Free The Trail of 98 by Robert W Service Page B

going, and sad enough her going seemed to me. They were all for
Dyea, and the grim old Chilcoot, with its blizzard-beaten steeps, while we had
chosen the less precipitous, but more drawn-out, Skagway trail. Among them I saw
the inseparable twins; the grim Hewson, the silent Mervin, each quiet and
watchful, as if storing up power for a tremendous effort. There was the large
unwholesomeness of Madam Winklestein, all jewellery, smiles and coarse badinage,
and near her, her perfumed husband, squinting and smirking abominably. There was
the old man, with his face of a Hebrew Seer, his visionary eye now aglow with
fanatical enthusiasm, his lips ever muttering: "Klondike, Klondike"; and lastly,
by his side, with a little wry smile on her lips, there was the white-faced
girl.
    How my heart ached for
her! But the time for sentiment was at an end. The clarion call to action rang
out. Inflexibly the trail was mustering us. The hour was come for every one to
give of the best that was in him, even as he had never given it before. The
reign of peace was over; the fight was on.
    On all sides were indescribable bustle, confusion and excitement; men
shouting, swearing, rushing hither, thither; wrangling, anxious-eyed and
distracted over their outfits. A mood of unsparing energy dominated them. Their
only thought was to get away on the gold-trail. A frantic eagerness impelled
them; insistent, imperative; the trail called to them, and the light of the
gold-lust smouldered and flamed in their uneasy eyes. Already the spirit of the
gold-trail was awakening.
    Hundreds of scattered tents; a few frame buildings, mostly saloons,
dance-halls and gambling joints; an eager, excited mob crowding on the loose
sidewalks, floundering knee-deep in the mire of the streets, struggling and
squabbling and cursing over their outfitsthat is all I remember of Skagway. The
mountains, stark and bare to the bluff, seemed to overwhelm the flimsy town, and
between them, like a giant funnel, a great wind was roaring.
    Lawlessness was rampant, but it did not touch us. The thugs lay in wait for
the men with pokes from the "inside." To the great Cheechako army, they gave
little heed. They were captained by one Smith, known as "Soapy," whom I had the
fortune to meet. He was a pleasant-appearing, sociableman, and no one would have taken him for
a desperado, a killer of men.
    One picture of Skagway is still vivid in my memory. The scene is a saloon,
and along with the Prodigal, I am having a glass of beer. In a corner sits a
befuddled old man, half asleep. He is long and lank, with a leathery face and a
rusty goatee beardas ragged, disreputable an old sinner as ever bellied up to a
bar. Suddenly there is a sound of shooting. We rush out and there are two toughs
blazing away at each other from the sheltering corners of an opposite
building.
    "Hey, Dad! There's some shootin' goin' on," says the barkeeper.
    The old man rouses and cocks up a bleary, benevolent eye.
    "Shooting', did ye say? Pshaw! Them fellers don't know how to shoot. Old
Dad'll show 'em how to shoot."
    He comes to the door, and lugging out a big rusty revolver, blazes away at
one of the combatants. The man, with a howl of surprise and pain, limps away.
The old man turns to the other fellow. Bang! We see splinters fly, and a man
running for dear life.
    "Told you I'd show 'em how to shoot," remarks old Dad to us. "Thanks, I'll
have a gin-fizz for mine."
    The Prodigal developed a wonderful executive ability about this time; he was
a marvel of activity, seemed to think of everything and to glory in hisresponsibility as a leader.
Always cheerful, always thoughtful, he was the brains of our party. He never
abated in his efforts a moment, and was an example and a stimulus to us all.I say "all," for we had added the "Jam-wagon" 1 to our number. It was the Prodigal who discovered him. He was a tall, dissolute
Englishman, gaunt, ragged and verminous, but with the earmarks of a