Down the Yukon (2 page)

“I believe she's cooked, Jason.”

Same time every morning, I waited for Ethan to say those magic words. It was coffee he was talking about, boiling away on the Yukon stove. Next, Abe would make a remark about Ethan leaving it on the stove too long.

“Likely you've rendered that brew into cyanide,” Abe said dryly as he worried his mustache. “We can sell the grounds to the fellows out at the creeks for separating gold.”

Ethan laughed heartily. “Don't you throw 'em out before I've had the chance to chew 'em, Abraham.”

I laughed as I pulled on a leather mitt and grabbed the big coffee pot by the handle. I stepped outside the mill office by the light of our new electric yard lamp into the subzero cold and whirled the pot high over my head and nearly to my feet, around and around in a blur until the grounds were good and settled. Abe held that
sinking the grounds with a cup of cold water was more effective, not to mention safer. It was Ethan, impish by nature, who'd taught me how to windmill the coffee. He never failed to watch through the partly frosted windows. In the never-ending seesaw between my older brothers, Ethan got to win out on the small things.

I brought the coffee back inside, shucked the mitt, and poured three cups. I held mine for a few minutes to warm my hands. This was my favorite ritual, this half hour before the crew showed up, when it was just the brothers Hawthorn starting the workday with coffee and the newspaper and conversation.

“That Sydney Mauler,” I said. “Imagine, Ethan—heavyweight champion of the British Empire.”

“Former champion,” Abe pointed out as he read the front page of the
Klondike Nugget.

Ethan chuckled and waved it off, spitting a few coffee grounds through his teeth onto the floor. “It was all a tempest in a teapot.”

“You wouldn't get into the ring with him, would you?” I asked.

Abe put the newspaper down. He was cross. “Of course he wouldn't.”

I looked at Ethan. As preposterous as it sounded, he seemed to be amused by the idea. Now that Abe had opposed it, Ethan would have to consider it. Lately that's the way it was between the two of them.

I heard a loud thump outside. “What was that?”

“Something thrown at the fence?” Abraham guessed.

Sipping my coffee, I got up and walked to the window. “Nothing out there.”

Suddenly there
was
something there. Running full speed at the wooden fence around the lumberyard, here came that little split-faced mongrel from the night
before, ears flapping. With a sudden leap, as if he meant to clear the fence, the mutt bounded skyward. The thing was, that fence was six feet high if it was an inch. The dog crashed with a heavy thump and fell to the ground. I couldn't help laughing.

The mutt picked himself up, trotted off a few feet and studied the top of the fence again. His head was cocked sideways as if his eyesight were better out of the blue eye.

“Take a look at this,” I said. “You're not going to believe it. He's going to try again.”

Abe and Ethan joined me at the window as the mongrel was making its third attempt, this time from across the street. “Well, I'll be,” Ethan said, pulling on his curly beard.

The dog had built up terrific speed. I had to admire his determination, though he had a bird's nest for brains.

Like Jules Verne's rocket to the moon, the mutt went airborne, so high he was clawing for a grip on the top rail. For a second he hung there like a monkey. Then, more like a cat, he pulled himself up and onto the rail, which was nothing but a two-by-four.

The mongrel trotted toward us along the top of the fence—he had us spotted inside the office—and jumped down when he got to the gate.

Ethan whistled and said, “Darnedest thing I ever saw.”

Shortly came a scratch at the office door.

“It's for you, Ethan,” I said. “Told you he'd stick like glue once you fed him. I saw him outside the cabin this morning.”

“Did I hear you shooing him away?”

“Trying to. Looks like he didn't go far.”

Ethan went to the door, and there stood that shivering mongrel with its half-black, half-white face and the
strange blue eye, and the hinged ears. A second later he was in Ethan's lap and Ethan was resting his coffee cup on the dog's skinny rump. “Look, he likes it,” Ethan said. “Coffee's warming him up. Wonder if I gave him some, if he'd drink it.”

I was shaking my head.

Ethan looked at me funny. “I don't fathom you, Jason. How could you not like this little feller? You, of all people. I know how you are.”

“Because he's useless,” I said. “Got no business in the North. A dog up here should be good for something.”

Both my brothers were thinking it over. They'd never laid eyes on King. They never saw the two of us climbing the Chilkoot, time after time, both loaded down like pack mules.

Thoughts of King sent me into a reverie. Suddenly I could see the husky's amber eyes, the sweep of the great tail across his back, his claws digging into the ice as he pulled the heavily loaded canoe over skid logs on the portage trails. Now,
that
was a dog.

Of course I wasn't being fair to the mutt. He couldn't help being useless. Somebody must have brought him here for a pet and then abandoned him. It wasn't like I was going to go out of my way to be cruel to him. I just didn't much care for him, and wished Ethan wouldn't get started with him.

As Ethan gently stroked the mutt's head, the dog closed its eyes contentedly. Ethan was already hooked.

The next morning, Nuisance followed us through the gate. I would rather have seen him scale the fence again. It didn't take him long to find his way back onto Ethan's lap.

“I hear thirty-five thousand men are working on the railroad over the White Pass,” Ethan said as he broke off
a corner of hard biscuit and fed it to the dog, who took it with his rubbery black lips instead of his teeth. “They say it'll reach Lake Bennett this summer. Imagine not having to deal with White Pass or the Chilkoot the hard way.”

“Don't talk to me about the hard way,” I joked. “You guys had pack horses.”

Ethan laughed, slapped himself on the thigh. Startled for the moment, the dog lifted its ears straight up. Ethan stroked the crown of the mutt's head reassuringly. “But you like doing things the hard way, Jason. Surprises me that city life suits you after all your time in the bush.”

“It's so big out there. So many stars, and free as free can get so long as you don't starve. Someday I suppose I
will
go back to the wilderness.”

“It's never far away,” Abe commented. “It's all around us like a vast ocean. I never cease to be amazed at all the activity in our little metropolis in the bush, thousands of miles from civilization. Three years ago Dawson was a swamp, and now it not only has electricity, it's got running water and hot-water heat—practically everything but the telegraph.”

“People say our hotels are furnished as fancy as any in New York,” Ethan added appreciatively. “Not that I'd know. Jason, you've been there.”

“Where I stayed, it wasn't the Waldorf.”

“What about some of these fancy restaurants here in Dawson? We should rent tailcoats sometime, Abraham…go to one of those places with the string orchestras…order pâté de foie gras. What do you say?”

Abe's disapproving eyebrow rose, as Ethan knew it would, and Abe said, as I knew he would, “You don't even know what pâté de foie gras is, Ethan. I sure don't.”

“Exactly,” Ethan replied a little testily. “I don't have the slightest idea. That's why we should order it. Just for a lark, Abe.”

I glanced at Abe. He didn't think this was amusing. For Abe, a lark was a bird. That's the only kind of lark he knew.

To steer them away from each other, I put in, “I wonder how Nome will affect us.”

“Gold in the beach sand?” Abe scoffed. “I don't believe it. The news is garbled as can be. At any rate, Nome is seventeen hundred miles away.”

The dog was back on four legs, about to launch himself into
my
lap. I didn't stop him. Once there, he rolled partway over. I gathered my thoughts as I rested my warm coffee cup on his pink belly. He rolled his eyes at me in an ecstasy of comfort. Ethan chuckled softly.

“The news is garbled only because it was conveyed by a series of dog teams,” I maintained. “People retold it along the way. By all accounts it happened last fall. Three lucky Swedes, they say. Gold in the beach sand and nuggets in the creeks. I believe it.”

Abe pulled at his mustache. “For argument's sake, let's suppose that it's true. If Nome affects us it will only be to draw off some of these men milling up and down Front Street looking for excitement.”

Ethan was irked. “There's not enough work to go around. You know that, Abraham. Anyway, who's to blame those men for living for today? I agree with them—worry about tomorrow when it comes.”

Through the window, I could see our crew approaching the gate. I gulped a last swallow of coffee, glanced at my brothers, and stole the line that was usually Abe's: “Let's make some lumber, gentlemen.”

Ethan may have been itching to join the excitement of Front Street, but so far the Hawthorn brothers knew merely secondhand of Dawson's celebrated goings-on. We were busy making lumber. We'd hear and read about the personalities—the kings of the Klondike like Big Alex McDonald and Swiftwater Bill Gates; the lucky owners of tiny fractional claims like whip-cracking Dick Lowe; famous gamblers like Silent Sam Bonnifield and Louis Golden; and the dance-hall queens like Cad Wilson and Diamond Tooth Gertie.

Buckskin Frank Leslie was said to be in town, a famous gunman from frontier days, and so was Calamity Jane, whose name was linked to Wild Bill Hickok and Deadwood, South Dakota. Arizona Charlie Meadows of the Palace Grand was a former cavalry scout who was said to have once fought hand-to-hand with Geronimo. Jack Dalton was celebrated in Dawson for blazing his
own trail from tidewater to the Yukon below Five Fingers Rapids. Driving two thousand cattle this far north, to a town desperate for anything other than bacon and beans and flapjacks, was a near-impossible and instantly legendary feat.

I'd heard hundreds of nicknames, like Limejoice Lil, Spanish Dolores, Deep-Hole Johnson, Two-Step Louie, Hamgrease Jimmy, and the Evaporated Kid. Sometimes I'd heard the story behind the name. Spare-rib Jimmy Mackinson was so thin that his landlady wouldn't let him sleep in her sheets for fear he'd tear them with his ribs. Waterfront Brown was the name of the infamous bill collector who haunted the riverfront during the summer season. That's when people running off on their debts were likely to try to board the steamboats.

Dawson was a town that loved its personalities so much, it manufactured new ones overnight. Little did we know that the next would be one of the Hawthorn brothers. When an article under the headline
GRUDGE MATCH
appeared in the
Klondike Nugget
three days after Ethan's incident with the Sydney Mauler, we were taken by surprise.

“‘A new heavyweight opponent for Henry Brackett, known as the Sydney Mauler, looms large,'” I read aloud. My voice was short of breath.

“Go on,” Ethan said, poking at the mill ends firing our small Yukon stove. It was an especially cold morning, with frost still clinging to the windows despite our fire.

“‘The opponent's name, as dubbed by Brackett, is “Lucky Ethan” Hawthorn. All of Dawson is talking about the fight.'”

Abe frowned. “It wasn't before, but I'm sure it will be now.”

“Go on,” Ethan urged, his impish green eyes sparkling. “Keep reading.”

“‘Little did a local man know Saturday afternoon that in his street brawl in defense of one of Dawson's innumerable homeless canines, he had bested the pride of Sydney, Australia, whom two great heavyweight champions of the world, John L. Sullivan and Gentleman Jim Corbett, have dodged in trepidation of his pugilistic prowess.'”

With a snort, Abe remarked, “This newspaper uses a pound of butter to lather a morsel of bread. My guess is, Brackett couldn't get a title fight because he's moldy cheese in the fight game. Why else would he be here?”

“Is that the end of the article?” Ethan asked.

“Not quite,” I replied, amused by Ethan's excitement and Abe's annoyance. “Listen to this: ‘Will “Lucky Ethan,” the ox-strong co-owner with his brothers of Dawson's own Hawthorn Brothers Sawmill, take up the gauntlet thrown down during Saturday's street brawl?'”

“Rubbish,” Abe said, and reached across for the newspaper. He tried to snatch it out of my hands, but Ethan grabbed it first.

“‘According to observers, the Brackett-Hawthorn grudge match is a near certainty,'” Ethan continued.

“What observers?” Abe erupted. “The papers are obviously in league with that promoter with the silver cane, whatever his name was. These so-called ‘grudge matches' are a dime a dozen. When we came across Brackett and his promoter, those two were undoubtedly out looking for a new chicken to pluck, and you're the ch—”

“Donner was the promoter's name,” Ethan said. “Cornelius Donner.”

I couldn't resist. “I do believe you're interested in this grudge match, Ethan.”

“Stop it,” Abe ordered. “Jason, a professional fighter would tear your brother to ribbons.”

Ethan just laughed and headed out the door to work.

The men at the mill already knew about the newspaper story. It made for a strange day. Nobody was really concentrating on what they were doing, me included and Ethan especially. Abe was stewing. You could lose fingers or a hand or your life for lack of concentration at the mill.

There were dozens of reporters in Dawson City, not only for the
Nugget
but for newspapers and magazines all across the continent and even Europe. By afternoon five newshounds were at the sawmill wanting statements from Ethan. The next day it was a large pack—Ethan had become an overnight sensation. Abraham kept trying to shoo them away, but Ethan was enjoying the attention. For several days he told them there wasn't going to be a fight; then suddenly he announced, “Only if the proceeds go to the home that Irish Nellie's trying to build.”

Now the newspapers had something to trumpet, and it went straight to the headlines. Before long, and much to Abe's dismay, Ethan was negotiating with the peacock with the Prince Albert coat and the piercing eyes, Cornelius Donner.

Here's the deal Ethan struck: If Henry Brackett won, two-thirds of the proceeds would go to Donner and Brackett and one-third to Irish Nellie's home for the downtrodden. But if Ethan won, the entire proceeds would go to Nellie.

“You're going to get your brains stove in,” Abe told Ethan.

With a broad grin, Ethan replied, “In a good cause.”

Because Ethan was going to fight for charity, there was nothing more Abe could say. Resigned to the fight, Abe rented time in the gym for the three weeks remaining before the match, then found a boxing coach for Ethan. He also found four sparring heavyweights with ring experience. One was Joe Boyle, Brackett's Canadian sparring partner. Abe wasn't going to let his brother get into the ring with the former heavyweight champion of the British Empire and be bludgeoned to ground meat if he could help it. Boyle told the
Nugget
that Ethan was learning faster than anyone he ever saw. Abe said it was a lie intended to whip up interest in the fight.

During those three weeks, Ethan and his mutt, who was always at his side, became the talk of Dawson City. Hundreds came to watch his sparring sessions and debate his chances. After a few weeks, Ethan started to look convincing. He'd always looked determined. Everyone in town wanted him to win. Everybody had to pat the mutt on the head “for good luck.” When first asked the mongrel's name, Ethan thought for a second and then said, “Underdog. But Jason, my little brother here, calls him Nuisance.”

The reporters were writing all this down. While scribbling, one said, “You call him Underdog because
you're
the underdog?”

“No, because he's always underfoot. We can't move around the cabin or the mill without stepping on his toes.”

True, I thought.

There was laughter all around. Ethan had an easygoing way with people and an honest face. He could sense that he was loved, and he loved being a personality.

“None of it means a thing if I don't win,” Ethan told me confidentially. “Nobody will remember my name the next day unless I win.”

“You mean to win? It's not just what you're telling the papers?”

I saw those furrows gather in his forehead as deep as I'd ever seen them. “I aim to win,” he replied.

“Does Brackett's sparring partner really think you're good?”

“He says I'm good enough to have a chance.”

Abe didn't like it that I'd leave the mill for an hour or so every day to see Ethan train, but he had the good sense not to forbid me—I'd have gone anyway. The atmosphere at the gym was electric, and I was getting an eyeful and an earful of Dawson's quirky personalities.

On a Thursday, the crowd stampeded out of the gym when word came that One-Eyed Riley had a winning streak going down at the Monte Carlo. I'd never heard of One-Eyed Riley, but I ran along to see what it was all about. Riley, people were saying, worked nights as a watchman at one of the warehouses and spent the daytime hours gambling, which wasn't unusual. Nearly everyone in Dawson but the Hawthorn brothers, it seemed, was burning the candle at both ends.

The story was that Riley, until this streak, had always been a loser at the faro tables. But this time it was different. From the Monte Carlo to the Pavilion to the Palace Grand, Riley kept betting the limit and kept winning. It was hard to squirm far enough through the crowd to catch a glimpse of him at the tables, but I managed. When Riley left the Palace Grand and marched at the head of the crowd toward the Tivoli, I broke off and headed for the mill.

I was sure Riley's luck couldn't last for long, but
lo and behold, the streak was still going the next morning. More than a thousand onlookers were following One-Eyed Riley up and down the street. I couldn't help tagging along.

It looked as if Riley couldn't lose. People were making a lot of money by making side bets on his cards. The side betting was still raging when a rumor started to circulate that the fellow now dealing to Riley was a cardsharp hired by the Monte Carlo.

Riley couldn't have heard the rumor, but he was spooked anyway. Something about the man across the table had scared him, and scared him bad. “I quit,” he announced, and yelled out, “Somebody get me the best musher in town—I'm going south today. If I stay, I know I can't stop.”

Within hours, Riley and his fortune were bundled in a dogsled and heading for the Chilkoot Pass, five hundred miles away.

Just before he left Dawson, One-Eyed Riley stopped in at the gym. The fight was two days away. He kissed Nuisance on the lips—for good luck, he explained. Raising Ethan's hand high, Riley proclaimed, “The underdog by a knockout! If I was a gambling man, I'd put all my money on Hawthorn!”

There was nervous laughter all around the gym. Nobody in Ethan's own camp believed he had a chance.

Finally the night for the fight arrived. It was the last day of March, and the location was the Palace Grand. The ring was on the exact same stage where Jamie had recited her father's poems of the rush, to packed houses drunk on sentiment.

This time the crowd was drunk on whiskey. Its sweet reek pervaded the theater, and so did cigar smoke thick as ground fog. The seats had sold for fifty dollars, twice
the usual. Diamond stickpin glittering, Cornelius Donner introduced the fighters and said something about ten rounds, though nobody in the house, including me, thought Ethan could last more than one or two.

Everyone was wrong. My huge-hearted brother wouldn't go down, no matter that he was taking a fearsome beating. His legs, veterans of all his years of heavy labor, refused to buckle, though his face was slashed and bruised and his right eye had swollen shut.

The former heavyweight champion of the British Empire was anything but unscathed. Brackett's granite features had turned to ruddy clay. Gone were the sneer and the haughty look of superiority with which the tall fighter had stepped into the ring.

In the fifth round, to the surprise of the crowd, Ethan sent the Sydney Mauler to one knee. The crowd responded with a tumultuous roar that seemed to give Ethan fresh strength. I couldn't fathom how he even lifted his arms.

All the while the mutt was barking at Henry Brackett—not that anyone could hear.

By the eighth round I swore to myself that I'd never attend another prizefight so long as I lived. I prayed that my brother would live through this. At my side, Abe looked like he had his doubts.

In the ninth round both fighters were barely able to stand on their feet, and few blows were landed.

In the tenth, bedlam erupted as the crowd clamored for a resolution. It would be impossible, the way the two had fought, for the judges to decide a winner on points.

Brackett, with a long left arm, knocked my burly brother down for the first time.

It took until the count of six for Ethan to regain his feet. Abraham reached for the towel to throw it into the
ring. Someone from behind snatched it away from him and the fight continued.

Brackett began throwing punches like a windmill, but too wildly to connect. I noticed Ethan studying him, biding his time. Then Ethan, with a single right hand, connected with everything he had.

The Sydney Mauler went down like falling timber.

The next day, ground was broken for Irish Nellie's boardinghouse for the downtrodden.

Ethan wasn't the same after that. I don't know if it was all the blows to the head, or too much attention, or a combination of both. He wasn't the same.