IT HAS always seemed a standing wonder to me that when Swiftwater had separated himself from about $100,000 or more in gold dust with the Lamore sisters as the chief beneficiaries, and after he had been divorced from Grace, following her refusal to live with him in San Francisco, he did not finally come within a rifle shot of the realization of the real value of money. There is no doubt but that Swiftwater was bitterly resentful towards Gussie and Grace Lamore after they had both thrown him overboard, and you will no doubt agree with me that to an ordinary man such experiences as these would have had a sobering effect.

Instead, however, the miner plunged more recklessly than ever into all manner of money-making and money-spending, and the only reason that Swiftwater Bill Gates is not ranked today with Flood, Mackay and Fair as one of a group of the greatest and richest mining men the Pacific Coast has produced, is that he did not have the balance wheel of caution and discretion that is given to the ordinary artisan or day laborer.

Swiftwater left San Francisco soon after his rupture with Grace Lamore and went directly to Ottawa, Canada, where, marvelous as it may seem in the light of the ten years of mining history in the north, Swiftwater induced the Dominion government to grant him a concession on Quartz Creek, in the Klondike, worth today millions upon millions.

This concession covered an immense tract of ground at least three miles long and in some places two miles wide. Much of the ground was very rich, and today, ten years later, it is paying big dividends. Yet rich as it was and immensely valuable as was the enormous concession, Swiftwater induced the Dominion of Canada authorities to part with it for merely a nominal consideration. His success in this respect cannot be otherwise regarded than phenomenal. Although his money was nearly all gone, Swiftwater, taking a new grip on himself, and entirely disregardful of the fates which had been so lavish to him, went from Ottawa to London, England, where he obtained enough money to buy and ship to Dawson one of the largest and most expensive hydraulic plants in the country.

When this plant was shipped to Seattle in 1898, Swiftwater followed it to the city on Elliott Bay.

It was the day following Swiftwater Bill’s arrival in Seattle from San Francisco in the spring of 1899 that Mr. Richardson, an old Seattle friend of mine, who knew Gates well, telephoned me that Swiftwater had an elegant suite of apartments at the Butler Hotel, and that he had asked him to arrange for an introduction. Mr. Richardson said over the telephone:

“You ought to know Swiftwater—he knows everybody in Dawson and the Klondike, and for a woman like you to go into that country with a big hotel outfit and no friends would be ridiculous.”

When I think of what happened to me and my daughters, Blanche and Bera, in the next few days following this incident, and of the years of wretchedness and misery and laying waste of human lives and happiness that came after, I am tempted to wonder what curious form of an unseen fate shapes our destinies and turns and twists our fortunes in all manner of devious and uncertain ways.

My whole hotel outfit had gone up to St. Michael the fall previous and I with it—and at great cost of labor and trouble I had seen to it, at St. Michael, that the precious shipment—representing all I had in the world—was safely stored aboard a river steamer bound for Dawson.

Now, spring had come again, and with it the big rush to the gold fields of the Yukon was on, and Seattle was again filled with a seething, surging, struggling, discontented, optimistic, laughing crowd of gold hunters of every nationality and color.

It was almost worth your life to try to break through the mob and gain admission to the lobby of the Hotel Butler in those days, for the place was absolutely packed at night with men as thick as sardines in a box, and all shouting and gesticulating and keeping up such a clatter that it drove one nearly crazy.

It was no place for a woman, and the few women whose fortunes or whose husbands had brought them thither were seated in a little parlor on the second floor, where they could easily hear the clamor and confusion that came from the noisy mob in the lobby.

In the crowd were such old-time sourdoughs as Ole Olson, who sold out a little piece of ground about as big as a city block on Eldorado for $250,000, after he had taken out as much more in three months’ work the winter previous; “French Curley” De Lorge, known from White Horse to the mouth of the Tanana, as one of the Yukon’s bravest and strongest hearted trappers and freighters; Joe Ladue, who laid out the town of Dawson; George Carmack, whose Indian brother-in-law, Skookum Jim, is supposed to have turned over the first spadeful of grass roots studded with gold on the banks of Bonanza; big Tom Henderson, who found gold before anybody, he always said on Quartz Creek; Joe Wardner and Phil O’Rourke, both famous in the Coeur d’Alenes; Henry Bratnober, six feet two, black beard, shaggy black hair and black eyes, overbearing and coarse voiced, the representative in the golden north of the Rothschilds of London; and men almost equally well known from Australia, from South Africa and from continental Europe, including the vigilant and energetic Count Carbonneau of Paris.

By appointment, Swiftwater, attired in immaculate black broadcloth Prince Albert, low cut vest, patent leather shoes, shimmering “biled” shirt, with a four-karat diamond gleaming like an electric light from his bosom, stood waiting for us in the parlor. I had left Bera, who was fifteen years old, in my apartments in the Hinckley Block and had taken Blanche, my eldest daughter, with me.

“I am awfully glad to meet you, Mrs. Beebe,” said Swiftwater, advancing with step as noiseless as a Maltese cat, as he walked across the heavy plush carpet.

Swiftwater put out a soft womanish hand, grasped mine and spoke in a low musical voice, the kind of voice that instantly wins the confidence of nine women out of ten.

“I have heard that you were going in this spring, and as I know how hard it is for a woman to get along in that country without someone to befriend her, I was very glad indeed to have the chance of extending you all the aid in my power,” continued Swiftwater, in the meantime glancing in an interested way at Blanche, who stood near the piano.

“This is my daughter, Blanche, Mr. Gates,” I said. Blanche was then nineteen years old, and I had taken her out of the Convent school in Portland to keep me company in the north, along with Bera.

It only took us a few minutes to agree that when I arrived in Dawson, if Swiftwater was there first, he should help me in getting a location for my hotel and settling down. Then, as I arose to go, he said, turning again to Blanche:

“Doesn’t your daughter play the piano, Mrs. Beebe? I am very fond of music.”

Blanche, at a nod from me, sat down and began to play some simple little thing, when Swiftwater said:

“Please excuse me, I have a friend with me.”

In a moment Swiftwater returned and introduced his friend, a tall, lithe, clean-cut, smooth shaven Englishman of about thirty-five—Mr. Hathaway.

Five minutes later, Blanche having pleased both men with her playing, arose from the piano.

“Now, we are just going down to dinner in the grill; won’t you please join us, ladies?” said Swiftwater in those deliciously velvet tones which seemed to put any woman at perfect ease in his company.

A shivery feeling came over me, and I said: “No, I think we will go right home.”

Now, I never could tell for the life of me just what made me want to hurry away with my Blanche from the hotel and Swiftwater Bill. His friend Hathaway was a nice clean looking sort of a chap and very gentlemanly, and Swiftwater was the absolute quintessence of gentlemanly conduct and chivalry. But the papers had told all about Swiftwater and Gussie and Grace Lamore—only that the reporters, as well as the general public, seemed to regard it all as a joke—Gussie’s turning down Swiftwater after he had given her her weight in gold—about $30,000 in virgin dust and nuggets—and then Bill’s marrying Grace, her sister, for spite. The whole yarn struck me so funny, that as we walked, with difficulty, through the crowds on Second Avenue to our apartments, I could not think of anything mean or vicious about Swiftwater.

Nevertheless, I scrupulously avoided inviting Swiftwater to call, and after I had concluded my business with him, I determined to have nothing more to do with him until business matters made it necessary in Dawson. You women, who live “on the outside” and have never been over the trail and down the Yukon in a scow, can never know what fortitude is necessary for a woman to cut loose from the States and make her own way in business in a new gold camp like Dawson was in 1899.

So it was only natural, that, knowing Swiftwater to be one of the leading and richest men in that country, I should have accepted his offer of assistance and advice. God only knows how different would have been all our lives could I but have foreseen the awful misery and wretchedness and ruin which that man Swiftwater easily worked in the lives of three innocent people who had never done him wrong, or anyone else, for that matter.

Three days after my glimpse of Swiftwater Bill, Bera and myself were just finishing dressing for dinner in my big sitting room. It was rather warm for a spring evening in Seattle, and we were all hungry. Blanche was waiting near the door fully dressed, I was putting on my gloves, and little Bera, fifteen years old, stood in front of the mirror trying to fasten down a big bunch of wavy brown hair of silken glossy texture, which was doing its best to get from under her big white Leghorn hat, the child looking the very picture of beauty and innocence.

She was plump, with deliciously pink cheeks, great big blue eyes, regular features and she wore a dress I had had made at great expense in Victoria—it was of dark blue voile, close fitting, with a lining of red silk, which showed the cardinal as the girl turned and walked across the room and then back again to the mirror. Her white Leghorn hat was trimmed with large red roses. I heard a noise, as if someone had knocked and Bera, turning quickly, said under her breath, as if alarmed:

“Mama! There is somebody there!”

I looked and there stood Swiftwater, silk hat in hand, smiling, bowing, one foot across the threshold, while behind him loomed the tall form of his friend Hathaway.

“Pardon us, won’t you, Mrs. Beebe, but we want you to go to dinner with us at the Butler. Won’t you do so and bring the girls?” and Swiftwater instantly turned his eyes from mine and looked at Bera standing in front of the mirror, her face flushed, her eyes sparkling with excitement and her form silhouetted against a red plush curtain which covered the door to the adjoining room.

Before I could gather my wits about me I had accepted Swiftwater’s invitation. It was the only thing I could do, because we were just about to go to dinner ourselves, and he seemed to know that instinctively, and that I could not very well refuse.