The midland journal. (Rising Sun, Md.) 1885-1947, 1941-01-03
CHAPTER

I opened the cabin window and
felt the night air blow in on my
face.
There was no mistaking the smell
Of that air. It carried with 1t the
scent of wide sprucelands and the
sparkle of highland ice fields and
the razor-edged aroma Of valleys
where the sun falls thin on balsani
and alder and buckcrop. It was the
breath Of Alaska, calling me back
to the home of my youth.
That little ships cabin became
suddenly hateful to me. l was tired
of the noise and the accordion mli-
sic of the drunken groups swarm
ing north to their cannery work. I
was tired of tobacco smoke and al
coholic song and crying babies and
squawking radios.
So reached for a wrap and made
my way up on deck, where all was
quiet and not a ships lamp showed
between the shadowy bow and the
equally shadowy bridge.
It was so quiet that / could feel
the tremor of the Yukon's screw as
she plowed northward through the
night. AT times it seemed as though
we were steaming straight into q
mountain side. But the hills, as al
ways, moved apart and let us pass
through and as casually came to-
gether again in our wake.
And as sat there, with the night
wind tanning my face, felt that my
mission was not a trivial one. I
owed something to Alaska. And !
had to justify myself through my
work there, in what men called the
last frontier.
It would be different, Of course.
That new world would have all the
roughness of wilderness life. And,
jackaroo that was, I'd have to
begin all over again. I'd be cheech-
ako once more in the colony Of old
timers. But my country was never
ashamed Of its pioneer women. And
there was something moving and
mysterious, felt, in mans eternal
quest for new frontiers.
Then the light of mystery faded
from the picture. For woke up to
the fact that / was no longer alone
on that silent and starlit foredeck.
A man, none too steady on his
feet, wavered past me in the dark
ness.
He laughed as he passed an ex-
ploring hand over the softness Of
my polo coat. Then he sat down on
the crate beside me.
I sat silent, without moving, as
he turned and tried to throw bot
tie overheard.
'Good-by, sweetheart" he said
with thick-voiced Indifference. He
was, / concluded, one Of the West
Coast wanderers who had been turn
ing the lower decks of the Yukon
into cross between faro joint and
a waterfront saloon. But he was
sober enough to resent my sustained
silence.
Cant you talk, pretty one?" he
asked, with his face insolentlys close
to mine. I wasn't afraid of him.
I'd seen camp drunkards enough in
my day. So / continued to confront
him with the thunders Of silence.
He rose unsteadily to his feet and
reached into his pocket. From it he
took out a flashlght which he even
more insolently held up in front Of
my face.
mot bad locker" he had the
grace to acknowledge. But it in no
way added to my happiness. why
in hell are you heading for the land
Of the sourdoughs?"
That question also declined to
answer. / even moved a little to
one side, to avoid the wavering
fiashlight.
"Put out that light" deep voice
commanded from the darkness Of
the bridge. It was no easy matter,
! remembered, to navigate the wa
tiers Of the Inland Passage.
My tormentor did as he was told.
But he took his time about it.
Eve like it dark, don't wei" he
said as he reached for my hand.
The vigor with which removed it
from his clasp caused him to lose
his balance for moment or two.