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 ALEX HILLKURTZ

SKETCHING
TECHNIQUES
FOR ARTISTS
In-Studio and Plein-Air Methods for
Drawing and Painting Still Life, Landscape,
Architecture, Faces and Figures, and More
Cairoli Castello, Milan in the rain. Ink and graphite.
 CONTENTS

Introduction

1 | MATERIALS AND TOOLS

A Personal Choice
Pens, Pencils, and Inks
Paper and Sketchbooks
Brushes
Watercolor Paint
Miscellaneous Tools

2 | GENERAL SKETCHING TECHNIQUES

Using the Language of Film to Tell a Story
Selecting What to Sketch
Rendering Light in a Sketch
Details

3 | COMPOSITION
Telling a Story
The Rule of Thirds
Contrast and Detail
Thumbnail Sketches

4 | PERSPECTIVE
Basic Bones
Linear Perspective
The Horizon Line
One-Point Perspective
 Two-Point Perspective
Three-Point Perspective
Perspective on a Curved Street

5 | STILL LIFE
A Poem Made Visible
A New Way to See Objects
Rendering Light
Adding Color
Structure
Negative Space

6 | LANDSCAPES
Landscape Composition
Sketching Landscapes and Line Weight
Atmospheric Perspective

7 | ARCHITECTURE
An Overview of Basic Forms
Roofs
Doorways and Arches
Windows
Balconies
Awnings
Signs
Architecture as Character

8 | FIGURES
The Basic Figure
Adding Volume
 Capturing Gesture
Drawing Figures in Groups
Drawing the Head

9 | WATERCOLOR
Dancing with Watercolor
Creating Multiple Effects with One Color
Creating Texture: Splatters, Splashes, and Scrapes
Color Mixing
Warm and Cool Colors
Painting with a Limited Palette
Stages of a Painting
The Color and Consistency of Shadows
Contre Jour

Conclusion: Keep Going

Resources
Influences
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Index
Marina Del Rey, California. Ink and graphite.
 INTRODUCTION

A sketch is an elusive animal. Sketches can duck and weave. They

can hide in plain sight. They can taunt us when our vision exceeds
our ability. Even when things are going well, just when we think
we’ve got one captured, one false move on our part and they slip
away, leaving us bewildered and frustrated.
A sketch is a memento. A quick jot to remember a place, listen to
the birds, feel the breeze, let conversations wash over us in a
language we may not yet know.
A sketch can be many things, and sketching can open doors to
new experiences and places. I’d like to share some of what I’ve
learned over the years about sketching. I’ll offer tips and techniques,
favorite materials, and also why I do certain things, and the thought
processes behind them.
I come from a background in storyboarding and illustration for
film. I’ve always been fascinated with what happens behind the
scenes. Every time I watch a movie or TV show, every time I see a
concert, sporting event, or any sort of production, I want to know
what’s going on behind the scenes. How did the spectacle before me
come into being?
I feel the same way about painting and sketching. I love looking at
great art. I love leafing through sketchbooks of friends’ travels. And
I’m always curious about what it took to create what I’m seeing. Why
did the painter use this particular color? What about this location
caught someone’s eye? What was going on behind the scenes that
allowed this creation to see the light of day?
I’d like to take you behind the scenes of my sketches and
paintings. I’ll show you how I achieve my results, and I’ll explain the
choices I made along the way. Sketches for me are like scenes in a
movie. This book is the “making of,” and it’s my hope that shedding
light on the process will be just as enjoyable as the final outcome.
Venice Canal. Ink and watercolor on handmade paper.
 1

MATERIALS AND TOOLS

Pencil, ink, and paint can be applied to a page in many ways, each
with its own purpose and personality. Tools are an extension of your
hand, your arm, your imagination, and your soul. We could paint
with our fingers, but an endless variety of art supplies have been
invented to enhance our abilities and fine-tune our expression. It’s
worth spending time playing with these tools and getting used to the
way they feel and perform.
 A PERSONAL CHOICE

Tools used to express creativity can be a very personal choice. As

you become more comfortable with different tools, you’ll find ones
that best express what you want to say. For some, a cheap pen with a
steel nib is sufficient. Others prefer something more expensive and
stylish. Like most art supplies (and tools in general), you get what
you pay for. Remember, the best brush is the one you have with you.
The best set of paints is what you have with you. You can do a lot
with minimal materials.
Pencils, Pens, and Inks
Making marks on paper is at the root of all sketching. Here are some
of my favorite tools that get my sketches off to a good start.
PENCILS
I have a soft touch while sketching so I prefer a darker lead. For me,
4B and 6B pencils are best. Because these leads are soft, I use a
mechanical pencil to maintain a fine line without constant
sharpening. For highlights, I use a white Conté à Paris sketching
pencil. For quickly applying shadows, I like the dark wash (8B)
Derwent water-soluble sketching pencil and ArtGraf graphite sticks.
INK PENS
Fine liners, fountain pens, dip pens, and bamboo sketching pens—
each tool is unique in its feel and application. I carry many options
with me when I paint and sketch, so I always have what I need,
depending on my mood and the subject I’m drawing.

FINE LINER PENS

Fine liner pens are felt-tip markers that come in multiple widths, so
it’s easy to apply variety to your sketch. They’re a wonderfully simple
tool for applying a clean, dark line. I use thicker pens for objects in
the foreground, and thinner lines for those in the distance. By
varying the line weight in this way, you create a sense of
atmospheric perspective while using only black ink. Fine liners
typically use waterproof ink, so adding washes of color later won’t
smudge your line. Sakura Pigma Micron pens sizes 05, 03, and 01 are
my favorite.
DIP AND BAMBOO PENS
Dip pens and bamboo sketching pens give a much more dynamic
variety of line. These types of pens have been used for thousands of
years, and I can’t help but feel the pull of history when sketching
with such traditional tools. I use dip pens in the studio as it’s
cumbersome to carry a bottle of ink while sketching outdoors. For
me, the risk of one unfortunate spill isn’t worth it.
FOUNTAIN PENS AND INKS
My favorite tool for sketching is a fountain pen. These pens are
compact, easy to use, and if used properly, won’t leak. I’ve always
been drawn to the appeal of fountain pens, with their elegance and
artistry of construction.
 GET A GRIP

Practice variety in your grip. Just like tennis players have many ways to get the ball
over the net, you can build a variety of ways to hold pencils and brushes.

Holding a pencil as if you’re writing a letter is perfect for fine detail, as you use your
fingers and wrist to coordinate precise movements. For larger shapes, try an overhand
position. This allows the use of your entire arm and shoulder. Your movement will be
freer and more expressive. This can feel alien at first, so practice by drawing simple
circles.

If drawing at a desk or table, try standing up. This gives you a better perspective on
your page that diminishes distortion, and i t also engages your whole body in the
creative process.

You can choose from an endless variety of fountain pens, so it’s

best to experiment and find what suits you. I found my best pens by
taking watercolor paper to my favorite pen shop and showing them
what I do. I’m not writing calligraphy on wedding invitations, so
what I need in a fountain pen differs greatly from most. I’ve tried
many pens from different manufacturers, with all kinds of different
nibs, drawing on my own paper, in my own style, to see what worked
for me and what didn’t. I need ink to flow evenly from the nib, and I
love a flexible nib that allows for a variety of line widths. But I also
enjoy how my pen skips across rough paper, adding randomness
and vitality to my sketches. By trying different pens, you find what
fits your hand and style.
I use a Graf von Faber-Castell Guilloche fountain pen with an F
(fine) nib. I also have a Sailor 1911 Silver, a Lamy ST with an F (fine)
nib, and a few vintage fountain pens from the 1940s: Waterman,
Sheaffer, and Eversharp.
 The variety of line widths that can be achieved with a single nib is impressive.

For Lefties Only

I’m left-handed, and I first found fountain pens impossible to use. A fountain pen nib is
meant to be pulled across paper, releasing a bead of ink in its path. Lefties push pens to
write, so nibs stick and catch, making writing impossible. But with sketching there’s no need
to draw from left to right, as we do when writing. We are free to draw in any direction we
chose. While sketching, the dogmatic rules of writing don’t apply. When I discovered this,
the world of fountain pens was suddenly available to me.
 Draw a hairline bead of ink with a light touch. Apply more pressure for a thicker line.

I use refillable cartridges for my fountain pens that I fill with

Noodler’s Ink Polar Black ink. This waterproof ink won’t smudge
when I wash over it with watercolor. De Atramentis Document Ink is
also a very good waterproof ink and comes in a variety of colors.
Water-soluble inks can offer different effects. One I like is
Diamine ink in Earl Grey. This is a dark gray ink that, when hit with
water, releases purple, red, and aqua tones for some surprising
results, like the ones seen in the sketch below of Amsterdam.
Fill ’Er Up
The ink that comes with fountain pens can be of varying quality, so I prefer to fill my pens
with my own ink. For this you’ll need a cartridge converter. This is a re-fillable cartridge that
fits in your pen. Make sure you use ink that is designed for use in fountain pens.
Amsterdam. Water-soluble ink on paper.
Paper and Sketchbooks
Paper is perhaps the most important aspect of sketching and
watercolor painting. Paper quality has a dramatic effect on the
outcome of your work. I recommend 100% cotton paper.
These are some of my favorites:
ARCHES Aquarelle 300gsm cold press
L’Aquarelle Canson Héritage 300gsm cold press
Sennelier watercolor 300gsm cold press

I like using paper in blocks for smaller sketches, so I don’t need to

stretch or mount the sheets. If I’m painting a larger piece, loose
sheets are best.
Can you ever have too many sketchbooks? Like my paper, I have
many books for different moods and settings. A basic sketchbook,
suitable for thumbnail sketches and watercolor exercises, is never
far from my side.
Here are some of my favorites:
Strathmore 400 series sketchbook (22 × 28 cm)
Soft leather covered sketchbook by Moulin de Larroque,
France (17 × 22 cm)
Ruscombe Paper Mill MGX Ivoire 160g (17 × 26 cm)
Maxgoodz Aquarelle Light (18 × 27 cm)
Charvin Carnet accordéon d’aquarelle sketchbook
Clairefontaine naturel A5, 250g paper
Brushes
I have an addiction to brushes. I can’t leave an art store without
some new brush I’m convinced I need. But while sketching, most of
my work can be done with three simple brushes: a medium-sized
round, a flat, and a mop.
Round brushes, such as an Escoda Perla size 10 or a Van Gogh size
8, provide a nice sharp point for details, while also allowing painting
of larger areas.
Flat brushes, such as a Da Vinci Casaneo 30 or Raphaél series 915
size 18, are perfect for large washes of color.
Mop brushes, such as an Escoda Último size 14 or Raphaél series
803 petit gris size 5, are great for initial washes of color.
Another useful brush is a dagger brush, which has bristles cut at
an angle to create a knife-like appearance. They can be used to
create wonderfully expressive brushstrokes, from incredibly fine
hairlines to larger washes. I use my dagger to paint thin tree
branches and curly banister railings.
These different types of brushes allow for an immense variety of
brush marks. But I always feel it’s better to have a few tools that you
know very well than to have a vast array of things you don’t know
how to use.
A selection of round, mop, and flat brushes.
Dagger brushes come in a variety of sizes and bristle types.
Watercolor Paint
I primarily use Daniel Smith and Rembrandt paints, but most
brands are suitable for what we’ll be doing. I painted for many years
with a student-grade set of half pans, so use what you have.
I paint with a fairly limited palette. As with brushes, I’m a real
believer in being proficient with fewer materials, rather than having
a vast array of things you’re not familiar with. Read more about how
to paint with a limited palette in chapter 9 (here).

These are the colors I find myself reaching for most often:
Cobalt blue
Ultramarine blue
Burnt sienna
Raw sienna
Quinacradone sienna
Pyrrol scarlet
Organic vermillion
Indian red
Yellow ochre
Hansa yellow
 Phthalo blue (green shade)

I have a few other specialty colors I keep close, but these are the
colors I use the most.
Miscellaneous Tools
I’m always finding new items to add to my sketching kit, and I’m
sure you will too. With each sketch, I discover things I wish I had.
Here are suggestions for a few additional items to bring with you
while sketching.
Paper towels
Eraser
Water container and water

A Layer of Protection
Since I’m left handed, I’m used to smudging ink when writing. Drawing and painting are
different because I’m free to draw in any direction I like. I often start at the upper right
corner of a page and work my way down to the left. Since we’re not writing words that have
to appear in a specific sequence, we are free to adjust the direction of our hand and the flow
of our pen and brush to suit our needs.
If you need to lay your hand over your drawing, place a clean sheet of paper or paper towel
down first to prevent smudging.
 Cairoli Castello, Milan in the rain. Ink and graphite.

Each artist will develop his or her own unique set of tools and
additional items to make sketching more enjoyable. When sketching
outside, we are limited to what we want to carry with us. Space and
weight become a premium. I’m constantly revising what’s in my
sketch bag. If I find I haven’t used a brush in a while, maybe next
time it will stay at home. But I’m also guilty of bringing too much. I
hate the feeling of needing a certain tool and not having it at hand.
With practice and many outings, you’ll find your perfect balance.
Of course, the most important tools are your curiosity, your sense
of adventure, and your willingness to translate emotion into a
sketchbook.
“As music is the poetry of sound, so is painting the poetry of
sight.”
—JAMES MCNEILL WHISTLER
 2

GENERAL SKETCHING TECHNIQUES

Everything you sketch tells a story: a story of a time and place, a
memory, a dream, a mood. Sketches are an energy transfer. What
you feel at the time of creation is translated directly onto the paper.
It can be a mysterious process, but shining a light on this mystery
gives clarity without diminishing its power. The techniques in this
chapter will illuminate the stories we want to tell.
 USING THE LANGUAGE OF FILM TO TELL A STORY

Sketches and paintings are like scenes from a film. Because I’ve
spent many years storyboarding and illustrating films, I think in
terms of camera angles and movie scenes. When I’m walking
around my favorite neighborhoods looking for something to sketch,
I imagine what a particular view would look like on a movie
screen. I’m always looking for the most dynamic angle, the
unexpected perspective, the unique vantage point from which to
sketch. It’s not enough to paint a pretty building. We’re telling a
story, and our choice of viewpoint says just as much as the subject
itself. A viewer should lean in, wanting to know the story.
The style and techniques you use will differ depending on the
story you want to convey. When I’m storyboarding a film, I vary my
style depending on the genre. A romantic comedy has a very
different visual language from a horror film.
Find the unusual angles while sketching. Look for unexpected perspectives. Sometimes the most
interesting view is looking straight up, as in this sketch from Madrid, Spain. Ink and watercolor.

The types of shots, angles, and framing need to work in harmony

with the story we’re telling. These ideas of visual language translate
directly into sketching. A Paris café on a bustling Saturday night (1)
has a vastly different energy from the same café on a quiet Sunday
morning (2). The way you move your brush, the colors you use, the
mood you infuse into your painting, should all work together to
enhance the story being told.
 The language of film speaks to us on an emotional level. We may
not consciously know it, but we certainly feel what’s being conveyed.
We see the world at eye level, but filmmakers love to vary the height
of the camera to push emotional reactions to images. Using low
angles, where the camera is lower to the ground looking up at an
actor, gives characters added power or menace (3).
 High angles, looking down on someone, makes them appear
more vulnerable (4).
We can use some of these cinematic tricks in our sketches.
Thinking in terms of camera angles can bring an added dimension
to our paintings.

Low and high angles are used in film storyboards to denote strength or vulnerability.
 SELECTING WHAT TO SKETCH

Choosing what to sketch can be tricky. Often, it’s an unconscious

decision. We’re drawn to a certain view. Maybe it’s the shape of a
roofline, or the magical play of sunlight, or some detail that we’re
not quite aware of. So many elements speak to us and attract us to a
subject that the process is shrouded in mystery.
Or, our location determines what we sketch. We happen to be
sitting in a relaxing spot, a nice café, or the shade of a tree, and we
sketch the view from there. And while a comfortable seat and a glass
of wine are certainly enticing, in terms of a successful sketch, we’re
letting the tail wag the dog.
So, in the spirit of learning how to see, I want to shine a light into
this mystery. Without diminishing the spontaneity of our decisions,
or ignoring gut feelings, I’d like to steer you toward how to
consciously find better sketches.

I chose this view because these springtime trees provide an organic frame for this glimpse of Paris
rooftops. Ink and watercolor.

I think of sketching in terms of what, where, when, how, and

who. Just as writers employ these questions to get to the heart of a
mystery, we can use these questions to get to the heart of our
sketches.

I love the depth in this simple sketch. The fountain is shaded by foreground trees, creating a
silhouette against the sunlit background. Place André Malraux, Paris. Ink, watercolor, and coffee.
What
The “what” is the subject. What are we going to sketch? In a city like
Paris, where I live, I’m spoiled with riches. At first glance, every
street corner begs to be sketched. There are grand monuments,
cathedrals, parks, and picturesque cafés at every turn. It’s easy to get
dizzy and overwhelmed by the abundance of choice.
But looking closer, not every street corner has the makings of a
great sketch. Not all buildings are created equal. Some would make
horrible sketches, and we need to know how to tell the difference
before filling our sketchbooks with flat and boring images.
A quick view of a map holds clues to the history of this dynamic
city—and also points to where the best sketches are to be found.
Like many European cities, Paris is a drunken spiderweb of
streets. Its history and variety make for interesting corners and
angles (1). It’s not built on a grid like New York or Chicago. Paris is
the nineteenth century laid on top of a medieval city, superimposed
on a Roman town, built upon an ancient village (2). Maps on top of
maps. And all this history is visible like a stack of transparencies
that trace back through time.
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 CHAPTER XII
YOUTH SUPREME

The silence of the night was broken by the sounds of youthful

voices, and the gentle splash of the driving paddles. There was
laughter, and the passing backwards and forwards of care-free, light-
hearted banter. Now and again came the deeper note of strong
men’s voices, but for the most part it was the shriller treble of early
youth that invaded the serene hush of the night.
The two small canoes glided rapidly up the winding ribbon of
moon-lit waters. They were driven by eager, skilful hands, hands
with a life-training for the work. And so they sped on in that smooth
fashion which the rhythmic dip of the paddle never fails to yield.
The Kid was at the foremost strut of the leading canoe with Big
Bill Wilder at the stern. Their passenger was the irrepressible Perse,
who lounged amidships on a folded blanket. Behind them came the
sturdy form of Chilcoot Massy guiding the destiny of the second
vessel which carried the youth, Clarence, and the sedate form of
Mary Justicia lifted, for the moment, out of the sense of her
responsibility, which years of deputising for her mother in the care of
her brothers and sisters had impressed upon her young mind.
Hearts were light enough as they glided through the chill night air.
Even Chilcoot Massy, so perilously near to middle life—and perhaps
because of it—found the youthful gaiety of his guests irresistible. It
was a journey of delighted, frothing spirits rising triumphant over the
dour brooding of the cold heart of the desolate territory which had
given them birth.
 The cold moon had driven forth the earlier bankings of snow-
clouds. It lit the low-spread earth from end to end, a precious
beacon, which, in the months to come, would be the reigning
heavenly light. The velvet heavens, studded with myriads of
sparkling jewels, and slashed again and again from end to end with
the lightning streak of shooting stars, were filled with a superlative
vision of dancing northern light. The ghostliness of it all was teeming
with a sense of romance, the romance which fills the dreams of later
life when the softening of recollection has rubbed down the
harshnesses of the living reality.
The delight of this sudden break in the crudeness of life waxed in
the hearts of these children of the North. There were moments
when silence fell, and the hush of the world crowded full of the
ominous threat which lies at the back of everything as the winter
season approaches. But all such moments were swiftly dismissed, as
though, subconsciously, its dampening influence were felt, and the
moment was ripe for sheer rebellion. It was an expression of the
sturdy spirit which the Northland breeds.
There was no thought of lurking danger other than the dangers
they were bred to. How should there be? Was not this Caribou River,
with its spring floodings, with its summer meanderings, with its
winter casing of ice, right down to the very heart of its bed, their
very own highway and play ground? Did not these folk know its
every vagary from the icy moods of winter, to its beneficent summer
delights? How then could it hold for them the least shadow of terror
on a night to be given up to a gaiety such as their lives rarely
enough knew?
Yet the shadow was there, a grim, voiceless shadow, soundless as
death, and as unrelenting in its pursuit. A kyak moved over the
silvery bosom of the water hard behind the rear-most canoe of the
revellers, driven by a brown hand which made no sound as the
paddle it grasped passed to and fro, without lifting, through the
gleaming water.
It was a light hide kyak, a mere shell that scarce had the weight of
a thing of feathers. And the brown man driving it was its only
burden, unless the long old rifle lying thrusting up from its prow
could be counted. It crept through the shallows dangerously near to
the river bank, and every turn in the twisting course of the silver
highway was utilized as a screen from any chance glance cast
backwards by those whose course it was dogging.
The shadowy pursuit went on. It went on right up to within a
furlong of the final landing. For the mood of the brown man was
relentless with every passion of original man stirring. But he never
shortened by a yard the distance that lay between him and his
quarry. And as the leading boats drew into the side, and the beacon
light of a great camp fire suddenly changed the silvery tone of the
night, the pursuing kyak shot into the bank far behind, and the
brown man leapt ashore.

The feast was over. And what a feast it had been. There had been
mountain trout, caught and prepared by the grizzled camp cook,
whose atmosphere of general uncleanness emphasised his calling,
and who was the only other living creature in this camp on the
gravel flats. There had been baked duck, stuffed with some
conglomeration of chopped “sow-belly,” the mixing of which was the
cook’s most profound secret. There had been syrupy canned fruit,
and canned sweet corn, and canned beans with tomato. There had
been real coffee. Not the everlasting stewed tea of the trail. And
then there had been canned milk full of real cream.
That was the feast. But there had been much more than the
simple joy of feasting. There had been laughter and high spirits, and
a wild delight. How Perse had eaten and talked. How Clarence had
eaten and listened. How the Kid had shyly smiled, while Bill Wilder
played his part as host, and looked to the comfort of everybody.
Then Mary Justicia. There was no cleaning to do after. There was no
Janey to wipe at intervals. So she had given all her generous
attention to the profound yarning of the trail-bounded Chilcoot
Massy.
 The happy interim was drawing to a close. The camp fire was
blazing mountains high, a prodigal waste of precious fuel at such a
season. And the revellers were squatting around at a respectful
distance, contemplating it, and settling to a calm sobriety in various
conditions of delighted repletion.
The cold moonlight was forgotten. The chill of the air could no
longer be felt with the proximity of the fire. The Coming season gave
no pause for a moment’s regret. The only thought to disturb utter
contentment was that soon, all too soon, the routine of life would
close down again, and, one and all, it would envelop them.
Bill was lounging on a spread of skin rug, and the Kid and Mary
Justicia shared it with him. A yard away Chilcoot, who could never
rise above a seat on an upturned camp pot, was smoking and
addressing Clarence, and the more restless Perse, much in the
fashion of a mentor. Their talk was of the trail, the gold trail, as it
was bound to be with the veteran guiding it. He was narrating
stories of “strikes,” rich “strikes,” and wild rushes. He was recounting
adventures which seemed literally to stream out of his cells of
memory to the huge enjoyment, and wonder, and excitement of his
youthful audience. And it was into the midst of this calm delight the
final uplift of the night’s entertainment came.
The whole thing was planned and worked up to. Chilcoot had led
along the road through his wealth of narrative. He was telling the
story of Eighty-Mile Creek. Of the great bonanza that had fallen into
the laps of himself and Bill Wilder. Of the tremendous rush after he
and his partner had secured their claims.
“It was us boys who located the whole darn ‘strike’” he said
appreciatively. “Us two. Bill an’ me. Say, they laffed. How they laffed
when we beat it up Eighty-Mile. Gold? Gee! Ther’ wasn’t colour other
than grey mud anywheres along its crazy course. That’s how the
boys said. They said: ‘Beat it right up it an’ feed the timber wolves.’
They said—But, say, I jest can’t hand you haf the things them
hoodlams chucked at us. But Bill’s got a nose fer gold that ’ud locate
it on a skunk farm. He knew, an’ I was ready to foiler him if it meant
feedin’ any old thing my carkiss. My, I want to laff. It was the same
as your Mum said when she heard we’d come along here chasin’
gold, only worse. She couldn’t hand the stuff the boys could. An’
queer enough, now I think it, Eighty-Mile was as nigh like this dam
creek as two shucks. Ther’s the mud, an’ the queer gravel, an’ the
granite. Guess ther’ ain’t the cabbige around this lay out like ther’
was to Eighty-Mile. You see, we’re a heap further north, right here.
No. Ther’ was spruce, an’ pine, an’ tamarack to Eighty-Mile. Ther’s
nothing better than dyin’ skitters an’ hies you can smell a mile to
Caribou. But the formation’s like. Sure it is. An’ Bill’s nose—”
“Cut out the nose, Chilcoot, old friend,” Wilder broke in with a
laugh. “Ther’s a deal too much of my nose to this precious yarn.
What you coming to?”
A merry laugh from the Kid found an echo in Perse’s noisy grin.
“It’s good listenin’ to a yarn of gold,” he said. “It don’t hurt
hanging it up so we get the gold plenty at the end.”
“That’s so boy,” Chilcoot nodded approvingly. “That’s the gold man
talkin’. That’s how it was on Eighty-Mile. Ther’ was just tons of gold,
an’ we netted the stuff till we was plumb sick to death countin’ it.
Gold? Gee! Bill’s bank roll is that stuffed with it he could buy a—
territory. Yes, that was Eighty-Mile, the same as it is on—Caribou!”
“Caribou?”
Perse had leapt to his feet staring wide-eyed in his amazement.
The Kid had faced round gazing incredulously into Wilder’s smiling
face. Even Mary Justicia was drawing deep breaths under her
habitual restraint. The one apparently unmoved member of the
happy party was Clarence. But even his attitude was feigned.
“Same as it is on—Caribou?” he said, in a voice whose tone
hovered between youth and manhood. “Have you struck it on—
Caribou?”
His final question was tense with suppressed excitement.
Chilcoot nodded in Bill’s direction.
“Ask him,” he said, with a smile twinkling in his eyes. “It’s that he
got you kids for right here this night. Jest to ask him that question.
Have you made the ‘strike,’ Bill? Did your darn old nose smell out
right? You best tell these folks, or you’ll hand ’em a nightmare they
won’t get over in a week. You best tell ’em. Or maybe you ken show
’em. Ther’s folk in the world like to see, when gold’s bein’ talked, an’
I guess Perse here’s one of ’em. Will you?”
All eyes were on Big Bill. The girls sat voicelessly waiting, and the
smiles on their faces were fixed with the intensity of the feeling
behind them. Clarence, like Perse, had stood up in his agitation, and
both boys gazed wide-eyed as the tall figure leapt to its feet and
passed back to the low “A” tent, which was his quarters.
While he was gone Chilcoot strove to fill in the interval with
appropriate comment.
“Yes,” he said, “Caribou’s chock full of the dust, an’—”
But no one was listening. Four pair of eyes were gazing after Big
Bill, four hearts were hammering in four youthful bosoms under
stress of feelings which in all human life the magic of gold never fails
to arouse. It was the same with these simple creatures, who had
never known a sight of gold, as it was with the most hardened
labourer of the gold trail. Everything but the prize these men had
won was forgotten in that thrilling moment.
Wilder came back almost at once. He was bearing a riffled pan,
one of those primitive manufactures which is so great a thing in the
life of the man who worships at the golden shrine. He was bearing it
in both hands as though its contents were weighty. And as he came,
the Kid, no less eagerly than the others, hurriedly dashed to his side
to peer at the thing he was carrying.
But the pan was covered with bagging. And the man smilingly
denied them all.
“Get right along back,” he laughed. “Sit around and I’ll show you.”
Then his eyes gazed down into the Kid’s upturned face, and he
realised her moment of sheer excitement had passed and something
else was stirring behind the pretty eyes that had come to mean so
much to him. He nodded.
 “Don’t be worried, Kid,” he said quietly. “Maybe I guess the thing
that’s troubling. I’m going to fix that, the same as I reckon to fix
anything else that’s going to make you feel bad.”
The girl made no reply. In her mind the shadow of Usak had
arisen. And even to her, in the circumstances, it was a threatening
shadow. She remembered the thing the savage had said to her in his
violent protest. “Him mans your enemy. Him come steal all thing
what are yours. Him river. Him land. Him—gold.” There was nothing
in her thought that this man was stealing from her. Such a thing
could never have entered her mind. It was the culminating threat of
the savage that had robbed her of her delight, and made the thing
in the pan almost hateful to her. Usak had deliberately threatened
the life of this man, and the full force of that threat, hitherto almost
disregarded, now overwhelmed her with a terror such as she had
never known before.
She was the last to take her place on the spread of skins before
the fire. The others were crowding round the man with the pan. But
he kept them waiting till the girl had taken her place beside him.
Then, and not till then, without a word he squatted on the rugs and
slowly withdrew the bagging.
It was a breathless moment. Everything was forgotten but the
amazing revelation. Even the Kid, in that supreme moment, found
the shadow of Usak less haunting. The bagging was drawn clear.
There it lay in the bottom of the pan. A number of dull, yellow,
jagged nuggets lying on a bed of yellow dust nearly half an inch
thick.
It was Perse who found the first words.
“Phew!” he cried with something resembling a whistle. “Dollars an’
dollars! How many? Did you get it on— Caribou?”
“Sure. Right on Caribou.”
Wilder nodded, his eyes contemplating his treasure.
“Where?”
It was Clarence who asked the vital question.
 “You can’t get that—yet.” Wilder shook his head without looking
up.
“Mum would be crazy to see this,” ventured the thoughtful Mary
Justicia.
The Kid looked up. She had been dazzled by the splendid vision.
Now again terror was gripping her.
“You’ll not say a word of this. None of you,” she said sharply.
“Mum shall know. Oh, yes. But not a word to—Usak.”
Wilder raised his eyes to the girl’s troubled face.
“Don’t worry a thing,” he said gravely. “Usak’s going to know. I’m
going to hand him the talk myself.” Then he laughed. And the tone
of his laugh added further to the girl’s unease. It was so care-free
and delighted. “Sit around, kids,” he cried. “All of you.”
He was promptly obeyed by the two boys who had remained
standing. They seated themselves opposite him. Then he dipped into
the pan and picked out the largest of the nuggets of pure gold and
offered it to the Kid.
“That’s for your Mum,” he said quietly. “It’s pure gold, same as the
woman she is. Here,” he went on, quickly selecting the next biggest.
“That’s yours Kid— by right.”
Then he passed one each to the two boys and Mary Justicia, and
finally shot the remainder of the precious wash-up into the bag that
had covered the pan and held it out to the Kid.
“There it is,” he cried. “Take it. It’s for you, an’ all those folk
belonging to you. It’s just a kind of sample of the thing that’s yours,
an’ is going to be yours. Guess old Perse, here, was right. It’s the
gold from Caribou, an’ right out of your dead father’s ‘strike’— which
is for you, Kid. Say, you’re a rich woman, for the best claim on it is
yours, an’ it’s the richest ‘strike’ I’ve ever nosed out. Richer even
than Chilcoot’s Eighty-Mile.”

The party was over. The journey back to the homestead was
completed. The full moon had smiled frigidly down upon a scene of
such excitement as was rare enough in her northern domain. Maybe
the sight of the thing she had witnessed had offended her. Perhaps,
with her wealth of cold experience, she condemned the humanness
of the thing she had gazed upon. For on the journey home she had
refused the beneficence of her pale smile, and had hidden her face
amidst those night shadows which she had forthwith summoned to
her domain.
But her displeasure had in nowise concerned. A landmark in life
had been set up, a radiant beacon which would shine in the minds of
each and every one of these children of the North so long as
memory remained to them.
Somehow the order of return home to the homestead had become
changed. Neither Wilder nor the Kid realised the thing that had
taken place until it had been accomplished. It seemed likely that it
was the deliberate work of Chilcoot, who, for all his roughness, was
not without a world of kindly sentiment somewhere stowed away
deep down in his heart. Perhaps it had been the arrangement of the
less demonstrative Mary Justicia, who was so nearly approaching her
own years of womanhood. However it had come to pass Chilcoot
had carried off the bulk of the visitors, with Mary and Perse and
Clarence for his freight, leaving Bill and the Kid to their own
company in following his lead.
It was the ultimate crowning of the night’s episodes for the Kid.
Bill had demanded that she become his passenger; that the sole
work of paddling should be his. And he had had his way. The Kid
was in the mood for yielding to his lightest wish. If he had desired to
walk to the homestead she would not have demurred. So she
lounged on skin rugs amidships in the little canoe, with her
shoulders propped against the forward strut, and yielded herself to
the delight with which the talk and presence of this great, strong,
youthful man filled her. The shadow of Usak still haunted her silent
moments, but even that, in this wonderful presence, had less power
to disturb.
The impulse of the man had been to abandon all caution, and
bask in the delight and happiness with which this child of nature
filled him. Her beauty and sweet womanhood compelled him utterly,
while her innocence was beyond words in the sense of tender
responsibility it inspired in him. He loved her with all the strength of
his own simple being. And the sordid world in which he dwelt so
long only the more surely left him headlong in his great desire.
But out of his wisdom he restrained the impulse. Time was with
him and he feared to frighten her. He realised that for all her
courage, for all her wonderful spirit in the fierce northern battle, the
woman’s crown of life must be as yet something little more than a
hazy vision, a nebulous thing whose reality would only come to her,
stealing softly upon her as the budding soul expanded. Yes, he could
afford to wait. And so he held guard over himself, and the journey
was made while he told her all those details of the thing that had
brought him to Caribou.
His mind was very clear on the things he desired to tell, and the
things he did not. And he confined himself to a sufficient outline of
the reasons of the thing he was doing with his discovery on Caribou,
and the things he contemplated before the opening after the coming
winter.
The journey down the river sufficed for this outline of his purpose,
and the distance was covered almost before they were aware of it.
At the landing they looked for the others. But they only discovered
Chilcoot’s empty boat, which left them no alternative but to walk up
to the homestead.
As they approached the clearing the girl held out a hand. “Will I
take that—bag?” she asked. “I—I’d like to show it to Mum with my
own hands. You know, Bill, I can’t get it all yet. All it means. It’s a
sort of dream yet, an’ all the time I sort of feel I’ll wake right up an’
set out for Placer to make our winter trade.”
She laughed. But her laugh was cut short. And as the man passed
her the bag of dust he had been carrying a spasm of renewed fear
gripped her.
“Yes. I’d forgotten,” she went on. “I’d forgotten Usak. This thing’s
kind of beaten everything out of my fool head. You’re going to tell
him, Bill? When?” They had reached the clearing and halted a few
yards from the home the Kid had always known. The sound of voices
came to them from within. There was laughter and excitement
reigning, when, usually, the whole household should have been
wrapped in slumber.
“Right away. Maybe to-morrow.”
Bill stood before her silhouetted against the lamplight shining
through the cotton-covered window of the kitchen-place. There was
something comforting in the man’s bulk, and in the strong tones of
his voice. The Kid’s fears relaxed, but anxiety was still hers.
“Say, little gal,” he went on at once, in that tender fashion he had
come to use in his talk with her. “That feller’s got you scared.” He
laughed. “I guess he’s the only thing to scare you in this queer
territory. But he doesn’t scare me a thing. I’ve got him beat all the
while—when it comes to a show-down.”
“Maybe you have in a—show-down.”
The man shook his head.
“I get your meaning,” he said. “But don’t worry.”
“But I do. I can’t help it.” The Kid’s tone was a little desperate.
“You see, I know Usak. I’ve known him all my life. He threatened
your life to me the night he found you on the river. I jumped in on
him and beat that talk out of him. But—you see, he reckons you’re
out to steal our land, our river, our—gold. It’s the last that scares
me. If he knows the stuff’s found, and unless he knows right away
the big things you’re doing—Don’t you see? Oh, I’m scared for you,
Bill. Usak’s crazy mad if he thinks folk are going to hurt me. You’ll
tell him quick, won’t you? I won’t sleep till I’m—sure. You see, if a
thing happened to you—”
“Nothing’s goin’ to happen, little Kid. I sure promise you.”
The man’s words came deep, and low, and thrilling with
something he could not keep out of them. It was the girl’s unfeigned
solicitude that stirred him. And again the old headlong impulse was
striving to gain the upper hand. He resisted it, as he had resisted it
before.
 But this time he sought the coward’s refuge. He reached out a
hand and laid it gently on the girl’s soft shoulder.
“Come right in, an’—show your Mum,” he said. “Hark at ’em.
That’s Perse. I’d know his laugh in a thousand. Say, we’re missing all
sorts of a time.”

The two men were back at their camp. They were seated over the
remains of their generous camp fire. It had sadly fallen from its
great estate. It was no longer a prodigal expression of their
hospitality, but a mere, ruddy heap of hot cinders with a wisp of
smoke rising out of its glowing heart. Still, however, it yielded a
welcome temperature to the bitter chill of the now frowning night.
Chilcoot remained faithful to his up-turned camp kettle, but Bill
concerned himself with no such luxury. He was squatting Indian-
fashion on his haunches, with his hands clasped about his knees. It
was a moment of deep contemplation before seeking their blankets,
and both were smoking.
It was the older man who broke the long silence. He was in a
mood to talk, for the events of the night had stirred him even more
deeply than he knew.
“They felt mighty good,” he observed contentedly. “Them queer
bits o’ life.”
His gaze remained on the heart of the fire for his words were in
the manner of a thought spoken aloud.
Bill nodded.
“Pore kids,” he said.
In a moment the older man’s eyes were turned upon him, and
their smiling depths were full of amiable derision.
“Pore?” he exclaimed. Then his hands were outspread in an
expressive gesture. “Say, you’ve handed ’em a prize-packet that
needs to cut that darn word right out of your talk.”
He looked for reply to his challenge, but none was forthcoming.
And he returned again to his happy contemplation of the fire.
 Bill smoked on. But somehow there was none of the other’s easy
contentment in his enjoyment. He was smoking rapidly, in the
manner of a mind that was restless, of a thought unpleasantly pre-
occupied. The expression of his eyes, too, was entirely different.
They were plainly alert, and a light pucker of concentration had
drawn his even brows together. He seemed to be listening. Nor was
his listening for the sound of his companion’s voice.
At long last Chilcoot bestirred himself and knocked out his pipe,
and his eyes again sought his silent partner.
“The blankets fer me,” he said, and rose to his feet. He laughed
quietly. “I’ll sure dream of kids an’ things all mussed up with fool
men who don’t know better.”
“Sure.” Bill nodded without turning. Then he added: “You best
make ’em. I’ll sit awhile.”
Chilcoot’s gaze sharpened as he contemplated the squatting
figure.
“Kind o’ feel like thinkin’ some?” he observed shrewdly.
“Maybe.”
The older man grinned.
“She’d take most boys o’ your years—thinkin’!”
“Ye—es.”
Bill had turned, and was gazing up into the other’s smiling face.
But there was no invitation to continue the talk in his regard. On the
contrary. And Chilcoot’s smile passed abruptly.
“Guess I’ll beat it,” he said a little hurriedly. And the sitting man
made no attempt to detain him.

The man at the fire was no longer gazing into it. He was peering
out into the dark of the night. Furthermore he was no longer
squatting on his haunches. He had shifted his position, lying on his
side so that his range of vision avoided the fire-light as he searched
in the direction of the water’s edge below him. His heavy pea-jacket
had been unfastened, and his right hand was thrust deep in its
pocket.
The fire had been replenished and raked together. It was burning
merrily, as though the man before it contemplated a prolonged vigil.
The night sounds were few enough just now in the northern
wilderness. The flies and mosquitoes were no longer the burden
they were in summer. The frigid night seemed to have silenced their
hum, as it had silenced most other sounds. The voice of the sluggish
river alone went on with that soothing monotony which would
continue until the final freeze-up.
But Wilder was alert in every fibre. He had reason to be. For all
the silence he knew there was movement going on. Secret
movement which would have to be dealt with before the night was
out. His ears had long since detected it. They had detected it on the
river, both going down and returning. And imagination had supplied
interpretation. Now he was awaiting that development he felt would
surely come.
He had not long to wait. A sound of moccasined feet padding over
the loose gravel of the river bed suddenly developed. It was
approaching him. And he strained in the darkness for a vision of his
visitor. After awhile a shadowy outline took definite shape. It was of
the tall, burly figure of a man coming up from the water’s edge.
He came rapidly, and without a word he took his place at the
opposite side of the fire.
Bill made no move. He offered no greeting. He understood. It was
the thing he had looked for and prepared for. It was Usak. And he
watched the Indian as he laid his long rifle across his knees, and
held out his hands to the crackling blaze.
The Indian seemed in no way concerned with the coolness of his
reception. It was almost as if his actions were an expression of the
thing he considered his simple right. And having taken up his
position he returned the silent scrutiny of his host with eyes so
narrowed that they revealed nothing but the fierce gleam of the
firelight they reflected.
 He leant forward and deliberately spat into the fire. Then the
sound of his voice came, and his eyes widened till their coal black
depths revealed something of the savage mood that lay behind
them.
“I see him, all thing this night,” he said. “So I come. I, Usak, say
him this thing. I tell ’em all peoples white-mans no good. Whitemans
steal ’em all thing. White-mans him look, look all time. Him look on
the face of white girl. Him talk plenty much. Him show her much
thing. Gold? Yes. Him buy her, this whiteman. Him buy her with gold
which he steal from her land.”
He raised one lean brown hand and thrust up three fingers.
“I tak him this gun,” he went on fiercely. “Him ready to my eye.
One—two—three time I so stand. You dead all time so I mak him.
Now I say you go. One day. You not go? Then I mak ’em so kill
quick.”
Wilder moved. But it was only to withdraw his hand from the
pocket of his pea-jacket. He was grasping an automatic pistol of
heavy calibre. He drew up a knee in his lolling position, and rested
hand and weapon upon it. The muzzle was deliberately covering the
broad bosom of the man beyond the fire, and his finger was ready
to compress on the instant.
“That’s all right, Usak,” he said calmly. “What are we going to do?
Talk or—shoot?” His eyes smiled in the calm fashion out of which he
was rarely disturbed. “I’m no Euralian man to leave you with the
drop on me.”
The final thrust was not without effect. For an instant the Indian’s
eyes widened further. Then they narrowed suddenly to the cat-like
watchfulness his manner so much resembled.
“We talk,” he said, after a brief conflict with his angry mood, his
gaze on the ready automatic whose presence and whose offence he
fully appreciated.
Bill nodded.
“That’s better,” he said. Then he went on after a pause. “Say boy,
if you’d been a whiteman I’d have shot you in your darn tracks for
the thing you just said, and the thing you kind of hinted at. I had
you covered right away as you came along up. But you’re an Indian.
An’ more than that you belong to Marty Le Gros’ lone Kid. You’ve
raised her, an’ acted father an’ mother to her, an’ you guess the sun
just rises an’ sets in her. I’m glad. An’ I’m glad ther’ isn’t to be any
fool shooting—yet. But, anyway, when ther’ is I want you to get a
grip on this. I’m right in the business, an’ I’ve got your darn ole gun
a mile beaten. I guess that makes things clear some, an’ we can get
busy with our talk.”
The Indian made no reply, but there was a flicker of the eyelid,
and an added sparkle in the man’s eyes as he listened to the
whiteman’s scathing words.
Bill suddenly sat up and clasped his hands about his knees while
the automatic pistol was thrust even more prominently.
“Here, Usak,” he went on, in the same quiet fashion, but with a
note of conciliation in his tone. “You’re guessing all sorts of fool
Indian things about that gal coming along up here to my camp. You
talk of buying her with the gold I’ve stolen from her. If you’d been
the man you guess you are you’d have got around, and sat in an’
heard all the talk of the whole thing. But you’re an Indian man, a
low grade boy that guesses to steal around on the end of a gun,
ready to play any dirty old game. No. Keep cool till I’ve done.”
Wilder’s gun was raised ever so slightly, and he waited while the
leaping wrath of the Indian subsided. He nodded.
“That’s better,” he went on quickly. “You got to listen till I’m done.
I’m goin’ to tell you things, not because I’m scared a cent of you,
but because you’ve been good to the Kid, and you’re loyal, an’
maybe someday you’re going to feel that way to me. See? But right
away I want you to get this into your fool head. I came along for
two reasons to Caribou. One was to locate Marty Le Gros’ gold, an’
pass it over to the gal who belongs to it, an’ the other was to marry
Felice Le Gros, the same as her father married her mother, an’ you, I
guess, in your own fashion, married Pri-loo, who the Euralians killed
for you. Now you get that? I don’t want the Kid’s gold, or land, or
farm. They cut no ice with me. I’m so rich I hate the sight of gold.
But I want the Kid. I want to marry her and take her right away
where the sun shines and the world’s worth living in. Where she
won’t need to worry for food or trade, an’ won’t need to wear
reindeer buckskin all the time. And anyway won’t have to live the life
of a white-Indian.”
The keen gaze of the whiteman held the Indian fast. There was no
smile in his eyes. But there was infinite command and frank honesty.
Usak stirred uneasily. It was an expression of the reaction taking
place in him.
“Him marry my good boss, Kid?”
The savage had gone out of the man’s tone. The narrowed eyes
had widened, and a curious shining light filled them.
“You give him all him gold? The gold of my good boss, Marty?” he
went on, as though striving for conviction that he had heard aright.
“Sure? You mak him this? You not mak back to Placer wher’ all him
white-woman live? You want only him Kid, same lak Usak want him
Pri-loo all time? Only him Kid? Yes?”
Bill nodded with a dawning smile.
“You big man all much gold?” the Indian went on urgently. “You
not mak want him gold of the good boss, Marty?”
Bill shook his head and his smile deepened.
“Guess I just want the—Kid,” he said.
The Indian moved. He laid his rifle aside as though it had
suddenly become a hateful thing he desired to spurn. Then he
reached out, thrusting a hand across the fire to grip that of the
whiteman.
But no response was forthcoming. Bill remained motionless with
his hands about his knees and his weapon thrusting. Usak waited a
moment. Then his hand was sharply withdrawn. His quick
intelligence was swift to realise the deliberate slight. But that which
the crude savage in him had no power to do was to remain silent.
 “You not shake by the hand?” he said doubtfully. “You say all ’em
good thing by the Kid? It all mush good. Oh, yes. Yet you—” He
broke off and a great light of passion suddenly leapt to his black
eyes. “Tcha!” he cried. “What is it this? The tongue speak an’ him
heart think mush. No, no!” he went on with growing ferocity. “The
good boss, Marty, say heap plenty. Him tell ’em Indian man all time.
Him whitemans no shake, then him not mean the thing him tongue
say.”
“You’re dead wrong, Usak. Plumb wrong. That’s not the reason I
don’t guess to grip your hand.”
Bill’s gaze was compelling. There was that in it which denied the
other’s accusations in a fashion that even the mind of the savage
could not fail to interpret.
The anger in the Indian’s eyes died down.
“Indian man’s hand good so as the white man,” he said. “Yet him
not shake so this thing is mush good. This Kid. Him mak wife to you.
You give her all thing good plenty. So. That thing you say big. Usak
give her all, too. Usak think lak she is the child of Pri-loo. Usak love
him good boss, Marty, her father. Oh, yes. All time plenty. Usak fight,
kill. All him life no thing so him Kid only know good.”
Bill inclined his head. The man was speaking out of the depth of
his fierce heart, and he warmed to the simple sturdiness of his
graphic pleading.
“I know all that,” he said.
“Then—?”
The Indian’s hand was slowly, almost timidly thrust towards him
again. But the movement remained uncompleted.
“Usak,” Bill began deliberately, and in the tone of a purpose
arrived at. “I know you for the good feller you’ve been to all these
folk. I know you better than I guess even they know you. I guess it
don’t take me figgering to know if I’d hurt a soul of them you’d
never quit till you’d shot me to pieces. I know all that. Let it go at
that. A whiteman grips the other feller by the hand when he knows
the things back of that other feller’s mind. Do you get that? Ther’s a
mighty big stain of blood on the hand you’re askin’ me to grip, an’
I’m not yearning to shake the hand of a—murderer.”
The men were gazing eye to eye. The calm cold of Wilder’s grey
eyes was inflexible. The Indian’s had lit with renewed fire. But his
resentment, the burning fires of his savage bosom were no match
for the whiteman’s almost mesmeric power. The gaze of the black
eyes wavered. Their lids slowly drooped, as though the search of the
other’s was reading him through and through and he desired to
avoid them.
“Well?”
The whiteman’s challenge came with patient determination.
The Indian drew a deep breath. Then he nodded slowly.
“I tell him all thing,” he said simply.
“Good.”
Wilder released his knees and spread himself out on the ground,
and almost ostentatiously returned his pistol to his pocket.
“Go ahead,” he said, as he propped himself on his elbow.
Usak talked at long length in his queer, broken fashion. His mind
was flung back to those far-off years when the great avenging
madness had taken possession of him. He told the story of Marty Le
Gros from its beginning. He told the story of the man’s great hopes
and strivings for the Eskimo he looked upon as children. He told of
the birth of the Kid, and the ultimate death of the missionary’s wife.
Then had come the time of his boss’s gold “strike,” the whereabouts
of which he kept secret even from him, Usak. Then came the time of
the murderous descent of the Euralians, and the killing and burning
that accompanied it. And how he had returned to the Mission to find
the dead remains of Pri-loo his wife, and of his good boss, Marty,
and the living child flung into the wood which sheltered its home.
He told how he went mad with desire to kill, and set out to wreak
his vengeance. He had long since by chance discovered where these
people hid themselves in the far-off mountains, and he went there,
and waited until they returned from their war trail.
 Now for the first time Wilder learned all the intimate details of the
terrible slaughter which this single savage had contrived to inflict.
Nor did the horror of the story lose in the man’s telling. He missed
nothing of it, seeming to revel in a riot of furious memory. Once or
twice, as he gloated over the fall of an enemy, he reached out, and
his lean hand patted the butt of his queer old rifle almost lovingly.
And with the final account of his struggle with the leader himself,
even Wilder shrank before the merciless joy the man displayed as he
contemplated the end of the battle with the man’s sockets emptied
of the tawny eyes that had gazed upon the murder of those poor,
defenceless creatures the Indian had been powerless to protect.
“Oh, yes,” he said in conclusion. “Him see nothing more, never.
Him have no eyes never no more. Him live, yes. I leave him woman.
So I go. So I come back. I come back to the little Kid, him good
boss, Marty, leave. I live. Oh, yes. I live for him Kid. I mak big work
for him Kid. Big trade. So him grow lak the tree, him flower, an’ I
think much for him. It all good. It mak me feel good all inside. Him
to me lak the child of Pri-loo. You marry him Kid? Good. You give
him gold? Good. Usak plenty happy. Now I mak him one big trip.
Then no more. Then I do so as the good whiteman of him Kid say.
Yes.”
The Indian spread out his hands in a final gesture. Then he drew
up his knees, and clasped them tightly, while his burning eyes dwelt
broodingly upon the leaping fire.
“Why this trip?” Bill’s question came sharply.
The Indian raised his eyes. Then they dropped again to the fire
and he shook his head.
“You won’t tell me? Why?” Bill demanded again. “Ther’s no need
for any trip. Ther’s work right here for you, for all. Ther’s gold,
plenty, which you can share. Why?”
Again came the Indian’s shake of the head. His eyes were raised
again for a moment and Bill read and interpreted the brooding light
that gazed out of them. The man seemed about to speak, but his
hard mouth tightened visibly, and again he stubbornly shook his
head and returned to his contemplation of the fire.
Suddenly Bill sprang to his feet and held out his hand. In an
instant the Indian was on his feet, and his dark face was even
smiling. His tenacious hand closed over that of the whiteman.
“That’s all right, Usak,” Bill said quietly. “I’m glad to take your
hand. You’re a big man. You’re a big Indian savage. But you’re a
good man, anyway. Get right back to your shanty now, an’ take that
darn old gun with you. You don’t need that fer shooting me up,
anyway. Just keep it—to guard the Kid, and those others. Just one
word before you go. Marty kept his gold secret. You keep it secret,
too, until the Kid lets you speak. I’ve got to make a big trip to secure
the claims before we can talk. When I done that talk don’t matter.
Say, an’ not a word to the Kid of our talk. Not one word. I want to
marry her. And being white folk it’s our way to ask the girl first. See?
I haven’t asked her yet. An’ if you were to boost in your spoke,
maybe she’d get angry, and—”
“Usak savee.”
The Indian was grinning in a fashion that left the whiteman
satisfied. Their hands fell apart, and Usak picked up his gun. Then
he turned away without another word and the night swallowed him
up.
Wilder stood gazing after him, There was no smile in his eyes. He
was thinking hard. And his thought was of that one, big, last trip the
Indian had threatened to make.
 CHAPTER XIII
A WHITEMAN’S PURPOSE

Bill Wilder and Chilcoot moved slowly up from the water’s edge.
The outlook was grey and the wind was piercing. The river behind
them was ruffled out of its usual oily calm, and the two small laden
canoes, lying against the bank, and the final stowing of which the
men had been engaged upon, were rocking and straining at their
raw-hide moorings.
The change of season was advancing with that suddenness which
drives the northern man hard. Still, however, the first snow had not
yet fallen, although for days the threat of it had hung over the
world. The ground was iron hard with frost, and each morning a skin
of ice stretched out on the waters of the river from the low, shelving
banks. But the grip of it was not permanent. There was still melting
warmth in the body of the stream, and, each day, the ice yielded up
its hold.
It was three days since the camp had witnessed the gathering of
children about its camp fire. Three days which Bill had devoted to
those preparations, careful in the last detail, for the rush down to
Placer before the world was overwhelmed by the long winter terror.
Now, at last, all was in readiness for the start on the morrow. All,
that is, but the one important matter of Red Mike’s return to camp.
Until that happened the start would have to be delayed.
Everything had been planned with great deliberation.
Clarence McLeod had even been called upon to assist, in view of
the race against time which the task these men had set themselves
represented. Three days ago he had been despatched up the river to
recall the Irishman. His immediate return was looked for. Chilcoot
had hoped for it earlier. But this third day was allowed as a margin in
case the gold instinct had carried Mike farther afield than was
calculated.
The last of the brief day was almost gone. And only a belt of grey
daylight was visible in the cloud banks to the south-west. Half way
up to the camp Wilder paused and gazed out over the ruffled water,
seeking to discover any sign of the man’s return in the darkening
twilight. He stood beating his mitted hands while Chilcoot passed on
up to the camp fire.
There was no sign, no sound. And a feeling of keen
disappointment took possession of the expectant man. So much
depended on Mike’s return. Under ordinary circumstances the season
was not the greatest concern, and Wilder would have been content
enough to wait. But the circumstances were by no means ordinary.
There was that lying back of his mind which disturbed him in a
fashion he was rarely disturbed. And it was a thought and concern
he had imparted to no one, not even to his loyal partner, Chilcoot.
He moved on up to the camp, and the keenness of his
disappointment displayed itself in his eyes, and in the tone of his
voice as he conveyed the result of his search to his comrade.
“Not a dam sight of ’em,” he said peevishly.
He had halted at the fire over which Chilcoot was endeavouring to
encourage some warmth into his chilled fingers. He removed his
mitts and held his hands to the blaze.
“I was kind of wondering,” he went on, “about that boy, Clarence.
Maybe he’s hit up against things. Maybe—Say—”
A faint, far-off echo came down stream. It was a call. A familiar
cry in a voice both men promptly recognised. Chilcoot grinned.
“That’s Mike,” he said. Then he added: “Sure as hell.”
Wilder breathed a deep sigh of relief.
“I’m glad. I’m mighty thankful,” he exclaimed with a short laugh.
“We’ll be away to-morrow after all.”
 Chilcoot eyed his companion speculatively.
“I hadn’t worried fer that,” he said. “Guess we can’t make Placer in
open weather.” He shrugged a pair of shoulders that were enormous
under his fur parka. “It’ll be dead winter ’fore we’re haf way. It’ll be
black night in two weeks, anyway. The big river don’t freeze right
over till late winter, but ther’ll be ice floes ’most all the way. I can’t
see a day more or less is going to worry us a thing.”
“No.”
Bill was searching the heart of the fire.
“The Hekor don’t freeze right up easy,” he went on. “That’s so. But
it’ll sure be black night.” Then he looked up, and Chilcoot recognised
his half smile of contentment. “It don’t matter anyway. The thing’s
worth it.”
“What thing?”
Bill laughed.
“Why the jump we’re making.”
There was a brief pause. Then Chilcoot’s eyes twinkled.
“You scared of the winter trail, Bill?” he asked quietly.
“Not a thing.”
The older man nodded.
“It would ha’ been the first time in your life,” he said. “I’ve seen
you take the chances of a crazy man.”

“Don’t it beat Hell?”

The Irishman had listened to the story of the “strike” and sat
raking his great fingers through the thick stubble of flaming beard he
had developed, and grinned first across at his chief, Bill Wilder, then
at the twinkling, deep-set eyes of Chilcoot.
They were all gathered about the fire, that centre of everything to
the northern man. The youth Clarence was sprawled full length on
the ground, happy in the thought that he was playing his part in the
great game on which these men were engaged. He was content to
listen while the others talked. But he drank in every word with the
appetite of healthy youth, digesting and learning as his young mind
so ardently desired.
“An’ it’s rich? Full o’ the stuff?” Mike’s lips almost smacked as he
persisted.
“So full you’ll get a nightmare reckonin’ it.”
Chilcoot nodded while his eyes sparkled. Mike drew a deep breath.
The two summers behind them looked like a happy picnic instead of
the months of wasted endeavour they had seemed to his impetuous
soul.
“Ther’s more than a hundred claims on it we know of,” Bill said
soberly. “Maybe ther’s miles of it up that queer, crazy stream. We
haven’t worried farther. The stakes are in fer the whole of our
bunch, an’ the folks across the water. That’s as far as we’re
concerned. We’re beating it to Placer to-morrow to register. Say,” he
went on impressively, “ther’ll be a rush like the days of ’98, and we
can’t take chances. If the thing’s like what I guess we’ll cheapen
gold worse than the Yukon boom did. Does it hit you?”
“Between the eyes.” Mike laughed out of his boisterous feelings.
“We ken get the bunch right down, an’ get a dump of stuff out
before the freeze-up,” he went on eagerly. “What’s it to be? A pool
or claim work?”
“Ther’s goin’ to be no pool. An’ ther’s goin’ to be no rake over till
spring.” Wilder’s tone was decided, and the grin died out of the
Irishman’s eyes. “I told you we’re takin’ no chances. Chilcoot and I
have planned this thing right out. Of the three best claims we’re sure
about, one is yours. But you don’t pan an ounce of soil till the
register’s made, and you’ve got your ‘brief.’ Then it’s yours on your
own, the same as the others belong to each of the other folk. An’
you can work how you darn please. But you won’t see the place,
even, till we get right back from Placer. An’ the boys aren’t hearing a
word of it till spring. It’s this I sent Clarence, here, up to get you
around for. I want you to sit tight, right here, till we get back with
the whole thing fixed. It’s worth waiting for, Mike. It’s so good you
just haven’t figgers enough in your fool head to count your luck.
You’ll act this way, boy. I promised you haf a million dollars if you hit
back to Placer without a colour. That still goes, but you won’t need a
thing from me. You’ll play our hand right?”
Mike’s disappointment was all the keener for his mercurial
temperament, but he nodded readily and Wilder was satisfied.
“Sure I’ll play it right, the way you want it. But I don’t see we
need act like ther’ was spooks around waitin’ to jump in on us before
the register’s fixed.”
Wilder smiled back at the protesting man.
“But ther’ are,” he said. “If you’d the experience I’ve had of this
blamed old North you’d be scared to death for our ‘strike.’ It’s a
ghost-haunted country this, and most of the spooks have got a kind
of wireless of their own that ’ud beat anything we Christian folk ever
heard tell of. Ther’s six months of winter ahead, and most of that
we’ll be on the trail, or fixing things. It just needs one half-breed pelt
hunter to get wise to the game happening around, or a stray bunch
of Euralian murderers, and we’d have haf the north on us before the
Commissioner could sign our ‘briefs.’ No, boy, get it from me, and
just sit around till daylight comes again, an’ dream of the hooch
you’re going to drink to the luck of the Kid. It’s the Kid’s luck that’s
handed us this thing. It’s the luck her father reckoned was to be
hers. And by no sort of crazy act are we going to queer it. I’m taking
your scow, and beating it down stream. Clarence’ll feel like gettin’ to
home.”
The grinning eyes of Mike followed the tall figure of his leader,
with the youth, Clarence, striding beside him, as it vanished in the
darkness on its way to the water’s edge. And as they passed from
view he turned to the man who displayed no desire to quit the
comfort of the fire.
“I’d guessed he’d fallen for it two summers back,” he said. “You
can locate it with both eyes shut, an’ cotton batten stuffed in your
brain box. That gal had him fast by the back of the neck on sight.
The Kid, eh? It’s not Bill Wilder’s way of playing safe on a gold
‘strike.’ That gal’s got him scared to death for the plum he guesses
to hand her. No, sirree,” he went on, with a shake of his disreputable
head, “the Jezebels o’ Placer for mine, an’ a bunch o’ hooch you
could drown a battleship in. It’s easy game that don’t hand you a
nightmare, if it’s liable to empty your sack o’ dust. That Kid! What’s
he goin’ to do?”
Chilcoot shrugged. Mike was not the man he felt like opening out
to.
“He ain’t crazy enough to—marry her?” Mike went on
contemptuously. “No. He’s no fool kid.”
A deep flush mounted to the veteran’s temples. His deepset eyes
sparkled as he surveyed the other through the smoke of the fire.
“You best ask Bill the things you want to know,” he said coldly. “It
don’t matter what you think. It don’t matter what any darn fool
thinks. Bill’s mostly spent his life playin’ the game as he sees it. An’ I
guess he’ll go right on doin’ the same. And the game he plays is a
right game. An’ he’s as ready to hand it out to a hooch-soused no-
account, as he is to a gal with a dandy pair of blue eyes.”

It had been a quiet, almost subdued evening at the homestead.

Somehow Bill Wilder’s manner had been graver than was its wont,
and these simple folk, who, since his re-discovery of Marty Le Gros’
gold “strike,” had so quickly come to regard him as something in the
nature of the arbiter of their destinies, had been clearly affected by
his change of manner.
He had shared their supper, and listened to Clarence’s story of his
search for Red Mike. He had found it easier to listen than to talk.
Hesther, too, had spent her time in listening, while the children
chattered all unconscious of the real mood of their elders.
For the Kid it was a time of quiet happiness, marred only by the
thought that with the first streak of brief daylight on the morrow this
man would be speeding on his race with the season to ensure her
own, and the good fortunes of all those she loved.
 The girl looked forward to the coming months of winter clarkness
without any glimmer of that happy, contented philosophy which had
always been hers. Looking ahead the whole prospect seemed so
dark and empty. The days since Bill’s coming to the Caribou had
been so overflowing, so thrilling with happy events and delirious joy
that the contrasting prospect was only the more deplorably void.
And with all the untamed spirit in her she rebelled at the coming
parting.
Yet she understood the necessity. She realised the enormous stake
he was playing for on their behalf, and so she was determined that
no act or word of hers should hinder him. There had been moments
when the impulse to plead permission to accompany him was almost
irresistible. It filled her heart with delighted dreams of displaying, for
his appreciation, her skill and sturdy nerve on the winter trail. She
felt that for all her sex she could easily accept more than her due
share of the labour, and could increase his comfort a hundredfold.
But in sober moments she knew it could not be. If nothing else the
woman instinct in her forbade it.
The girl never for one moment paused to question her feelings.
Why should she? The life she knew, the life she had always lived,
had left her free of every convention which encompasses a woman’s
life in civilization. Bill Wilder had leapt into her life as her dream
man. He was her all in all, the whole focus of her simple heart. Why
then should she deny it? Why then should she attempt to blind
herself? There had been no word of love between them. It almost
seemed unnecessary. She loved his steady grey eyes, with their calm
smile. She revelled in his unfailing, kindly confidence. His spoken
word was always sufficient, backed as it was by his great figure, so
full of manhood’s youthful strength. Then he was of her own
country. That vast Northland which claimed their deepest affection
for all its terror. Oh, yes, she loved him with her whole soul and
body. And her love inspired the surging rebellion which her sturdy
sense refused outlet or display.
No. She had long since learned patience. It was the thing her
country taught her as surely as anything on earth. Besides, the
planning was all Bill’s. Every detail had been weighed and measured
by him. Even it was his veto that had been set on her own journey
for trade. He had urged its abandonment, demanding both her and
Usak’s presence on the river during his absence. So it must be.
For the girl this last evening together passed all too swiftly. Much
of the time, while the others chattered, she remained scarcely
heeding sufficiently to respond intelligently to the occasional appeals
made to her. And then, when the time came for Bill’s going, she rose
quickly from her seat beside the stove and slipped her fur parka over
her buckskin clothing. She regarded the privilege she contemplated
as her right.
Hesther observed, but wisely refrained from comment. But her
children were less merciful. Perse grinned impishly.
“Wher’ you goin’, Kid?” he demanded.
The ready mother instantly leapt to the girl’s assistance.
“Lightin’ Bill to the landin’,” she said sharply. “Which the scallawag
menfolk around this shanty don’t seem yearnin’ to do.”
“She don’t need to,” Clarence protested.
“Don’t she?” The mother laughed. “You’re too late, boy. Guess Bill,
here, ’ud hate to be lit by folks who need reminding the thing’s due.
You boys beat it to your blankets. Kid’ll see Bill on his way.”
The man was ready. He bulked tremendously under the thick fur
of his outer clothing. He pulled his fur cap low down on his head,
while the Kid lit the queer old hurricane lamp with a burning brand
from the stove. Hesther’s diminutive figure was further dwarfed
beside him as she prepared to make her farewell.
“It’ll be quite a piece before you get along again,” she said, in a
voice that was not quite steady. And the man laughed shortly for all
there seemed no reason.
“I just can’t figger how soon before I’m along back,” he said. “I’d
like to fix it, but it wouldn’t be reasonable anyway. You see, mam,”
he went on, his gaze turned on the girl who shut the lamp with a
slam, “Gold Commissioners have their ways, and sort of make their
own time. And though I reckon to pull some wires I can’t say when
I’ll get through. And then ther’s always the winter trail. But I’ll sure
be along back before the spring break.”
His gaze came back to the little woman who was regarding him
with wistful eyes of affection, as though he were one of her own
boys, and he thrust out a hand which was instantly clasped between
both her rough palms.
“I just got to be back then,” he went on. “And when I come you
can gamble I got things fixed so tight you’ll only need to sit around
and act the way I tell you.” He smiled down into the misty brown
eyes. “You keep a right good fire, mam,” he said gently. “Ther’s no
trouble for you while I’m gone. Mike’s not a thing but a nightmare to
look at, but he’s got clear orders while Chilcoot and I are on the trail.
And he’ll put ’em through to the limit. You won’t need for a thing he
can hand you. So long.”
The mist in the mother’s eyes had developed into real tears, and
they overflowed down her worn cheeks.
“God bless you, Bill,” she stammered, as she released his hand
with obvious reluctance. “I’ll sure do my best. I just can’t say the
things in here,” she went on, clasping her thin bosom with both
hands. Then she struggled to smile. “Guess we’ll all be countin’ up
till you get back, an’ it can’t be a day sooner than we’re all wishin’.
So long, boy.”
Bill turned to the elder children who had remained to speed him
on his way and nodded comprehensively.
“So long, folks,” he said. “See you again.”
He passed quickly to the door, where the Kid was awaiting him,
and moved out. And a final glance back revealed Hesther framed in
the open doorway, with the yellow light of the room behind her,
silhouetting her fragile figure, as she waved a farewell in the
direction of the swinging lantern.

The Kid’s pretty blue eyes were raised to the smiling face looking
down into hers. It was a moment tense with feeling. It was that
moment of parting when she felt that all sense of joy, all sense of
happiness was to be snuffed right out of her life. And the responsive
smile she forced to her eyes was perilously near to tears.
The lantern in her hand revealed the canoe hauled up against the
crude landing. Its rays found reflection in the dark spread of water
where a skin of ice was already forming, seeking to embed the frail
craft at its mooring.
There was little enough relief from the darkness under the heavy
night clouds. There was no visible moon. That was screened behind
the stormy threat, yet it contrived a faint twilight over the world. Not
a single star was to be seen anywhere and the ghostly northern
lights were deeply curtained.
Now, in these last moments of parting, the youth in Bill Wilder was
once more surging with impulse. As he gazed down into the bravely
smiling eyes a hundred desires were beating in his brain. And he
yearned desperately to fling every caution to the winds and abandon
himself to the love which left him without a thought but of the
delight with which the Kid’s presence filled him.
Somehow it seemed to his big nature a wanton cruelty that this
girl should be charged with the cares of a struggle for existence in
this far-flung northern wilderness. Perhaps as great a feeling as any
that stirred him at this moment was a desire to relieve her of the last
shadow of anxiety in the monstrous season about to descend upon
them. And yet he was compelled to leave her to face alone the very
hardships he would have saved her from. And this with an acute
understanding of the uncertainty of the outcome of the thing he had
planned to accomplish in the darkness of the long winter night. For
once in his life his usual confidence was undermined by curious
forebodings. But he gave no outward sign, while he listened to the
urgent little story the girl had to tell of the Indian Usak.
“He’s a queer feller,” he said thoughtfully. Then he added: “You
told him clear out ther’s to be no trading trip to Placer? An’ still he’s
making ready a trip?”
 The girl laughed shortly. There was no mirth in it. It was a little
nervous expression of feeling.
“You just can’t get back of that feller’s mind,” she said. “Usak’s
dead obstinate. He’s obstinate as a young bull caribou when he feels
like it. It was when I told him it was your plan we shouldn’t make
Placer. I sort of read it in his queer black eyes, even though he took
the order without a kick. Maybe he was disappointed. You see, he’s
got that swell black fox. Next day I found him fixing for a trip on his
own. I asked him right away about it, an’ his answer left me worried
an’ guessing. ‘That all right,’ he said, ‘I know us not mak Placer. So.
Then I mak one big trip.’”
The girl’s imitation of the Indian’s broken talk brought a deepening
smile to Bill’s eyes for all the concern her story inspired.
“I told him right away you guessed it best for him to stop around,”
she went on. “An’ it was then he got mulish. He snapped me like an
angry wolf. ‘Who this whiteman say I not mak big trip? Him not all
thing, this man. No. I mak big trip.’ He went right on fixing his outfit
after that and wouldn’t say another word. He’s right up ther’ in his
shanty now. I saw the lamp burning as we came down. He means to
go his trip, and-”
“Nothing’s goin’ to stop him.” The man’s jaws shut with a snap.
“He’s surely got a mule beat.”
He remained buried in deep thought for some moments while the
girl watched him, wondering anxiously at his interpretation of Usak’s
attitude. She was filled with an unease she could not shake off.
Quite suddenly Bill’s manner underwent a change. He laughed
quietly, and his gaze, which had passed to the dark river came again
to the troubled face beside him.
“Just don’t worry a thing, Kid,” he said, with an assumption of
lightness which drew a responsive sigh of relief. “It don’t matter.
Ther’s the boys around, and Mike, and my bunch. Usak’s full of his
own notions, an’ it’s best not to drive him too hard. If he guesses to
make a trip, just let him beat it. No. Don’t you worry a thing.”
“No.”
 The Kid sighed again. And the man understood that the comfort
he had desired for her had been achieved.
Again came his quiet laugh.
“Anyway we can’t worry with Usak—to-night.”
The girl shook her head. In a moment she had forgotten the
Indian and remembered only the thing about to happen. It was their
farewell that had yet to be spoken, and this man would be speeding
up the darkened river to his camp, and it would be months—long,
dreary months before she would witness again those calm smiling
grey eyes, and hear again the voice that somehow made the
heaviest burdens of her life on the river something that was a joy to
contemplate. The desolation of his going appalled her now that the
moment of parting had actually arrived.
“Gee! It’s going to be a long night to—Spring.”
Bill spoke with a surge of feeling he could no longer deny.
The girl remained silent, and her blue eyes sought the dark course
of the river in self-defence.
“What’ll you be doing—all the time?”
Bill’s voice had lowered. There was a wonderful depth of
tenderness in its tone.
“Waitin’—mostly.”
It was a little wistful, a little desperate. For the first time the girl’s
voice had become unsteady.
Bill drew a deep breath.
“Waiting?”
He turned swiftly in the shadow that hid them up. His eyes were
no longer calm. They were hot with those passions which are only
the deeper and stronger for the strong man’s restraint. Suddenly he
thrust a hand into the bosom of his parka and withdrew the folded
plans of Marty Le Gros’ gold “strike.”
“Here, Kid,” he said urgently. “You best have these. They’re yours
anyway whatever happens. You never can guess in this queer old
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