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  Gold Fever

  Incredible Tales of the Klondike Gold Rush

  Rich Mole

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1: Keeping the Faith

  Chapter 2: Dreamers and Schemers

  Chapter 3: The Days Everything Changed

  Chapter 4: Bonanza

  Chapter 5: Eldorado

  Chapter 6: A Secret Locked in Ice

  Chapter 7: The Treasure Ships

  Chapter 8: Journey into Hell

  Chapter 9: Starvation City

  Chapter 10: The Law and the Lawless

  Epilogue: The Beginning of the End

  Bibliography

  Suggested Search Terms

  Prologue

  This is the Law of the Yukon, that only the Strong shall thrive,

  That surely the Weak shall perish, and only the Fit survive.

  Dissolute, damned and despairful, crippled and palsied and Slain,

  This is the Will of the Yukon—Lo! How she makes it plain!

  — Robert Service, “The Law of the Yukon”

  It was the winter of 1893. In one of Fortymile’s saloons, Jim Washburn watched as the prospector sitting across from him fanned his cards out on the tabletop, looked up and grinned. The Fortymile tough guy sat in stunned silence. Washburn could have sworn he had his opponent pegged. It was inconceivable that he had read him wrongly. Where had that hand come from all of a sudden?

  Dropping his cards, Washburn reached across his belt. The glint of the knife blade flashed in the lamplight as he lunged across the heavy wooden table, spilling poker chips left and right. The man across the table stared open-mouthed at the spreading line of red staining his torn shirt. He looked up and took in Washburn’s taunting leer. Then, without rising from his chair, the man calmly reached down, lifted up his revolver, pointed it at Washburn and squeezed the trigger.

  The ears of every man in the saloon rang with the report. When the smoke drifted away, Washburn was writhing wordlessly on the plank floor, hands clutching his hip, blood seeping between his fingers.

  The time for law and order in the Yukon had come at last.

  CHAPTER

  1

  Keeping the Faith

  Almost two decades before the great Klondike Gold Rush made the Yukon known around the world, this mountainous and inhospitable wilderness in the extreme northwest corner of Canada’s vast North-West Territories was virtually unknown. The early explorers and Hudson’s Bay Company traders had come and gone. But in the early 1880s, another small but steady trickle of hardened, lonely men headed north. They were not trappers or traders, but prospectors.

  In the wake of earlier gold rushes in the Fraser River, Cariboo and Cassiar regions of British Columbia, and others in South Dakota, Nevada and Arizona, restless men were goaded on by the lure of easy riches. They travelled up Canada’s west coast, hiked east through the mountain passes of the new American territory of Alaska and ventured into the Yukon. These taciturn individuals endured continual disappointment and desperate hardship in their obsessive quest for the “motherlode.” Often having little to show for years of effort, the tenacious prospectors seemed nourished by faith alone—faith that they would one day strike it rich.

  Fort Reliance, Yukon River

  September 1882

  The dull thud of axes was music to trader Jack McQuesten’s ears. Not far from his Alaska Commercial Company trading post, cabins were taking shape. Instead of merely stopping briefly on their way to “the outside,” as the prospectors referred to the civilized world to the south, twelve prospectors had decided to winter over at the post. That was good for business. The men opened accounts at the post. Jack wasn’t worried about when they would pay these accounts. When a man gave his word, you trusted him. In the Yukon, that’s how business was done. On trust. On faith.

  Big, beefy Jack McQuesten stood watching the men carrying spruce logs; he stroked the long, blond moustache that hid his smile. Having the prospectors stay for the winter meant more than good business. It meant good company. Now there would be somebody to talk with until spring breakup. Of course, there was the missus. Katherine was an educated Koyukuk; she spoke English well, but talking to her wasn’t the same as conversing with men, especially men from the outside. Take old William Moore, a veteran of the BC rushes in the Cariboo and Cassiars. Moore had made a $90,000 fortune. He didn’t make his money panning nuggets from the creeks. He had made it running a fleet of steamboats! It wasn’t every day you shared a bottle with a riverboat captain. Moore had lost his fortune when the gold ran out. Now he was just like the rest of them—a footloose dreamer.

  For the first time in years, this winter there would be cards, conversation and laughter with white men.

  Dyea Inlet, Alaska

  Spring 1886

  Keish, a young, powerful member of the Tagish First Nation, spotted the large brown bear not far from where the Taiya River ran into the ocean. The beast ambled leisurely out of the woods and into the warmth of the open beach. Keish stopped at once and held his breath. Had the bear seen him? Head lowered, the bear snuffled the water between the rocks. No, not yet. The wind was right. Slowly, Keish checked his rifle.

  In the Tagish man’s imagination, the bear was already dead. Bear meat would be very welcome around the fire. His cousin, Tagish Charlie to the whites, and his friend, George Carmack, would help him cut it up. Carmack had learned Tagish ways quickly after he and Keish had first met at Healy’s trading post. Keish’s sister, whom Carmack fondly called Kate, would work the skin into a nice robe. The white men were always changing Tagish names. Keish’s own name meant “Lone Wolf,” but he liked his white name, “Skookum Jim.” Skookum meant “husky.” Keish had another thought. Killing this bear would be a good story to share with his large family when they returned to their Tagish Lake village.

  A throaty growl cut through Keish’s reverie and his head snapped up. The bear was already racing down the beach toward the man who had dared to interrupt its feeding. There was not a second to lose. Keish raised his rifle quickly and fired. Had he hit it? If he had, the bullet had merely spurred the bear on more furiously. Keish levered another cartridge home and fired again. The bear’s heavy paws made white spray of the shallows as it moved relentlessly through the water, closing the gap between himself and the puny human. There was barely time for one more shot. Keish’s rifle bucked, and as the smoke cleared, the roaring bear was on him.

  Stunned by the force of the bear’s first blow, Keish spun away, hearing the sound of ripping fabric as his shirt sleeve shredded, feeling sudden, burning pain as the animal’s claws racked his arm. If he was going to die, Keish thought, this was the best way to go. Keish rose up, extending his weapon above his head. Leaning forward with all his power, and with a roar of his own, Keish rammed the rifle’s barrel as hard and as deep as he could into the bear’s cavernous mouth.

  Roaring in agony, the bear fell back, wrenching the rifle from Keish’s grasp. The furious animal advanced again, the rifle jerking grotesquely from its mouth, blood splattering the sand. The bear swiped at him once more. Keish dodged, but not quickly enough. He felt claws open the flesh of his other arm. The mangled, bloody rifle fell to the ground and the bear lunged forward again. Keish darted away. The long claws swiped the empty air. Then the bear paused, gave a convulsive shudder and collapsed heavily on the wet sand.

  Keish didn’t hesitate. Falling to his knees, he wrenched a half-buried stone from the sand. Balancing his new weapon precariously above his head, he ran toward the fallen animal and brought the stone down as hard as he could on the bear’s head. Chest heaving, blood running down his arms, Keish warily circled the motionless bear. It was over. Keish collapsed to his hands and knees. This would be a story to tell the others: Keish and t
he bear on the beach—a skookum story, a Skookum Jim story!

  Over 1,300 kilometres south of the deserted beach, in the city of Victoria on Vancouver Island, events were unfolding that would have a life-changing impact on Skookum Jim.

  Victoria, British Columbia

  April 1887

  Two Canadian government surveyors, the bearded little hunchback, George Dawson, and his young companion, William Ogilvie, had arrived in Victoria. Under orders from Minister of the Interior Thomas White, Ogilvie and Dawson were in BC’s capital just long enough to hire labourers and buy supplies for their Yukon expedition. With more prospectors climbing the Chilkoot Pass, the Canadian government in Ottawa had finally realized there would be hell to pay if it didn’t have a system for determining whether claims were registered with the United States or the Dominion of Canada. Canada had to protect its interests—and its citizens. It needed to establish an international boundary, and defining that boundary had brought Dawson and Ogilvie across the country. This would be William Moore’s ticket north. Moore, the failed but unflagging goldfield entrepreneur, strode down the sloping street, dodging pedestrians, his mind revolving feverishly. He had waited almost three years for this moment, ever since he had returned to his wife in gentle, complacent Victoria.

  “I feel convinced,” Moore had written the BC lieutenant-governor, “that there are large deposits of gold at the headwaters of the Yukon River.” It could be “a source of wealth to the province and of great commercial value.” For a grant of $6,000, Moore would be happy to do the exploring. True, it was a significant sum of money, but a mere pittance when one considered the potential. Moore’s letter had been ignored.

  The previous fall, two Yukon prospectors had discovered the very first course gold in the area on the Fortymile River, about 14 kilometres west from its mouth on the mighty Yukon River. The news had only just reached the South. Now more men were anxious to head north. Gold fever had struck again. Moore had been so certain he would find gold in the North that he had left his sons to pan the Fortymile. To Moore’s delight, one of his sons had also undertaken another type of prospecting. Moore’s son had met a Tagish trapper named Keish, but known by all as Skookum Jim. Moore saw Skookum Jim in his mind’s eye—tough, broad-chested and taller than most of the Tagish. There was a better route across the mountains, according to Skookum Jim. He talked of an alternative route that would allow them to bypass the treacherous Chilkoot Pass. Moore was frantic with excitement. There was an easier way to Yukon gold!

  It was not gold itself that set William Moore’s excitement aflame. He loved gold more for the business opportunities it brought. When he worked in the Cassiars, there had been great opportunities for steamboat businesses and many government contracts to build trails. The same thing could happen in the North. Moore felt sure his faith in the Yukon was about to be rewarded. What mattered now to Moore was persuading young Ogilvie to hire him. No doubt plenty of adventurers were already competing for positions. Moore desperately needed one of those jobs. He was penniless, again. They had lost the house in Victoria, and he had a wife to support. Moore knew what Ogilvie would think: That old man? Although he was almost 66 years old, Moore didn’t look or feel his age. Nobody ever babied him on a trail or a river! All he had to do was convince Ogilvie of that. Besides, at this moment, who in Victoria knew the Yukon better than William Moore?

  CHAPTER

  2

  Dreamers and Schemers

  The discovery of significant amounts of gold on the Fortymile River nudged the Canadian government into action. Long ignorant and uncaring about the Yukon, civil servants now had good reason to take a sudden interest in this far-flung corner of the North-West Territories. Some feared Canada’s sovereignty might be at stake. This was not a new threat. Less than 20 years earlier, US expansionism and the Métis rebellions had threatened to cut the proposed nation of Canada in two. The federal government had used the construction of the Canadian Pacific Railroad—and the hasty dispatch of troops on its trains—to secure the western plains for the new nation.

  On the other side of the Yukon’s western border lay the US territory of Alaska. No one could agree just where the border was located. Hardly anyone in either country really cared enough to find out. To disgusted American newspaper editors, Alaska had been merely “a dreary waste,” and its purchase from Russia just 10 years earlier represented “a dark deed done at night.”

  The discovery of gold across Alaska’s mountains was changing these perceptions. First came the dreamers, the hordes of prospectors with a glint of gold in their eyes. Spurred on by rumour and hope, the newcomers were staking claims in the Yukon and didn’t even know it. Many considered the entire area part of Alaska. It would not be long before the schemers would come, men ready and willing to house, feed, clothe, entertain and transport the dreamers who dared to risk everything.

  Healy and Wilson Trading Post, Dyea Inlet, Alaska

  May 1887

  Canadian government surveyor William Ogilvie, prospector William Moore and others stepped onto the beach at the head of Dyea Inlet. The survey party had split up days before. The other government surveyor, George Dawson, headed off with a group to explore the Stikine River area. Ogilvie’s group planned to climb the Chilkoot Pass, travel the lakes on the other side of the summit and make their way toward the Yukon River. However, their plans changed.

  William Ogilvie received a surprise near the Taiya River, just a short distance into the trip. Beneath the silent, forbidding Chilkoot Pass in the middle of the North Coast wilderness, a corner of transplanted civilization appeared. Not far from an isolated Native village stood the Healy and Wilson trading post, a tidy, two-storey building sporting real glass windows and a coat of bright, white paint.

  Initially, store operators John J. Healy and George Dickson had seemed friendly and helpful. With survey instruments and six tons of supplies piled on the beach, Ogilvie was relieved when Healy introduced him to the spokesman for 120 Native packers. Then another surprise: Healy introduced Ogilvie to a white packer, George Carmack, and what appeared to be Carmack’s adopted Native family. They included Skookum Jim and Jim’s sister Kate, whom Carmack had taken as his wife.

  Since his early stint as a US marine, George Carmack had become increasingly interested in the North. As a new marine, the 22-year-old Carmack had gone on an incredible trip to Sitka, Alaska. He was fascinated with the prospectors he’d come across. Their tales of quests for great riches brought back vivid boyhood yearnings. Also, the Tlingit Native peoples had captured his imagination. Carmack had taken the time to get to know the Tlingit; he was fascinated by their lifestyle and picked up their Chinook trade language surprisingly quickly. To William Ogilvie, the fact that Carmack had taken a Native wife was no surprise. The surveyor had seen many mixed marriages on the Canadian prairies. With the exception of John J. Healy’s wife, the closest white woman was 160 kilometres away at Juneau and not likely to want to lead such a rough life. Kate was stronger and more experienced, packing along with the rest. In any case, Carmack seemed to have married well. Evidently, Kate was a chief’s daughter.

  Ogilvie asked Healy to provide him with information about this so-called new pass to the North. Were the rum-ours true? Ogilvie watched Healy cast a furtive glance at Dickson. Healy seemed a little less cooperative when the possibility of another route was mentioned, but his reaction didn’t surprise Ogilvie or Moore. An alternative route would hurt business at his trading post nestled beneath the Chilkoot Pass. The new route was just seven kilometres down the inlet, at the bay the Native peoples called Skagua. The route was longer than the Chilkoot Pass, but lower and easier to travel. Did this fabled route really exist? Skookum Jim claimed that he’d travelled it himself, and Carmack backed up his story.

  Ogilvie pondered his options. Now, their party was too small to split up, but the government surveyor would gladly spare Moore. The tiresome old man yammered on and on about the Yukon’s endless possibilities, like some non-stop sideshow barker.
Ogilvie told Moore that he and Skookum Jim could split off and explore this supposed route.

  With a doubtful frown, Ogilvie handed Moore a surveyor’s notebook and ordered him to keep good notes. Moore and Skookum Jim planned to meet the rest of the party on the other side of the summit at Lake Bennett. Moore renewed his promise that he would continue on with the party when they met up, but only until reunited with his sons. Ogilvie could only hope that the family reunion would occur soon. Very soon.

  * * *

  Weeks later at Dyea Inlet, two shivering, dishevelled men burst through the door of Healy and Wilson’s trading post and crouched over the threshold. John J. Healy and his wife watched quietly as the half-starved men—William Moore and his son—wolfed down their hot meals in silence. Healy paced the room, anxious to hear Moore’s story. When the plates were clean, Moore cleared his throat and began telling his tale.

  Ogilvie and Moore had reconnected after their separate excursions. Apparently, Ogilvie had found the Chilkoot Pass exhausting. Twenty-seven kilometres from the mouth of the Taiya River, the boulder-strewn pass rose almost vertically to a height of 1,050 metres. Most of it was a heart-hammering, back-breaking, three-kilometre climb. When Moore and his son later returned to the coast, coming down the Chilkoot Pass had been a horrible experience. Without food or shelter, buffeted by wind, rain and icy blasts of sleet, the numb and exhausted men had stumbled along. Ah, but the trip up the new route—the White Pass—had been much better, Moore said. Healy gave him a puzzled look.

  Moore told Healy that Ogilvie had wasted no time in naming the new route. He decided to name it after Minister of the Interior Thomas White. White Pass was low and gentle—the preferred route, Moore stated. As co-owner of the Healy and Wilson trading post, Healy was not pleased to hear Moore’s tale. He didn’t like the sound of this White Pass; giving it a name lent the rival route a crucial legitimacy.