than a vivid recollection when, a few days ago—on January 24th, 1908—the following letter reached me at Paris. It came from Father Lavagneux, who passes his life with his savage flock six hundred miles north-west of the Klondike. I give it here word for word:—
“Armstrong Creek,
“January 1st, 1908.
“My Dear Son, — The ‘trader’ of McQuesten has just stopped here with his train of dogs and sledges. He has had a hard journey from Dawson, by Barlow, Flat Creek, and Dominion. I expect to receive by him in another fortnight fresh provisions and news of the outside world. To-day is the first day of the New Year, and I want this letter to express my affectionate wishes for your health and happiness. I hope it will give me the pleasure of receiving you under my humble roof, here, at the other end of the earth. I will not believe that you will let your old friend in the Great North leave his old carcass to the Indians (who will some day or other make his coffin out of branches) without seeing him once more.
"I have received your book, the reading of which has given me the greatest pleasure. By the way, you are wrong in regard to that poor fellow, John Spitz. Alas! he is no longer mail-carrier of the Duncan district. He died, poor fellow, at Eagle Camp, soon after you departed, not having survived the wound he received from the ‘bald-face,’ which you will remember.
"THE BEAST HELD IN HIS JAWS SOMETHING WHICH SEEMED TO ME TO BE A CARIBOU."
It was on receipt of this letter that I decided to write the story of my own experience, which it recalled so vividly to mind, and of which it afforded a striking confirmation.
THE SPOT WHERE THE AUTHOR MET HIS FRIEND BUTTLER.
The Story of My Friend Buttler.
The station of McQuesten, that far-off corner of the strange country of the Yukon, where the eight months of winter are so terrible but the short summer so marvellously beautiful, was on four occasions my chosen retreat during the eight years that I have known the North. A friend of mine in San Francisco, Mr. Buttler, who had come to Dawson City in order to purchase gold-mining concessions, had promised to join me in order that we should go hunting together. I was taking my coffee one afternoon in the veranda of Father Lavagneux’s cabin when all at once I heard someone whistle from the farther bank of the river. A bark canoe, paddled by two Indians, was coming up the river in the shadow of the trees. Buttler was with them.
“My dear fellow,” he said, smiling as I met him, and endeavouring to hide his visible agitation, “I have something very strange to tell you. Do you know that prehistoric monsters still exist?”
I broke out laughing, and together we returned by the little path which led to the Father’s house. When Buttler had taken off his muddy boots and was ensconced in a comfortable seat he began to recount his story as follows:—
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“What had happened?"
“We decided to approach the spot where the animals had taken fright so suddenly. Arriving at the ‘moose-lick,' a spot about sixty feet long and fifteen wide, we saw in the mud, and almost on a level with the water of the ‘lick,' the fresh imprint of the body of a monstrous animal. Its belly had made an impression in the slime more than two feet deep, thirty feet long, and twelve feet wide. Four gigantic paws, also deeply impressed, had left at each end of the main imprint, and a little to the side, footprints five feet long by two and a half feet wide, the claws being more than a foot long, the sharp points of which had buried themselves deeply in the mud. There was also the print, apparently, of a heavy tail, ten feet long and sixteen inches wide at the point.
"WE FOLLOWED THE TRACKS OF THE MONSTER IN THE VALLEY FOR FIVE OR SIX MILES..."
“We followed the tracks of the monster in the valley for five or six miles, and then, at the ravine of Partridge Creek—a place which the miners call a gulch—they ceased suddenly as if by enchantment.”
How the Monster Appeared to Us.
The next day, at five o’clock in the morning, Father Lavagneux, Buttler, Leemore, a neighbouring miner hastily summoned, myself, and five men of the tribe, crossed the River Stewart in two canoes. Neither of the first two guides, who were overcome with terror, nor the sergeant of the Mounted Police, who received our story with scepticism, nor the letter-carrier, would consent to accompany us.
All day long we searched, without result, the valley of the little River McQuesten, the flats of Partridge Creek, and the country between Barlow and the lofty, snow-covered mountains.
At last, towards evening, tired out, after having toiled for a long time through the great marsh, we lighted a fire at the top of a ​rocky ravine. The sun was setting. Lying by the fire we let our eyes wander over the glittering expanse of marsh which we had just traversed.
The tea was boiling and everyone was preparing to dip his tin cup into the pot, when suddenly a noise of rolling stones and a strange, harsh, and frightful roar made us all spring to our feet.
The beast for which we had been looking—a black, gigantic form, the corners of his mouth filled with blood-stained slime, his jaws munching something, I know not what—was slowly and heavily climbing the opposite side of the ravine, making the large boulders roll into the valley as he went!
Struck with terror, Father Lavagneux, Leemore, and myself tried to utter a cry of fright, but no sound issued from our parched throats. Unconsciously we had seized each other’s arms. The five Indians were crouching down with their faces against the ground, trembling like leaves shaken by the wind. Buttler was already rushing down the hill.
“The dinosaurus!—it is the dinosaurus of the Arctic Circle!” muttered Father Lavvagneux, with chattering teeth.
The monster had stopped scarcely twenty paces from us, and, resting upon his huge belly, was staring, motionless, at the red sun, which was bathing all the landscape in a weird light.
For a full ten minutes, riveted to the spot by some strange force which we could not overcome, did we contemplate this terrible apparition.
A photograph of the claw of a dinosaurus, from the New York Museum.
We were, however, in full possession of all our senses. There was not, and never will be, in our minds the least doubt as to the reality of what we saw. It was indeed a living creature, and not an illusion, which we had before us.
The dinosaurus then turned his immense neck, but did not seem to see us. His withers were at least eighteen feet above the ground. His entire body from the extremity of his yawning jaws—which were surmounted by a horn like that of a rhinoceros—to the end of the tail must have measured at least fifty feet. His hide was like that of a wild boar, garnished with thick bristles, in colour a greyish-black. His belly was plastered with thick mud.
At this moment Buttler returned to us. He told us that he thought the animal weighed about thirty tons.
Suddenly the dinosaurus moved his jaws, visibly chewing some thick viscid kind of food, and we heard a sound like that of the crunching of small bones. Then, with a sudden movement, he raised himself on his hind legs, and giving utterance to a roar—a hollow, indescribable, frightful sound—and wheeling round with surprising agility, with movements resembling those of a kangaroo, he sprang with a prodigious bound into the ravine.
On the 24th, Buttler and myself, having taken two days’ rest, started for Dawson City, for the purpose of demanding from the Governor fifty armed men and mules.
Here my story ends. For a month we were the laughing-stock of the Golden City, and the Dawson Daily Nugget published an article about me, which was at the same time flattering and satirical, entitled "A Rival of Poe.”
* ↑ The bald or cinnamon bear—the brown bear of the Arctic regions.
* ↑ A sulphur spring, rarely freezing in the winter, where animals come to drink at all seasons.