"What's yours?" he answered."A stampede come down from Indian River yesterday afternoon an' beat you to it.They ain't no claims left.""That being so, I repeat, what's your hurry?""WHO? Me? I ain't no stampeder.I'm workin' for the government.I'm on official business.I'm just traipsin' along to take the census of Squaw Creek."To another, who hailed him with: "Where away, little one? Do you really expect to stake a claim?" Shorty answered:
"Me? I'm the discoverer of Squaw Creek.I'm just comin' back from recordin' so as to see no blamed chechaquo jumps my claim."The average pace of the stampeders on the smooth going was three miles and a half an hour.Smoke and Shorty were doing four and a half, though sometimes they broke into short runs and went faster.
"I'm going to travel your feet clean off, Shorty," Smoke challenged."Huh!I can hike along on the stumps an' wear the heels off yourmoccasins.Though it ain't no use.I've ben figgerin'.Creek claims is five hundred feet.Call 'em ten to the mile.They's a thousand stampeders ahead of us, an' that creek ain't no hundred miles long.Somebody's goin' to get left, an' it makes a noise like you an' me."Before replying, Smoke let out an unexpected link that threw Shorty half a dozen feet in the rear.
"If you saved your breath and kept up, we'd cut down a few of that thousand," he chided.
"Who?Me?If you's get outa the way I'd show you a pace what is." Smoke laughed, and let out another link.The whole aspect of the adventure had changed.Through his brain was running a phrase of the mad philosopher--"the transvaluation ofvalues."In truth, he was less interested in staking a fortune than in beating Shorty.After all, he concluded, it wasn't the reward of the game but the playing of it that counted.Mind, and muscle, and stamina, and soul, were challenged in a contest with this Shorty, a man who had never opened the books, and whodid not know grand opera from rag- time, nor an epic from a chilblain."Shorty, I've got you skinned to death.I've reconstructed every cellin my body since I hit the beach at Dyea.My flesh is as stringy as whipcords, and as bitter and mean as the bite of a rattlesnake.A few months ago I'd have patted myself on the back to write such words, but I couldn't have written them.I had to live them first, and now that I'm living them there's no need to write them.I'm the real, bitter, stinging goods, and no scrub of a mountaineer can put anything over on me without getting it back compound.Now, you go ahead and set pace for half an hour.Do your worst, and when you're all in I'll go ahead and give you half an hour of the real worst.""Huh!" Shorty sneered genially."An' him not dry behind the ears yet.Get outa the way an' let your father show you some goin'."Half-hour by half-hour they alternated in setting pace.Nor did they talk much.Their exertions kept them warm, though their breath froze on their faces from lips to chin.So intense was the cold that they almostcontinually rubbed their noses and cheeks with their mittens.A few minutes cessation from this allowed the flesh to grow numb, and then most vigorous rubbing was required to produce the burning prickle of returning circulation.
Often they thought they had reached the lead, but always they overtook more stampeders who had started before them.Occasionally, groups of men attempted to swing in behind to their pace, but invariably they were discouraged after a mile or two, and disappeared in the darkness to the rear.
"We've been out on trail all winter," was Shorty's comment."An' them geezers, soft from laying around their cabins, has the nerve to think they can keep our stride.Now, if they was real sour-doughs it'd be different.If there's one thing a sour-dough can do it's sure walk."Once, Smoke lighted a match and glanced at his watch.He never repeated it, for so quick was the bite of the frost on his bared hands, that half an hour passed before they were again comfortable.
"Four o'clock," he said, as he pulled on his mittens, "and we've already passed three hundred.""Three hundred and thirty-eight," Shorty corrected."I ben keepin' count.Get outa the way, stranger.Let somebody stampede that knows how to stampede."The latter was addressed to a man, evidently exhausted, who could no more than stumble along, and who blocked the trail.This, and one other, were the only played-out men they encountered, for they were very near to the head of the stampede.Nor did they learn till afterwards the horrors of that night.Exhausted men sat down to rest by the way, and failed to get up.Seven were frozen to death, while scores of amputations of toes, feet, and fingers were performed in the Dawson hospitals on the survivors.For of all nights for a stampede, the one to Squaw Creek occurred on the coldest night of the year.Before morning, the spirit thermometers at Dawson registered seventy degrees below zero.The men composing the stampede, with few exceptions, were new-comers in the country who did not know the way of the cold.
The other played-out man they found a few minutes later, revealed bya streamer of aurora borealis that shot like a searchlight from horizon to zenith.He was sitting on a piece of ice beside the trail.
"Hop along, sister Mary," Shorty gaily greeted him."Keep movin'.If you sit there you'll freeze stiff."The man made no response, and they stopped to investigate.
"Stiff as a poker," was Shorty's verdict."If you tumbled him over he'd break.""See if he's breathing," Smoke said, as, with bared hands, he sought through furs and woollens for the man's heart.
Shorty lifted one ear-flap and bent to the iced lips."Nary breathe," he reported.
"Nor heart-beat," said Smoke.
