The Jack-pot

: The Man From The Bitter Roots

As Uncle Bill Griswold came breathless from the raging whiteness outside

with an armful of bark and wood, the two long icicles hanging from the

ends of his mustache made him look like an industrious walrus. He drew

the fuel beside the tiny, sheet-iron camp stove, and tied fast the flap

of the canvas tent.



"We're in a jack-pot, all right."



He delivered the commonplace pronunciamento in a tone
which would have

conveyed much to a mountain man. To Mr. Sprudell it meant only that he

might expect further annoyance. He demanded querulously:



"Did you find my shirt?"



Uncle Bill rolled his eyes with a droll grimace of despair toward the

mound of blankets in the corner whence came the muffled voice. The

innocence of a dude was almost pitiful. He answered dryly:



"I wouldn't swear to it--I wouldn't go so far as to make my affadavvy to

it, but I think I seen your shirt wavin' from a p'int a rock about

seventy mile to the south'ard--over t'ward the Thunder Mountain

country."



"Gone?"



"Gone"--mournfully--"where the woodbine twineth."



"And my trousers?"



"Where the wangdoodle mourneth fer his lost love. Blowed off. I got your

union suit out'n the top of a pine tree. You've no more pants than a

rabbit, feller. Everything went when the guy-ropes busted--I warned you

to sleep in your clothes."



"But what'll I do?" Sprudell quavered.



"Nothin'." His tone was as dry as punk. "You kin jest as well die in

them pink pajammers as anything else."



"Huh?" excitedly. The mound began to heave.



"I say we're in for it. There's a feel in the air like what the Injuns

call 'The White Death.' It hurt my lungs like I was breathin' darnin'

needles when I cut this wood. The drifts is ten feet high and gittin'

higher." Laconically: "The horses have quit us; we're afoot."



"Is that so? Well, we've got to get out of here--I refuse to put in

another such night. Lie still!" he commanded ferociously. "You're letting

in a lot of cold air. Quit rampin' round!" From which it may be gathered

that Mr. Sprudell, for purposes of warmth and protection, was sleeping

with the Chinese cook.



"Three in a bed is crowded," Uncle Bill admitted, with a grin.

"To-night you might try settin' up."



A head of tousled white hair appeared above the edge of the blankets,

then a pair of gleaming eyes. "I propose to get out of here to-day," Mr.

Sprudell announced, with hauteur.



"Indeed?" inquired Uncle Bill calmly. "Where do you aim to go?"



"I'm going back to Ore City--on foot, if need be--I'll walk!"



Uncle Bill explained patiently:



"The trail's wiped out, the pass is drifted full of snow, and the cold's

a fright. You'd be lost inside of fifteen yards. That's loco talk."



"I'm going to get up." There was offended dignity in Mr. Sprudell's

tone.



"You can't," said the old man shortly. "You ain't got no pants, and your

shoes is full of snow. I doubts if you has socks till I takes a stick

and digs around where your tepee was."



"Tsch! Tsch!" Mr. Sprudell's tongue clicked against his teeth in the

extreme of exasperation at Uncle Bill. By some process of reasoning he

blamed him for their present plight.



"I'm hungry!" he snapped, in a voice which implied that the fact was a

matter of moment.



"So am I," said Uncle Bill; "I'm holler to my toes."



"I presume"--in cold sarcasm--"there's no reason why we shouldn't

breakfast, since it's after ten."



"None at all," Uncle Bill answered easily, "except we're out of grub."



"What!"



"I explained that to you four days ago, but you said you'd got to get a

sheep. I thought I could eat snowballs as long as you could. But I

didn't look for such a storm as this."



"There's nothing?" demanded Sprudell, aghast.



"Oh, yes, there's somethin'," grimly. "I kin take the ax and break up

a couple of them doughnuts and bile the coffee grounds again. To-night

we'll gorge ourselves on a can of froze tomatoes, though I hates to eat

so hearty and go right to bed. There's a pint of beans, too, that by

cookin' steady in this altitude ought to be done by spring. We'd 'a' had

that sheep meat, only it blowed out of the tree last night and

somethin' drug it off. Here's your doughnut."



Mr. Sprudell snatched eagerly at it and retired under the covers, where

a loud scrunching told of his efforts to masticate the frozen tidbit.



"Can you eat a little somethin', Toy? Is your rheumatiz a-hurtin' pretty

bad?"



"Hiyu lumatiz," a faint voice answered, "plitty bad."



The look of gravity on the man's face deepened as he stood rubbing his

hands over the red-hot stove, which gave out little or no heat in the

intense cold.



The long hours of that day dragged somehow, and the next. When the third

day dawned, the tent was buried nearly to the ridgepole under snow.

Outside, the storm was roaring with unabated fury, and Uncle Bill's

emergency supply of wood was almost gone. He crept from under the

blankets and boiled some water, making a few tasteless pancakes with a

teacupful of flour.



Sprudell sat up suddenly and said, with savage energy:



"Look here--I'll give you a thousand dollars to get me out of this!"



Uncle Bill looked at him curiously. A thousand dollars! Wasn't that like

a dude? Dudes thought money could do anything, buy anything.



Uncle Bill would rather have had a sack of flour just then than all the

money Sprudell owned.



"Your check's no more good than a bunch of dried leaves. It's endurance

that's countin' from now on. We're up against it right, I tell you, with

Toy down sick and all."



Sprudell stared.



"Toy?" Was that why Griswold would not leave? "What's Toy got to do with

it?" he demanded.



It was the old man's turn to stare.



"What's Toy got to do with it?" He looked intently at Sprudell's small

round eyes--hard as agate--at his selfish, Cupid's mouth. "You don't

think I'd quit him, do you, when he's sick--leave him here to die

alone?" Griswold flopped a pancake in the skillet and added, in a

somewhat milder voice: "I've no special love for Chinks, but I've known

Toy since '79. He wouldn't pull out and leave me if I was down."



"But what about me?" Sprudell demanded furiously.



"You'll have to take your chances along with us. It may let up in a day

or two, and then again it mayn't. Anyway, the game goes; we stop eatin'

altogether before to-morry night."



"You got me into this fix! And what am I paying you five dollars a day

for, except to get me out and do as you are told?"



"I got you into this fix? I did?" The stove lids danced with the

vigor with which Uncle Bill banged down the frying pan. The mild old man

was stirred at last. "I sure like your nerve! And, say, when you talk to

me, jest try and remember that I don't wear brass buttons and a

uniform." His blue eyes blazed. "It's your infernal meanness that's to

blame, and nothin' else. I warned you--I told you half a dozen times

that you wasn't gittin' grub enough to come into the hills this time of

year. But you was so afraid of havin' six bits' worth left over that you

wouldn't listen to what I said. I don't like you anyhow. You're the

kind of galoot that ought never to git out of sight of a railroad. Now,

blast you--you starve!"



Incredible as the sensation was, Sprudell felt small. He had to remind

himself repeatedly who he was before he quite got back his poise, and no

suitable retort came to him, for his guide had told the truth. But the

thought that blanched his pink face until it was only a shade less white

than his thick, white hair was that he, T. Victor Sprudell, president of

the Bartlesville Tool Works, of Bartlesville, Indiana, was going to

starve! To freeze! To die in the pitiless hills like any penniless

prospector! His check-book was as useless as a bent weapon in his hand,

and his importance in the world counted for no more than that of the

Chinaman, by his side. Mr. Sprudell lay down again, weak from an

overwhelming sense of helplessness.



Sprudell had not realized it before; but now he knew that always in the

back of his head there had been a picture of an imposing cortege, blocks

long, following a wreath-covered coffin in which he reposed. And later,

an afternoon extra in which his demise was featured and his delicate,

unostentatious charities described--not that he could think of any, but

he presumed that that was the usual thing.



But this--this miserable finality! Unconsciously Sprudell groaned. To

die bravely in the sight of a crowd was sublime; but to perish alone,

unnoted, side by side with the Chinese cook and chiefly for want of

trousers in which to escape, was ignominious. He snatched his cold feet

from the middle of the cook's back.



Another wretched day passed, the event of which was the uncovering of

Sprudell's fine field boots in a drift outside. That night he did not

close his eyes. His nervousness became panic, and his panic like unto

hysteria. He ached with cold and his cramped position, and he was now

getting in earnest the gnawing pangs of hunger. What was a Chinaman's

life compared to his? There were millions like him left--and there was

only one Sprudell! In the faint, gray light of the fourth day, Griswold

felt him crawling out.



Griswold watched him while he kneaded the hard leather of his boots to

soften it, and listened to the chattering of his teeth while he went

through the Chinaman's war bag for an extra pair of socks.



"The sizes in them Levi Strauss' allus run too small," Uncle Bill

observed suddenly, after Sprudell had squeezed into Toy's one pair of

overalls.



"There's no sense in us all staying here to starve," said Sprudell

defiantly, as though he had been accused. "I'm going to Ore City before

I get too weak to start."



"I won't stop you if you're set on goin'; but, as I told you once,

you'll be lost in fifteen yards. There's just one chance I see,

Sprudell, and I'll take it if you'll say you'll stay with Toy. I'll try

to get down to that cabin on the river. The feller may be there, and

again he may have gone for grub. I won't say that I can make it, but

I'll do my best."



Sprudell said stubbornly:



"I won't be left behind! It's every man for himself now."



The old man replied, with equal obstinacy:



"Then you'll start alone." He added grimly: "I reckon you've never

wallered snow neck deep."



For the first time the Chinaman stirred, and raising himself painfully

to his elbow, turned to Uncle Bill.



"You go, I think."



Griswold shook his head.



"That 'every-man-for-himself' talk aint the law we know, Toy."



The Chinaman reiterated, in monotone:



"You go, I think."



"You heard what I said."



"You take my watch, give him Chiny Charley. He savvy my grandson, the

little Sun Loon. Tell Chiny Charley he write the bank in Spokane for

send money to Chiny to pay on lice lanch. Tell Chiny Charley--he savvy

all. I stay here. You come back--all light. You no come back--all light.

I no care. You go now." He lay down. The matter was quite settled in

Toy's mind.



While Sprudell stamped around trying to get feeling into his numb feet

and making his preparations to leave, Uncle Bill lay still. He knew that

Toy was sincere in urging him to go, and finally he said:



"I'll take you at your word, Toy; I'll make the break. If there's nobody

in the cabin, I don't believe I'll have the strength to waller back

alone; but if there is, we'll get some grub together and come as soon as

we can start. I'll do my best."



The glimmer of a smile lighted old Toy's broad, Mongolian face when

Griswold was ready to go, and he laid his chiefest treasure in

Griswold's hand.



"For the little Sun Loon." His oblique, black eyes softened with

affectionate pride. "Plitty fine kid, Bill, hiyu wawa."



"For the little Sun Loon," repeated Uncle Bill gravely. "And hang on as

long as you can." Then he shook hands with Toy and divided the matches.



The old Chinaman turned his face to the wall of the tent and lay quite

still as the two went out and tied the flap securely behind them.



It did not take Sprudell long to realize that Uncle Bill was correct in

his assertion that he would have been lost alone in fifteen yards. He

would have been lost in less than that, or as soon as the full force of

the howling storm had struck him and the wind-driven snow shut out the

tent. He had not gone far before he wished that he had done as Uncle

Bill had told him and wrapped his feet in "Californy socks." The strips

of gunny sacking which he had refused because they looked bunglesome he

could see now were an immense protection against cold and wet. Sprudell

almost admitted, as he felt the dampness beginning to penetrate his

waterproof field boots, that there might still be some things he could

learn.



He gasped like a person taking a long, hard dive into icy water when

they plunged into the swirling world which shut out the tent they had

called home. And the wind that took his breath had a curious, piercing

quality that hurt, as Uncle Bill had said, like breathing darning

needles. "The White Death!" Literally it was that. Panting and quickly

exhausted, as he "wallered snow to his neck," T. Victor Sprudell began

seriously to doubt if he could make it.



"Aire you comin'?" There was no sympathy, only impatience, in the call

which kept coming back with increasing frequency, and Sprudell was

longing mightily for sympathy. He had a quaint conceit concerning his

toes, not being able to rid himself of the notion that when he removed

his socks they would rattle in the ends like bits of broken glass; and

soon he was so cold that he felt a mild wonder as to how his heart

could go on pumping congealed blood through the auricles and ventricles.

It had annoyed him at first when chunks of snow dropped from overhanging

branches and lodged between his neck and collar, to trickle down his

spine; but shortly he ceased to notice so small a matter. In the start,

when he had inadvertently slipped off a buried log and found himself

entangled in a network of down timber, he had struggled frantically to

get out, but now he experienced not even a glimmer of surprise when he

stepped off the edge of something into nothing. He merely floundered

like a fallen stage horse to get back, without excitement or any sense

of irritation. After three exhausting hours or so of fighting snow, his

frenzy lest he lose sight of Uncle Bill gave place to apathy. When he

fell, he even lay there--resting.



Generally he responded to Griswold's call; if the effort was too great,

he did not answer, knowing the old man would come back. That he came

back swearing made no difference, so long as he came back. He had

learned that Griswold would not leave him.



When he stumbled into a drift and settled back in the snow, it felt

exactly like his favorite leather chair by the fire-place in the

Bartlesville Commercial Club. He had the same cozy sensation of

contentment. He could almost feel the crackling fire warming his knees

and shins, and it required no great stretch of the imagination to

believe that by simply extending his hand he could grasp a glass of

whisky and seltzer on the wide arm-rest.



"What's the matter? Aire you down ag'in?"



How different the suave deference of his friends Abe Cone and Y. Fred

Smart to the rude tone and manner of this irascible guide! Mr. Sprudell

fancied that by way of reply he smiled a tolerant smile, but as a matter

of fact the expression of his white, set face did not change.



"Great cats! Have I got to go back and git that dude?" The intervening

feet looked like miles to the tired old man.



Wiry and seasoned as he was, he was nearly exhausted by the extra steps

he had taken and the effort he had put forth to coax and bully, somehow

to drag Sprudell along. The situation was desperate. The bitter cold

grew worse as night came on. He knew that they had worked their way down

toward the river, but how far down? Was the deep canyon he had tried to

follow the right one? Somewhere he had lost the "squaw ax," and dry wood

was inaccessible under snow. If it were not for Sprudell, he knew that

he could still plod on.



His deep breath of exhaustion was a groan as he floundered back and

shook the inert figure with all his might.



"Git up!" he shouted. "You must keep movin'! Do you want to lay right

down and die?"



"Lemme be!" The words came thickly, and Sprudell did not lift his eyes.



"He's goin' to freeze on me sure!" Uncle Bill tried to lift him, to

carry him, to drag him somehow--a dead weight--farther down the canyon.



It was hopeless. He let him fall and yelled. Again and again he yelled

into the empty world about him. Not so much that he expected an answer

as to give vent to his despair. There was not a chance in a million that

the miner in the cabin would hear him, even if he were there. But he

kept on yelling, whooping, yodling with all his might.



His heart leaped, and he stopped in the midst of a breath. He listened,

with his mouth wide open. Surely he heard an answering cry! Faint it

was--far off--as though it came through thicknesses of blankets--but it

was a cry! A human voice!



"Hello! Hello!"



He was not mistaken. From somewhere in the white world of desolation,

the answer came again:



"Hello! Hello!"



Uncle Bill was not much given to religious allusions except as a matter

of emphasis, but he told himself that that far-off cry of reassurance

sounded like the voice of God.



"Help!" he called desperately, sunk to his armpits in the snow. "Help!

Come quick!"



Night was so near that it had just about closed down when Bruce came

fighting his way up the canyon through the drifts to Griswold's side.

They wasted no time in words, but between them dragged and carried the

unresisting sportsman to the cabin.



The lethargy which had been so nearly fatal was without sensation, but

after an hour or so of work his saviors had the satisfaction of hearing

him begin to groan with the pain of returning circulation.



"Git up and stomp around!" Uncle Bill advised, when Sprudell could

stand. "But," sharply, as he stumbled, "look where you're goin'--that's

a corp' over there."



The admonition revived Sprudell as applications of snow and ice water

had not done. He looked in wide-mouthed inquiry at Bruce.



Bruce's somber eyes darkened as he explained briefly:



"We had a fuss, and he went crazy. He tried to get me with the ax."



There was no need to warn Sprudell again to "look where he was goin',"

as he existed from that moment with his gaze alternating between the

gruesome bundle and the gloomy face of his black-browed host.

Incredulity and suspicion shone plainly in his eyes. Sprudell's

imagination was a winged thing, and now it spread its startled pinions.

Penned up with a murderer--what a tale to tell in Bartlesville, if by

chance he returned alive! The fellow had him at his mercy, and what,

after all, did he know of Uncle Bill? Even fairly honest men sometimes

took desperate chances for so fat a purse as his.



Sprudell saw to it that neither of them got behind him as they moved

about the room.



Casting surreptitious glances at the bookshelf, where he looked to see

the life of Jesse James, he was astonished and somewhat reassured to

discover a title like "Fossil Fishes of the Old Red Sandstone of the

British Isles." It was unlikely, he reasoned, that a man who voluntarily

read, for instance, "Contributions to the Natural History of the United

States," would split his skull when his back was turned. Yet they

smacked of affectation to Sprudell, who associated good reading with

good clothes.



"These are your books--you read them?" There was skepticism, a covert

sneer in Sprudell's tone.



"I'd hardly pack them into a place like this if I didn't," Bruce

answered curtly.



"I suppose not," he hastened to admit, and added, patronizingly; "Who

is this fellow Agassiz?"



Bruce turned as sharply as if he had attacked a personal friend. The

famous, many-sided scientist was his hero, occupying a pedestal that no

other celebrity approached. Sprudell had touched him on a tender spot.



"That 'fellow Agassiz,'" he answered in cold mimicry, "was one of the

greatest men who ever lived. Where do you stop when you're home that you

never heard of Alexander Agassiz? I'd rather have been Alexander Agassiz

than the richest man in America--than any king. He was a great

scientist, a great mining engineer, a successful business man. He

developed and put the Calumet and Hecla on a paying basis. He made the

University Museum in Cambridge what it is. He knew more about sea

urchins and coral reefs than men who specialize, and they were only side

issues with him. I met him once when I was a kid, in Old Mexico; he

talked to me a little, and it was the honor of my life. I'd rather walk

behind and pack his suitcase like a porter than ride with the president

of the road!"



"Is that so?" Sprudell murmured, temporarily abashed.



"Great cats!" ejaculated Uncle Bill, with bulging eyes. "My head would

git a hot-box if I knowed jest half of that."



When Sprudell stretched his stiff muscles and turned his head upon the

bear-grass pillow at daybreak, Bruce was writing a letter on the corner

of the table and Uncle Bill was stowing away provisions in a small

canvas sack. He gathered, from the signs of preparation, that the miner

was going to try and find the Chinaman. Outside, the wind was still

sweeping the stinging snow before it like powder-driven shot. What a

fool he was to attempt it--to risk his life--and for what?



It was with immeasurable satisfaction that Sprudell told himself that

but for his initiative they would have been there yet. These fellows

needed a leader, a strong man--the ignorant always did. His eyes caught

the suggestive outlines of the blanket on the floor, and, with a start,

he remembered what was under it. They had no sensibilities, these

Westerners--they lacked fineness; certainly no one would suspect from

the matter-of-factness of their manner that they were rooming with a

corpse. For himself, he doubted if he could even eat.



"Oh, you awake?" Uncle Bill glanced at him casually.



"My feet hurt."



Uncle Bill ignored his plaintive tone.



"They're good and froze. They'll itch like forty thousand fleabites

atter while--like as not you'll haf to have them took off. Lay still and

don't clutter up the cabin till Burt gits gone. I'll cook you somethin'

bimeby."



Sprudell writhed under the indifferent familiarity of his tone. He

wished old Griswold had a wife and ten small children and was on the pay

roll of the Bartlesville Tool Works some hard winter. He'd----Sprudell's

resentment found an outlet in devising a variety of situations conducive

to the disciplining of Uncle Bill.



Bruce finished his letter and re-read it, revising a little here and

there. He looked at Sprudell while he folded it reflectively, as though

he were weighing something pro and con.



Sprudell was conscious that he was being measured, and, egotist though

he was, he was equally aware that Bruce's observations still left him in

some doubt.



Bruce walked to the window undecidedly, and then seemed finally to make

up his mind.



"I'm going to ask you to do me a favor, stranger, but only in case I

don't come back. I intend to, but"--he glanced instinctively out of the

window--"it's no sure thing I will.



"My partner has a mother and a sister--here's the address, though it's

twelve years old. If anything happens to me, I want you to promise that

you'll hunt them up. Give them this old letter and the picture and this

letter, here, of mine. This is half the gold dust--our season's work."

He placed a heavy canvas sample sack in Sprudell's hand. "Say that Slim

sent it; that although they might not think it because he did not write,

that just the same he thought an awful lot of them.



"I've told them in my letter about the placer here--it's theirs, the

whole of it, if I don't come back. See that it's recorded; women don't

understand about such things. And be sure the assessment work's kept up.

In the letter, there, I've given them my figures as to how the samples

run. Some day there'll be found a way to work it on a big scale, and

it'll pay them to hold on. That's all, I guess." He looked deep into

Sprudell's eyes. "You'll do it?"



"As soon as I get out."



"I'd just about come back and haunt you if you lied."



There were no heroics when he left them; he simply fastened on his pack

and went.



"Don't try to hunt me if I stay too long," was all he said to Uncle Bill

at parting. "If there's any way of getting there, I can make it just as

well alone."



It was disappointing to Sprudell--nothing like the Western plays at

tragic moments; no long handshakes and heart-breaking speeches of

farewell from the "rough diamonds."



"S' long," said Uncle Bill.



He polished a place on the window-pane with his elbow and watched Burt's

struggle with the cold and wind and snow begin.



"Pure grit, that feller," when, working like a snowplow, Bruce had

disappeared. "He's man all through." The old voice trembled. "Say!" He

turned ferociously. "Git up and eat!"



Uncle Bill grew older, grayer, grimmer in the days of waiting, days

which he spent principally moving between window and door, watching,

listening, saying to himself monotonously: It can't storm forever;

some time it's got to stop.



But in this he seemed mistaken, for the snow fell with only brief

cessation, and in such intervals the curious fog hung over the silent

mountains with the malignant persistency of an evil spirit.



He scraped the snow away from beside the cabin, and Sprudell helped him

bury Slim. Then, against the day of their going, he fashioned crude

snow-shoes of material he found about the cabin and built a rough hand

sled.



"If only 'twould thaw a little, and come a crust, he'd stand a whole lot

better show of gittin' down." Uncle Bill scanned the sky regularly for a

break somewhere each noon.



"Lord, yes, if it only would!" Sprudell always answered fretfully.

"There are business reasons why I ought to be at home."



The day came when the old man calculated that even with the utmost

economy Bruce must have been two days without food. He looked pinched

and shrivelled as he stared vacantly at the mouth of the canyon into

which Bruce had disappeared.



"He might kill somethin', if 'twould lift a little, but there's nothin'

stirrin' in such a storm as this. I feel like a murderer settin' here."



Sprudell watched him fearfully lest the irresolution he read in his face

change to resolve, and urged:



"There's nothing we can do but wait."



Days after the most sanguine would have abandoned hope, Uncle Bill hung

on. Sprudell paced the cabin like a captive panther, and his broad hints

became demands.



"A month of this, and there would be another killin'; I aches to choke

the windpipe off that dude," the old man told himself, and ignored the

peremptory commands.



The crust that he prayed for came at last, but no sign of Bruce; then a

gale blowing down the river swept it fairly clear of snow.



"Git ready!" Griswold said one morning. "We'll start." And Sprudell

jumped on his frosted feet for joy. "We'll take it on the ice to Long's

Crossin'," he vouchsafed shortly. "Ore City's closest, but I've no heart

to pack you up that hill."



He left a note on the kitchen table, though he had the sensation of

writing to the dead; and when he closed the door he did so reverently,

as he would have left a mausoleum. Then, dragging blankets and

provision behind them on the sled, they started for the river, past the

broken snow and the shallow grave where the dead madman lay, past the

clump of snow-laden willows where the starving horses that had worked

their way down huddled for shelter, too weak to move. Leaden-hearted,

Uncle Bill went with reluctant feet. Before a bend of the river shut

from sight the white-roofed cabin from which a tiny thread of smoke

still rose, he looked over his shoulder, wagging his head.



"I don't feel right about goin'. I shorely don't."



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