The Stampede

"The Stampede" by Rex Ellingwood Beach is an adventure novel set against the backdrop of the Alaskan gold rush. The story follows a group of prospectors and adventurers who embark on a perilous journey in search of fortune and glory amidst the harsh and unforgiving wilderness. As they confront the challenges of nature, rivalries, and their own ambitions, the characters reveal their true natures and the complexities of human desire. With vivid descriptions and a gripping plot, Beach's narrative explores themes of hope, greed, and the relentless pursuit of dreams in a rapidly changing world.

• Short story

								
From their vantage on the dump, the red gravel of which ran like a raw
scar down the mountainside, the men looked out across the gulch, above
the western range of hills to the yellow setting sun. Far below them the
creek was dotted with other tiny pay dumps of the same red gravel over
which men crawled, antlike, or upon which they labored at windlass. Thin
wisps of smoke rose from the cabin roofs, bespeaking the supper hour.

They had done a hard day's work, these two, and wearily descended to
their shack, which hugged the hillside beneath.

Ten hours with pick and shovel in a drift where the charcoal-gas
flickers a candle-flame will reduce one's artistic keenness, and
together they slouched along the path, heedless alike of view or color.

As Crowley built the fire Buck scoured himself in the wet snow beside
the door, emerging from his ablutions as cook. The former stretched upon
the bunk with growing luxury. "Gee whiz! I'm tuckered out. Twelve hours
in that air is too much for anybody."

"Sure," growled the other. "Bet I sleep good to-night, all right, all
right. What's the use, anyhow?" he continued, disgustedly. "I'm sore on
the whole works. If the Yukon was open I'd chuck it all."

"What! Go back to the States? Give up?"

"Well, yes, if you want to call it that, though I think I've shown I
ain't a quitter. Lord! I've rustled steady for two years, and what have
I got? Nothing--except my interest in this pauperized hill claim."

"If two years of hard luck gives you cold feet, you ain't worthy of the
dignity of 'prospector.' This here is the only honorable calling there
is. There's no competition and cuttin' throats in our business, nor we
don't rob the widders and orphans. A prospector is defined as a
semi-human being with a low forehead but a high sense of honor, a
stummick that shies at salads, but a heart that's full of grit. They
don't never lay down, and the very beauty of the business is that you
never know when you're due. Some day a guy comes along: 'I hit her over
yonder, bo,' says he, whereupon you insert yourself into a pack-strap,
pound the trail, and the next you know you're a millionaire or two."

"Bah! No more stampedes for me. I've killed myself too often--there's
nothing in 'em. I'm sick of it, I tell you, and I'm going out to God's
country. No more wild scrambles and hardships for Buck."

A step sounded on the chips without, and a slender, sallow man entered.

"Hello, Maynard!" they chorused, and welcomed him to a seat.

"What are you doing out here?"

"D'you bring any chewing with you?"

Evidently he labored under excitement, for his face was flushed and his
eyes danced nervously. He panted from his climb, ignoring their
questions.

"There's been a big strike--over on the Tanana--four bits to the pan."

Forgetting fatigue, Crowley scrambled out of his bunk while the cook
left his steaming skillet.

"When?"

"How d'you know?"

"It's this way. I met a fellow as I came out from town--he'd just come
over--one of the discoverers. He showed me the gold. It's coarse; one
nugget weighed three hundred dollars and there's only six men in the
party. They went up the Tanana last fall, prospecting, and only just
struck it. Three of 'em are down with scurvy, so this one came over the
mountains for fresh grub. It'll be the biggest stampede this camp ever
saw." Maynard became incoherent.

"How long ago did you meet him?" Crowley inquired, excitedly.

"About an hour. I came on the run, because he'll get into camp by
eleven, and midnight will see five hundred men on the trail. Look at
this--he gave me a map." The speaker gloatingly produced a scrap of
writing-paper and continued, "Boys, you've got five hours' start of
them."

"We can't go; we haven't got any dogs," said Buck. "Those people from
town would catch us in twenty miles."

"You don't want dogs," Maynard answered. "It's too soft. You'll have to
make a quick run with packs or the spring break-up will catch you. I
wish I could go. It's big, I tell you. Lord! How I wish I could go!"

They were huddled together, their eyes feverish, their fingers tracing
the pencil-markings. A smell of burning food filled the room, but there
is no obsession more absolute than the gold-lust.

"Get the packs together while me and Buck eats a bite. We'll take the
fox-robe and the Navajo. Glad I've got a new pair of mukluks, 'cause we
need light footgear; but what will you wear, boy? Them hip-boots is too
heavy--you'd never make it."

"Here," said Maynard, "try these." He slipped off his light gossamer
sporting-boots, and Buck succeeded in stamping his feet into them.

"Little tight, but they'll go."

They snatched bites of food, meanwhile collecting their paraphernalia,
Maynard helping as he could.

Each selected a change of socks and mittens. Then the grub was divided
evenly--tea, flour, bacon, baking-powder, salt, sugar. There was nothing
else, for spring on the Yukon finds only the heel of the grub-stake.
Each rolled his portion in his blanket and lashed it with light rope.
Then an end of the bundle was thrust into the waist of a pair of
overalls and the garment closely cinched to it. The legs were brought
forward and fastened, forming two loops, through which they slipped
their arms, balancing the packs, or shifting a knot here and there. A
light ax, a coffee-pot, frying-pan, and pail were tied on the outside,
and they stood ready for the run. They stored carefully wrapped bundles
of matches in pockets, packs, and in the lining of their caps. The
preparations had not taken twenty minutes.

"Too bad we ain't got some cooked grub, like chocolate or dog-biscuits,"
said Crowley, "but seeing as we've got five hours' start over everybody
we won't have to kill ourselves."

Maynard spoke hesitatingly. "Say, I told Sully about it as I came
along."

"What!" Crowley interrupted him sharply.

"Yes! I told him to get ready, and I promised to give him the location
an hour after you left. You see, he did me a good turn once and I had to
get back at him somehow. He and Knute are getting fixed now. Why, what's
up?"

He caught a queer, quick glance between his partners and noted a
hardness settle into the lined face of the elder.

"Nothing much," Buck took up. "I guess you didn't know about the
trouble, eh? Crowley knocked him down day before yesterday and Sully
swears he'll kill him on sight. It came up over that fraction on Buster
Creek."

"Well, well," said Maynard, "that's bad, isn't it? I promised, though,
so I'll have to tell him."

"Sure! That's all right," Crowley agreed, quietly, though his lip
curled, showing the strong, close-shut, ivory teeth. His nostrils
dilated, also, giving his face a passing wolfish hint. "There's neither

								Rate this book:0.0 / 0 votes