I wash my hands of him at the start. I cannot father his tails, nor will I be responsible for them. I make these preliminary reservations observe as a guard upon my own integrity. I possess a certain definite position in a small way, also a wife, and for the good name of the community that honors my existence with its approval, and for the sake of her posterity in mind, I cannot take the chances I once did, nor foster probabilities with the careless improvidence of youth, so I repeat, I wash my hands of him, this Nimrod, this mighty hunter, this homely blue-eyed freckle-faced Thomas Stevens. Having been honest to myself, and to whatever perspective, all of branches my wife may be pleased to tender me, I can now afford to be generous. I shall not criticize the tales told me by Thomas Stevens, and further I shall withhold my judgment. If it be asked why, I can only add that judgment I have none. Long have I pondered, weighed, and balanced, but never have my conclusions been twice the same, forsooth, because Thomas Stevens is a greater man than I. If he have told truths well and good, if untruths still well and good, for who can prove, or who disprove? I eliminate myself from the proposition, while those of little faith may do as I have done, go find the same Thomas Stevens, and discuss to his face the various matters which, if fortunate serve, I shall relate. As to where he may be found, the directions are simple, anywhere between the fifty-third north latitude and the pole. On the one hand, and on the other, the likeliest hunting grounds that lie between the east coast of Siberia and the farthest Labrador. That he is there, somewhere, within that clearly defined territory, I pledge the word of an honorable man whose expectations entail straight speaking and right living. Thomas Stevens may have toyed prodigiously with truth, but when we first met, it were well to mark this point, he wandered into my camp when I thought myself a thousand miles beyond the outermost post of civilization. At the sight of his human face, the first and weary months I could have sprung forward and folded him in my arms, and I am not by any means a demonstrative man, but to him his visit seemed the most casual thing under the sun. He just strolled into the light of my camp, past the time of day after the custom of men on beaten trails, through my snowshoes the one way, and a couple of dogs the other, and so made room for himself by the fire. Said he just dropped in to borrow a pinch of soda, and to see if I had any decent tobacco. He plucked forth an ancient pipe, loaded it with painstaking care, and, without as much as a buyer leave, whacked half the tobacco of my pouch into his. Yes, the stuff was fairly good. He sighed with the contentment of the just, and literally absorbed the smoke from the crisping yellow flakes, and it did my smoker's heart good to behold him. Hunter, trapper, prospector, he shrugged his shoulders. No. Just sort of knocking around a bit, had come up from the great slave sometimes since, and was thinking of traipsing over into the Yukon country. The factor of Koshim had spoken about the discoveries on the Klondike, and he was of a mind to run over for a peep. I noticed that he spoke of the Klondike in the archaic vernacular, calling it the Reindeer River, a conceited custom that the old-timers employ against the Chachakwas, and all tender feet in general. But he did it so naively, and as such a matter of course, that there was no sting, and I forgave him. He also had it in view, he said, before he crossed the divide into the Yukon, to make a little run up Fort a Good Hopeway. Now, Fort a Good Hope is a far journey to the north, over and beyond the circle, in a place where the feet of few men have trod, and when a nondescript ragamuffin comes in out of the night, from no one particular, to sit by once fire and discourse on such terms of traipsing and a little run, it is fair time to rouse up and shake off the dream. Wherefore, I looked about me, saw the fly, and underneath the pine-bow spread for the sleeping furs, saw the grub sacks, the camera, the frosty breath of the dogs circling on the edge of the light, and above a great streamer of the aurora bridging the zenith from southeast to northwest. I shivered. There is a magic in the Northland night, that steals in on one like fevers from malarial marshes.  Then I looked to the snowshoes, lying prone and crossed where he had flung them. Also I had nigh to my tobacco-pouch, half at least, of its goodly storehead vermouthed. That settled it. Fancy had not tricked me, after all. Crazed with suffering, I thought, looking steadfastly at the man, one of those wild stampeters, strayed far from his bearings and wandering like a lost soul through great vastness and unknown deeps. Oh, well, let his mood slip on until may have he gathers his tangled wits together. Who knows? The mere sound of a fellow creature's voice may bring all straight again. So I let him on and talk, and soon I marveled, for he talked of game in the ways thereof. He had killed the Siberian wolf of westernmost Alaska, and the shammy and the Seeker Rockies. He averte he knew the haunts where the last buffalo still roamed, but he had hung on the flanks of the caribou when they ran by the hundred thousand, and slept in the great barrens of the musk ox's winter trail. And I shifted my judgment accordingly. The first revision, but by no account the last, and deemed him a monumental effigy of truth. Why, it was I know not, but the spirit moved me to repeat a tale told to me by a man who had dwelt in the land too long to know better. It was of the great bear that hugs the steep slopes of St. Elias, never descending to the levels of the gentler inclines. Now God so constituted this creature for its hillside habitat, that the legs of one side are all of a foot longer than those of the other. This is mighty convenient, as will be readily admitted. So I hunted this rare beast in my own name, told it in the first person, present tense, painted the requisite locale, and gave it the necessary garnishings and touches of versimilitude, and looked to see the man stunned by the recital. Not he. Had he doubted I could have forgiven him. Had he objected, denying the dangers of such a hunt, by virtue of the animal's inability to turn about and go the other way, had he done this, I say, I could have taken him by the hand for the true sportsman that he was. Not he. He sniffed, looked on me, and sniffed again, then gave my tobacco due praise, thrust one foot into my lap, and bade me examine the gear. It was a muckluck of the Inuit pattern, sewed together with sinew threads and devoid of beads or furblows, but it was the skin itself that was remarkable. In that it was all of half an inch thick. It reminded me of walrus hide, but there the resemblance ceased, for no walrus ever bore so marvelous a growth of hair. On the side and ankles the hair was well nigh worn away, what a friction with the underbrush and snow, but around the top and on the more sheltered back it was coarse, dirty black, and very thick. I parted it with difficulty and looked beneath for the fine fur that is common with northern animals, but found it, in this case, to be absent. This, however, was compensated for by the length, indeed the tufts that had survived wear and tear measured all of seven or eight inches. I looked up into the man's face, and he pulled his foot down and asked, Find hide like that on your St. Delaeus bear? I shook my head. Nor on any other creature of land or sea, I answered candidly. The thickness of it and the length of the bear puzzled me. That, he said, and said without the slightest hint of impressiveness, that came from a mammoth. Nonsense, I exclaimed, for I could not forbear the protest of my unbelief. The mammoth, my dear sir, long ago vanished from the earth. We know it once existed by the fossil remains that we have unearthed, and by the frozen carcass that the Siberian suns affit to melt from out of the bosom of the glacier, but we also know that no living specimen exists. Our explorers, with this word he broke in impatiently. Your explorers? Pish! A weekly breed. Let us hear no more of them, but tell me, O man, which you may know of the mammoth and his ways. Beyond contradiction this was leading to a yarn, so I baited my hook by ransacking my memory for whatever data I possessed on the subject in hand. To begin with I emphasized that the animal was prehistoric, and marshaled all of my facts in support of this. I mentioned the Siberian sandbars that abound with ancient mammoth bones, spoke of the large quantities of fossil ivory purchased from the Inuits by the Alaska Commercial Company, and acknowledging having myself mine six and eight-foot tusks from the pay gravel of the Klondike creeks. All fossils, I concluded, found in the midst of debris deposited through countless ages. I remember when I was a kid, Thomas Stevens sniffed. He had a most confounded way of sniffing that I saw a petrified watermelon. Hence, though mistaken persons sometimes delude themselves into thinking that they really are raising or eating them, there are no such things as accident watermelons. But the question of food, I objected, ignoring his point, which was pure isle, and without bearing, the soil must bring forth vegetable life and lavish abundance to support so monstrous creations. Nowhere in the north is the soil so prolific. Ergo, the mammoth cannot exist. I pardon your ignorance concerning many matters of this Northland, for you are a young man and have traveled little. But at the same time, I am inclined to agree with you on one thing. The mammoth no longer exists. How do I know? I killed the last one with my own right arm. Thus spake Nimrod, the mighty hunter. I threw a stick of firewood at the dogs and bade them quit their unholy howling and waited. Undoubtedly, this lyre of singular felicity would open his mouth and requite me for my St. Elias bear. It was this way. He at last began after the appropriate silence had intervened. I was in camp one day. Where? I interrupted, waved his hand vaguely in the direction of the northeast, where stretched a tear incognita into its vastness few men have strayed and fewer emerged. I was in camp one day with Clutch. Clutch was as handsome a little Kamuk says ever wind, but tooks the traces or shoved nose into a camp kettle. Her father was a full-blood malamute from Russian pastillic on Bering Sea, and I bred her, and with understanding, out of a clean-legged bitch of the Hudson Bay stock. I tell you, oh man, she was a corker combination. And now, on this day I have in mind, she was brought to pup through a pure wild wolf of the woods, gray and long of limb with big lungs and no end of staying power. Say, was there ever the like? It was a new breed of dog I had started, and I could look forward to big things. As I have said, she was brought neatly to pup and safely delivered. I was squatting on my hams over the shoulder. Seven sturdy, blind little beggars, when from behind came a bray of trumpets and a crash of brass. There was a rush, like the wind, squall that kicks the heels of the rain, and I was midway to my feet when knocked flat on my face. At the same instant I heard Clutch sigh, very much as a man does when you've planted your fist in his belly. You can stake your sack, I lay quiet, but I twisted my head round and saw a huge bulk swaying above me. Then the blue sky flashed into view and I got to my feet. A hairy mountain of flesh was just disappearing in the underbrush on the edge of the open. I caught a rear-end glimpse with a stiff tail as big and girth as my body standing out straight behind. The next second only a tremendous hole remained in the thicket, though I could still hear the sounds as of a tornado dying quickly away, underbrush ripping and tearing, and trees snapping and crashing. I cast about for my rifle. It had been lying on the ground with the muzzle against a log, but now the stock was smashed, the barrel out of line and the working gear in a thousand bits. Then I looked for the slut. And what do you suppose? I shook my head. May my soul burn in a thousand hells if there was anything left of her. Clutch, the seven sturdy blind little beggars, gone. All gone. Where she had stretched was a slimy, bloody depression in the soft earth, all of a yard in diameter and around the edges of few scattered hairs. Measured three feet on the snow, threw about it a circle and glanced at Nimrod. The beast was thirty long and twenty high, he answered, and its tusks scaled over six times three feet. I couldn't believe myself at the time for all that it had just happened. But if my senses had played me, there was the broken gun and the hole in the brush. And there was, or rather there was not, Clutch and the pups. Oh man, it makes me hot all over when I think of it.  Do you wonder that the blood-soaked earth cried out high to God, or that I grabbed the handaxe and took the trail?  Nimrod joined me in my merriment, chuckling gleefully.  Wasn't it a beaver's dream? Many's the time I've laughed about it since, but at the time it was no laughing matter. I was that dang mad, what of the gun and Clutch. Think of it, oh man. A brand new, unclassified, uncopyrated breed, and wiped out before ever it opened its eyes or took out its intention papers. Well, so be it. Life's full of disappointments, and rightly so. Meet is best after a famine, and a bed soft after a hard trail. As I was saying, I took out after the beast with a handaxe and hung to its heels down the valley, but when he circled back towards the head, I was left-winded at the lower end. Speaking of grub, I might as well stop long enough to explain a couple of points. Up thereabouts in the midst of the mountains is an almighty curious formation. There's no end of little valleys, each like the other much as peas in a pod, and all neatly tucked away with straight rocky walls rising on all sides. And at the lower ends are always small openings where the drainage or glaciers must have broken out. The only way in is through these mouths, and they are all small, and some smaller than others. As to grub, you slushed around the rain-soaked islands of the Alaskan coast down the Sitkaway most likely, Cienus, your traveler, and you know how stuff grows there. Big, and juicy, and jungly. Well, that's the way it was with those valleys. Thick, rich soil with ferns and grasses and such things and patches higher than your heads. Rain three days out of four during the summer months, and food in them for a thousand mammoths to say nothing of small game for man. To get back, down at the lower end of the valley, I got winded and gave over. I began to speculate, for when my wind left me my dander got hotter and hotter, and I knew I'd never know peace of mind till I dined on roasted mammoth foot. And I knew, also, that that stood for skookum, mammook, pupa-cook. Excuse, Chinook, I mean that there was a big fight coming. Now the mouth of my valley was very narrow, and the walls steep. High up on the one side was one of those big pivot rocks, or balancing rocks, as some men call them, weighing all of a couple hundred tons. Just the thing. I hit back for camp, keeping an eye open so the bulk couldn't slip past and got all my ammunition. It wasn't worth anything with the rifle smashed. So I opened the shells, planted the powder under the rock, and touched it off with slow fuse. Wasn't much of a charge, but the old boulder tilted up lazily and dropped down into place with just space enough to let the creek drain nicely. Now I had him. How did you have him, I queried, whoever heard of a man killing a mammoth with a handaxe, and for that matter, with anything else?  Nimrod replied, with a slight manifestation of sensitiveness. Mad cleaned through what of klutch and the gun. Also, was I not a hunter? And was this not new and most unusual game, a handaxe? Pish, I did not need it. Listen, and you shall hear of a hunt such as might have happened in the youth of the world when cavemen rounded up the kill with handaxe of stone. Such would have served me well. Now is it not a fact that man can out walk the dog or the horse that he can wear them out with the intelligence of his endurance? I nodded. Well, the light broke in on me, and I bait him continue. My valley was perhaps five miles around. The mouth was closed. There was no way to get out.   Don't you see? A race-course, a man and a mammoth, a hippodrome with sun, moon, and stars to referee. It took me two months to do it, but I did it. And that's no beaver-dream. Round and round I ran him, me traveling on the inner-circle, eating jerked meat and salmon berries on the run, and snatching winks of sleep between. Of course he'd get desperate at times and turn. Then I had had for soft ground where the creeks spread out, and lay anathema upon him and his ancestry, and dare him to come on. But he was too wise to bog in a mud-buttle. Once he pinned me against the walls and I crawled back into a deep crevice and waited. Whenever he felt for me with his trunk I'd belt him with the handaxe till he pulled out, shrieking fit to split my eardrums he was that mad. He knew he had me, and didn't have me, and it near drove him wild.  He knew he was safe as long as I stayed in the crevice, and he made up his mind to keep me there. And he was dead right, only he hadn't figured on the commissary. There was neither grub nor water around that spot, so on the face of it he couldn't keep up the siege.  Then the thirst would come on him, and he'd ramp round and roar till the earth shook, calling me every name he could lay tongue to. This was to frighten me, of course, and when he thought I was sufficiently impressed, he'd back away softly and try to make a sneak for the creek. Sometimes I'd let him get almost there, only a couple hundred yards away it was, when out I'd pop and back he'd come, lung-burring along like the old landslide he was. After I'd done this a few times and he'd figured it out, he changed his tactics. Grasp the time element you see. Without a word of warning, a way he'd go tearing for the water like mad, scheming to get there and back before I ran away. Finally, after cursing me most horribly, he raised the siege and deliberately stocked off to the water-hole. That was the only time he penned to me. Three days of it. But after that the hippodrome never stopped, round and round and round, like a six days go as I please, for he never pleased. My clothes went to rags and tatters, but I never stopped to mend. Till at last I ran naked as a son of earth, with nothing but the old hand-axe in one hand and a cobble in the other. In fact, I never stopped, safe for peeps of sleep in the crannies and ledges of the cliffs. As for the bull, he got perceptibly thinner and thinner. Must have lost several tons at least, and as nervous as a schoolmarm on the wrong side of matrimony. When I'd come up with him and yell, or lane him with a rock at a long range, he'd jump like a skittish colt and tremble all over. Then he'd pull out on the run, tail and trunk waving stiff, head over one shoulder, and wicked eyes blazing, and the way he'd swear at me was something dreadful, a most immoral beast he was, a murderer and a blasphemer. But towards the end he quit all this, and fell to whimpering and crying like a baby. His spirit broke and he became a quivering jelly-mountain of misery. He'd get attacks of palpitation of the heart, and stagger around like a drunken man and fall down and bark his shins. And then he'd cry, but always on the run. Oh, man, the gods themselves would have wept with him, and you yourself or any other man. It was pitiful, and there was so much of it, but I only hardened my heart and hit up the pace. At last I wore him clean out, and he lay down, broken-winded, broken-hearted, hungry, and thirsty. When I found he wouldn't budge, I hamstrung him, and spent the better part of the day waiting into him with a handaxe.  Three feet long he was, and twenty high, and a man could sling a hammock between his tusks and sleep comfortably. Barring the fact that I had run most of the juices out of him, he was fair eating, and his four feet alone, roast at whole, would have lasted a man a twelve-month. I spent the winter there myself. And where is this valley, I asked. He waved his hand in the direction of the northeast, and said, Your tobacco is very good. I carry a fair share of it in my pouch, but I shall carry the recollection of it, until I die. In token of my appreciation, and return for the moccasins on your own feet, I will present to you these mucklucks. They commemorate Cluch and the seven blind little beggars. They are also souvenirs of an unparalleled event in history, namely the destruction of the oldest breed of animal on earth, and the youngest, and their chief virtue lies in that they will never wear out. Having affected the exchange, he knocked the ashes from his pipe, gripped my hand good night, and wandered off through the snow. Concerning this tale, for which I have already disclaimed responsibility, I would recommend those of little faith to make a visit to the Smithsonian Institute. If they bring the requisite credentials, and do not come in vacation time, they will undoubtedly gain an audience with Professor Dolvidson. The mucklucks are in his possession, and he will verify, not the manner in which they were obtained, but the material of which they are composed. When he states that they are made from the skin of the mammoth, the scientific world accepts his verdict. What more would you have? End of A Relic of the Pliocene. The story of a scheming white man among the strange people who live on the rim of the Arctic Sea. Thomas Stevens' veracity may have been indeterminate as X, and his imagination, the imagination of ordinary men, increased to the nth power, but this, at least, must be said. Never did he deliver himself a word nor deed that could be branded as a lie outright. He may have played with probability, and verged on the extremist edge of possibility, but in his tales the machinery never creaked. That he knew the Northland like a book, not a soul could deny. That he was a great traveller, and had set foot on countless unknown trails many evidences affirm. Outside of my own personal knowledge I knew men that had met him everywhere, but principally on the confines of nowhere. There was Johnson, the ex-Hudson Bay Company factor who had housed him in a Labrador factory until his dogs rested up a bit, and he was able to strike out again. There was McMahon, agent for the Alaska commercial company, who had run across him in Dutch harbour, and later on, among the outlying islands of the Aleutian group. It was indisputable that he had guided one of the earlier United States surveys, and history states positively that in a similar capacity he served the Western Union when it attempted to put through its trans-Alaskin and Siberian telegraph to Europe. Further, there was Joe Lamson, the wailing captain who, when ice-bound off the mouth of the McKenzie, had had him come aboard after tobacco. This last touch proves Thomas Stevens' identity conclusively. His quest for tobacco was perennial and untiring. Air we became fairly acquainted, I learned to greet him with one hand and pass the pouch with the other. But the night I met him in John O'Brien's Dawson Saloon, his head was wreathed in a nimbus of fifty-cent cigar smoke, and instead of my pouch he demanded my sack. We were standing by a farrow table, and forthwith he tossed it upon the high-card. Fifty, he said, and the game-keeper nodded. The high-card turned, and he handed back my sack, called for a tab, and drew me over to the scales, where the weir nonchalantly cashed him out fifty dollars in dust. And now we'll drink, he said, and later, at the bar, when he lowered his glass, reminds me of a little brew I had up tatter at-way. No, you have no knowledge of the place, nor is it down on the charts. But it's up by the rim of the Arctic Sea, not so many hundred miles from the American line, and all of half a thousand God-forsaken souls live there, giving and taking in marriage and starving and dying in between wiles. Explorers have overlooked them, and you will not find them in the census of 1890. A whale-ship was pinched there once, but the men, who had made shore over the ice, pulled out for the south and were never heard of. But it was a great brew we had, Musu and I. He added a moment later, with just the slightest suspicion of a sigh. I knew there were big deeds and wild doings behind that sigh, so I hailed him into a corner between a roulette outfit and a poker-layout, and waited for his tongue to thaw. Had one objection to Musu, he began, cocking his head meditatively. One objection and only one. He was an Indian from over on the edge of the Chippewaian country, but the trouble was he'd picked up a smattering of the scriptures. Ben Camp made a season with a renegade French-Canadian who'd studied for the church. Musu'd never seen applied Christianity, and his head was crammed with miracles, battles, and dispensations and whatnot he didn't understand. Otherwise he was a good sort, and a handyman on trail or over a fire. We'd had a hard time together and were badly knocked out when we plumped a pond tatter at. Lost outfits and dogs crossing a divide in a fall blizzard and our bellies clove to our backs and our clothes were in rags when we crawled into the village. They weren't much surprised at seeing us because of the whalemen, and gave us the meanest shack in the village to live in and the worst of their leavings to live on. What struck me at the time as strange was that they left us strictly alone. But Musu explained Shaman, sick tum-tum, he said, meaning the shaman, or medicine man, was jealous, and had advised the people to have nothing to do with us. From the little he'd seen of the whalemen he'd learned that mine was a stronger race and a wiser, so he'd only behaved as shamans have always behaved the world over, and before I get done you'll see how near right he was. These people have a law, said Musu, who so eats of meat must hunt. We be awkward, you and I, O master, in the weapons of this country, nor can we string bows nor fling spears after the man are approved. Wherefore the shaman and tummasuk, who is chief, have put their heads together, and it has been decreed that we work with the women and children in dragging in the meat and tending the wants of the hunters. And this is very wrong, I made answer, for we be better men, Musu, than these people who walk in darkness. Furthermore, we should rest and grow strong, for the way south is long, and on that trail the weak cannot prosper. But we have nothing, he objected, looking about him at the rotten timbers of the igloo, the stench of the ancient walrus meat that had been our supper disgusting his nostrils. And on this fair we cannot thrive. We have nothing save the bottle of painkiller, which will not fill emptiness, so we must bend to the yoke of the unbeliever and become hewers of wood and drawers of water. And there be good things in this place, the which we may not have. Ah, master, never has my nose lied to me, and I have followed it to secret caches among the fur bales of the igloos. Good provender did these people extort from the poor wailmen, and this provender has wandered into few hands.  And in the igloo of Tomosuk, the chief, there be tea, have I not seen the old pig guzzling? And the shaman owneth a caddy of star, and two buckets of primes smoking. And what have we? Nothing, nothing! But I was stunned by the word he brought of the tobacco and made no answer. And Musu, what of his desire, broke silence. And there be Tukuliketa, daughter of a big hunter and wealthy man, a likely girl, indeed a very nice girl. I had figured hard during the night while Musu snored, for I could not bear the thought of the tobacco so near which I could not smoke. True as he had said we had nothing, but the way became clear to me, and in the morning I said to him, Go thou cunningly abroad after thy fashion and procure me some sort of bone, crooked like a goose-neck and hollow. Also, walk humbly, but have eyes awake to the lay of pots and pans and cooking-contrivances. And remember mine is the white man's wisdom, and do what I have bid you, with sureness and dispatch. While he was away I placed the whale-oil cooking-lamp in the middle of the igloo, and moved the mangy sleeping-furs back that I might have room. Then I took apart his gun and put the barrel by handly, and afterwards braided many wicks from the cotton that the women gather wild in the summer. When he came back it was with the bone I had commanded, and with news that in the igloo of Tomasook there was a five-gallon kerosene can and a big copper kettle. So I said he had done well, and we would tarry through the day. And when midnight was near I made harangue to him. This chief, this Tomasook, hath a copper kettle likewise a kerosene can. I put a rock smooth and wavewashed in Musu's hand. The camp is hushed, and the stars are winking. Go thou creep into the chief's igloo softly, and smite him thus upon the belly and heart, and let the meat and good grub of the days to come put strength into thine arm. There will be uproaring outcry, and the village will come hot afoot. But be thou unafraid, fail thy movements, and lose thy form in the obscurity of the night and the confusion of men. And when the woman Ipsacook is a nigh thee, she who smearth her face with molasses, do thou smite her likewise, and whosoever else that possesseth flour and cometh to thy hand. Then do thou lift thy voice in pain, and double up with clasped hands, and make outcry in token that thou too hast felt the visitation of the night, and in this way shall we achieve honour and great possessions, and the caddy of star, and the prime smoking, and thy tukuliketa, who is a likely maiden. When he had departed on this errand, I bided patiently in the shack, and the tobacco seemed very near. Then there was a cry of afrite in the night, that became an uproar, and assailed the sky. I seized the painkiller, and ran forth. There was much noise, and a wailing among the women, and fear sat heavily on all. Tumasook and the woman Ipsacook rolled on the ground in pain, and with them there were diverse others, also Musu. I thrust aside those that cluttered the way of my feet, and put the mouth of the bottle to Musu's lips, and straight away he became well, and ceased his howling. Whereat there was a great clamour for the bottle from the others so stricken. But I made harangue, and ere they tasted, and were made well, I had mulked Tumasook of his copper kettle and kerosene can, and the woman Ipsacook of her sugar and molasses, and the other sick ones of goodly measures of flour. The shaman glowered wickedly at the people around my knees, though he poorly concealed the wonder that lay beneath. But I held my head high, and Musu groaned beneath the loot as he followed my heels to the shack. There I set to work. In Tumasook's copper kettle I mixed three quarts of wheat flour with five of molasses, and to this I added of water twenty quarts. Then I placed the kettle near the lamp that it might sour in the warmth and grow strong. Musu understood, and said my wisdom passed understanding, and was greater than Solomon's, who he had heard was a wise man of old time. The kerosene can I set over the lamp, and to its nose affixed a snout, and into the snout the bone that was like a gooseneck. I sent Musu without to pound ice, while I connected the barrel of his gun with the gooseneck, and midway on the barrel I piled the ice he had pounded, and at the far end of the gun barrel beyond the pan of ice I placed a small iron pot. When the brew was strong enough, and it was two days Eric could stand on its own legs, I filled the kerosene can with it, and lighted the wicks I had braided. Now that all was ready I spoke to Musu. Go forth, I said, to the chief men of the village, and give them greeting, and bid them come unto my igloo, and sleep the night away with me and the gods. The brew was singing merrily when they began shoving aside the skin flap and rolling in, and I was heaping cracked ice on the gun barrel. Out of the priming hole at the far end, drip, drip, drip into the iron pot fell the liquor, hooch, you know, but they had never seen the like, and giggled nervously when I made harangue about its virtues. As I talked I noted the jealousy in the shaman's eye, so when I had done I placed him side by side with tomasook and the woman ipsa-cook. Then I gave them to drink, and their eyes watered, and their stomachs warmed, till from being afraid they reached greedily for more. And when I had them well started I turned to the others. Tomasook made a brag about how he had once killed a polar bear, and in the vigour of his pantomime nearly slew his mother's brother, but nobody heeded. The woman ipsa-cook fell to weeping for a son, lost years gone in the ice, and the shaman made incantation in prophecy. So it went, and before morning they were all on the floor, sleeping soundly with the gods. The story tells itself, does it not? The news of the magic potion spread. It was too marvelous for utterance. Tongues could tell but a tithe of the miracles it performed. It eased pain, gave surseys to sorrow, brought back old memories, dead faces, and forgotten dreams. It was a fire that ate through all the blood, and, burning, burned not. It stoutened the heart, stiffened the back, and made men more than men. It revealed the future, and gave visions and prophecy. It brimmed with wisdom and unfolded secrets. There was no end of the things it could do, and soon there was a clamoring on all hands to sleep with the gods. They brought their warmest furs, their strongest dogs, their best meats, but I sold the hooch with discretion, and only those were favoured that brought flour and molasses and sugar, and such stores poured in that I set Musu to build a cache to hold them, for there was soon no space in the igloo. Air three days had passed, Tomasook had gone bankrupt. The shaman, who was never more than half drunk after the first night, watched me closely and hung on for the better part of the week. But before ten days were gone, even the woman Ipsacook exhausted her provisions and went home weak and tottery. But Musu complained, Oh master, he said, we have laid by great wealth in molasses and sugar and flour, but our shack is yet mean, our clothes thin, and our sleeping furs mangy. There is a call of the belly for meat, the stench of which offends not the stars, and for teas such as Tomasook guzzles, and there is a great yearning for the tobacco of Niewak, who is shaman, and who plans to destroy us. I have flour until I am sick, and sugar and molasses without stint, yet is the heart of Musu sore, and his bed empty. Peace, I answered, thou art weak of understanding and a fool, walk softly and wait, and we will grasp it all. But grasp now and we grasp little, and in the end it will be nothing.  Hold thy tongue and watch, and I will show you the way my brothers do overseas, and so doing gather to themselves the riches of the earth. It is what is called business, and what does thou know about business? But the next day he came in breathless. Oh, master, a strange thing happeneth in the igloo of Niewak the shaman. Wherefore we are lost, and we have never worn the warm furs, nor tasted the good tobacco. What of your madness for the molasses and flour? Go thou and witness whilst I watch the brew. So I went to the igloo of Niewak, and behold he had made his own still, fashioned cunningly after mine, and as he beheld me he could ill conceal his triumph. For he was a man of parts, and his sleep with the gods when in my igloo had not been sound. But I was not disturbed, for I knew what I knew, and when I returned to my own igloo I decanted to Musu, and said, Happily the property right obtains amongst this people, who otherwise have been blessed with but few of the institutions of men. And because of this respect for property shall you and I wax fat, and further we shall introduce amongst them new institutions that other peoples have worked out through great travail and suffering. But Musu understood dimly till the shaman came forth, with eyes flashing in a threatening note in his voice, and demanding to trade with me. For look you, he cried, there be of flour and molasses none in all the village, the like have you gathered with a shrewd hand from my people, who have slept with your gods, and who now have nothing save large heads and weak knees and a thirst for cold water that they cannot quench. This is not good, and my voice has power among them, so it were well that we trade you and I, even as you have traded with them for molasses and flour. And I made answer. This be good talk, and wisdom abideth in thy mouth. We will trade. For this much of flour and molasses, giveest thou me the caddy of star, and the two buckets of smoking. And Musu groan'd, and when the trade was made, and the shaman departed, he upbraided me. Now, because of thy madness are we indeed lost, knee-wick maketh hooch on his own account, and when the time is ripe, he will command the people to drink of no hooch, but his hooch. And in this way are we undone, and our goods worthless, and our igloo mean, and the bed of Musu cold and empty. And I answered. By the body of the wolf say I, thou art a fool, and thy father before thee, and thy children after thee, down to the last generation. Thy wisdom is worse than no wisdom, and thy eyes blinded to business, of which I have spoken, and whereof thou knowst nothing. Go thou, son of a thousand fools, and drink of the hooch that knee-wick bruise in his igloo, and thank thy gods that thou hast a white man's wisdom, to make soft the bed thou liest in. Go, and when thou hast drunken, return with the taste still on thy lips, that I may know. And two days after, knee-wick sent greeting and invitation to his igloo. Musu went, but I sat alone with the song of the still in my ears, and the air thick with the shaman's tobacco, for trade was slack that night, and no one dropped in but Anjeet, a young hunter that had faith in me. Later Musu came back, his speech thick with chuckling, and his eyes wrinkling with laughter, thou art a great man, he said, thou art a great man, O master, and because of thy greatness, thou wilt not condemn Musu, thy servant, who oft times doubts and cannot be made to understand. And wherefore now, I demanded, hast thou drank over much, and are they sleeping sound in the igloo of knee-wick the shaman? Nay, they are angered in sore of body, and Chief Tumasuk has thrust his thumbs in the throat of knee-wick, and sworn by the bones of his ancestors to look upon his face no more. For behold, I went to the igloo, and the brew simmered and bubbled, and the steam journeyed through the goose-neck even as thy steam, and even as thine it became water where it met the ice, and dropped into the pot at the far end, and knee-wick gave us to drink, and lo, it was not like thine, for there was no bite to the tongue, nor tingling to the eyeballs, and of a truth it was water, so we drank, and we drank over much. Yet did we sit with cold hearts, and solemn, and knee-wick was perplexed, and a cloud came on his brow, and he took Tumasuk and Ipsa-cook alone of all the company, and set them apart, and made them drink, and drink, and they drank, and drank, and drank, and yet sat solemn and cold, till Tumasuk arose in wrath, and demanded back the furs and the tea he had paid, and Ipsa-cook raised her voice thin and angry, and the company demanded back what they had given, and there was a great commotion.  La-la! I have drunken as never before, yet are my eyes clear, my knees strong, my hands steady. The shaman cannot send us to sleep with the gods, the people complained, stringing in and joining us, and only in thy igloo may the thing be done. So I laughed to myself as I passed the hooch around, and the guests made merry. For in the flower I had traded to Niwak, I had mixed much soda that I had got from the woman Ipsa-cook. So how could his brew ferment when the soda kept it sweet, or his hooch be hooch when it would not sour? After that our wealth flowed in without let or hindrance, furs we had without number, and the fancy work of the women, all of the chief's tea, and no end of meat. One day Musu retold for my benefit, and sadly mangled, the story of Joseph in Egypt, but from it I got an idea, and soon I had half the tribe at work building me great meat-caches, and of all they hunted I got the lion's share and stored it away. Nor was Musu idle. He made himself a pack of cards from Birchbark, and taught Niwak the way to play seven up. He also embagled the father of Tukuliketa into the game. And one day he married the maiden, and the next day he moved into the shaman's house, which was the finest in the village. The fall of Niwak was complete, for he lost all his possessions, his walrus-hide drums, his incantation tools, everything. And in the end he became a hewer of wood and drawer of water at the beck and call of Musu. And Musu he set himself up as shaman, or high priest, and out of his garbled scripture created new gods and made incantation before strange altars. And I was well pleased, for I thought it good that church and state go hand in hand, and I had certain plans of my own concerning the state. Events were shaping as I had foreseen. Good temper and smiling faces had vanished from the village. The people were morose and sullen. There were quarrels and fighting, and things were in an uproar night and day. Musu's cards were duplicated, and the hunters fell to gambling among themselves. Tumasuk beat his wife horribly, and his mother's brother objected, and smote him with a tusk of walrus till he cried aloud in the night and was shamed before the people. Also amid such diversions no hunting was done, and famine fell upon the land. The nights were long and dark, and without meat no hooch could be bought, so they murmured against the chief. This I had played for, and when they were well and hungry I summoned the whole village, made a great harangue, posed as patriarch, and fed the famishing. Musu made harangue likewise, and because of this and the thing I had done, I was made chief. Musu, who had the ear of God and decreed his judgments, anointed me with whale-blubber, and right blubberly he did it, not understanding the ceremony. And between us we interpreted to the people the new theory of the divine right of kings. There was hooch galore and meat and feastings, and they took kindly to the new order.  For he cast eyes upon Isanetic, eldest daughter to Tumasuk, and I objected. O brother, he explained, thou hast seen fit to speak of introducing new institutions amongst this people, and I have listened to thy words and gained wisdom thereby. Thou rulest by the God-given right, and by the God-given right I marry. I noted that he brothered me, and was angry, and put my foot down. But he fell back upon the people, and made incantations for three days, in which all hands joined, and then, speaking with the voice of God, he decreed polygamy by divine fiat. But he was shrewd, for he limited the number of wives by a property qualification, and because of which he, above all men, was favoured by his wealth. Nor could I fail to admire, though it was plain that power had turned his head, and he would not be satisfied till all the power and all the wealth rested in his own hands. So he became swollen with pride, forgot it was I that had placed him there, and made preparations to destroy me. But it was interesting, for the beggar was working out his own way an evolution of primitive society. Now I, by virtue of the Hooch monopoly, drew a revenue in which I no longer permitted him to share. So he meditated for a while, and evolved a system of ecclesiastical taxation. He laid tithes upon the people, harangued about fat firstlings and such things, and twisted whatever twisted texts he had ever heard to serve his purpose. Even this I bore in silence, but when he instituted what may be likened to a graduated income tax I rebelled, and blindly, for this was what he worked for. There at he appealed to the people, and they, envious of my great wealth and well taxed themselves, upheld him. Why should we pay, they asked, and not you? Does not the voice of God speak through the lips of Musu the Shaman? So I yielded. But at the same time I raised the price of Hooch, and lo, he was not a whit behind me in raising my taxes. Then there was an open war. I made a play for Niwak and Tumasuk, because of the traditionary rights they possessed, but Musu won out by creating a priesthood and giving them both high office. The problem of authority presented itself to him, and he worked it out as it has often been worked before. There was my mistake. I should have been made Shaman and he chief, but I saw it too late, and in the clash of spiritual and temporal power I was bound to be worsted. A great controversy waged, but it quickly became one-sided. The people remembered that he had anointed me, and it was clear to them that the source of my authority lain not in me, but in Musu. Only a few faithful ones clung to me, chief among whom Anjit was, while he headed the popular party and set whispers afloat that I had in mind to overthrow him and set up my own gods, which were most unrighteous gods. And in this the clever rascal had anticipated me, for it was just what I had intended, for sake my kingship you see, and fight spiritual with spiritual. So he frightened the people with the iniquities of my peculiar gods, especially the one he named busyness, and nipped the scheme in the bud. Now it happened that Kluktu, youngest daughter to Tomasuk, had caught my fancy, and I likewise hers. So I made overtures, but the ex-chief refused bluntly after I had paid the purchase price, and informed me that she was set aside for Musu. This was too much, and I was half of a mind to go to his igloo and slay him with my naked hands, but I recollected that the tobacco was near gone, and went home laughing. The next day he made incantation, and distorted the miracle of the loaves and fishes till it became prophecy, and I, reading between the lines, saw that it was aimed at the wealth of meat stored in my caches. The people also read between the lines, and, as he did not urge them to go on the hunt, they remained at home, and few caribou or bear were brought in. But I had plans of my own, seeing that not only the tobacco but the flour and molasses were near gone, and further I felt it my duty to prove the white man's wisdom and bring sore distress to Musu, who had waxed high stomached what of the power I had given him. So that night I went to my meat-caches and toiled mightily, and it was noted next day that all the dogs of the village were lazy. No one suspected, and I toiled thus every night, and the dogs grew fat and fatter, and the people lean and leaner. They grumbled, and demanded the fulfilment of the prophecy, but Musu restrained them, waiting for their hunger to grow yet greater, nor did he dream to the very last of the trick I had been playing on the empty caches. When all was ready I sent Anjit, and the faithful ones whom I had fed privily, through the village, to call assembly. And the tribe gathered on a great space of beaten snow before my door, with the meat-caches towering stilt-legged in the rear. Musu came also, standing on the inner edge of the circle opposite me, confident that I had some scheme afoot, and prepared at the first break to down me. But I arose, having him salutation before all men. O Musu, thou blessed of God, I began. Doubtless thou hast wondered in that I have called this convocation together, and doubtless because of many foolishnesses, thou art prepared for rash sayings and rash doings. Not so.  I have crossed thy will, and scoffed at thy authority, and done diverse evil and wanton things. Wherefore last night a vision was vouchsafed me, and I have seen the wickedness of my ways. And thou stoodst forth like a shining star with brows of flame, and I knew in my own heart thy greatness. I saw all things clearly. I knew that thou didst command the ear of God, and that when you spoke he listened, and I remembered that whatever of the good deeds that I had done, I had done through the grace of God, and the grace of Musu. Yes, my children, I cried, turning to the people. Whatever right I have done, and whatever good I have done, have been because of the counsel of Musu. When I listened to him affairs prospered, when I closed my ears, and acted according to my folly, things came to folly. By his advice it was that I laid my store of meat, and in time of darkness fed the famishing.  Let me tell you, I have done nothing. My head was turned with power, and I deemed myself greater than Musu, and behold, I have come to grief. My rule has been unwise, and the gods are angered.  Nor do I, who have hardened my heart against Musu, know what shall be done, nor in what manner of way grubs shall be had. At this there was nodding and laughing, and the people put their heads together, and I knew they whispered of the loaves and fishes. I went on hastily. So I was made aware of my foolishness, and of Musu's wisdom, of my unfitness, and of Musu's fitness, and because of this, being no longer mad, I make acknowledgment, and rectify evil. I did cast unrighteous eyes upon Kluktu, and lo, she was sealed to Musu. Yet is she mine, for did I not pay to Tummasuk the goods of purchase? But I am well unworthy of her, and she shall go from the igloo of her father to the igloo of Musu. Can the moon shine in the sunshine? And further, Tummasuk shall keep the goods of purchase, and she be a free gift to Musu, whom God hath ordained her rightful Lord. And further yet, because I have used my wealth unwisely, and to oppress ye, O my children, do I make gifts of the kerosene can to Musu, and the goose-neck, and the gun-barrel, and the copper-kettle. Therefore I can gather to me no more possessions, and when ye are a thirst for hooch, he will quench ye, and without robbery, for he is a great man, and God speaketh through his lips. And yet further my heart is softened, and I have repented me of my madness.  I, who am a slave of the bad God-business. I, who see thy empty bellies, and know not wherewith to fill them. Why shall I be chief, and sit above thee, and rule to thine own destruction? Why should I do this, which is not good? But Musu, who is shaman, and who is wise above men, is so made that he can rule with a soft hand, and justly. And because of the things I have related, do I make abdication, and give my chiefship to Musu, who alone knoweth how he may be fed in this day, when there be no meat in the land. At this there was a great clapping of hands, and the people cried, Closha, Closha, which means good. I had seen the wonder-worry in Musu's eyes, for he could not understand, and was fearful of my white man's wisdom. I had met his wishes all along the line, and even anticipated some. And standing there, self-sure of all my power, he knew the time did not favor to stir the people against me. Before they could disperse, I made announcement that while the still went to Musu, whatever hooch I possessed went to the people. Musu tried to protest at this, for never had we permitted more than a handful to be drunk at a time. But they cried, Closha, Closha, and made festival before my door. And while they waxed up rorious without, as the liquor went to their heads, I held counsel within with Anjit and the faithful ones. I set them the tasks they were to do, and put into their mouths the words they were to say. Then I slipped away to a place back in the woods where I had two sleds, well loaded, with teams of dogs that were not overfed. Spring was at hand, you see, and there was a crust to the snow, so it was the best time to take the way south. Moreover, the tobacco was gone. There I waited, for I had nothing to fear. Did they besture themselves on my trail their dogs were too fat, and themselves too lean to overtake me. Also, I deemed their besturing would be of an order for which I had made do preparation. First came a faithful one, running, and after him another. Oh, master! the first cried, breathless, there be great confusion in the village, and no man knoweth his own mind. And they be of many minds. Everybody hath drunken over much, and some be stringing bows, and some be quarreling one with another. Never was there such trouble. And the second one. And I did, as thou biddest, oh master, whispering shrewd words and thirsty ears and raising memories of the things that were of old time. The woman Ipsa cook waileth her poverty and the wealth that no longer is hers. And Thomasuch thinketh himself once again chief, and the people are hungry, and rage up and down. And a third one. And Neewick hath overthrown the altars of Moosu, and maketh incantation before the time honored in ancient gods. And all the people remember the wealth that ran down their throats, and which they possess no more. And first Isenetuch, who be sick dumtum, fought with cluck to, and there was much noise. And next, being daughters of the one mother, did they fight with tukuliketa.  Then came Angie. Great trouble hath befallen Moosu, oh master, for I have whispered to advantage till the people came to Moosu, saying they were hungry and demanding the fulfillment of prophecy. And there was a loud shout of ittle willy, ittle willy, meat. So he cried peace to his womenfolk, who were overwrought with anger and with hooch, and led the tribe even to thy meat caches. And then he bade the men open them and be fed, and lo, the caches were empty. There was no meat. They stood without sound, the people being frightened. And in the silence, I lifted my voice, oh Moosu, where is the meat? That there was meat we know. Did we not hunt it and drag it in from the hunt? And it were a lie to say one man hath eaten it? Yet have we seen nor hide nor hair. Where is the meat, oh Moosu? Thou hast the ear of God, where is the meat? And the people cried, Thou hast the ear of God, where is the meat? And they put their heads together and were afraid. Then I went among them, speaking fearsomely of the unknown things of the dead that come and go like shadows and do evil deeds till they cried aloud in terror and gathered all together like little children afraid of the dark. Niwak made her rang, laying this evil that had come upon them at the door of Moosu. When he had done, there was a furious commotion, and they took spears in their hands and tusks of walrus and clubs and stones from the beach. But Moosu ran away home, and because he had not drunken of hooch they could not catch him, and fell one over another and made haste slowly. But even now they do howl without his igloo and his women folk within, and what of the noise he cannot make himself heard. Oh, Angie, Thou hast done well. I commanded, go now, taking this empty sled and the lean dogs and ride fast to the igloo of Moosu, and before the people who are drunken are aware, throw him quick upon the sled and bring him to me. I waited and gave good advice to the faithful ones till Angie returned. Moosu was on the sled, and I saw by the finger marks on his face that his women kind had done well by him. But he tumbled off and fell in the snow at my feet crying, Oh, master, Thou wilt forgive Moosu, Thy servant, for the wrong things he has done, Thou art a great man, surely wilt Thou forgive? Call me brother, Moosu, call me brother, I chided, lifting him to his feet with the toe of my moccasin. Will Thou evermore obey? Yay, master, he whimpered ever more. Then disposed thy body so across the sled, I shifted the dog whip to my right hand, and direct thy face downwards toward the snow, and make haste for re-journey south this day. And when he was well fixed, I laid the lash upon him reciting at every stroke the wrongs he had done me. This for thy disobedience in general, whack! And this for thy disobedience in particular, whack, whack! And this for Isenituk, and this for thy soul's welfare, and this for the grace of thy authority, and this for cluck too, and this for thy rite's God-given, and this for thy fat firstlings, and this and this for thy income tax, and thy loaves and fishes, and this for all thy disobedience, and this, finally, that thou mayst henceforth walk softly and with understanding. Now cease thy sniffling, and get up, gird on thy snowshoes, and go to the fore and break trail for the dogs. Chook, mush on, get! Thomas Stevens smiled quietly to himself as he lighted his fifth cigar and sent curling smoke-ring ceilingward. But how about the people of Tadarat, I asked? Kind of rough, wasn't it, to leave them flat with famine? And he answered, laughing, between two smoke-rings, were there not the fat dogs? End of A Hyperborean Brew, Section II of the Faith of Men by Jack London. This recording is in the public domain. Section III of the Faith of Men. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org The Faith of Men by Jack London. Tell you what we'll do. We'll shake for it. That suits me, said the second man, turning as he spoke to the Indian that was mending shoes in a corner of the cabin. Here you, Billy Bedham. Take a run down to Olson's cabin like a good fellow, and tell him we want to borrow his dice-box. This sudden request in the midst of a council on wages of men, wood, and grub surprised Billy Bedham. Besides, it was early in the day, and he had never known white men of the caliber of Pentfield and Hutchinson, to dice and play till the day's work was done. But his face was impassive, as a Yukon Indian should be, as he pulled on his mittens and went out the door. Though at eight o'clock it was still dark outside, and the cabin was lighted by a tallow candle thrust into an empty whiskey bottle. It stood on the pine board table in the middle of a disarray of dirty ten dishes. Tallow, from innumerable candles, had dripped on the long neck of the bottle, and hardened into a miniature glacier. The small room, which composed the entire cabin, was as badly littered as the table, while at one end, against the wall, were two bunks, one above the other, with the blankets turned down, just as the two men had crawled out in the morning. Lawrence Pentfield and Corey Hutchinson were millionaires, though they did not look it. There seemed nothing unusual about them, while they would have passed musterous fair specimens of lumbermen in any Michigan camp. But outside, in the darkness, were holes yawned in the ground, where many men engaged in windlessing muck and gravel and gold from the bottoms of the holes, where other men received fifteen dollars per day for scraping it off the bedrock. Each day thousands of dollars worth of gold were scraped from bedrock and windless to the surface, and it all belonged to Pentfield and Hutchinson, who took their rank among the richest kings of Bonanza. Pentfield broke the silence that followed on Billy Beatham's departure by heaping the dirty plates higher on the table and drumming a tattoo on the cleared space with his knuckles. Hutchinson snuffed the smoky candle and reflectively rubbed the soot from the wick between thumb and forefinger. By Jove I wish we could both go out, he abruptly exclaimed. That would settle at all. Pentfield looked at him darkly. If it weren't for your cursed obstinacy I'd be settled anyway. All you have to do is get up and go. I'll look after things, and next year I can go out. Why should I go? I've no one waiting for me. Your people, Pentfield broke in roughly. Like you have, Hutchinson went on.  Pentfield shrugged his shoulders gloomily. She can wait, I guess. But she's been waiting two years now, and another won't age her beyond recognition. That'd be three years. Think of it, old man. Three years in this end of the earth, this falling off place for the damned. Hutchinson threw up his arms in an almost articulate groan. He was several years younger than his partner, not more than twenty-six, and there was a certain wistfulness in his face that comes into the faces of men when they yearn vainly for the things they have been long denied. This same wistfulness was in Pentfield's face, and the groan of it was articulate in the heave of his shoulders. I dreamed last night I was in Zinkins. He said, the music playing, glasses clinking, voices humming, women laughing. I was ordering eggs. Yes, sir, eggs, fried and boiled and poached and scrambled, and in all sorts of ways, and downing them as fast as they arrived. I'd have ordered salads and green things, Hutchinson criticized hungrily, with a big rare porter-house, and young onions, radishes, the kind your teeth sink into with a crunch. I'd have followed the eggs with them, I guess, if I hadn't awakened, Pentfield replied. He picked up a trail-scarred banjo from the floor, and began to strum a few wandering notes. Hutchinson winced and breathed heavily. Quit it! He burst out with sudden fury, as the other struck into a gaily lifting swing. It drives me mad. I can't stand it! Pentfield tossed the banjo into a bunk and quoted, Hear me babble, what the weakest won't confess. I am memory and torment. I am town. I am all that ever went with evening dress. The other man winced where he sat, and dropped his head forward on the table. Pentfield resumed the monotonous strumming with his knuckles. A loud snap from the door attracted his attention.  The flocks are folded, bows are bare. The salmon takes the sea, and oh, my fair, what I somewhere might house my heart with thee. Silence fell, and was not again broken till Billy beat him, arrived and threw the dice on the table. Um, cold, he said. Olson, um, speak to me. Um, say. Um, Yukon freeze last night. Hear that old man, Pentfield cried, slapping Hutchinson on the shoulder. Whoever wins can be hitting the trail for God's country this time to-morrow morning. He picked up the box briskly rattling the dice. What'll it be? Straight poker dice, Hutchinson answered. Go on, roll them out. Pentfield swept the dishes from the table with a crash, and rolled out the five dice. Both looked tragedy. The shake was without a pair, a five-spot high. A stiff Pentfield cried. After much deliberating, Pentfield picked up all the five dice and put them in the box. I'd shake to the five if I were you, Hutchinson suggested. No, you wouldn't. Not when you see this, Pentfield replied, shaking out the dice. Again, they were without a pair, running this time an unbroken sequence from two to six. A second stiff, he groaned. No use your shaking, Corey. You can't lose. The other man gathered up the dice without a word, rattled them, rolled them out on the table with a flourish, and saw that he had likewise shaken a six-high stiff. Tied you anyway, but I'll have to do better than that, he said, gathering in four of them and shaking to the six. And here's what beats you. But they rolled out deuce, tray, four and five. A stiff still. No better, no worse than Pentfield's throw. Hutchinson sighed. Couldn't happen once in a million times, he said. Nor in a million lives, Pentfield added, catching up the dice and quickly throwing them out. Three fives appeared, and after much delay he was rewarded by a fourth five on the second shake. Hutchinson seemed to have lost his last hope. But three sixes turned up on his first shake. A great doubt rose in the other's eyes, and hope returned to his. He had one more shake, another six, and he would go over the ice to saltwater and the states. He rattled the dice in the box, made as though to cast them, hesitated, and continued to rattle them.  Don't take all night about it, Pentfield cried sharply, bending his nails on the table. So tight was the clutch, with which he strove to control himself. The dice rolled forth, and up turned six, meeting their eyes. Both men sat staring at it. There was a long silence. Hutchinson shot a covert glance at his partner, who still more covertly, caught it, and pursed up his lip in an attempt to advertise his unconcern. Hutchinson laughed as he got on his feet. It was a nervous apprehensive laugh. It was a case where it was more awkward to win than lose. He walked over to his partner, who whirled upon him fiercely.  I know all you're going to say, that you'd rather stay in and let me go, and all that, so don't say it. You've your own people in Detroit to see, and that's enough. Besides, you can do for me the very thing I expected to do, if I went out. And that is? Pentfield read the full question in his partner's eyes, and answered. Yes, the very thing. You can bring her to me. The only difference will be a Dawson wedding, instead of a San Francisco one. But man alike, Corey Hutchinson objected, how under the son can I bring her in? We're not exactly brother and sister, seeing that I have not even met her, and it wouldn't be just the proper thing, you know, for us to travel together. Of course, it would be all right. You and I know that. But think of the looks of it, man. Pentfield swore under his breath, consigning the looks of it to a less frigid region than Alaska. Now, if you'll just listen and not get astride that high horse of yours, so blamed quick, his partner went on, you'll see that the only fair thing under the circumstances is for me to let you go out this year. Next year is only a year away, and then I can take my fling. Pentfield shook his head, though visibly swayed by the temptation. It wouldn't do, Corey, old man. I appreciate your kindness and all that, but it won't do. I'd be ashamed every time I thought of you slaving away, in here, in my place. A thought seemed suddenly to strike him. Burrowing into his bunk and disrupting it in his eagerness, he secured a writing pad and pencil, and sitting down at the table began to write with swiftness and certitude. Here, he said, thrusting the scrawled letter into his partner's hand. You just deliver that, and everything will be all right. Hutchinson ran his eye over it and laid it down. How do you know the brother will be willing to make that beastly trip in here? He demanded. Oh, he'll do it for me, and for his sister, Pentfield replied. You'll see. He's a tender foot, and I wouldn't trust her with him alone, but with you along, it will be an easy trip and a safe one. As soon as you get out, you'll go to her and prepare her. Then you can take your run east to your own people, and in the spring, she and her brother will be ready to start with you. You'll like her, I know, right from the jump. And from that, you'll know her as soon as you lay eyes on her. So saying, he opened the back of his watch and exposed a girl's photograph, pasted on the inside of the case. Corey Hutchinson gazed at it with admiration welling up in his eyes. Mabel is her name, Pentfield went on. And it's just as well you should know how to find the house. Soon as you strike Frisco, take a cab, and just say, home's place, Murden Avenue. I doubt if the Murden Avenue is necessary, the cab you'll know where Judge Holmes lives. And say, Pentfield continued after a pause, it won't be a bad idea for you to get me a few little things, which a married man should have in his business. Hutchinson blurted out with a grin. Pentfield grinned back, sure, napkins and tablecloths and sheets and pillow slips and such things. And you might get a good set of china. You know, it'll come hard for her to settle down in this sort of thing. You can freight them in by steamer, around by Bering Sea. And I say, what's the matter with the piano? Hutchinson seconded the idea heartily. His reluctance had vanished, and he was warming up to the mission. By Joe of Lawrence, he said at the conclusion of the council, as they both rose to their feet, I'll bring back that girl of yours in style. I'll do the cooking and take care of the dogs, and all that brother will have to do will be to see her comfort and do for her whatever I've forgotten.  The next day Lawrence Pentfield shook hands with him for the last time, and watched him running with his dogs disappear up the frozen Yukon on his way to salt water and the world. Pentfield went back to his bonanza mine, which was many times more dreary than before, and faced resolutely into the long winter. There was work to be done, men to be superintended, and operations to direct in burrowing after the erratic paystrike. But his heart was not in the work, nor was his heart in any work, till the tiered logs of the new cabin began to rise on the hill behind the mine. It was a grand cabin, warmly built, and divided into three comfortable rooms. Each log was hand-hewned and squared, an expensive whim when the ax-man received a daily wage of $15. But to him nothing could be too costly for the home in which Mabel Holmes was to live. So he went about with the building of the cabin, singing, and, oh, my fair, would I somewhere might house my heart with thee. Also he had a calendar pinned on the wall above the table, and his first act each morning was to check off the day and to count the days that were left ere his partner would come booming down the Yukon ice in the spring. Another whim of his was to permit no one to sleep in the cabin on the hill. It must be as fresh for her occupancy as the square-hued wood was fresh. And when it stood complete, he put a padlock on the door. No one entered, save himself.  In December he received a letter from Corey Hutchinson. He had just seen Mabel Holmes. She was all she ought to be to be Lawrence Pentfield's wife, he wrote. He was enthusiastic, and his letter sent the blood tingling through Pentfield's veins. Other letters followed, one on the heels of another, and sometimes two or three together when the male lumped up, and they were all in the same tenor. Corey had just come from Murden Avenue, Corey was just going to Murden Avenue, or Corey was at Murden Avenue. And he lingered on and on in San Francisco, nor even mentioned his trip to Detroit. Lawrence Pentfield began to think that his partner was a great deal in the company of Mabel Holmes, for a fellow who was going east to see his people. Even caught himself worrying about it at times, though he would have worried more had he not known Mabel and Corey so well. Mabel's letters, on the other hand, had a great deal to say about Corey, also a threat of timidity that was near to disinclination ran through them concerning the trip in over the ice and the Dawson marriage. Pentfield wrote back heartily, laughing at her fears, which he took to be the mere physical ones of danger and hardship rather than those bred of maidenly reserve. But the long winter and tedious wait following upon the two previous long winters were telling upon him. The superintendents of the men and the pursuit of the pastry could not break the irk of the daily round. And the end of January found him making occasional trips to Dawson where he could forget his identity for a space at the gambling tables. Because he could afford to lose, he won, and Pentfield's luck became a stock phrase among the Fargo players. His luck ran with him till the second week in February. How much farther it might have run is conjectural, for after one big game he never played again. It was in the opera house that it occurred, and for an hour it had seemed that he could not place his money on a card without making the card a winner. In the lull at the end of a deal, while the gamekeeper was shuffling the deck, Nick Inwood, the owner of the game, remarked that propose of nothing. I say, Pentfield, I see that partner of yours has been cutting up monkey shines on the outside. Trust Corey to have a good time, Pentfield had answered, especially when he has earned it. Every man to his taste, Nick Inwood laughed, but I should scarcely call getting married a good time. Corey, married? Pentfield cried incredulous and yet surprised out of himself for the moment. Sure, Inwood said, I saw it in the Frisco paper that came in over the ice this morning. Well, who's the girl? Pentfield demanded, somewhat with the air of patient fortitude, with which one takes the bait of a catch, and is aware at the time of the large laugh bound to follow, at his expense. Nick Inwood pulled the paper from his pocket and began looking it over, saying, I have a remarkable memory for names, but it seems to me it's something like Mabel, Mabel, oh yes, here it is, Mabel Holmes, daughter of Judge Holmes, whoever he is. Lawrence Pentfield never turned a hair, though he wondered how any man in the North could know her name. He glanced coolly from face to face to note any vagrant signs of the game that was being played upon him. But beyond a healthy curiosity the faces betrayed nothing. Then he turned to the gambler and said in cold, even tones, Inwood, I got an even five hundred here, that says the print of what you have just said is not in that paper. The gambler looked at him in quizzical surprise.  I thought so, Pentfield sneered returning to the game and laying a couple of bets. Nick Inwood's face flushed, and as though doubting his senses he ran careful eyes over the print of a quarter of a column, then he turned on Lawrence Pentfield. Look here, Pentfield, he said in a quiet, nervous manner. I can't allow that you know. Allow what, Pentfield demanded brutally. You implied that I lied. Nothing of the sort came the reply. I merely implied that you were trying to be clumsily witty. Make your bets, gentlemen, the dealer protested. But I tell you it's true, Nick Inwood insisted. And I have told you, I have five hundred that says it's not in that paper. Pentfield answered at the same time, throwing a heavy sack of dust on the table. I'm sorry to take your money, was the retort, as Inwood thrust the newspaper into Pentfield's hand. Pentfield saw, though he could not quite bring himself to believe, glancing through the headline, young Lochan Var came out of the North and skimming the article until the names of Mabel Holmes and Corey Hutchinson, coupled together, leaped squarely before his eyes and turned to the top of the page. It was a San Francisco paper. The money's yours, Inwood, he remarked with a short laugh. There's no telling what that partner of mine will do when he gets started. Then he returned to the article and read it, word for word, very slowly and very carefully. He could no longer doubt beyond dispute Corey Hutchinson had married Mabel Holmes. One of the Bonanza Kings, it described him, a partner with Lawrence Pentfield, whom San Francisco society has not yet forgotten, and interested with that gentleman in other rich Klondike properties. Further, at the end, he read, it is whispered that Mr. and Mrs. Hutchinson will, after a brief trip east to Detroit, make their real honeymoon journey into the fascinating Klondike country. I'll be back again, keep my place for me, Pentfield said, rising to his feet and taking his sack, which, meantime, had hit the blower and came back lighter by $500. He went down the street and bought a Seattle paper. It contained the same facts, though somewhat condensed. Corey and Mabel were indubitably married. Pentfield returned to the opera house and resumed his seat in the game. He asked to have the limit removed. Trying to get action, Nick Inwood left. As he nodded ascent to the dealer, I was going down to the AC store, but now I guess I'll stay and watch you do your worst. This Lawrence Pentfield did at the end of two hours plunging. When the dealer bit the end off a fresh cigar and struck a match, as he announced that the bank was broken, Pentfield cashed in for $40,000, shook hands with Nick Inwood, and stated that it was the last time he would ever play at his game or anybody else's. No one knew nor guessed that he had been hit, much less hit hard. There was no apparent change in his manner. For a week he went about his work, much as he had always done when he read an account of the marriage in a Portland paper. Then he called in a friend to take charge of his mind and departed upon the Yukon behind his dogs. He held to the saltwater trail till White River was reached into which he turned. Five days later he came upon a hunting camp of the White River Indians. In the evening there was a feast, and he sat in honor beside the chief. And next morning he headed his dogs back toward the Yukon. But he no longer traveled alone. A young squawf had his dogs for him that night and helped to pitch camp. She had been mauled by a bear in her childhood and suffered from a slight limp. Her name was Lashka, and she was diffident at first with the strange white man that had come out of the unknown, married her with scarcely a looker word, and now was carrying her back with him into the unknown. But Lashkas was better fortune than false to most Indian girls that mate with white men in the Northland. No sooner was Dawson reached than the barbaric marriage that had joined them was resalemnized in the white man's fashion before a priest. From Dawson, which to her was all a marvel and a dream, she was taken directly to the bonanza claim and installed in the square-hued cabin on the hill. The nine days' wonder that followed arose not so much out of the fact of the squaw whom Lawrence Penfield had taken to bed and board as out of the ceremony that had legalized the tie. The properly sanctioned marriage was the one thing that passed the community's comprehension. But no one bothered Penfield about it. So long as a man's vagarities did no special hurt to the community, the community let the man alone, nor was Penfield barred from the cabins of men who possessed white wives. The marriage ceremony removed him from the status of squaw man and placed him beyond moral reproach, though there were men that challenged his taste where women were concerned. No more letters arrived from the outside. Six sled-loads of males had been lost at the big salmon. Besides, Penfield knew that Cory and his bride must by that time have started out over the trail. They were even then, on their honeymoon trip, the honeymoon trip he had dreamed of, for himself, through two dreary years. His lip curled with bitterness at the thought, but beyond being kinder to Lashka, he gave no sign. March had passed, and April was nearing its end. When one spring morning, Lashka asked permission to go down to the creek, several miles to Sishwash Pete's cabin. Pete's wife, a steward river woman, had sent up word that something was wrong with her baby, and Lashka, who was preeminently a mother woman, and who held herself to be truly wise in the matter of infantile troubles, missed no opportunity of nursing the children of other women as yet more fortunate than she. Penfield harnessed his dogs, and with Lashka behind, took the trail down the creek bed of Bonanza. Spring was in the air. The sharpness had gone out of the bite of the frost, and though snow still covered the land, the murmur and trickling of water told that the iron grip of winter was relaxing. The bottom was dropping out of the trail, and here and there a new trail had been broken around open holes. At such a place where there was no room for two sleds to pass, Penfield heard the jingle of approaching bells and stopped his dogs. A team of tired-looking dogs appeared around the narrow bend, followed by a heavily loaded sled, at the Gipol, was a man who steered, in a manner familiar, to Penfield. And behind the sled walked two women. His glance returned to the man at the Gipol. It was Cory. Penfield got on his feet and waited. He was glad that Lashka was with him. The meeting could not have come out better had he planned it, he thought. And as he waited, he wondered what they would say, what they would be able to say. As for himself, there was no need to say anything. The explaining was all on their side, and he was ready to listen to them. As they drew in a breast, Cory recognized him and halted the dogs. With a hello old man, he held out his hand. Penfield shook it, but without warmth or speech. By this time the two women had come up, and he noticed the second one was Dora Holmes. He doffed his fur cap, the flaps of which were flying, shook hands with her, and turned toward Mabel. She swayed forward, splendid and radiant, but faltered before his outstretched hand. He had intended to say, How do you do, Mrs. Hutchinson? But somehow the Mrs. Hutchinson had choked him. And all he managed to articulate was, How do you do? There was all the constraint and awkwardness in the situation he could have wished. Mabel betrayed the agitation appropriate to her position, while Dora evidently brought along as some sort of peacemaker was saying. Why, what is the matter, Lawrence? Before he could answer, Cory plucked him by the sleeve and drew him aside. See here, old man, what's this mean? Cory demanded in a low tone, indicating Lashko with his eyes. I can hardly see Cory, where you can have any concern in the matter. Old Dancer mockingly. But Cory drove straight to the point. What is that squad doing on your sled? A nasty job you've given me to explain all this away. I only hope it can be explained away. Who is she? Who's squad is she? Then Lawrence Penfield delivered his stroke, and he delivered it with a certain culmination of spirit that seemed somewhat to compensate for the wrong that had been done him. She is my squaw, he said. Mrs. Penfield, if you please. Cory Hutchinson gasped, and Penfield left him and returned to the two women. Mabel, with a worried expression on her face, seemed holding herself aloof. He turned to Dora and asked quite genially, as though all the world was sunshine. How did you stand the trip, anyway? Have any trouble to sleep warm? And how did Mrs. Hutchinson stand it? He asked next, his eyes on Mabel. Oh, you dear nanny, Dora cried, throwing her arms around him and hugging him. Then you saw it too. I thought something was the matter. You were acting so strangely. I hardly understand, he stammered. It was corrected in the next day's paper. Dora chattered on. We did not dream you would see it. All the other papers had it correctly, and of course the one miserable paper was the very one you saw. Wait a moment. What do you mean? Penfield demanded. A sudden fear at his heart, for he felt himself on the verge of a great gulf. But Dora swept volubily on. Why, when it became known that Mabel and I were going to Klondike every other week, said that when we were gone it would be lovely on Murden Avenue, meaning of course, lonely. Then I am Mrs. Hutchinson, Dora answered. And you thought it was Mabel all the time. Precisely the way of it, Penfield replied slowly. But I can see now the reporter got the names mixed. The Seattle and Portland paper copied. He stood silently for a minute. Mabel's face was turned toward him again. And he could see the glow of expectancy in it. Cory was deeply interested in the ragged toe of one of his moccasins, while Dora was stealing side-long glances at the immobile face of Lashka, sitting on the sled. Lawrence Penfield stared straight out, before him, into a dreary future, through the gray vistas of which he saw himself riding on a sled behind running dogs with lame Lashka by his side. Then he spoke, quite simply, looking Mabel in the eyes. I am very sorry I did not dream of it. I thought you had married Cory. That is Mrs. Penfield sitting on the sled over there. Mabel Holmes turned weakly toward her sister, as though all the fatigue of her great journey had suddenly descended on her. Dora caught her around the waist. Cory Hutchinson was still occupied with his moccasins. Penfield glanced quickly from face to face, then turned to his sled.  He said to Lashka. The long whiplash hissed out. The dogs sprang against the breastbands, and the sled lurched and jerked ahead. Oh, I say, Cory, Penfield called back. You'd better occupy the old cabin. It's not been used for some time. I've built a new one on the hill. End of The Faith of Men by Jack London. Recording by Robert Scott, June the 26th, 2007.