The Last Frontier





Many men were in debt to the trader at Flambeau, and many counted

him as a friend. The latter never reasoned why, except that he had

done them favors, and in the North that counts for much. Perhaps

they built likewise upon the fact that he was ever the same to all,

and that, in days of plenty or in times of famine, his store was

open to every man, and all received the same measure. Nor did he

raise his prices when the boats were late. They recalled one bleak

and blustery autumn when the steamer sank at the Lower Ramparts,

taking with her all their winter's food, how he eked out his scanty

stock, dealing to each and every one his portion, month by month.

They remembered well the bitter winter that followed, when the

spectre of famine haunted their cabins, and when for endless periods

they cinched their belts, and cursed and went hungry to sleep,

accepting, day by day, the rations doled out to them by the grim,

gray man at the log store. Some of them had money-belts weighted low

with gold washed from the bars at Forty Mile, and there were others

who had wandered in from the Koyukuk with the first frosts, foot-

sore and dragging, the legs of their skin boots eaten to the ankle,

and the taste of dog meat still in their mouths. Broken and

dispirited, these had fared as well through that desperate winter as

their brothers from up-river, and received pound for pound of musty

flour, strip for strip of rusty bacon, lump for lump of precious

sugar. Moreover, the price of no single thing had risen throughout

the famine.



Some of them, to this day, owed bills at Old Man Gale's, of which

they dared not think; but every fall and every spring they came

again and told of their disappointment, and every time they fared

back into the hills bearing another outfit, for which he rendered no

account, not even when the debts grew year by year, not even to "No

Creek" Lee, the most unlucky of them all, who said that a curse lay

on him so that when a pay-streak heard him coming it got up and

moved away and hid itself.



There were some who had purposely shirked a reckoning, in years

past, but these were few, and their finish had been of a nature to

discourage a similar practice on the part of others, and of a

nature, moreover, to lead good men to care for the trader and for

his methods. He mixed in no man's business, he took and paid his

dues unfalteringly. He spoke in a level voice, and he smiled but

rarely. He gazed at a stranger once and weighed him carefully,

thereafter his eyes sought the distances again, as if in search of

some visitor whom he knew or hoped or feared would come. Therefore,

men judged he had lived as strong men live, and were glad to call

him friend.



This day he stood in the door of his post staring up the sun-lit

river, absorbing the warmth of the Arctic afternoon. The Yukon swept

down around the great bend beneath the high, cut banks and past the

little town, disappearing behind the wooded point below, which

masked the up-coming steamers till one heard the sighing labor of

their stacks before he saw their smoke. It was a muddy, rushing

giant, bearing a burden of sand and silt, so that one might hear it

hiss and grind by stooping at its edge to listen; but the slanting

sun this afternoon made it appear like a boiling flood of molten

gold which issued silently out of a land of mystery and vanished

into a valley of forgetfulness. At least so the trader fancied, and

found himself wishing that it might carry away on its bosom the

heavy trouble which weighed him down, and bring in its place

forgetfulness of all that had gone before. Instead, however, it

seemed to hurry with news of those strange doings "up-river," news

that every down-coming steamboat verified. For years he had known

that some day this thing would happen, that some day this isolation

would be broken, that some day great hordes of men would overrun

this unknown land, bringing with them that which he feared to meet,

that which had made him what he was. And now that the time had come,

he was unprepared.



The sound of shouting caused him to turn his head. Down-stream, a

thousand yards away, men were raising a flag-staff made from the

trunk of a slender fir, from which the bark had been stripped,

heaving on their tackle as they sang in unison. They stood well out

upon the river's bank before a group of well-made houses, the peeled

timbers of which shone yellow in the sun. He noted the symmetrical

arrangement of the buildings, noted the space about them that had

been smoothed for a drill-ground, and from which the stumps had been

removed; noted that the men wore suits of blue; and noted, in

particular, the figure of an officer commanding them.



The lines about the trader's mouth deepened, and his heavy brows

contracted.



"That means the law," he murmured, half aloud, while in his voice

was no trace of pleasure, nor of that interest which good men are

wont to show at sight of the flag. "The last frontier is gone. The

trail ends here!"



He stood so, meditating sombrely, till the fragment of a song hummed

lightly by a girl fell pleasantly on his ears, whereupon the shadows

vanished from his face, and he turned expectantly, the edges of his

teeth showing beneath his mustache, the corners of his eyes

wrinkling with pleasure.



The sight was good to him, for the girl approaching down the trail

was like some wood sprite, light-footed, slender, and dark, with

twin braids of hair to her waist framing an oval face colored by the

wind and sun. She was very beautiful, and a great fever surged up

through the old man's veins, till he gripped the boards at his side

and bit sharply at the pipe between his teeth.



"The salmon-berries are ripe," she announced, "and the hills back of

the village are pink with them. I took Constantine's squaw with me,

and we picked quarts and quarts. I ate them all!"



Her laughter was like the tinkle of silver bells. Her head, thrown

back as she laughed gayly, displayed a throat rounded and full and

smooth, and tanned to the hue of her wind-beaten cheeks. Every move

of her graceful body was unrestrained and flowing, with a hint of

Indian freedom about it. Beaded and trimmed like a native princess,

her garments manifested an ornature that spoke of savagery, yet they

were neatly cut and held to the pattern of the whites.



"Constantine was drunk again last night, and I had to give him a

talking to when we came back. Oh, but I laid him out! He's

frightened to death of me when I'm angry."



She furrowed her brow in a scowl--the daintiest, most ridiculous

pucker of a brow that ever man saw--and drew her red lips into an

angry pout as she recounted her temperance talk till the trader

broke in, his voice very soft, his gray-blue eyes as tender as those

of a woman:



"It's good to have you home again, Necia. The old sun don't shine as

bright when you're away, and when it rains it seems like the moss

and the grass and the little trees was crying for you. I reckon

everything weeps when you're gone, girl, everything except your old

dad, and sometimes he feels like he'd have to bust out and join the

rest of them."



He seated himself upon the worn spruce-log steps, and the girl

settled beside him and snuggled against his knee.



"I missed you dreadfully, daddy," she said. "It seemed as if those

days at the Mission would never end. Father Barnum and the others

were very kind, and I studied hard, but there wasn't any fun in

things without you."



"I reckon you know as much as a priest, now, don't you?"



"Oh, lots more," she said, gravely. "You see, I am a woman."



He nodded reflectively. "So you are! I keep forgetting that."



Their faces were set towards the west, where the low sun hung over a

ragged range of hills topped with everlasting white. The great

valley, dark with an untrodden wilderness of birch and spruce and

alder, lay on this side, sombre and changeless, like a great, dark-

green mat too large for its resting-place, its edges turned up

towards the line of unmelting snow. Beyond were other ranges thrust

skyward in a magnificent confusion, while still to the farther side

lay the purple valley of the Koyukuk, a valley that called

insistently to restless men, welcoming them in the spring, and

sending them back in the late summer tired and haggard with the

hunger of the North. Each year a tithe remained behind, the toll of

the trackless places, but the rest went back again and again, and

took new brothers with them.



"Did you like the books I sent you with Poleon when he went down to

the coast? I borrowed them from Shakespeare George."



The girl laughed. "Of course I did--that is, all but one of them."



"Which one?"



"I think it was called The Age of Reason, or something like that. I

didn't get a good look at it, for Father Barnum shrieked when he saw

it, then snatched it as if it were afire. He carried it down to the

river with the tongs."



"H'm! Now that I think of it," said the old man, "Shakespeare

grinned when he gave it to me. You see, Poleon ain't much better on

the read than I am, so we never noticed what kind of a book it was."



"When will Poleon get back, do you suppose?"



"Most any day now, unless the Dawson dance-halls are too much for

him. It won't take him long to sell our skins if what I hear is

true."



"What is that?"



"About these Cheechakos. They say there are thousands of tenderfeet

up there, and more coming in every day."



"Oh! If I had only been here in time to go with him!" breathed the

girl. "I never saw a city. It must be just like Seattle, or New

York."



Gale shook his head. "No. There's considerable difference. Some time

I'll take you out to the States, and let you see the world--maybe."

He uttered the last word in an undertone, as if in self-debate, but

the girl was too excited to notice.



"You will take mother, too, and the kiddies, won't you?"



"Of course!"



"Oh! I--I--" The attempt to express what this prospect meant to her

was beyond her girlish rapture, but her parted lips and shining eyes

told the story to Gale. "And Poleon must go, too. We can't go

anywhere without him." The old man smiled down upon her in

reassurance. "I wonder what he'll say when he finds the soldiers

have come. I wonder if he'll like it."



Gale turned his eyes down-stream to the barracks, and noted that the

long flag-staff had at last been erected. Even as he looked he saw a

bundle mounting towards its tip, and then beheld the Stars and

Stripes flutter out in the air, while the men below cheered noisily.

It was some time before he answered.



"Poleon Doret is like the rest of us men up here in the North. We

have taken care of ourselves so far, and I guess we're able to keep

it up without the help of a smooth-faced Yankee kid for guardian."



"Lieutenant Burrell isn't a Yankee," said Necia. "He is a blue-grass

man. He comes from Kentucky."



Her father grunted contemptuously. "I might have known it. Those

rebels are a cultus, lazy lot. A regular male man with any ginger in

him would shed his coat and go to work, instead of wearing his

clothes buttoned up all day. It don't take much 'savvy' to run a

handful of thirteen-dollar-a-month soldiers." Necia stirred a bit

restlessly, and the trader continued: "It ain't man's work, it's--

loafing. If he tries to boss us he'll get QUITE a surprise."



"He won't try to boss you. He has been sent here to build a military

post, and to protect the miners in their own self-government. He

won't take any part in their affairs as long as they are conducted

peaceably."



Being at a loss for an answer to this unexpected defence, the old

man grunted again, with added contempt, while his daughter

continued:



"This rush to the upper country has brought in all sorts of people,

good, bad--and worse; and the soldiers have been sent to prevent

trouble, and to hold things steady till the law can be established.

The Canadian Mounted Police are sending all their worst characters

down-river, and our soldiers have been scattered among the American

camps for our protection. I think it's fine."



"Where did you learn all this?"



"Lieutenant Burrell told me," she replied; at which her father

regarded her keenly. She could not see the curious look in his eyes,

nor did she turn when, a moment later, he resumed, in an altered

tone:



"I reckon Poleon will bring you something pretty from Dawson, eh?"



"He has never failed to bring me presents, no matter where he came

from. Dear old Poleon!" She smiled tenderly. "Do you remember that

first day when he drifted, singing, into sight around the bend up

yonder? He had paddled his birch-bark from the Chandelar without a

thing to eat; hunger and hardship only made him the happier, and the

closer he drew his belt the louder he sang."



"He was bound for his 'New Country'!"



"Yes. He didn't know where it lay, but the fret for travel was on

him, and so he drifted and sang, as he had drifted and sung from the

foot of Lake Le Barge."



"That was four years ago," mused Gale, "and he never found his 'New

Country,' did he?"



"No. We tied him down and choked it out of him," Necia laughed.

"Dear, funny old Poleon--he loves me like a brother."



The man opened his lips, then closed them, as if on second thought,

and rose to his feet, for, coming towards them up the trail from the

barracks, he beheld a trim, blue-coated figure. He peered at the

approaching officer a moment, set his jaw more firmly, and

disappeared into the store.



"Well, we have raised our flag-staff," said the Lieutenant as he

took a seat below Necia. "It's like getting settled to keep house."



"Are you lazy?" inquired the girl.



"I dare say I am," he admitted. "I've never had time to find out.

Why?"



"Are you going to boss our people around?" she continued, bent on

her own investigation.



"No. Not as long as they behave. In fact, I hardly know what I am to

do. Maybe you can tell me." His smile was peculiarly frank and

winning. "You see, it's my first command, and my instructions,

although comprehensive, are rather vague. I am supposed to see that

mining rights are observed, to take any criminals who kindly offer

themselves up to be arrested, and to sort of handle things that are

too tough for the miners themselves."



"Why, you are a policeman!" said Necia, at which he made a wry face.



"The Department, in its wisdom, would have me, a tenderfoot, adjust

those things that are too knotty for these men who have spent their

lives along the frontier."



"I don't believe you will be very popular with our people," Necia

announced, meditatively.



"No. I can see that already. I wasn't met with any brass-bands, and

I haven't received any engraved silver from the admiring citizens of

Flambeau. That leaves nothing but the women to like me, and, as you

are the only one in camp, you will have to like me very much to make

up for its shortcomings."



She approved of his unusual drawl; it gave him a kind of

deliberation which every move of his long, lithe body belied and

every glance of his eyes contradicted. Moreover, she liked his

youth, so clean and fresh and strange in this land where old men are

many and the young ones old with hardship and grave with the silence

of the hills. Her life had been spent entirely among men who were

her seniors, and, although she had ruled them like a spoiled queen,

she knew as little of their sex as they did of hers. Unconsciously

the strong young life within her had clamored for companionship, and

it was this that had drawn her to Poleon Doret--who would ever

remain a boy--and it was this that drew her to the young Kentuckian;

this, and something else in him, that the others lacked.



"Now that I think it over," he continued, "I'd rather have you like

me than have the men do so."



"Of course," she nodded. "They do anything I want them to--all but

father, and--"



"It isn't that," he interrupted, quickly. "It is because you ARE the

only woman of the place, because you are such a surprise. To think

that in the heart of this desolation I should find a girl like--like

you, like the girls I know at home."



"Am I like other girls?" she inquired, eagerly. "I have often

wondered."



"You are, and you are not. You are surprisingly conventional for

these surroundings, and yet unconventionally surprising--for any

place. Who are you? Where did you come from? How did you get here?"



"I am just what you see. I came from the States, and I was carried.

That is all I can remember."



"Then you haven't lived here always?"



"Oh, dear, no! We came here while I was very little, but of late I

have been away at school."



"Some seminary, eh?"



At this she laughed aloud. "Hardly that, either. I've been at the

Mission. Father Barnum has been teaching me for five years. I came

up-river a day ahead of you."



She asked no questions of him in return, for she had already learned

all there was to know the day before from a grizzled corporal in

whom was the hunger to talk. She had learned of a family of Burrells

whose name was known throughout the South, and that Meade Burrell

came from the Frankfort branch, the branch that had raised the

soldiers. His father had fought with Lee, and an uncle was now in

the service at Washington. On the mother's side the strain was

equally militant, but the Meades had sought the sea. The old soldier

had told her much more, of which she understood little; told her of

the young man's sister, who had come all the way from Kentucky to

see her brother off when he sailed from San Francisco; told her of

the Lieutenant's many friends in Washington, and of his family name

and honor. Meade Burrell was undoubtedly a fine young fellow in his

corporal's eyes, and destined to reach great heights, as the other

Burrells had before him. The old soldier, furthermore, had looked at

her keenly and added that the Burrells were known as "divils among

the weemen."



Resting thus on the steps of Old Man Gale's store, the two talked on

till they were disturbed by the sound of shrill voices approaching,

at which the man looked up. Coming down the trail from the town was

a squaw and two children. At sight of Necia the little ones shouted

gleefully and scampered forward, climbing over her like half-grown

puppies. They were boy and girl, both brown as Siwashes, with eyes

like jet beads and hair that was straight and coarse and black. At a

glance Burrell knew them for "breeds," and evidently the darker half

was closer to the surface now, for they choked, gurgled, stuttered,

and coughed in their Indian tongue, while Necia answered them

likewise. At a word from her they turned and saw him, then, abashed

at the strange splendor of his uniform, fell silent, pressing close

to her. The squaw, also, seemed to resent his presence, for, after a

lowering glance, she drew the shawl closer about her head, and,

leaving the trail, slunk out of sight around the corner of the

store.



Burrell looked up at his companion's clear-cut, delicate face, at

the wind-tanned cheeks, against which her long braids lay like the

blue-black locks of an Egyptian maid, then at her warm, dark eyes,

in which was a hint of the golden light of the afternoon sun. He

noted covertly the slender lines of her body and the dainty, firm,

brown hands flung protectingly about the shoulders of her little

friends, who were peering at him owlishly from their shelter.



The bitter revolt that had burned in him at the prospect of a long

exile in this undiscovered spot died out suddenly. What a picture

she made! How fresh and flower-like she looked, and yet the wisdom

of her! He spoke impulsively:



"I am glad you are here, Miss Necia. I was glad the moment I saw

you, and I have been growing gladder ever since, for I never

imagined there would be anybody in this place but men and squaws--

men who hate the law and squaws who slink about--like that." He

nodded in the direction of the Indian woman's disappearance. "Either

that, or, at best, a few 'breeds' like these little fellows."



She looked at him quickly.



"Well! What difference would that make?"



"Ugh! Squaws and half-breeds!" His tone conveyed in full his utter

contempt.



The tiny hands of the boy and girl slid into her own as she arose. A

curiously startled look lay in her eyes, and an inquiring, plaintive

wrinkle came between her brows.



"I don't believe you understand," she said. "Lieutenant Burrell,

this is my sister, Molly Gale, and this is my little brother John."

Both round-eyed elfs made a ducking courtesy and blinked at the

soldier, who gained his feet awkwardly, a flush rising into his

cheeks.



From the regions at the rear of the store came the voice of an

Indian woman calling:



"Necia! Necia!"



"Coming in a moment!" the girl called back; then, turning to the

young officer, she added, quietly: "Mother needs me now. Good-bye!"





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