Greener than spruce

Author of “Plenty Grub an’ Plenty Gold,” etc.

“Maybe greener men have hit Alasky--but I doubt it!”

The speaker, a rheumy-eyed, old veteran of the trails, spoke thus disparagingly of young Harris Benton. The old-timer’s perpetual “sun-grin” expanded visibly as he watched Benton’s parka-clad figure disappear around a bend in the river trail.

“Wonder how long he’ll last,” the old fellow speculated, turning to the group on the river bank. “I’ll bet I’ve showed him a dozen times how to tie his snowshoes to his feet, an’ I’ve told him little things about pitchin’ his tent and makin’ camp, till I’m black in the face. It’ll be three-four weeks yet before mushin’ll be any good, but I’ve got a right good notion to load up the old Yukon sled an’ take out after that young chechahco.”

“An’ why?”

The old-timer had paused for that query. The question certainly gave pith and point to the clever thing on the tip of his tongue. The remark would have lost its savor in the telling; the retort, however, was pungent.

“An’ why?” he repeated. “I’ll tell you for why. I’ve been snow-blind twice, so my eyes ain’t what they used to be. Nowadays, when I ain’t wearin’ snow glasses--an’ blast the dang things, I hate ’em!-- I’ve got to keep my eyes clamped on the spruce.

“Spruce is dang restful to the eyes. It’s restful because it’s green, but to keep on lookin’ at it, a man’s got to twist his head from one side the river to the other, an’ there’s times when I think I’m li’ble to twist my head plum off--like a screech owl. Now, instead of takin’ all that trouble, I could start out an’ foller after this young Benton. Instead of lookin’ at the spruce then, I could keep my eyes fastened straight ahead on him. He’s greener than any spruce that ever growed.”

If young Harris Benton could have heard this sarcastic speech, he would have been rudely made aware of the withering contempt in which he was held by the general run of Alaskans with whom he had come in contact. Had he been aware of the feeling which existed, he would not have been offended in the least; he would have been amused. He was green but, unlike many greenhorns, he realized the fact and was anxious to learn. Moreover, he was willing to accept the hard knocks--a part of the curriculum of Alaska’s trail school--and come up smiling. For Harris Benton, although he was probably the greenest chechahco in the North, had not been raised a pet.

At noon, young Benton hauled his sled to the river bank and, with considerable difficulty, dropped a dead spruce tree and built a small tea fire. After his noon meal he unloaded his Yukon sled, inverted it so that the steel-shod runners shone like twin mirrors in the rays of the sun; then--and this is almost past believing--he proceeded to smear the steel shoes of the sled runners with lubricating oil.

The dealer who had sold him the oil--either unscrupulous or a practical joker--had seriously informed him that “greased sled runners makes mighty easy slippin’ on the trail.” Harris Benton had innocently bought five gallons of the lubricant.

Where a musher pulls without dogs, as young Benton was doing, every pound of excess weight is an additional check to his progress. And besides the five gallons of lubricating oil, Harris Benton was hauling other nonessentials. He had more clothing than he really needed; about twenty pounds of books and old magazines, and the merchant from whom he had bought his outfit had sold him far too many cooking utensils. Benton’s entire outfit weighed almost twelve hundred pounds, and, since at best he could haul but four hundred pounds on his Yukon sled, he was relaying. He would haul from three to four hundred pounds as far up the river trail as he could possibly travel in a day, cache his load, and return to his camp with his empty sled.

Early in the month of May he reached the Kentna country. He had been on the trail four months, and he had arrived with pick, pan, and shovel, together with ample food to last him through the mining season. Also--as every old-timer in the Kentna country will testify--he had arrived with the ambition and energy of a half dozen men in spite of the grueling work on the trail.

Young Benton spent his first week after arriving at “the cricks” in building a cache for his supplies. It was a simple box affair, built of logs, supported high in air by four posts. He was busily stowing his food and other supplies in the cache, when a voice at his elbow brought him about with a start. Looking up from his work, he saw the old-timer who had offered him many helpful suggestions back at the trading post. The old man was surveying him, his small stock of provisions, and his crude cache, with frank curiosity.

“Well, I see you landed here all right,” he remarked by way of greeting. “I’m camped just above here on Penny Ante Crick, an’ I ain’t got a thing to do till the snow goes off, so I thought I’d mush over an’ see how you’re gettin’ along. Staked yourself a claim yet?”

Benton admitted that he had not. “I didn’t know it was lawful to stake a claim unless you discover gold,” he added.

“Plenty of ’em stakes first an’ find the gold afterward--if there’s any to be found.” The old man’s rheumy eyes were mildly disapproving. “I wouldn’t worry too much about makin’ my discovery, if I was you. Most any gravel you find around here carries some gold. Trouble is to find it in payin’ quantities. So hurry up an’ stake yourself a claim or two, before some of these ground hogs comes in on the first boat this summer an’ grabs it all. Us old-timers takes just what we can work to good advantage, but most greenhorns’ll wear out a pair of hobnail shoes just a-racin’ over the country stakin’. You’re lucky to be here among the first, so hurry up an’ get busy.”

“Thanks for the tip. I’ll----”

“It’s none of my business,” the old-timer suddenly interrupted, “but what in thunder have you brought into the country in that?”

Benton had placed his five-gallon can of lubricating oil near the cache, and it was that which had elicited the question. He was somewhat puzzled.

“Why, that’s my oil,” he said. “How do you carry yours?”

The ancient sour dough had all he could do to keep a straight face. This green chechahco had actually brought kerosene into this wilderness!

“You won’t have no use for a lamp,” he said gently. “All summer you can read fine print right in your tent--any hour of the night, too. I thought ev’ry-body knowed----”

“I have no lamp,” young Benton interrupted impatiently. “I’m green but I’m not quite a fool--I hope. That isn’t oil for a lamp; it’s about four gallons of lubricating oil that I had left over from my winter’s sledding.”

“I see.” The old man shifted his weight from one moccasined foot to the other, swallowing his Adam’s apple twice before he once more found his voice. “I understand you but I don’t know what you mean,” he said. “How much of this oil did you use an’ how did you use it?”

“Well, I used about a gallon.” Young Benton was looking doubtfully at the old man. “I think I see what you’re driving at now. I allowed that storekeeper to sell me five gallons when one was all that I needed.”

The old-timer lifted his tufted eyebrows. “An’ you got through the winter with one gallon,” he said softly, wonderingly.

“Why, I only used it in the morning and again at noon. Just when I--but maybe I didn’t use it often enough. Still, the sled came along pretty well.”

The old-timer barked apologetically in his mittened hand. At last he understood. It had been so many years since he had heard of the old joke of greasing sled runners that he had forgotten. But this boy was so very much in earnest, it wouldn’t do to hurt his feelings. And besides, it might lead to serious trouble. This innocent youth had dragged this worthless stuff over the trail--pounds and pounds of it. Murder had been committed for less than a joke like that!

“The skinflint sold you too much, all right,” he said, as he reached down and thoughtfully “hefted” the can. “But you’ve got it here--I reckon you might as well forget it. Anyhow, you won’t have any more use for it. You’re all through sleddin’. An’ now I’d better be gettin’ along. If you want anything this summer, you’ll find me over on Penny Ante Crick. Number Five Above Discovery’s the name of my claim.”