The Snowflake herald., 1918-02-08
THE YUKON TRAIL
I'm xzZaSk0n L0Ue Story
By WILLIAM MACLEOD RAINE
Corgt,W

| JdL0 pdHpnIeLs out IL dlA True any"
how"
Gordon left Kusiak as reluctantly as
Wally Selfridge had done, though his
/ reasons for not wanting to go were
quite different. They centered about
a dusky-eyed young woman whom he
had seen for the first time fortnight
before. He would have denied even to
himself that he was in love, but when
ever he was alone his thoughts re-
verted to Sheba O'Neill.
At the big bend Gordon left the river
boat for his cross-cOuntry trek. Near
the roadhouse was an Indian village
where he had expected to get a guide
for the journey to Kamatlah. But the
fishing season had begun, and the men
had all gone down river to take part
in it.
The old Frenchman who kept the
| trading-pOst and roadhOuse advised
Gordon not to attempt the tramp alone.
"The trail it ees what you call dam
gerous. Feefty-Mile Swamp ees q mon
ster that swallows men alive, mon
sieur. You wait one week-twO week
tree week, and some one will turn
up to take you through" he urged.
But can't wait. And have an of
ficial map of the trail. Why can't
follow it without a guide?" Elliott
wanted to know impatiently.
The post-trader shrugged. "MaybesO,
monsieur-maybe not. Feefty-Mile-
ees one devil of a trail. No checha-
koes are safe in there without guide.
|, BaptiSte, know"
"Selfridge and his party went
through week ago. 1 can follow the
tracks they left"
But if it rains, monsieur, the tracks
will vaneesh, nest ce pas? Lose the
way, and the little singing folk will
swarm in clouds about monsieur while
he stumbles- through the swamp"
Elliot hesitated for the better part
of day, then came to an impulsive
decision. He had a reliable map, and
anyhow he had only to follow the
tracks left by the Selfridge party. He
turned his back upon the big river and
plunged into the wilderness.
There came a night when he looked
up into the stars of the deep, still sky
and knew that he was hundreds of
miles from any other human being.
Never in all his life had he been so
much alone. He was not afraid, but
there was something aweSOme in a
world so empty Of his kind.
The tracks of the Selfridge party
| Of irvT% Of IN
rain fell, and they were obliterated al
together.
Gordon f1shed. He killed fresh game
for his needs. Often he came on the
tracks of moose and caribou. Some
times, startled, they leaped into view
quite close enough for shot, but he
used his rifle only to meet his wants.
| The way led through valley and
morasS, across hills and mountains. 1t
wandered in a sort of haphazard fash
ion through a Sun-bathed universe
washed clean of sordidness and mean
ness.
1t was the seventh night out that
Elliot suspected he was off the trail.
Rain sluiced down in torrents and next
day continued to pour from a dun sky.
His own tracks were blOtted out and
he searched for the trail in vain. Be-
fore he knew it he was entangled in
Fifty-Mile. His map showed him the
morass stretched for fifty miles to the
south, but he knew that it had been
charted hurriedly by surveying party
which had made no extensive explora
tionS. A good deal Of this country was
terra incognita. 1t ran vaguely into
| No Mans Land unknown to the pros
pector.
The going was heavy. Gordon had
to pick his way through the messy
swamp, leading the pack-horse by the
bride. Sometimes he was ankle-deep
in water of a greenish slime. Again
he had to drag the animal from the
bog to hummock of grass which gave
a spOngy footing. This would end in
another quagmire Of peat through
which they must plow with the mud
sucking at their feet. It was hard,
wearing toll. There was nothing to do
but keep moving. The young man
staggered forward till dusk. Utterly
4
exhausted, he camped for the night on,
hillock Of moss that rose like an
island ia the swamp.
Elliot travelled next day by the COM
pass. He had food for three days
more, but he knew that no living man
had the strength to travel for SO long
in such a morass. 1t was near mid
day when he lost his horse. The ami
NAL had begged down several times
and Gordon had wasted much time and
spent good deal of needed energy in
dragging it to firmer footing. This time
the pony refused to answer the whip
It's master unloaded pack and saddle
He tried coaxing; he tried the whip.
"Come, Old-Timer. One plunge, and
you'll make it yet" he urged.
The pack-horse turned upon him
dumb eyes of reproach, struggled to
free its limbs from the mud, and sank
down helplessly. It had travelled its
last yard on the long Alaska trails.