SWIFTWATER’S clean-up on Number 6 Cleary Creek was $75,000 in gold. The summer was come to an end and there were signs on the trees, in the crackling of the frosted grass in the early morning and in the bite of the night wind from the mountain canyons that told of the quick approach of winter in the Tanana. Swiftwater had been more than usually fortunate. His mine on Number 6 Cleary had yielded far beyond his expectations. Swiftwater had every reason to believe his friends who told him that his luck was phenomenal.

As there are compensating advantages and disadvantages in almost every phase of human life in this world, it may possibly be said that as an offset to Swiftwater’s phenomenal luck, he had two women, the mothers of his two wives, waiting patiently at Fairbanks for him to bring out enough money to properly provide for his families. I had told Swiftwater:

“I am up here to take good care of you, Bill, and incidentally to see that you provide enough money to feed and clothe your children and your wife. I don’t care anything about that other woman over there.”

Bill laughed, and said it was probably a lucky thing for him that he had a mother-in-law to look after his welfare. But if Swiftwater’s mind ever hovered around the idea of criminal proceedings on the score of bigamy, he did not give voice to it. He merely went around in his cheerful way from day to day working vigorously with his men until, finally, early in September, the last of the pay dirt was washed from the dumps into the sluice boxes and the gold sacked and taken to the bank.

Then Bill began paying off his debts. He settled with his partners, and then with a big chunk of bills and drafts in his inside pocket we started for Seattle.

It was getting winter rapidly and we had no time to lose in order to catch the steamship “Ohio,” at St. Michael, for Seattle, before the winter freeze-up on Bering Sea.

Swiftwater, while working on Number 6 Cleary, had been all business and activity. Now, he seemed on the little boat going down the Tanana to be his old self again—by that I mean that Swiftwater reverted to his conduct of early days, which had lead some people to believe that he was descended from the Mormon stock back in Utah. Why Swiftwater had never earned the title of the Brigham Young of the Klondike instead of the Knight of the Golden Omelette or just plain Swiftwater, I never could quite understand.

At Fairbanks Swiftwater induced a woman, whose name I shall not give at this time, to board the steamer for the outside. A half day’s further ride took us to Chena, and there Swiftwater met another friend by the name of Violet—a girl who had worked as housekeeper and cook for a crowd of miners during the summer because her husband had deserted her and left her penniless in Fairbanks.

This Violet was young and comely, and of gentle breeding. The hard life in the mining camps of the Yukon and the bitterness she had suffered at the hands of her truant husband had taken a little of the natural refinement from the girl and had probably shaped her life so that the better side could not be seen.

Be that as it may, Violet came with Swiftwater, but, when she found on the steamship “Ohio” that Swiftwater had tipped one of the crew $100 so as to enable him to have a seat with a woman on each side of him at his meals, Violet refused to have anything to do with him.

At St. Michael, when I found that Swiftwater thought more of the association of women and of having his kind of a good time than of providing for his wife and children, I made up my mind that there would have to be a showdown of some kind. I telegraphed to Bera at Seattle:

“Swiftwater is coming down on the Ohio. You had better see him now, if you want anything.”

We were nine days making the trip from St. Michael to Seattle. When the crowd on the boat learned that Swiftwater Bill was on board, everybody looked for fireworks and a good time. The captain ordered notice put up in the dining room, reading:

“Gambling positively prohibited on this boat.”

Swiftwater saw that sign and gently laughed to himself.

“Mrs. Beebe,” he said, “I am going to have some fun with the boys. So if I come to borrow some money from you, don’t be foolish and refuse me.”

Swiftwater had some few hundred in cash, but most of his money was in drafts, which he could not cash on the boat. When I found that the boys had started a little poker game, I expected Swiftwater to be coming to me for money in a little while, and sure enough he did.

“Swiftwater,” I said, “as long as you play poker you can’t have any money from me, because you know you can’t play poker. But if you will start a solo game I will let you have a little change.”

Now, Swiftwater swelled up visibly because he knew that I thought he was one of the best solo players in all the North, and I have to laugh even now to recall that after the first fifteen minutes of play at solo the men who had sought to fleece him of his money, found they had no chance and they all stopped the game.

It was late Saturday afternoon when finally the Ohio poked her nose in front of one of the docks in Seattle. There was a strong ebb tide, and it was nearly an hour before the gang plank was run ashore. We docked jam up against a little steamer on our left, and Swiftwater, being in a hurry to get ashore, asked me if I would take his grip in the carriage to the Cecil Hotel and he would join me in a little while, after he could get a shave. With that Swiftwater jumped to the deck of the little steamer next to us and thence to the dock and was gone.

I went direct to the Cecil Hotel, where Bera was waiting for me. Before I had been there a half hour the newsboys on the streets were crying the sale of the Seattle Times:

“All about Swiftwater Bill arrested for bigamy.”

I heard the shrill voices of the urchins from my window in the hotel and I said:

“Bera, what have you done—had him arrested?”

I rang the bell and told the bell-boy to bring up a copy of The Times. Sure enough, there was the whole story of a warrant issued for Swiftwater Bill on the charge of bigamy and a long yarn about his various escapes in Alaska, including a recital of how he ruined the life of young Kitty Gates, his niece, by eloping with her and marrying her while he was still the lawful husband of Bera.

Just about dusk—I think it must have been at 8 o’clock that evening—there came a knock at the door. I went to answer it, and there in the hall of the hotel stood a man who was an absolute stranger to me.

“Mrs. Beebe?”

“This is Mrs. Beebe.”

“Swiftwater wants to see you. I am Jack Watson, who used to be with him in the north.”

“Where is he?” I asked.

“I can’t tell you where he is, Mrs. Beebe,” said the man, “but if you will go with me I can find him.”

Five minutes later we were on First Avenue, which was crowded with thousands of sightseers, it being Saturday night, and everybody seemed to be out for a good time. Watson led me up Spring Street to the alley between First and Second Avenues and then went down the alley till, reaching the shadow of a tall building, he said:

“Please wait here a minute, Mrs. Beebe.”

I looked down at the brilliantly lighted street corner on First Avenue, where is situated the Rainier-Grand Hotel, and there I saw Swiftwater standing, smoking a cigar, while hundreds of people were passing up and down the sidewalk. He little looked as if the deputy sheriffs were after him.

In a moment Watson had brought Swiftwater to me.

“Mrs. Beebe,” said Swiftwater, “what did you wire to Bera? Did you tell her I was coming out and to have me arrested?”

“I certainly wired her,” said I, “and, Swiftwater, if she’s had you arrested that’s your business.”

“Mrs. Beebe, you’ve been the only friend I’ve ever had and now you have thrown me down,” said the miner.

Said I, “Swiftwater, I have not thrown you down, and it’s about time that you showed some indication of trying to do what is right by me and Bera and the babies.”

“Here’s that $250 I borrowed from you on the boat,” said Swiftwater, “and I guess after all that you are really the only friend I ever had in this world. Won’t you tell me what to do now?”

I hesitated a moment and then it seemed to me that there was little to be gained by having Swiftwater thrown into jail without any chance whatever to secure his release on bail. In spite of all that I had suffered from him, and all the untold misery and humiliation that he had put upon my daughter Bera, I felt sorry for Swiftwater.

“You had better take this $250 back,” said I, “as you may have to get out of town tonight. Have you any other money on you?”

“Not a cent,” said he.

“Very well, you can pay me that money you owe some other time,” I said.

Then Swiftwater and I fell to talking as to what had best be done. He wanted very much to see Bera and the babies and begged me, if I thought it safe, to take him to the hotel. Finally, seeing the big crowd on the streets, I consented, and together we went to the Cecil, entered the elevator and then went directly to my rooms.

Bera was there with the boy Freddie—the youngest. Swiftwater kissed Bera and the baby, but Bera turned away and went into another room, the tears streaming down her face.

“Mrs. Beebe,” said Swiftwater, “the penitentiary will be my fate unless this bigamy charge is withdrawn. You and Bera and the babies will lose if I go to state’s prison, and that is where Kitty Gates will send me unless Bera will get a divorce.”

Just then there came a loud rap at the door, and without waiting for either of us to speak the door was opened and in walked two deputy sheriffs. They immediately placed Swiftwater under arrest.