Chapter XI: Joe Pete

Several times during the afternoon as they worked side by side, Reeves endeavored to engage Brent in conversation, but the latter's replies were short to the verge of curtness, and Reeves gave it up and devoted his energy to the task in hand. The fitful snow flurries of the forenoon settled into a steady fall of wind-driven flakes that cut the air in long horizontal slants and lay an ever-thickening white blanket upon the frozen surface of the ground. Darkness fell early, and the job was finished by lantern light. When the last barrow of earth had been placed, the two made a tour of inspection which ended at the kitchen door.

"Snug and tight for the winter!" exclaimed Reeves, "And just in time!"

"Yes," answered Brent, "Winter is here."

The door opened and the face of Mrs. Reeves was framed for a moment in the yellow lamp light: "Supper is ready!" she called, cheerily.

"Come in," invited Reeves, heartily, "We'll put that supper where it will do the most good, and then we'll----"

Brent interrupted him: "Thank you, I'll go home."

"Oh, come, now!" insisted the other. "Mrs. Reeves is expecting you. She will be really disappointed if you run off that way."

"Disappointed--_hell_!" cried Brent, so fiercely that Reeves stared at him in surprise. "Do you think for a minute that it was easy for me to sit at a table--the table of a southern lady--in these rags? Would you care to try it--to try and play the role of a gentleman behind a six weeks' growth of beard, and with your hair uncut for six months? It would have been an ordeal at any table, but to find out suddenly--at a moment when you were straining every nerve in your body to carry it through, that your hostess was one you had known--in other days--and who had known you--I tell you man it was hell! What I've got to have is not food, but whiskey--enough whiskey to make me drunk--very drunk. And the hell I've gone through is not a circumstance to the hell I've got to face when that same whiskey begins to die out--lying there in the bunk staring wide-eyed into the thick dark--seeing things that aren't there--hearing voices that were, and are forever stilled, and voices that never were--the voices of the damned--taunting, reviling, mocking your very soul, asking you what you have done with your millions? And where do you go from here? And your hands shaking so that you can't draw the cork from the bottle to drown the damned voices and still them till you have to wake up again, hoping when you do it will be daylight--it's easier in daylight. I tell you man that's _hell_! It isn't the hell that comes after he dies a man fears--it's the hell that comes in the dark. A hell born of whiskey, and only whiskey will quench the fires of it--and more whiskey--and more----"

Reeves grasped his hand in a mighty grip: "I think I understand, old man--a little," he said. "I'll make excuse to Mrs. Reeves."

"Tell her the truth if you want to," growled Brent, turning away, "We'll never meet again."

"You've forgotten something," called Reeves as he extended a hand which held a crisp bill.

Brent examined it. It was a twenty. "What is this--wages or charity?" he asked.

"Wages--and you've earned every cent of it."

"Shoveling dirt, or play acting?" There was a sneer in the man's voice, which Reeves was quick to resent.

"Shoveling dirt," he replied, shortly.

"Men shovel dirt in this camp now for eight or ten."

"I think I am quite capable of judging what a man's services are worth to me," answered Reeves, "Good bye." He turned to the door, and Brent crumpled the bill into his pocket and disappeared in the whirling snow.

Arriving at his cabin he carefully deposited two quarts of liquor upon the table, lighted his smoky lamp, and built a roaring fire in the stove. Seating himself in a chair, he carefully removed the cork from the bottle and took a long, long drink. He realized suddenly that the unwonted physical exercise had made him very tired and hungry. The greater part of a link of bologna sausage lay upon the table, a remnant of a previous meal. He took the sausage in his hand and devoured it, pausing now and then to drink from the bottle. When the last fragment had been consumed he settled himself in his chair and, with the bottle at his elbow, stared for a long time at the log wall. "Winter is here," he muttered, at length, "And I've got to hit the trail." He took a drink, and carefully replaced the bottle upon the table, and again for a long time he stared at the logs. A knock on the door startled him.

"Come in," he called. He felt better now. The liquor was taking hold.

Reeves stamped the snow noisily from his feet and closed the door behind him. Brent rose and motioned for the man to draw the other chair closer to the stove. He turned up the murky lamp a trifle, then turned it down again because it smoked.

Reeves seated himself, and fumbling in his pocket, produced two cigars, one of which he tendered to Brent. "I came, partly on my own account, and partly at the earnest solicitation of my wife." He smiled, "I hardly know how to begin."

"If it's a sermon, begin about three words from the end; but if it is a drinking bout, begin at the beginning, but you will have to pardon me for beginning in the middle, for I have already consumed half a quart." He indicated the bottle and Reeves noted that his lips were smiling, and that there was a sparkle in the muddy eyes.

"Not guilty on either count," he laughed, "I neither preach nor drink. What brings me here is a mere matter of business."

"Business? Sure you haven't got your dates mixed. I have temporarily withdrawn from the business world."

Reeves was relieved to see that the fierce mood of a few hours before had given place to good humour. "No, it is regarding the termination of this temporary withdrawal that I want to see you. I understand you're a mining engineer."

"Colorado School of Mines--five good jobs within two years in Montana--later, placer miner, 'notorious gambler,' and--" he included himself and the interior of the cabin in an expressive gesture.

"Do you want another good job?"

"What kind of a job?"

"An engineering job. How would you like to be my assistant in the operation of this dredging proposition?"

Brent shook his head: "It wouldn't work."

"Why not?"

Brent smiled: "Too close to Dawson. I like the hooch too well. And, aside from that, you don't need me. You will be laying off men now. Not hiring them."

"Laying off laborers, yes. But there is plenty of work along that creek this winter for the right man--for me, and for you, if you will assume it."

Again Brent shook his head: "There is another reason," he objected, "I have got to make another strike--and a good one. I have an obligation to meet--an obligation that in all probability will involve more money than any salary I could earn."

"Small chance of a rich strike, now. The whole country is staked."

"Around here, yes. But not where I'm going."

"Where is that?"

"Over beyond the Mackenzie. In the Coppermine River country."

"Beyond the Mackenzie!" cried Reeves, "Man are you crazy!"

"No, not crazy, only, at the moment, comfortably drunk. But that has nothing whatever to do with my journey to the Coppermine. I will be cold sober when I hit the trail."

"And when will that be? How do you expect to finance the trip?"

"Ah, there's the rub," grinned Brent, "I have not the least idea in the world of how I am going to finance it. When that detail is arranged, I shall hit the trail within twenty-four hours."

Reeves was thinking rapidly. He did not believe that there was any gold beyond the Mackenzie. To the best of his knowledge there was nothing beyond the Mackenzie. Nothing--no towns--no booze! If Brent would be willing to go into a country for six months or a year in which booze was not obtainable--"There's no booze over there," he said aloud, "How much would you have to take with you?"

"Not a damned drop!"

"What!"

Brent rose suddenly to his feet and stood before Reeves. "I have been fooling myself," he said, in a low tense voice, "Do you know what my shibboleth has been? What I have been telling myself and telling others--and expecting them to believe? I began to say it, and honestly enough, when I first started to get soft, and I kept it up stubbornly when the softness turned to flabbiness, and I maintained it doggedly when the flabbiness gave way to pouchiness: 'I am as good a man as I ever was!' That's the damned lie I've been telling myself! I nearly told it at your table, and before your wife, but thank God I was spared that humiliation. Just between friends, I'll tell the truth--I'm a damned worthless, hooch-guzzling good-for-naught! And the hell of it is, I haven't got the guts to quit!" He seized the bottle from the table and drank three or four swallows in rapid succession, "See that--what did I tell you?" He glared at Reeves as if challenging a denial. "But, I've got one chance."

He straightened up and pointed toward the eastward. "Over beyond the Mackenzie there is no hooch. If I can get away from it for six months I can beat it. If I can get my nerve back--get my _health_ back, By God, I _will_ beat it! If there's enough of a Brent left in me, for that girl, your wife, to recognize through this disguise of rags and hair and dirt, there's enough of a Brent, sir, to put up one hell of a fight against booze!"

Reeves found himself upon his feet slapping the other on the back. "You've said it man! You've said it! I will arrange for the financing."

"You! How?"

"On your own terms."

Brent was silent for a moment: "Take your pick," he said, "Grub-stake me, or loan me two thousand dollars. If I live I'll pay you back--with interest. If I don't--you lose."

Reeves regarded him steadily: "I lose, only in case you die--you promise me that--on the word of a Brent? And I don't mean the two thousand--you understand what I mean, I think."

Brent nodded, slowly: "I understand. And I promise--on the word of a Brent. But," he hastened to add, "I am not promising that I will not drink any more hooch--now or any other time--I have here a quart and a half of liquor. In all probability between now and tomorrow morning I shall get very drunk."

"You said you would leave within twenty-four hours," reminded Reeves.

"And so I will."

"How do you want the money?"

"How do I want it? I'll tell you. I want it in dust, and I want it inside of an hour. Can you get it?"

"Yes," answered Reeves, and drawing on cap and mittens, pushed out into the storm.

Hardly had the door closed behind him, than it opened again and Brent also disappeared in the storm.

In a little shack upon the river bank, an Indian grunted sleepily in answer to an insistent banging upon his door: "Hey, Joe Pete, come out here! I want you!"

A candle flared dully, and presently the door opened, and a huge Indian stood in the doorway rubbing his eyes with his fist.

"Come with me," ordered Brent, "To the cabin."

Silently the Indian slipped into his outer clothing and followed, and without a word of explanation, Brent led the way to his cabin. For a half hour they sat in silence, during which Brent several times drank from his bottle. Presently Reeves entered and laid a pouch upon the table. He looked questioningly at the Indian who returned the scrutiny with a look of stolid indifference.

"Joe Pete, this is Mr. Reeves. Reeves, that Injun is Joe Pete, the best damned Injun in Alaska, or anywhere else. Used to pack over the Chilkoot, until he made so much money he thought he'd try his hand at the gold--now he's broke. Joe Pete is going with me. He and I understand each other perfectly." He picked up the sack and handed it to the Indian: "Two thousand dolla--_pil chikimin_. Go to police, find out trail to Mackenzie--Fort Norman. How many miles? How many days? Buy grub for two. Buy good dogs and sled. Buy two outfits clothes--plenty tabac. Keep rest of _pil chikimin_ safe until two days on trail, then give it to me. We hit the trail at eight o'clock tomorrow morning."

Without a word the Indian took the sack and slipped silently out the door, while Reeves stared in astonishment:

"You've got a lot of confidence in that Indian!" he exclaimed. "I wouldn't trust one of them out of my sight with a dollar bill!"

"You don't know Joe Pete," grinned Brent. "I've got more confidence in him than I have in myself. The hooch joints will be two days behind me before I get my hands on that dust."

"And now, what?" asked Reeves.

"Be here at eight o'clock tomorrow morning and witness the start," grinned Brent, "In the meantime, I am going to make the most of the fleeting hours." He reached for the bottle, and Reeves held up a warning hand:

"You won't be in any shape to hit the trail in the morning, if you go too heavy on that."

Brent laughed: "Again, I may say, you don't know Joe Pete."

At seven o'clock in the morning Reeves hurried to Brent's cabin. The snow about the door lay a foot deep, trackless and unbroken. Reeves' heart gave a bound of apprehension. There was no dog team nor sled in evidence, nor was there any sign that the Indian had returned. A dull light glowed through the heavily frosted pane and without waiting to knock Reeves pushed open the door and entered.

Brent greeted him with drunken enthusiasm: "H'l'o, Reeves, ol' top! Glad to she you. S'down an' have a good ol' drink! Wait'll I shave. Hell of a job to shave." He stood before the mirror weaving back and forth, with a razor in one hand and a shaving brush in the other, and a glass half full of whiskey upon the washstand before him, into which he gravely from time to time dipped the shaving brush, and rubbing it vigorously upon the soap, endeavored to lather the inch-long growth of beard that covered his face. Despite his apprehension as to what had become of the paragon, Joe Pete, Reeves was forced to laugh. He laughed and laughed, until Brent turned around and regarded him gravely: "Wash matter? Wash joke? Wait a minuit lesh have a li'l drink." He reached for the bottle, that sat nearly empty upon the table, and guzzled a swallow of the liquor. "Damn near all gone. Have to get nosher one when Joe Pete comes."

"When Joe Pete comes!" cried Reeves, "You'll never see Joe Pete again! He's skipped out!"

"Skipped out? Washa mean skipped out?"

"I mean that it's a quarter past seven and he hasn't showed up and you told him you would start at eight."

Brent laid his razor upon the table: "Quar' pasht seven? Quar pasht seven isn't eight 'clock. You don' know Joe Pete."

"But, man, you're not ready. There's nothing packed. And you're as drunk as a lord!"

"Sure, I'm drunk's a lord--drunker'n two lords--lords ain't so damn' drunk. If I don't get packed by eight 'clock I'll have to go wishout packin'. You don' know Joe Pete."

At a quarter of eight there was a commotion before the door, and the huge Indian entered the room, dressed for the trail. He stood still, gave one comprehensive look around the room, and silently fell to work. He examined rapidly everything in the cabin, throwing several articles into a pile. Brent's tooth brush, comb, shaving outfit, and mirror he made into a pack which he carried to the sled, returning a moment later with a brand new outfit of clothing. He placed it upon the chair and motioned Brent to get into it. But Brent stood and stared at it owlishly. Whereupon, without a word, the Indian seized him and with one or two jerks stripped him to the skin and proceeded to dress him as one would dress a baby. Brent protested weakly, but all to no purpose. Reeves helped and soon Brent was clothed for the winter trail even to moose hide parka. He grinned foolishly, and drank the remaining liquor from the bottle. "Whad' I tell you?" he asked solemnly of Reeves. "You don't know Joe Pete."

The Indian consulted a huge silver watch, and returning it to his pocket, sat upon the edge of the bunk, and stared at the wall. Brent puttered futilely about the room, and addressed the Indian. "We got to get a bottle of hooch. I got to have jus' one more drink. Jus' one more drink, an' then to hell wish it."

The Indian paid not the slightest heed, but continued to stare at the wall. A few minutes later he again consulted his watch, and rising, grasped Brent about the middle and carried him, struggling and protesting out the door and lashed him securely to the sled.

Reeves watched the proceeding in amazement, and almost before he realized what was happening, the Indian had taken his place beside the dogs. He cracked his whip, shouted an unintelligible command, and the team started. Upon the top of the load, Brent wagged a feeble farewell to Reeves: "Sho long, ol' man--she you later--I got to go now. You don' know Joe Pete."

The outfit headed down the trail to the river. Reeves, standing beside the door of the deserted cabin, glanced at his watch. It was eight o'clock. He turned, closed the door and started for home chuckling. The chuckle became a laugh, and he smote his thigh and roared, until some laborers going to work stopped to look at him. Then he composed himself and went home to tell his wife.