T was during the first excitement of the gold discoveries in the Klondyke that four sisters left their home in Chicago and started for Dawson. They were young, hopeful, ambitious and handsome. They owned a town lot in the city, but they had not the means with which to erect a building upon it, and the money would never be forthcoming if they remained where they were. The ordinary salary of a working woman in office or store was not sufficient to allow them more than a trifle above necessary living expenses, and they could see themselves old, wrinkled and grey before they could hope to attain their desired object.

Reaching Dawson safely, as they did after weeks of peril and many novel experiences, they set to work at what seemed to them at the moment the most lucrative labor of which they were capable. They were fitted for laundry work only by being well and strong physically, and by having a willingness to do whatever they first found to do.

This proved to be work at the wash-tub. Here the four women labored month after month with a will, with the result that at the end of a year their bank account was not insignificant, they owned several gold claims, and in all the mining camp there were none who did not respect the four sisters.

Then came their first dark days. It was midsummer. Down among the grass roots and between the rocks of the hillside back of the famous camp, there trickled numerous fresh water springs, pure and cold when they left their sequestered sources among the seams and fissures, but gaining nothing of purity when spread out upon the little plain now thickly dotted with cabins.

Here in the hurry and rush of the fast growing camp, when fortunes came quickly, and men lived at a rapid pace, there was little time for sanitary precautions, and so it presently happened that a shadow, like a huge black bird of ill omen, suddenly hovered above the camp, sending a shudder through its entire length. A tiny germ, so small as to pass unnoticed and unheeded by, and yet withal so deadly as to be called a plague, crept along, insinuating itself into the streamlets making their way as best they could to their father, the Yukon; and the fever laid low many victims.

Early and late had the sisters toiled, never in a half-hearted way, but untiringly, day after day, until one of their number, being perhaps less strong, or more weary from work to which she had been unaccustomed, and more susceptible to disease, was stricken with fever, and after only a few days' illness, whispered her loving good-byes.

This happened in the summer of 1899, and rumors of the great gold strike at Nome now reached Dawson. One sister had been persuaded by a member of the Dawson Bar to make for him a happy home during the remainder of his life, and she was married.

Again their party numbered the original four, though there were now only three sisters.

The excitement in Dawson regarding the new Nome gold fields daily increased, and it was stated by reliable steamer men from St. Michael that the new strike rivaled that of the Klondyke.

The little party of four decided to go to Nome. In a short time their business was arranged, sales made, gold claims placed in charge of agents, and everything made in readiness for their journey to Nome.

It was the middle of September. The last boats were leaving Dawson, both for points on the Upper Yukon and for St. Michael. People leaving Dawson by boat in the fall seldom linger beyond the third or fourth week in September, for then the river may freeze at any time and they be prisoners in the camp indefinitely.

The lower river steamer "Hannah" was about to push from the dock at Dawson when a friend introduced me to the three sisters, and during the following days on board an acquaintance sprung up which I much enjoyed. Little did we know that this friendship would afterwards be renewed nearly two thousand miles away, and under circumstances vastly different from any with which we had before become familiar.

Landing safely from the "Hannah" at St. Michael, a few days were spent by the sisters waiting for stormy weather to subside, and they then sailed for Nome. Here they landed during the last days of September, amid falling snow, bleak winds and boiling surf, upon the sands of the most inhospitable beach in all that dreary Northland. No tree was to be seen. Not a rock under whose friendly shelter one might hide from the storms. There was almost no lumber in the camp with which to build houses, and no incoming steamers expected. A few rude shacks, tents and saloons, with two or three companies' buildings—of these was the town composed. Many were rushing for the steamers in waiting, determined only upon one thing—to get home to the States. Some carried heavy sacks of gold, others went empty-handed. There was the summer's accumulation of filth in the camp, too young as yet for cleanly conditions, and these brought their sure accompaniment—the fever. Many suffered for weeks with it, and then died.

Again came the dread plague to the sisters. Scarcely had they unpacked their trunks or found shelter for the winter when the younger of the sisters was stricken down. For days she raved in delirium, and all feared she would die. Night and day they watched anxiously by her bedside. Everything was done for her recovery and comfort that could be done in a new and rough camp like the one at Nome; for all who knew the beautiful little sister loved her well.

Then came the time when all the long and heavy yellow hair had to be cut from the lovely head in obedience to the doctor's orders. But the little sister lived. Their prayers were answered, the worst was over, the danger past.

Then followed long and weary weeks of convalescing, while the winter storms raged outside the little cabin, and the sun retreated farther from the Arctic Circle and Nome, but the sisters thanked God, and again took courage.

Months after came the welcome springtime. With the earliest fine weather and revival of business in the camp the sisters erected a store building and warehouse on the beach near by. Into the latter they moved temporarily, hoping to rent the store to some of the numerous "tenderfeet" sure to arrive on the first passenger steamers.

It was here I found the sisters on my arrival at Nome from San Francisco in June, 1900. Little sister was well and strong again, growing a fresh crop of roses and lilies on her cheeks, and a new head covering of lovely, wavy yellow hair. On her lips she wore the same sweet, old smiles, however, and I knew her well by these. Since her recovery from the fever the hands of the sisters had not been idle, and they had become expert at sewing furs. This had kept them busy as bees all winter, and many were the caps, coats, mittens and capes made by their industrious fingers, which brought them a good income, while their rooms were always the rendezvous of friends than which a jollier lot could not be discovered.

Of the good influence going out through the rough mining camp during the long and dreary winter from the home of these sweet and Christian women, no account has probably ever been kept, except by the recording angel, who never forgets.

The day after we landed at Nome I secured work. Not, however, to begin immediately, which pleased me well, as I should then have a little time to look for father, inspect the camp, study conditions and take notes and kodak views.

"Can you cook for a gang of men?" asked Mr. A. kindly smiling down at me when I had stopped him on the street and asked for work in his camp for the English girl and myself, as we wished to be together.

"Indeed, I can. I will do my very best, Mr. A., and I feel sure we can please you. My friend is an extra good cook, as you will discover if you give us work. Will you try us?"

"I will," he replied.

"At what wages, please?"

"Five dollars per day, each, with board," promptly answered the gentleman whose two gold claims on famous Anvil Creek made him one of the richest men in Alaska.

So it was settled. Claim number nine, Anvil, was about seven miles from Nome, and one of the most noted claims in the district. Mr. A., a former Swedish missionary at Golovin Bay, had, with his doctor brother, voyaged to Nome on the "St. Paul" when we did, so we already had a slight acquaintance with both gentlemen and were pleased to get the work.

Anvil Creek claims had been worked the summer before. Gold had first been discovered in the fall of 1898 by Mr. Hultberg, a Swedish missionary, who learned of the precious metal around Nome from the Eskimos. His mission was stationed at Golovin Bay, and he notified the Swedes, Brynteson, Hagalin, Lindbloom and Linderberg, who in turn saw G. W. Price and induced him to go with them, as he was the only one there experienced in mining. Price was on his way to Kodiak over the ice by dog-team en route to California, as the representative of C. D. Lane, the San Francisco mining man and millionaire.

The most of Anvil Creek was staked by this party before they returned to the mines at Council City, fifty miles up Fish River from Golovin Bay.

"On July second, 1899, a second cleanup was made on number one above Discovery Claim, Anvil Creek, the property of J. Linderberg. The result of four men shovelling out of the creek bed from a cut five feet to bedrock for twenty hours amounted to fourteen thousand dollars in gold dust. The men shovelled all the gravel from the moss down to bedrock into the sluice box as it was all pay gravel. The owner refused five hundred thousand dollars for the property without considering the offer."

Tierney is authority for the statement that this claim produced four hundred thousand dollars that season.

From this time the discoverers were known by the sobriquet of the "Lucky Swedes," for Anvil Creek was all good, there being no really "poor dirt" in it, and number nine, above Discovery Claim, proved itself, the first summer, also a banner winner.

It was here that we expected to work, as soon as supplies could be hauled to the claim, the monotony of bread making and dish washing to be varied by the new and strange sights on an enormously rich gold claim not far from the Arctic Circle.

Everywhere around us were carpenter's hammers in operation, and tents were rapidly going up. We found great difficulty in reserving ground space enough for another tent, as others found the Sandspit as desirable for tenting as we did, and elbowed us closely. Along the river's edge and the beach near by many were digging and panning in the sands searching for "colors." Dog-teams were hauling freight and baggage, with their swearing and perspiring drivers at their heels, and while the big black-snake whips flourished in air above the dogs or upon their straining backs, the tongues of the faithful brutes hung from their mouths, and their wide open eyes looked appealingly at bystanders. My heart ached for the animals, but there were no humane societies in Alaska.

About five o'clock on Sunday afternoon it began to snow. This was the first June snowstorm I had ever seen. Our little tent leaked badly, as it had been hastily pitched, and the snow melted as it fell. Small rivers of water were soon dropping upon our heads. Rain coats, oil cloth, and opened umbrellas were utilized to protect the clothing and the bedding.

An hour of this experience would have been enough for one time, but troubles seldom come singly, and so the wind began to blow. Donning her rain coat and rubbers the English girl did her best to tighten ropes and make the tent taut, for madam's son had not returned from town. Presently, to our great joy, we saw him coming with a loaded dog-team of freight, and best of all, with a man friend to assist him, whose strong arms and broad shoulders were well fitted to tent pitching. Hastily the cart was unloaded and the large canvas tent unrolled and laid upon the sand. Stakes were driven, poles adjusted, ropes stretched with much straining, as the wind whistled more vigorously, and snow still fell; and the two men, both wet and cold, huddled into the little tent for a cup of hot tea which was waiting.

Then strong hands opened more boxes and a large oil stove, carpets, rugs and many other necessary things were hustled into the new tent, as well as trunks, bedding, and the contents of the small tent, with the exception of canned goods and such things as water would not injure. The sands were clean but wet, and if we were thankful for a stout canvas cover over our heads we would have also been glad of a dry place under foot. However, carpets and rugs were spread down, stoves lighted, and the tent door flap fastened as securely as possible.

As well as we could we arranged all for the night, but we expected to sleep little, for the storm was now fearful. Rain, snow and hail, each came down by turns, accompanied by a high wind which drove the surf in roaring rage upon the beach. How thankful we were that we had chosen this spot instead of one directly in reach of the great rollers with their mist and spray; though we had the roar and boom of the surf in our ears continually. Sometimes it seemed that the wind had lulled, and then with increased violence it again screamed above our heads, threatening us each moment with disaster.

At midnight a supper of hot macaroni, cocoa, bread, butter and cheese, with canned meat and jam, was heartily eaten by all, including the visiting friend from Sitka who had assisted. A low box was used for a table and we all sat upon the mats, eating from tin cups and plates with the keenest appetites.

The weather was now awful. The storm had increased until it seemed each moment that the tent would be torn from its fastenings, and we be left without any protection whatever. The ropes and stakes had frequently to be looked after and made stronger. The snow had turned to rain, which beat heavily upon the stout canvas resisting well the water without leaking.

By one o'clock the wind showed signs of abating, and we were so much in need of sleep, that, all dressed as we were, we rolled ourselves in our blankets and dozed on the rugs close to the oil stoves. For an hour I lay uneasily dreaming, or listening to the royal cannonading of the heavy surf upon the beach. From my diary I quote the following extract:

"Monday, four in the morning, June eighteenth, 1900.—It is four in the morning and we are sitting around the oil stoves in the middle of the tent. We have just had hot cocoa and crackers. The surf still booms, but it does not rain, and the wind has died down. We are better off than many people. Tomorrow we will put up the other tent and get more settled. We are thankful not to be on the sea beach, where so many are camped. A. wishes herself home again. People around our tent all night were talking, moving, afraid of the storm, but the big ships are still here and they would put out to sea if it were necessary for their safety. They say we have smallpox in town from the steamer 'Ohio,' and yesterday Mrs. H., who came up on the 'St. Paul,' was reported to be dying from pneumonia. The nurse, Mrs. Judge R.'s friend, is caring for her. Judge R. and wife are still in Mrs. M.'s shack near the barracks. It has been daylight all night. I hope to hear from father soon, and get my freight. My friends here have all theirs. The two men are smoking and talking while I write, and the Eskimo dogs not far away are howling in their usual interesting nightly manner. I will now try to get a little more sleep."

We had heard much of beach mining at Nome, but saw little of it. Stories were told of men who, in the summer of 1899, had taken hundreds of dollars in gold dust from the beach sands by the crudest methods, and thousands of men were now flocking into the camp for the purpose of doing beach mining. They were sadly disappointed. Not, however, because there was no gold in the beach sands, but because it was so infinitesimally tiny that they had no means of securing it. No hand rocker, copper plate, nor amalgam had been used with success, neither did any of the myriads of prospective miners bring anything with them which promised better results. Great heaps of machinery called by hopeful promoters "gold dredgers" were being daily dumped upon the beach from the ships, signboards were covered with pictures of things similar, while the papers continually bloomed with advertisements of machines, which, if speedily secured by the miners, would, according to the imaginative advertiser, soon cause all to literally roll in riches.

One flaming dodger ran in large letters thus: "Calling millions from the vasty deep. A fortune in one hundred days. Our dredger will work three thousand yards of sand in heavy surf at Cape Nome. It will take out twenty-four thousand dollars in a day. You can make more money with us than by taking flyers in wild-cat oil schemes, etc." The poster was illustrated by a huge machine gotten up on the centipede plan; at least, it resembled that hated insect from having attached to its frame two sets of wheels of different sizes along the sides like the legs of a centipede, but with a steam boiler for a head, and a big pipe for a throat from which the salt water was disgorged to wash out this immense amount of sand and give the gold to the miner. It did not save the gold.

Thousands of dollars of good, hard-earned money were dumped upon the beach in the shape of heavy machines of different kinds, which were worse than useless, and only brought bitter disappointment to their owners. Men had stripped the beach the summer before of all coarse gold which had, perhaps, been ages in washing up from the ocean's bed, or down the creeks from the hills, and only the fine, or "flour gold," as it was called, remained.

By the newcomers men were cursed for spreading abroad tales of beach mining of the year before, but this was unjust, for conditions were not the same. The waters bringing the gold to the beach could not, in one season, replenish and leave the sands as rich as they had been after long years, perhaps ages of action, and blame could not rightly be attached to any one. Almost without exception, the men who did the cursing were the men who had never been hard workers, and did not intend to be, and so, after becoming satisfied that the nuggets were not there to be simply picked up and pocketed, they turned, looked backward, and went home. It was well for the new camp that they did.

There was also much trouble over real estate. Land was very high in price. Some Swedes, who, the year before, had paid seven hundred dollars for a town lot three hundred by fifty feet in size, now sold one-half of it for ten thousand dollars. It is small wonder, then, where "possession is nine points of the law" that men who rightfully claimed ground were ready to fight to keep it, and those who were wrongfully in possession many times stood guard with firearms.

In pitching our tents upon the sandy beach, especially after gaining permission of the old captain who told us we would be in the street if ever a street should be opened through on the Sandspit, but that was not likely, and he had given us his full and free consent to our camping temporarily there next his lots, we expected to have no trouble. Here we miscalculated. Though the captain was kind and reasonable, he had a partner who was just the reverse, and this person gave us infinite trouble.

Scarcely had our first load of baggage been put upon the ground when he began to tramp fussily about at all times of day and night. After our stakes were driven he would come quietly in the night and pull them up, so we would find our canvas flapping in the morning breeze when we waked. Or, after we had retired for the night, he would come with some other, stand within hearing distance, and threaten us if we did not move away.

One morning, upon rising, we found that he had moved a long carpenter's bench directly upon the spot next madam's tent, which I was trying to reserve for my own tent as soon as I succeeded in getting my things from the steamer. This disappointed me much, but I said nothing; and when my tent finally came I pitched it on the other side, with my door directly opposite hers and only six feet from her entrance.

As to appearance this old man was a jolly sight. He wore long and tangled hair which had once been curly, but now hung in unkempt and dirty shreds upon his shoulders, while his hat was an antiquated relic of a former life in the States. A pair of old trousers generally hung by one suspender over a colored shirt, which, the summer before, possibly, had had a wash-tub experience, but not later; his footwear was altogether unmentionable. He was called well-to-do, and there was no necessity for him to cut such an abominable figure, so he soon became a by-word, and was designated as "sour dough." At all events, he was sour enough, and kept up a continual siege of torment until he received a temporary quietus.

We three women were sitting in the tent one morning when there came a voice at the door. Going forward to enquire what was wanted, a man said gruffly, thrusting a piece of paper into my hand.

"A notice from the chief of police."

"For what?" I inquired.

"For you, to vacate these premises without delay."

"Indeed! Are they to open a street? Will the other campers about here move also?" I asked.

"I don't know. My orders are that you shall move immediately. See that you do it," said the man rudely.

While holding the paper in my hands I glanced over it hastily, and saw the marks of a spurious document. It was poorly constructed, and bore no official signs. I recognized it as a counterfeit.

"We have had permission from captain S., one of the aldermen, to put our tents here, and we shall stay unless he orders us away," said I stoutly.

"You have permission from captain S.?" he asked in surprise.

"Yes, sir, from captain S. himself, and you can say to the chief of police that we shall stay here until the captain orders us to leave," saying which I stepped back into the tent.

The man retreated, muttering to himself as he went, for he was utterly routed, and never returned; neither did we hear any more for some time about moving our tents. It was as I suspected. Mr. Sourdough had thought to frighten us away, and the order from the chief of police was utterly bogus.

Some time afterward, when madam attempted to put a floor into her tent, "Sourdough" again put in an appearance. He threatened, but she held out, when the obstinate and perverse old man trotted off down town and secured an officer and four soldiers to come and put her off. The officer looked the ground over, inquired if there was room for teams to pass if necessary, and seeing her tent in line with many others, he turned to the old man and said:

"This tent takes up no more of the street than the others. This lady has as much right to be here as any one else. What is the matter with you? Let the women alone," and he and his soldiers marched away.

Mr. Sourdough tore his hair. He was wild with anger. The floor of madam's tent went down and stayed.

Each day I was in the habit of giving my Swedish friends a call, and found them finally ready to set up their restaurant tent. A large floor was laid on Second street near the post-office, the large canvas stretched over the frame, tables and seats provided, a corner partitioned off for a kitchen, dishes placed upon shelves, and they began serving meals. At this juncture I happened in one day just before noon and found them rushed with work and unable to fill their meal orders for lack of help. Mary was peeling potatoes in haste, while trying to do other things at the same time, and Ricka and Alma were flying like bees.

"Let me peel those potatoes for you," said I, taking the knife from Mary's hand; and when she demurred, I told her I really had nothing to do, and would be glad to assist.

When the potatoes were peeled, dishes were heaped up to be cleaned, and I quickly washed them, feeling that I was of some service, and not heeding the surprised looks of a few acquaintances who chanced to catch a glimpse of me at work in the kitchen through the door.

This I did each day, coming over after I had eaten my breakfast, and rolling up my sleeves to my elbows, drove them deep into the dish pan and hot water.

Many were the jolly times we now had. How the jokes flew past each other over the puddings, and the crisp pies needed almost no other seasoning. How cheerfully "the boys" brought wood and water and counted it reward enough if they only received a smile from little Alma. Many a man was glad enough, too, to render such service for a meal or lunch of hot coffee and doughnuts, especially such good, big, motherly ones as Mary made, and there was no lack of men helpers. How the coffee steamed, the hot bread and meats smoked, and the soup odors tantalized the olfactories of hundreds of "tenderfeet" with their lusty Alaska appetites, which were increased by an open air life such as all in those days were living.

When at last we were summoned to our work, on Number Nine, the Swedish women pressed my hand cordially, leaving a good-sized bill in it at the same time, saying: "When you get through on Number Nine come back to us; we need you." I thanked them gratefully and said good-bye.

The English girl and myself were soon settled in our little tent with its clean new floor on the hillside of claim Number Nine. No tree was to be seen on the long, rolling hills, and only an occasional boulder on some summit like Anvil Peak, perched as a sentinel above us. A few wild flowers bloomed on the tundra, and the waters of the little stream gurgled over the soft slate pebbles that strewed its course; but the season so far was a dry one, and more water was needed before much could be done at sluicing. Miners were not happy at the prospect of a dry season, which meant a stoppage of all mining operations, and eagerly scanned the heavens for rain indications. A small force of men were at work night and day. On Thursday, July twelfth, eleven hundred dollars in gold dust was taken from the sluice boxes in the creek, and two days afterwards twelve thousand dollars, with which the owner of the claim was much dissatisfied, calling them small clean-ups.

A few hundred feet up stream, on Number Ten, the machinery of C. D. Lane whirred constantly. On the upper end of Number Nine a small new machine called a separator was put in by some men from New York who had taken a lay on the claim; but this scheme was not successful.

Seeing men at work prospecting along the "benches," as the banks of a stream or hillsides are called by miners, and having a woman's proverbial curiosity, after my work was done I climbed the hill to investigate. The prospectors had left after digging a hole about six feet deep and four square, evidently having satisfied themselves as to what the ground contained. Into this hole I descended to feel of the cold, wet earth and inspect the walls.

The miners had reached the frost line and gone, taking with them samples of pretty white quartz rock, as much of the debris at the bottom of the hole plainly showed, but whether it contained gold I knew not. As yet I was a tenderfoot; but something satisfactory was without doubt found here and in the vicinity, as quartz claims were staked over the placer claims the whole length of Anvil Creek that summer.

While rambling about in search of flowers during our afternoon rests, we found many interesting spots. To the northwest, over the high, bare ridge, lay Snow Gulch, from which fabulous sums had the summer before been taken, the blue and winding waters of famous Glacier Creek lying just beyond. Walking through the dry, deep tundra over the hills was warm, hard work, though we wore short skirts and high, stout boots, and womanlike, we were always filled to the brim with questions and ready to rest if we chanced to meet any one, which was not often.

Wherever we went, and whatever the hour, we met with no incivility. Hats were lifted, and men rested a moment upon their shovels to look after us as we passed, while frequently some rough miner swallowed the lump in his throat or wiped a tear, as he thought of his wife, daughter or sweetheart far away. We were the only women in the mines for miles around, but felt no fear whatever, and indeed we were as safe there as at home, and there was no occasion for anxiety.

Life was extremely interesting. Our work was not hard the first few weeks; after that the force of men was increased. Rich pans of dirt (two shovels full to a pan) were daily being brought to light. One pan contained seventy-two dollars and seventy-five cents, one eighty-three dollars and thirty-five cents. Big, fat nuggets already melted into wondrous shapes, but iron rusted, as all Anvil Creek gold is, for some reason, was discovered each day. One nugget tipped the scales at thirty-nine dollars, one at twenty dollars, and one at fifty dollars, with many others of like value.

Wednesday, August eighth, the following entry was made in my diary: "Today has been the banner day for gold dust. The night's cleanup of twelve hours' work was a big one—three pans full of gold. Later—Still more yet. A cleanup of nine thousand dollars and three of the largest nuggets I ever saw has just been made this evening. Two of the nuggets were long and flat, as large as a tree-toad, and much the shape of one. The men took the first load of gold dust to town—seventy-five pounds—but the bank was closed before they could get the remainder there. The foreman says they are prepared to keep it here safely over night, however, and I believe they are, judging by the big protuberances on their hip pockets."