HUNTING THE WHITE SHEEP IN ALASKA. 



THOS. H. ROGERS. 



At 11:45, accompanied by a shout of joy, 

 the Wanderer shot out of Lake LeBarge, 

 bucked her ice-scarred nose into the 

 swollen Lewis, rose and fell with a rip- 

 perty-bump-bump a few times, and the 

 2,700-mile run down the great river of the 

 North began in earnest. All hands 

 breathed a sigh of relief. That bugbear of 

 the Alaskan traveler, the Coast range, over 

 which we had transported our supplies, 

 mule fashion, by many days of patient la- 

 bor, was fast fading into the blue sum- 

 mer's day. 



We were a party of 4, bound for 40-Mile, 

 the Mecca many a man has sought only 

 to find his hopes a dream. That was the 

 spring of 1888, 10 years before the Klon- 

 dike rush. There was Lou, fresh from 

 New York's greatest medical college. 

 Then came poor old Batterman, with his 

 soft hands and seductive smile, who gave 

 up an easy job, handling shekels behind 

 the wire screen of a Seattle bank, to join 

 in the mad rush for gold! Then the writer; 

 and, lastly, let Kwolon (One-Ear), our In- 

 dian guide, who had, at some bygone time, 

 suffered the loss of his hearing appendage 

 by the sweep of a grizzly's paw. 



Though gold was the ultimate object of 

 the trip, the love of adventure in each 

 man's heart would every now and then 

 bubble to the surface, to vent itself in ejac- 

 ulations of wonder at the display of wild 

 game for which the Yukon country was 

 then noted, and impatience at having no 

 chance to kill any of it. It was no uncom- 

 mon sight to see numerous bighorn sheep 

 standing out against the sky in bold relief 

 on the cliffs as we floated down the silent, 

 majestic river. Then the Winchesters 

 would come into play, and streams of fire 

 would belch from the Wanderer's side, 

 which would cause old One-Ear in the 

 stern to smile grimly and mutter in Chi- 

 nook, "My white brothers are fools to 

 waste their powder. Wait till we come to 

 Haiker (Sheep mountain). Then I, let 

 Kwolon, son of the chief of the Chilcats, 

 will show the palefaced braves how to slay 

 the sheep with the mighty horn." 



One-Ear's words put practical Lou to 

 thinking. When the guide said anything 

 Tie usually meant it, so at Lou's suggestion 

 it was decided to stop at Sheep mountain 

 a few days, in the hope of replenishing the 

 larder for the coming winter. 



"The old devil may be lying," said Lou, 

 "but the only way to make sure is to try 

 a bunch. If it is a lie," he went on, glanc- 



ing down at his number 9 boots, "there 

 will be an old savage about One-Ear's size 

 who will get it good and hard where his 

 coat-tail ought to be. Cumtux, old man?" 



"Wah," said the guide contemptuously; 

 "my brother's words are pilton (foolish). 

 The tongue of a wise man does not run 

 like a bell clapper." 



It was at the close of a brilliant June 

 afternoon, subsequent to entering the Yu- 

 kon proper, that all doubts of One-Ear's 

 veracity were set at rest. While many 

 miles away, where the river flows through 

 a comparatively level country, the guide 

 raised his gleaming paddle and pointed far 

 Eastward, where a cone-shaped mound 

 raised its head above the adjacent coun- 

 try. 



"Yowa Haiker," he muttered, as his eye 

 rested momentarily on the Winchester at 

 his knee. Then splash went the paddle, 

 and, Indian like, as if ashamed of his mo- 

 mentary weakness, One-Ear resumed his 

 wonted stoicism. 



Fcom that time on, the guide sent the 

 little craft flying down the river with long, 

 steady strokes, and a little before sundown 

 ran her into the mouth of a small creek at 

 its confluence with the Yukon. 



"Now comes the tug of war!" said Lou, 

 who had engaged the Chilcat in conversa- 

 tion for some miles back. "The old man 

 tells me we have a portage to make; so 

 you fellows pile out when he heads her in, 

 and be quick about it, too." 



The landing was by no means graceful. 

 For once our expert oarsman lost his 

 head. The swirl of the eddy first turned 

 the Wanderer broadside on; then, quick 

 as a flash, the 10-mile current hurled the 

 little craft into the bank with a dull-sound- 

 ing chug, as if bent on annihilation. The 

 first thing to land was a frying-pan, which 

 shot over the bow like a cantankerous ram, 

 and lit with a whiz in some bushes 10 feet 

 away. It was followed by a shower of 

 tin cups and plates, which sailed through 

 the air like a flock of quails — to the right, 

 to the left and straight ahead. Then a dis- 

 cordant yell rang out from a member of 

 the party, whose center of gravity was 

 upset, and a moment later a burly form 

 went by the board and lit with a splash, 

 hands and feet down, in the ooze and muck 

 of the Yukon bank. 



"Damn your old skin," said Batterman, 

 rising to his feet and shaking a mud-cov- 

 ered fist under One-Ear's nose. "If I 

 thought you did that purposely I'd mash 



