Part 7

Says he: "Boys, here is where the shaggy North and I will shake; I thought I'd never manage to get free. I kept on making misses; but at last I've got my stake; There's no more thawing frozen muck for me. I am going to God's Country, where I'll live the simple life; I'll buy a bit of land and make a start; I'll carve a little homestead, and I'll win a little wife, And raise ten little kids to cheer my heart."

They signified their sympathy by crowding to the bar; They bellied up three deep and drank his health. He shed a radiant smile around and smoked a rank cigar; They wished him honor, happiness and wealth. They drank unto his wife to be--that unsuspecting maid; They drank unto his children half a score; And when they got through drinking very tenderly they laid The man from Eldorado on the floor.

III.

He's the man from Eldorado, and he's only starting in To cultivate a thousand-dollar jag. His poke is full of gold-dust and his heart is full of sin, And he's dancing with a girl called Muckluck Mag. She's as light as any fairy; she's as pretty as a peach; She's mistress of the witchcraft to beguile; There's sunshine in her manner, there is music in her speech, And there's concentrated honey in her smile.

Oh, the fever of the dance-hall and the glitter and the shine, The beauty, and the jewels, and the whirl, The madness of the music, the rapture of the wine, The languorous allurement of a girl! She is like a lost madonna; he is gaunt, unkempt and grim; But she fondles him and gazes in his eyes; Her kisses seek his heavy lips, and soon it seems to him He has staked a little claim in Paradise.

"Who's for a juicy two-step?" cries the master of the floor; The music throbs with soft, seductive beat. There's glitter, gilt and gladness; there are pretty girls galore; There's a woolly man with moccasins on feet. They know they've got him going; he is buying wine for all; They crowd around as buzzards at a feast, Then when his poke is empty they boost him from the hall, And spurn him in the gutter like a beast.

He's the man from Eldorado, and he's painting red the town; Behind he leaves a trail of yellow dust; In a whirl of senseless riot he is ramping up and down; There's nothing checks his madness and his lust. And soon the word is passed around--it travels like a flame; They fight to clutch his hand and call him friend, The chevaliers of lost repute, the dames of sorry fame; Then comes the grim awakening--the end.

IV.

He's the man from Eldorado, and he gives a grand affair; There's feasting, dancing, wine without restraint. The smooth Beau Brummels of the bar, the faro men, are there; The tinhorns and purveyors of red paint; The sleek and painted women, their predacious eyes aglow-- Sure Klondike City never saw the like; Then Muckluck Mag proposed the toast, "The giver of the show, The livest sport that ever hit the pike."

The "live one" rises to his feet; he stammers to reply-- And then there comes before his muddled brain A vision of green vastitudes beneath an April sky, And clover pastures drenched with silver rain. He knows that it can never be, that he is down and out; Life leers at him with foul and fetid breath; And then amid the revelry, the song and cheer and shout, He suddenly grows grim and cold as death.

He grips the table tensely, and he says: "Dear friends of mine, I've let you dip your fingers in my purse; I've crammed you at my table, and I've drowned you in my wine, And I've little left to give you but--my curse. I've failed supremely in my plans; it's rather late to whine; My poke is mighty weasened up and small. I thank you each for coming here; the happiness is mine-- And now, you thieves and harlots, take it all."

He twists the thong from off his poke; he swings it o'er his head; The nuggets fall around their feet like grain. They rattle over roof and wall; they scatter, roll and spread; The dust is like a shower of golden rain. The guests a moment stand aghast, then grovel on the floor; They fight, and snarl, and claw, like beasts of prey; And then, as everybody grabbed and everybody swore, The man from Eldorado slipped away.

He's the man from Eldorado, and they found him stiff and dead, Half covered by the freezing ooze and dirt. A clotted Colt was in his hand, a hole was in his head, And he wore an old and oily buckskin shirt. His eyes were fixed and horrible, as one who hails the end; The frost had set him rigid as a log; And there, half lying on his breast, his last and only friend, There crouched and whined a mangy yellow dog.

My Friends

The man above was a murderer, the man below was a thief; And I lay there in the bunk between, ailing beyond belief; A weary armful of skin and bone, wasted with pain and grief.

My feet were froze, and the lifeless toes were purple and green and gray; The little flesh that clung to my bones, you could punch it in holes like clay; The skin on my gums was a sullen black, and slowly peeling away.

I was sure enough in a direful fix, and often I wondered why They did not take the chance that was left and leave me alone to die, Or finish me off with a dose of dope--so utterly lost was I.

But no; they brewed me the green-spruce tea, and nursed me there like a child; And the homicide he was good to me, and bathed my sores and smiled; And the thief he starved that I might be fed, and his eyes were kind and mild.

Yet they were woefully wicked men, and often at night in pain I heard the murderer speak of his deed and dream it over again; I heard the poor thief sorrowing for the dead self he had slain.

I'll never forget that bitter dawn, so evil, askew and gray, When they wrapped me round in the skins of beasts and they bore me to a sleigh, And we started out with the nearest post an hundred miles away.

I'll never forget the trail they broke, with its tense, unuttered woe; And the crunch, crunch, crunch as their snowshoes sank through the crust of the hollow snow; And my breath would fail, and every beat of my heart was like a blow.

And oftentimes I would die the death, yet wake up to life anew; The sun would be all ablaze on the waste, and the sky a blighting blue, And the tears would rise in my snow-blind eyes and furrow my cheeks like dew.

And the camps we made when their strength outplayed and the day was pinched and wan; And oh, the joy of that blessed halt, and how I did dread the dawn; And how I hated the weary men who rose and dragged me on.

And oh, how I begged to rest, to rest--the snow was so sweet a shroud; And oh, how I cried when they urged me on, cried and cursed them aloud; Yet on they strained, all racked and pained, and sorely their backs were bowed.

And then it was all like a lurid dream, and I prayed for a swift release From the ruthless ones who would not leave me to die alone in peace; Till I wakened up and I found myself at the post of the Mounted Police.

And there was my friend the murderer, and there was my friend the thief, With bracelets of steel around their wrists, and wicked beyond belief: But when they come to God's judgment seat--may I be allowed the brief.

The Prospector

I strolled up old Bonanza, where I staked in ninety-eight, A-purpose to revisit the old claim. I kept thinking mighty sadly of the funny ways of Fate, And the lads who once were with me in the game. Poor boys, they're down-and-outers, and there's scarcely one to-day Can show a dozen colors in his poke; And me, I'm still prospecting, old and battered, gaunt and gray, And I'm looking for a grub-stake, and I'm broke.