The Argosy, September 1915 — page 220: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

434 THE ARGOSY. Yukon sled, slipped his gun and He worked feverishly; but even so snow-shoes between the thongs, and before the camp awoke to life was well on his way to the wilderness. If at any time during the year that followed the name of “Ben Levi was mentioned, it was with the usual prophecy: ‘‘ Oh, he’ll be back one of these days with a fat poke; he always has.” Moralizing in the wilderness is a habit attended by a whole regiment of consequences. The survivors are those who keep a taut rein on their minds. If they have nothing to read or any duties to absorb the leisure hours of the long, winter nights, they will do wisely if they return to first principles by carving an image out of a piece of wood with a jack-knife, or keep the silence at bay by long sleeps at night and plenty of hard work through the day. Ben Levi traveled for twelve straight hours without pausing to make camp or cook up. At the end of that time, being thoroughly exhaust- ed, he made a hasty camp, fed the dogs, and curled up in his robe in the snow. Day after day he held steadily up Kobuk River, trudging ahead of his team on snow-shoes. The latter, heads down, tongues hanging out, dug their paws in the snow, stretched their lank, gray bodies, and followed in the trail thus broken for them. Everything went well with him as long as he had something to do; but in the lonely watches by his camp-fire he lived and relived again his last fierce battle with luck at the roulette- table in the Last Chance. A month later found him at the headwaters of the river. As he was in an entirely unprospected region, he decided to winter there. Building a small shack, he soon set- tled down to the ghastly routine that governs the life of a prospector during the winter months in the north. there came moments when he would pause in the middle of a blow with his pick, lean it against the wall of the shaft, and think—and think—raise his hands to heaven, tear his beard, and shriek: “So help mine God!” in the teeth of the cynical silence. In the middle of the night he w ould rise from his spruce-top bunk and pace the floor, clutch his breast with claw- like hand as if he would tear from his heart’s secret depths the gnawing de- sire to gamble —to cross cards with chance—till, weak and worn, his long yellow teeth showing through his thick, parted lips, he would fall back on his bunk as the cold gray dawn of the new day filtered through the chinks in the wall. His prospecting being unproductive in that vicinity, he crossed the divide to the headwaters of the Toklat be- fore the snow left in the spring. The winter vigil had turned him gray, lend- ing him the aspect of a lean, hungry wolf. He still had a little of his rough grub left, but subsisted chiefly on fresh ~meat, of which there was abundance int the country. All that summer he prospected the creeks within a radius of many miles, moving camp often in the long sum- mer days, inasmuch as one can then sleep out in the open. He had grown very silent, and scarcely ever spoke to the dogs. Every now and then, how- ever, as the summer advanced, he would suddenly stop in his tracks, listen open-mouthed, a horrible look in his eyes, mutter to himself and walk on, peering furtively on either side. At the keystone hour of night he would rise on his elbow and listen and gaze long into the dark corners of his cabin, a harrowed look on his face. During these demonstrations the dogs would howl dismally, gaze at each other in a terrified fashion, and whimper and whine like frightened children. Ben never heeded them. EMOPMIGL OOO KS (E)