



Produced by Al Haines









[Illustration: Cover art]




[Frontispiece: ALONE IN THE VAST SOLITUDE.]




A CLAIM ON KLONDIKE


A Romance

OF

THE ARCTIC EL DORADO



BY

EDWARD ROPER, F.R.G.S.


AUTHOR OF

'BY TRACK AND TRAIL THROUGH CANADA,' ETC., ETC.



_WITH ILLUSTRATIONS_



WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS

EDINBURGH AND LONDON

MDCCCXCIX



_All Rights reserved_




ILLUSTRATIONS.


ALONE IN THE VAST SOLITUDE...... _Frontispiece_

SHOOTING MYLES CANYON

LAKE LA BARGE

FIVE FINGERS RAPIDS

ON THE YUKON AT THE MOUTH OF THE KLONDYKE RIVER

OUR DUG-OUT, OUR TUNNEL, AND OUR SLUICE

"WHEN SHE APPEARED AGAIN I WAS GREATLY EMBARRASSED"

MAY AND I IN THE DUG-OUT

"IT WAS A MELANCHOLY UNDERTAKING"

"WELCOME, FRIENDS."




A CLAIM ON KLONDYKE



PREAMBLE.

Somewhere near midnight in January 1897, a man--important to this
little history--stood on an expanse of glittering snow, amidst low
forest-covered hills and rugged mountains which were draped in the same
white garb.  He was looking eagerly towards the north-west, and was
listening intently.

This man was muffled to the eyes in furs, he wore a rough bearskin
coat, and his head was enveloped in a huge capote.  He wore snow-shoes,
and a gun lay across his arm.

A grand long-haired dog was by his side; he was listening, seemingly as
intently as his master.

The moon was shining full, the deep purple sky was sown thick with
brilliant stars,--one could have read small print easily, it was so
light.

Not a breath of air was stirring.

The intensity of the cold was indescribable: if there had been the
slightest wind, this man could not have stood thus, in this open space,
and lived.

He was a large man really, but the immensity of his surroundings, the
vast field of dazzling snow on which he stood, made him appear to be a
pigmy, whilst his loneliness and solitude gave a note of unutterable
melancholy to the scene.

Several minutes passed, neither dog nor man moving from this attitude
of strained attention.  All nature was absolutely motionless; no branch
stirred in the near forest, nor was one flake of snow wafted by the
softest zephyr--yet there was no silence.  The far-off woods resounded
with frequent sharp reports, as if firearms were being discharged
there, the nearer rocks and trees from time to time gave forth
detonations like fusilades of musketry, and beneath his feet--he stood
on a broad space of water, turned to ice of unknown depth, cushioned
deep with snow--were groanings, grindings, cracklings, and explosions.
It was the terrible arctic cold that caused this tumult.  One could
almost fancy that these two figures, silhouetted black against the
dazzling white, were frozen solid too.

At length the man moved, and, patting his companion's head with his
gauntleted hand, spoke, "No, good dog," he sighed, "it's another
hallucination."  And the dog looked up at him, and whimpered, then
turned his gaze again in the direction it had been before, with
eagerness.

It was impossible to guess from this man's appearance what he was like:
he was so enveloped in wrappers only his eyes were visible; but his
voice proclaimed him to be gently bred--it had the accent of a
cultivated Englishman.

"No good," he went on muttering.  "Let us get back, old Patch, my sole
companion in this awful wilderness; it was not a shot we heard, only
the frost that made that clamour," and he made as if to move away.

But the dog evidently was not satisfied.  He sat down, kept his nose
pointed in the one direction, and whimpered again and again.  The man
stood still and listened.

"Strange, strange," he spoke aloud, "that Patch is so persistent;
perhaps it will be well to go on a bit more.  There's nothing to
prevent it--no one waiting for us.  I suppose it is about midnight by
the moon; but night or day, it's pretty much the same up here.  Yes;
we'll go on along this frozen creek: one cannot well miss the way back."

He was silent for a few moments, then resumed, "I'm talking aloud to
myself again! or is it to the dog?  This isolation, this loneliness, is
terrible; but, come, my lad, come on!" and he started.

Patch, seeing his master move, began to wag his bushy tail, and dance
with delight; he flew ahead, barking and capering, but every now and
then stopped suddenly, pricked up his sharp ears, and listened as his
master did.

They must have pushed on a mile or more from where we first encountered
them.  The expanse of level snow had widened greatly.  There were no
trees near, the sound of the frost in rock and timber was distant and
subdued, and they stood side by side again attentive.

Suddenly, away off in the ranges to their right, two reports were
audible--unmistakably they were shots fired from a gun--and then
immediately six sharp cracks resounded; it was the discharge of a
revolver!

At the first noise, again the man's mittened hand sought the dog's
collar to restrain him, for he was intensely excited.  The moment the
sixth revolver shot had sounded, he removed his hand, and shouted,
"Forward, good dog; go sic 'em!" and the two rushed off in the
direction of the sounds.

Another mile they covered rapidly, the dog running ahead and barking;
then returning, looking eagerly and joyfully into his master's face,
then hurrying on again.

But soon calling Patch to him, he held him and waited, hoping to hear
more signs of human presence in that awful region.  He was not
disappointed.

Again two rapid gun shots were fired, and six revolver shots, and they
were nearer than they had been before.

"Patch," said the man then, "we'll try what this will do," and lifting
up his gun, he pulled one trigger, and a few seconds after the other.
Then taking a revolver from his belt, he fired six cartridges slowly in
the air.

What would come of this? would there be any response?  He had not long
to wonder.  The signal was repeated, and he knew that there were
fellow-creatures in those mountains.  White, black, or red, he did not
care then.  The feeling that he was not alone in that white world, that
terribly hard, frozen world, was enough for him.

He and the dog hurried on, ascended the low bare hill upon their right,
and when after a vigorous climb they reached the summit, he fired
again, as he had done before.  Patch barked loudly, joyfully, and there
came into his master's mind the certainty that he was on the point of
some discovery, some adventure to break the monotony of his life.

The response was immediate.  Down in the valley at his feet, but at
some distance, what appeared to be a door was opened suddenly,
revealing a light within, and in the illuminated space a figure stood,
who, lifting up a gun, fired again.  Next this figure ran out of the
building brandishing a blazing pine-knot, and across the wide valley he
distinctly heard the cry of a fellow-being, and, still more wonderful,
more amazing, it sounded to be the voice of a woman in distress.

"Go to her, Patch!" he cried.  The good dog obeyed, whilst he followed
as rapidly as he could.  It was rough ground, all rocks and fallen
trees: he was exhausted ere he had traversed half the distance.
Halting a moment to recover breath, he had a view against the bright
light of the doorway of Patch crouched at the feet of the person there,
who was stooping to caress him.

A few hundred yards more and he halted again for breath, and then he
heard a long-drawn cry of agony.  "Help, oh! help! whoever you are!
Indian or white man, come, come and help!"  And our friend called
loudly across the waste: "I'm an Englishman!  Trust me.  I'm making my
way to you with all the haste I can!" and over the snow-clad expanse
resounded the response, "Thank God! thank God!"




CHAPTER I.

During the winter of 1895-96, I was staying at Bella Rocca, a
boarding-house in Victoria, Vancouver Island, British Columbia.  I had
come to that charming city, on that beautiful island, to discover, if
possible, an opening for the investment of my modest capital in a
manner which would give me a more congenial way of making a livelihood
than I had found in Eastern Canada, where I had resided for some few
years.

When I first arrived in the Dominion, I settled in the backwoods of
Ontario.  Later, I had passed some years on the prairies, and later
still, I had spent some time in the Rocky Mountains, the Selkirks, and
on the Fraser river.

I had led a life of toil, I was well up in bush work and ways, but I
did not like the life; so, having saved a little money, and having
heard so much of the Pacific coast, I came to Victoria, as I have said.

At Bella Rocca a man was staying with whom I became very friendly: he
was an Englishman, about my age, and had many tastes congenial to me.
He was idle, appeared to have plenty of money, and seemingly had no
wish to do any work or business.

He was my frequent companion in my walks around Victoria: there being
few idle people there, and I having much time unoccupied, this
friendship was mutually agreeable.

I was puzzled for a while about him.  He was very reticent about
himself--I could not even tell if he had been long in Canada, although
occasionally a few words fell from him which made me believe he knew it
well.

It was towards March; I had found nothing to suit me; I had often told
this friend what I was looking for, and had been quite open about my
past, my present desires, and my experience in the country, when one
day, as he and I were sitting on Beacon Hill, enjoying the soft spring
weather, gazing with delight at the glorious Olympic range across the
Straits of San Juan de Fuca, "Ah!" said my companion--his name was
Percy Meade--"ah! it's not long now before I'll be outside there," and
he pointed north to Cape Flattery and the Pacific Ocean.

"You are going across, then--to China or Australia?" I asked.

"Neither," replied he, with a smile; "I am going north by the first
ship that sails."

"North!" I remarked.  I was not greatly interested.  "Well, I've never
had the wish to go up the coast.  What is to be done up there?"

He did not reply at once; but after a bit said he, "I wonder you have
never tried gold-mining in this country; don't you think it's worth
considering?"

I replied that I had heard so much about it in the mountains, and had
read about the old days on the Fraser and the Cariboo, that I believed
it to be a poor business, and supposed that every ounce of gold found
cost two in labour and expense, and said many things that most men do
who have not taken the gold-fever.

Meade said little more that day, but shortly after he asked me what I
would do if I were told of a spot, by some one I could trust, where
gold existed in large quantities, where any one who had the courage to
go could pick it up, or at any rate obtain it, with comparatively
little labour.

I replied that, no doubt, if such a chance were offered me I should
accept it,--that I was as keen to make a pile as any one.  "Only," I
added, laughing, "I doubt if there are such places left, and still more
that if any person knew of one he would tell me."

Meade was silent for some time, then, "Look here," he said, very
seriously, "we've been together a few months; I can see the sort of
fellow you are; you know what rough life is, I'm sure you can stand it
better than most; so now, listen--I know of such a place, and I'll tell
you about it on condition, naturally, that you'll keep it to yourself."

I smiled.  "How do you know?" I asked, "and why do you tell me?"

To this he answered slowly and earnestly, "I was up north all last
season--on the Yukon.  I found a place on our side that is full of
gold; you would hardly believe it if you saw it, but it is so.  It is
on a creek up a river that joins the Yukon in British territory, about
seventy-five miles from the boundary, not far from the ruins of Fort
Reliance.

"I went from Seattle last spring up the coast round the Alaskan
peninsula, into Behring Sea, and so to Fort St Michael, where I landed.
Then I proceeded up the Yukon in a stern-wheel steamer to a place they
call Fort Cudahy, or the Forty Mile, in British territory.  It was a
terribly long journey--four thousand three hundred and fifty miles from
here.  It took eight weeks, and cost a big sum.  There was a little
mining going on up the river, but different from any I had seen, and I
have been to Australia.  I did not like the look of it.  The diggers
were scattered about, getting what they called flour-gold, and not so
very much of that.

"The season during which washing can be done is very short--four months
at most; but then it is broad daylight always, no night at all; men
work ceaselessly--ay, and women too.

"I tried a little here and there, I 'prospected' about, and in time I
got up the big river some long way indeed, until I came to a collection
of shacks and shanties, with a store or two, that they call Dawson
City.  I was short of