Down the Yukon

by Will Hobbs

  “I know.”

  “Hawthorn, we’re both in the same predicament. We should team up, at least until we reach the sea.”

  “You’ll help us find my dog, then? Because we aren’t going anywhere until we find him.”

  Donner laughed. “You’d give up the chance at twenty thousand dollars to search for that miserable excuse for a canine? I remember him as quite unpleasant.”

  “He’s the better judge of character.”

  “You’re as unpleasant as him! Now, put the shotgun down. You wouldn’t use it anyway, I know you wouldn’t.”

  “You’ve checked on your ‘neighbors’—we’re fine, thank you. Now you can go back to your camp. I hope you’re remembering your promise to sell me the mill….”

  His sly smile was back on his face. “For twenty thousand dollars, as I recall.”

  “In a turkey dream. That’s too high.”

  Donner shrugged. “I’ll find another buyer.”

  I motioned with the shotgun for him to leave. “Good-bye, Donner.”

  “We’ll see you in Nome, then, if not before. Meanwhile, good luck on finding a river.”

  “Same to you. All the luck in the world.”

  “Get some rest, now….”

  Donner retrieved his ax and rifle without looking back. I watched him disappear into the folds of the tundra. At last I could put the shotgun down.

  Jamie poked her head out of the tent. “You saved the canoe, Jason—thank goodness for that. I was listening carefully. Donner still can’t tell if we know about the detective and the fire and all that. He thinks you had the shotgun on him because of what he did to us back in the Flats.”

  “That’s what I was hoping.”

  “If I’m wrong, he’ll try to murder us both.”

  I crawled back into the tent. “Now, that’s encouraging.”

  “They’ll find the river. They’ll be on their way.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Just a hunch. Those bears must have come down out of the hills to feed on the salmon. That’s what the bears are doing this time of year. We must be close to a river.”

  By the time we woke, no vestige of Donner and Brackett could be seen across the way, and Burnt Paw still wasn’t back. Calling at the top of our lungs, we started out in the direction he’d run. As we were about to lose sight of camp, I had Jamie stand still and I made my way out across the spongy terrain, in and out of hollows but never losing sight of her. All the while I kept calling.

  At the extremity of sight distance from Jamie—a mile or more—I saw a moving patchwork climbing out of a steep draw: a herd of caribou. The ones at the back were shaking themselves out as if they’d just been swimming.

  “Burnt Paw!” I hollered into the emptiness. “Burnt Paw! Burnt Paw!”

  That shrill bark of his was faint at first, but unmistakable. I yelled with all my might, and at last he came running, a tiny speck in the vastness.

  That dog was so happy he ran circles around me, leapt in the air like a jack-in-the-box, nearly licked me to death. I fell to the tundra and grabbed him to my chest.

  On our return he jumped into Jamie’s arms and went just as crazy over her. “Look who’s back!” she exclaimed.

  “I may have found the river,” I reported.

  Indeed I had. It was more of a creek, but it was deep enough to float the canoe and, even more importantly, was teeming with salmon. It would lead us to the sea.

  It was with the greatest relief, several hours later, that we floated the canoe and started paddling downstream. It would be too soon if I never walked another step on tundra.

  As it turned out, Donner and Brackett had found another fork of the same stream. Where the two joined, we saw them paddling down the other fork. They slipped in a few hundred yards behind us.

  Frequent creeks added volume to the river. With our enemies at our backs, we paddled over salmon and among waterfowl taking explosively to the air.

  The river was never fast, never rocky. The sea, we guessed, was no more than sixty miles away.

  We flew. We were anxious that Donner and Brackett not overtake us, for fear they would wait in ambush around a bend.

  For whatever reason, they seemed content with the distance between the canoes. By the time the sun set, we could no longer see them behind. We wondered if they had stopped to sleep.

  “Shall we keep pushing?” I asked. “All the way to Unalakleet?”

  “To U-na-la-kleet,” Jamie chanted, “counting no sheep.”

  “To U-na-la-fad-dle,” I chanted back, “flashing our paddles.”

  “To U-na-la-muck,” she sang, “dodging the ducks.”

  “To U-na-la-dish,” I sang, “bumping the fish.”

  We kept on this way until we ran out of rhymes.

  The sun rose and resumed its great circle around the sky. We kept paddling. At three in the afternoon, with the gulls crying and wheeling overhead, and the ocean air palpable in a thick mist, we spied the white spire of a church atop the headlands, and then a settlement of huts fashioned from bleached driftwood and whalebone.

  Unalakleet.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Atop a long spit, the village momentarily passed from view as we paddled under the headlands. We could plainly hear the surf ahead.

  Where the river shallowed and spilled through the beach, we stepped out of the canoe and stood up gingerly, easing our aching backs.

  We were looking at the Bering Sea, gray as the clouds overhead.

  A Yukon sternwheeler, the Bonanza King, was anchored offshore. Skin boats with half a dozen paddlers were lightering supplies from the vessel to the beach. Hundreds of men, women, and children were spilling down from the village atop the spit angling into the sea.

  We withdrew our canoe from the water and carried it up the beach where the tide couldn’t reach it. Except by the round-faced children who stared, we were generally ignored. We went to see what we could learn.

  Numbers of Eskimos loosely surrounded three white men on the beach. From the fringes of the crowd we ascertained that the one who’d come ashore with the supplies was a representative of the Alaska Commercial Company. The brisk weather, or else his impatience, had flushed his face a bright red. His counterpart from the trading post in Unalakleet was alternately adding figures and tugging on his walrus mustache. The third, in a black robe, was an old priest with a beard as white as the caribou moss on the tundra. The priest stood to the side, silent.

  The visiting trader was in a hurry to return to the sternwheeler. “There are four hundred and fifty-three stampeders on the Bonanza King desperate to stake claims at Cape Nome,” I heard him say. “If I delay them, they’ll lynch me.”

  We nudged our way closer. If he was about to leave, I knew I’d better speak up. At his elbows, I asked, “What news of the Great Race?”

  The three noticed us for the first time and stared dumbfounded. “Who are you and where in the world did you come from?” asked the red-faced trader from the sternwheeler.

  “Jason Hawthorn and Jamie Dunavant,” I answered. “We’ve just come down the Unalakleet River. We’re registered in the race.”

  There was a sudden commotion in the crowd, which parted as two men, bug-bitten and sunburned, came pushing their way through—Donner and Brackett. “Who are you?” Donner demanded of the traders as he panted for breath. Donner had noticed us, of course, but was acting as if we weren’t there.

  With raised eyebrow, the trader from the ship replied stiffly, “My name is Hurley, of the Alaska Commercial Company. These gentlemen are George Thompson, from the A.C.C. post in Unalakleet, and Father Karloff, from the Russian church here. And you are…?”

  Donner hesitated, and I knew why. The bloodhound who was after him was neither of these two, but he might be close. If Donner gave his name, it would be dangerous for him. But if he didn’t, he couldn’t win. If he intended to win, he had to stick with the name under which he’d registered.

  “Donner and Brackett,” he
replied, a note of desperation in his not-so-smooth voice. “We’re in the race.”

  Hurley nodded. There was no indication in his eyes that he’d been alerted to these names.

  The detective might be on his way down the Yukon, I realized, but he hadn’t overtaken the Bonanza King.

  Should I denounce Donner here and now for a criminal?

  I knew I couldn’t. They wouldn’t hold him, not without evidence.

  Hurley glanced at Brackett. The boxer looked quickly away. In all likelihood he was under orders not to speak.

  “Now, what about the race?” Donner demanded. “How stands the race?”

  “I’m in a hurry,” Hurley said. “This much I can tell you. We reached the mouth of the Yukon at Kutlik by the northern channel ahead of every boat in the race.”

  “Did you talk to them?” Donner interrupted. “Those at the head of the race? What were their intentions when they reached the sea? Attempt a direct crossing of Norton Sound to Cape Nome? Hug the shore to St. Michael before crossing? Follow the shore all the way around without attempting a crossing at all?”

  “What do you think?” Hurley asked Thompson. “Do the rules allow me to reply?”

  The trader from Unalakleet tucked his pencil behind his ear. “The rules are posted, and they’re precious few.”

  “I’ll tell you, then. Weather allowing, they plan a direct crossing of the sound, with Eskimo guides leading the way. That seems to be the common strategy. To skirt the coast all the way to Nome would add a hundred miles or more. Some plan to use their skiffs, others to paddle native craft.”

  “And where do you reckon the leaders are at this moment?”

  Hurley thought about it. “Just reaching the sea, same as you.”

  “That’s what we needed to know!” Donner cried jubilantly. To Thompson, he said, “We’ll need some supplies from your store, and for you to recommend a craft for us and to arrange for the sale of it.”

  “In good time,” Thompson replied, and returned to adding a column of figures.

  Hurley’s eyes went from Donner and Brackett to Jamie and me. “We’ll tell Nome about you, both teams. Two teams having made the portage will add a great deal of interest. Nome knows all about the race. Every man on the beach will be on the lookout and will know your names.”

  For the briefest moment Donner’s flint-hard eyes seemed to me to flicker with fear. Then he caught himself. “Will the money be ready, in cash, for the victors?”

  With a grin, Hurley replied, “Aye, it’s ready.”

  Donner hesitated, then asked in perfect command of himself, “What are our chances of catching a big steamer heading south? Quickly, that is. If we win, we have no use for Nome.”

  “Steamers come and go every day, that’s what I’ve been hearing.”

  “Good,” Donner said. “That’s good.”

  Within minutes Hurley was being paddled back out to the Bonanza King. Donner and Brackett were following Thompson up the path to the trading post.

  The old priest saw us standing there, at an utter loss, watching them go. He motioned after Thompson and our enemies. “Why you two not go with?”

  “We have no money,” Jamie replied.

  “Ah…,” he said ponderously. “Always a problem.”

  I’d been studying the skin boats drawn up on the beach. How were Donner and Brackett going to control a boat that large, even if it was light? “Those boats over there,” I said. “Can two people handle those?”

  The priest shook his head. “Those are for hunting whales. Seven paddles, harpooner. You need two-man kayak. All covered with skin, even the top. For hunting seals and sea lions.”

  “That’s what we need,” Jamie said.

  “Lots of work to make one. Eskimos don’t giff ’em away. Anyway, you can’t cross without Eskimo guides. Out on the ocean, no land in sight, the Eskimos always know where they are. Birds, sun, current, wind…I been in this land before it was sold to the Americans, and I could not paddle to Cape Nome if my life depend on it.”

  “Those other two men are going to hire guides,” I said. “We could follow along.”

  “What an idea!” Jamie encouraged me.

  “All we need is a kayak,” I begged.

  The priest rolled his eyes.

  “We have paddles,” I said, just to keep talking. “Maybe we can trade our birchbark canoe for one of those kayaks you mentioned.”

  The priest heaved a sigh. “Those Indian canoes are worthless on the ocean. Paddles worthless, too. For kayak you need blades on both ends—paddle both sides, quick, quick. I wish I could help you.”

  The old Russian bent to pet Burnt Paw, who as usual was favoring his right front foot. “Got a thorn, little one? Let me see if I can help you.”

  “He burned his paw in a fire,” I explained.

  “Ah,” the priest said sympathetically, “hurt your foot.”

  Suddenly the old man’s eyes lit like bright candles. “Wait a minute. That gives me idea.”

  “Tell us,” Jamie urged.

  “Haff my life, I try to build hospital here. No money! Always, no money. That prize for winning this race, it’s twenty tousand dollars, eh?”

  Jamie and I nodded vigorously.

  “You two, me, makes three. I find you kayak, I become equal partner. You win, I get almost seven tousand dollars for hospital.”

  I hesitated. I glanced at Jamie. Without a word spoken, we agreed.

  “It’s for a good cause,” Jamie said. With a chuckle, she added, “God would be on our side, Jason.”

  The old priest laughed. “You bet your britches.”

  “It’s a deal,” I told him. “Now, let’s hurry!”

  TWENTY-TWO

  In less than an hour’s time we had our kayak. It was slim as a needle at the bow and stern and no wider than thirty inches across its midpoint. Its frame was made of whittled driftwood, and its sheath, tight as drum, was fashioned from sealskins. The cordage was fashioned from their sinews. Openings fore and aft allowed entry; skirts made of seal gut would cinch around our waists and keep out the sea.

  By this time, six Eskimos were launching one of their skin whaleboats. With a wild cry they paddled through the light surf. To our chagrin, Donner and Brackett launched a kayak right behind them.

  “We better start,” I fretted, “or we’ll lose them.”

  “Everyone out there has gut jackets and pants,” the old priest said. “Waterproof. You need those. Wait a minute—I sent for them.”

  Jamie said, “I understand why those two are in such a hurry, but why the Eskimos?”

  “Same reason as riverboat. The weather is good, but it could change. They have a far way to go.”

  “How long will the crossing take?”

  The priest shrugged. “No wind, about twenty-six hours.”

  An Eskimo girl came running down from the village with our jackets and pants in hand. Daylight shone through them, yet they were obviously sturdy. We put them on. They had drawstrings at the hood, wrists, and waist. They weighed almost nothing.

  We stowed the small sacks of food that Father Karloff had provided for us, our flasks of water, and a few bare essentials from our previous outfit. If we were to have a chance, we had to go light.

  It was 5:30 P.M. by Jamie’s watch when we floated the kayak. My bladder was as empty as I could possibly manage. This was going to be a test of more than one kind of endurance.

  I stepped gingerly into the bow and Jamie took her place in the stern. Sure he was being left behind, Burnt Paw was whimpering in the arms of the priest. To the mutt’s great relief the priest waded out and handed him to me. I placed him on my lap, then cinched the kayak skirt loosely at my waist to allow him room to see and breathe.

  With a glance over my shoulder at Jamie, I caught her unprepared as she was struggling to find a comfortable position in her low-slung seat. Her eyes were bloodshot and she looked positively gaunt, on the verge of collapse.

  At that moment, all the excitement wen
t out of me. I was filled with foreboding and dread. The Yukon River had been almost like a friend. We knew nothing of the cruel, dark face of the sea.

  “What is it, Jason?”

  With a rueful laugh, I said, “I’m not sure, of a sudden. I want us to live through this.”

  For nearly half a minute Jamie closed her eyes and said nothing. When she opened them, she said, “We won’t be alone. If we get into trouble, the Eskimos will fish us into their boat. I’ll always wonder if we could have won, and so will you.”

  Her face was still drawn, but her hazel eyes were revived and flashing fire.

  She’d revived me, too. In every bone and muscle I could feel how badly I wanted to get to Nome and get there first. “Let’s catch them, then, before they’re out of sight!”

  We paddled head-on toward the surf. The double-bladed paddles propelled the light, streamlined craft remarkably quickly. The kayak cleaved the waves like a knife blade, and we cleared the surf in a wild spray of splash and foam. Ahead, the rolling gray sea.

  “Godspeed,” called the old priest. “Don’t forget my hospital!”

  It was difficult to make out the kayak ahead and the whaleboat in front of it. All of us were paddling directly into the sun, low over the sea to the northwest.

  “No worries,” Jamie called confidently from the stern. “We’ll catch them.”

  “No worries,” I repeated.

  We caught up hours later, as the sun was setting. We approached no closer to the kayak than a hundred yards.

  It was some time before Brackett, in the stern, happened to glance back over his shoulder.

  A second or two later, Donner glanced over his.

  “Bet they’re surprised,” I said.

  An hour later the sun came back up.

  We paddled briskly at the very margin of endurance. Hour after hour, the pace never slackened.

  By now we couldn’t see land in any direction.

  When the sun was high, the wind picked up. It started to drive swells at us, hills that had to be climbed.