TO THE people of Dawson, in those days, starving through weary winter months for want of frequent mail communication with the civilized world, and hungering for the ebb and flow of human tide that is a natural and daily part of the lives of those in more fortunate places, the arrival of the first steamer from “the outside” in the spring is an event even greater than a Fourth of July celebration to a country town in Kansas.

For days before our arrival down Indian River from Quartz Creek, the men and women of Dawson had eagerly discussed the probability of the coming of the Yukoner, the regular river liner from White Horse due any moment, with fresh provisions from Seattle and the first papers and letters from “the outside.”

For two days after Swiftwater had taken Bera to the Fairview Hotel, the doctor had cared for her so as to enable her to recover from the hardships of the trip down Indian River. I took the baby to my own rooms and carefully nursed him through all one day. This brought him quickly round, and he soon looked as bright and cheerful as a new twenty dollar gold piece.

It was on the third morning after we arrived in Dawson that the steamer Yukoner’s whistle sounded up the river, and the whole populace rushed to the wharves and river banks. Miners came from all points up the creeks to welcome friends or to get their mail that the Yukoner had brought. The little shopkeepers in Dawson, particularly the fruit venders, were extremely active, bustling amongst the crowd on the dock and fighting their way to get the first shipments of early vegetables, fruits, fresh eggs, fresh butter and other perishable commodities for which Dawson hungered.

But Swiftwater, keen eyed, nervous, straining, yet trying to be composed, saw none of this, nor felt the least interest in the tide of newcomers who stepped from the Yukoner’s decks and made their way up town surrounded by friends.

Swiftwater was looking for one face in the crowd—that of his partner, Joe Boyle, who had promised to bring him $100,000 from London, where the big concession on Quartz Creek had been bonded for $250,000.

Swiftwater stood at the gang plank and eagerly scanned every face until the last man had come ashore and only the deck hands remained on board.

“There is certainly a letter in the mail, anyhow,” said Swiftwater.

For the first time in all of this miserable experience I realized that a heavy burden was on Swiftwater’s shoulders—a load that was crushing the heart and brain of him—and that would, unless relieved, destroy all of the man’s native capacity to handle his tangled affairs, even under the most unfavorable circumstances.

I decided to watch Swiftwater very closely. I noticed that he was not to be seen around town in his usual haunts. I did not dare ask him if he feared arrest, for that would show that I knew that his crisis had come.

Two hours after the Yukoner’s mail was in the postoffice, Swiftwater came to my room.

“There is no letter from Joe,” was all he said.

I made no reply except to say:

“Have you told Bera?”

“No, and I’m not going to—now,” said Swiftwater and then left the room.

Swiftwater had between $35,000 and $40,000 of my money in his Quartz Creek concession. I had felt absolutely secure for the reason that if the property was well handled my interest should be worth from $100,000 to $250,000. My faith in the property has been justified by subsequent events, as all well informed Dawson mining men will testify.

But the want of money was bitter and keen at that moment. Yet I scarcely knew what to advise Swiftwater to do.

Gates and Bera came to my rooms after dinner that night.

“Will this help you pay a few pressing little bills?” asked Swiftwater, as he threw two fifty dollar paper notes in my lap.

“My God, Swiftwater, can’t you spare any more than $100?” I gasped.

“Oh, that’s just for now—I’ll give you plenty more tomorrow,” said he.

As they arose to go, Bera kissed me on the mouth and cheek with her arms around my neck.

“You love the baby, don’t you mama?” said Bera, and I saw then, without seeing, and came afterwards to know that there were tears in Bera’s eyes and a smile dewy with affection on her lips.

Swiftwater put his arm around me and kissed me on the forehead.

“We’ll be over early for you for breakfast tomorrow,” said Swiftwater as they went down the stairs.

Holding the baby in my arms at the window, I watched Swiftwater and Bera go down the street, Bera turning now and again to wave her hand and throw a kiss to me, Swiftwater lifting his hat.

Now, what I am about to relate may seem almost incredible to any normal human mind and heart; and especially so to those thousands of Alaskans who knew Swiftwater in the early days to be jolly, though impractical, yet always generous, whole-souled, brave and honest.

An hour after Swiftwater and Bera had gone, there was a knock at my door. I opened it and there stood Phil Wilson—an old associate and friend of Swiftwater’s.

“Is Bill Gates here?” asked Wilson.

“Why, no,” said I. “They went over an hour ago.”

“Thank you,” said he, and lumbered heavily down the stairs.

The next morning I waited until 11 o’clock for Swiftwater and Bera to come for me to go to breakfast. I had slept little or none the night before and my nerves were worn down to the fine edge that comes just before a total collapse.

When it seemed as if I could not wait longer, there came a knock at the door.

When I opened the door there stood George Taylor, a friend of Swiftwater’s of some years’ standing.

“Mrs. Beebe, I came to tell you that Swiftwater and Bera left early this morning to go to Quartz Creek on horseback. I promised Swiftwater I would help you move to his cabin and get everything ready for their return on Saturday.”

“In Heaven’s name, what is Swiftwater trying to do—kill Bera?” I exclaimed. “That ride to Quartz Creek in her condition, through the mud and mire of that trail, will kill her.”

Taylor merely looked at me and did not answer.

“Are you telling me the truth?” I demanded.

“I am,” he said.

Taylor walked away and I closed the door and went back to the baby.

“Baby,” said I, “I guess we’re left all alone for a while and you haven’t any mama but me.”

Although I afterward learned of the fact, it did me no good at that trying moment that Swiftwater had told Bera, before she would consent to leave me, that he had sent me $800 in currency by Wilson. Of course, Swiftwater did nothing of the kind, yet his story was such as to lead Bera to believe that I was well protected and comfortable.

Then I set to work to move my little belongings into Swiftwater’s cabin, there to wait for four days hoping that every minute would bring some word from Bera and Gates. There was little to eat in the cabin and the $100 that Swiftwater had given me had nearly all gone for baby’s necessities. The little fellow had kept up well and strong in spite of everything, and when I undressed him at night and bathed him and got him ready for his bed, he seemed so brave and strong and sweet that I could not, for the life of me, give way to the feeling of desolation and loss that my circumstances warranted.

On the third day after Bera and Swiftwater had gone and I was getting a little supper for the baby and myself in the cabin, there came a clatter of heavy boots on the gravel walk in front of the house and a boisterous knock on the door.

Jumping up from the kitchen table, I nearly ran to the door, believing that Bera and Swiftwater were there. Instead there stood a messenger from the McDonald Hotel in Dawson with a letter for me. It simply said:

“We have gone down the river in a small boat to Nome with Mr. Wilson. I will send you money immediately on arrival there, so that you can join us.

SWIFTWATER.”

That was all.

I read the letter through again and then the horror of it came over me—I all alone in Dawson with Swiftwater’s four weeks’ old baby, broke and he owing me nearly $40,000.

Then everything seemed to leave me and I fell to the floor unconscious. Hours afterward—they said it was 9 o’clock at night, and the messenger had been there at 4 in the afternoon—I came to. The baby was crying and hungry. It seemed to me I had been in a long sickness and I could not for a while quite realize where I was or what ill shape of a hostile fate had befallen me. And, when I think of it now, it seems to me any other woman in my place would have gone crazy.

For two months I stayed in that cabin, trying my best to find a way out of Dawson and unable to move a rod because of the fact that I had no money. Swiftwater, as I learned afterwards, took a lay on a claim on Dexter Creek and cleaned up in a short time $4,000.

When I heard this, I wrote to him for money for the baby, but none came.

A month passed and then another and no word from Swiftwater. I felt as long as I had a roof over my head, I could make a living for myself and the baby by working at anything—manicuring, hairdressing or sewing. Then, one evening, just after I had finished dinner, came a rap at the door.

It was Phil Wilson.

“Swiftwater has given me a deed to this house and power of attorney over his other matters,” said he. “I shall move my things over here and occupy one of these three rooms.”

I knew better than to make any objection then, but the next day I told Wilson:

“You will have to take your things down town—you cannot stay here.”

“I guess I’ll stay all right, Mrs. Beebe,” said he. “And it will be all winter, too. And, I think it would be better for you, Mrs. Beebe, if you stayed here with me.”

I knew just what that meant. I said:

“Mr. Wilson, I understand you, but you will go and take your things now.”

Wilson left in another minute and I did not see him for two days. On the second afternoon I locked the door with a padlock and went down town to do some shopping for the baby, who I had left with a neighbor. I also wanted to send a fourth letter to Swiftwater, begging him to send me some money to keep me and his baby from starving.

When I got back at dusk that evening, the door to the cabin was broken open, and the chain and padlock lay on the ground shattered into fragments.

I went inside. All my clothes, the baby’s and even the little personal belongings of the child were piled together in a disordered heap in the center room.