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filled with memories of old lawless days； was likewise guilty。 But Kit
Bellew was romantic。 He was fascinated by the froth and sparkle of the
gold rush； and viewed its life and movement with an artist's eye。 He did
not take it seriously。 As he said on the steamer； it was not his funeral。
He was merely on a vacation； and intended to peep over the top of the pass
for a 'look see' and then to return。
Leaving his party on the sand to wait for the putting ashore of the
freight； he strolled up the beach toward the old trading post。 He did not
swagger； though he noticed that many of the be…revolvered individuals did。
A strapping； six…foot Indian passed him； carrying an unusually large pack。
Kit swung in behind； admiring the splendid calves of the man； and the
grace and ease with which he moved along under his burden。 The Indian
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dropped his pack on the scales in front of the post； and Kit joined the
group of admiring gold…rushers who surrounded him。 The pack weighed
one hundred and twenty pounds； which fact was uttered back and forth in
tones of awe。 It was going some； Kit decided； and he wondered if he
could lift such a weight； much less walk off with it。
〃Going to Lake Linderman with it； old man？〃 he asked。
The Indian； swelling with pride； grunted an affirmative。
〃How much you make that one pack？〃
〃Fifty dollar。〃
Here Kit slid out of the conversation。 A young woman； standing in
the doorway； had caught his eye。 Unlike other women landing from the
steamers； she was neither short…skirted nor bloomer…clad。 She was
dressed as any woman travelling anywhere would be dressed。 What
struck him was the justness of her being there； a feeling that somehow she
belonged。 Moreover； she was young and pretty。 The bright beauty and
colour of her oval face held him； and he looked over…longlooked till she
resented； and her own eyes； long…lashed and dark； met his in cool survey。
From his face they travelled in evident amusement down to the big
revolver at his thigh。 Then her eyes came back to his； and in them was
amused contempt。 It struck him like a blow。 She turned to the man
beside her and indicated Kit。 The man glanced him over with the same
amused contempt。
〃Chechaquo；〃 the girl said。
The man； who looked like a tramp in his cheap overalls and
dilapidated woollen jacket； grinned dryly； and Kit felt withered though he
knew not why。 But anyway she was an unusually pretty girl； he decided；
as the two moved off。 He noted the way of her walk； and recorded the
judgment that he would recognize it after the lapse of a thousand years。
〃Did you see that man with the girl？〃 Kit's neighbour asked him
excitedly。 〃Know who he is？〃
Kit shook his head。
〃Cariboo Charley。 He was just pointed out to me。 He struck it big
on Klondike。 Old timer。 Been on the Yukon a dozen years。 He's just
come out。〃
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〃What's chechaquo mean？〃 Kit asked。
〃You're one； I'm one；〃 was the answer。
〃Maybe I am； but you've got to search me。 What does it mean？〃
〃Tender…foot。〃
On his way back to the beach Kit turned the phrase over and over。 It
rankled to be called tender…foot by a slender chit of a woman。
Going into a corner among the heaps of freight； his mind still filled
with the vision of the Indian with the redoubtable pack； Kit essayed to
learn his own strength。 He picked out a sack of flour which he knew
weighed an even hundred pounds。 He stepped astride of it； reached down；
and strove to get it on his shoulder。 His first conclusion was that one
hundred pounds was the real heavy。 His next was that his back was weak。
His third was an oath； and it occurred at the end of five futile minutes；
when he collapsed on top of the burden with which he was wrestling。 He
mopped his forehead； and across a heap of grub…sacks saw John Bellew
gazing at him； wintry amusement in his eyes。
〃God！〃 proclaimed that apostle of the hard。 〃Out of our loins has
come a race of weaklings。 When I was sixteen I toyed with things like
that。〃
〃You forget； avuncular；〃 Kit retorted； 〃that I wasn't raised on bear…
meat。〃
〃And I'll toy with it when I'm sixty。〃
〃You've got to show me。〃
John Bellew did。 He was forty…eight； but he bent over the sack；
applied a tentative； shifting grip that balanced it； and； with a quick heave；
stood erect； the somersaulted sack of flour on his shoulder。
〃Knack； my boy； knackand a spine。〃
Kit took off his hat reverently。
〃You're a wonder； avuncular； a shining wonder。 D'ye think I can
learn the knack？〃
John Bellew shrugged his shoulders。
〃You'll be hitting the back trail before we get started。〃
〃Never you fear；〃 Kit groaned。 〃There's O'Hara； the roaring lion；
down there。 I'm not going back till I have to。〃
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III。
Kit's first pack was a success。 Up to Finnegan's Crossing they had
managed to get Indians to carry the twenty…five hundred…pound outfit。
From that point their own backs must do the work。 They planned to
move forward at the rate of a mile a day。 It looked easyon paper。
Since John Bellew was to stay in camp and do the cooking； he would be
unable to make more than an occasional pack； so； to each of the three
young men fell the task of carrying eight hundred pounds one mile each
day。 If they made fifty…pound packs； it meant a daily walk of sixteen
miles loaded and of fifteen miles light〃Because we don't back…trip the
last time；〃 Kit explained the pleasant discovery； eighty…pound packs meant
nineteen miles travel each day； and hundred…pound packs meant only
fifteen miles。
〃I don't like walking；〃 said Kit。 〃Therefore I shall carry one hundred
pounds。〃 He caught the grin of incredulity on his uncle's face； and added
hastily： 〃Of course I shall work up to it。 A fellow's got to learn the
ropes and tricks。 I'll start with fifty。〃
He did； and ambled gaily along the trail。 He dropped the sack at the
next camp…site and ambled back。 It was easier than he had thought。 But
two miles had rubbed off the velvet of his strength and exposed the
underlying softness。 His second pack was sixty…five pounds。 It was
more difficult； and he no longer ambled。 Several times； following the
custom of all packers； he sat down on the ground； resting the pack behind
him on a rock or stump。 With the third pack he became bold。 He
fastened the straps to a ninety…five… pound sack of beans and started。 At
the end of a hundred yards he felt that he must collapse。 He sat down
and mopped his face。
〃Short hauls and short rests；〃 he muttered。 〃That's the trick。〃
Sometimes he did not make a hundred yards； and each time he
struggled to his feet for another short haul the pack became undeniably
heavier。 He panted for breath； and the sweat streamed from him。
Before he had covered a quarter of a mile he stripped off his woollen shirt
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and hung it on a tree。 A little later he discarded his h