Chapter 3 SEVEN GOLDEN CANDLESTICKS

Three days later Florence found herself seated on the shore of the little lake that lay at the edge of their claim. She was alone. "How still it is," she whispered. Not a leaf moved. The dark surface of the lake lay before her like black glass.

"The land of great silence," she thought. She shuddered and knew not why.

This was to her a strange world. All her life she had known excitement. The rattle of elevated trains, the honk of auto horns, the drum of airplane motors, all these seemed still to sound in her ears.

"Rivers," she whispered thoughtfully, "have eddies. There the water that has been rushing madly on comes to rest. Do lives have eddies? Has my life moved into an eddy?"

She did not enjoy the thought. Adventure, thrills, suspense, mystery, these were her favorite words. How could one find them here? And yet, there was the cabin that lay just up the rise. Their cabin now, it had belonged to others. Russians probably, spies perhaps.

"What if they come back?" Mary had whispered during their return journey from that first visit. "What if they demand the cabin?"

"We'll throw them out," Florence had said, making a savage gesture. "I wonder if we would?" had been Mary's reply. Florence wondered about that now. She wondered about many things. Why had she come to this place at all? Because of her love for the little family, her relatives, Mary, Mark, and their mother. Could love make people do things? She wondered. Could it make them do slow, hard, drudging, everyday things? If it could, how long would that last?

The thoughts that came to her there were neither sad nor bitter. They were such dreamy thoughts as come after a long day of toil. They had worked, all of them; oh! how they had worked getting settled!

"I-I'd like to go back, back to the city to the wild romance of many people!" she cried to the empty air of night.

Then, of a sudden, she realized that she did not wish to go back, but rather to go on, on, on, on into the North. For, as she sat there she seemed to see again the little man, Mr. Il-ay-ok, and to hear him say, "Tom Kennedy, yes, I know him," and Tom Kennedy was her long-lost grandfather.

"Yes," she exclaimed, "and I shall go!" Springing to her feet, she spread her arms wide. Seeking out the north star, she faced the land over which it hung. "Yes, Tom Kennedy, my grandfather, I am coming.

"But not now-not now," she murmured. "One thing at a time. I have given my word. I am to help these others win a home. Adventure, thrills, mystery, romance," she repeated slowly, "can they be here?"

Then as if in answer to her query, there came a faint sound. It grew louder, came closer, the night call of wild geese.

"How-how perfect!" she breathed. "The lake, the damp night air, the silence, then a call from the sky."

She waited. She listened. The speeding flock came closer. At last they were circling. They would land. She caught the rush of wings directly over her head, then heard the faintest of splashes.

"Happy landing!"

But not for long. She was creeping silently away. They were pioneers. Pioneers lived off the land. Here was promise of roast goose for tomorrow dinner. Too bad to spoil romance, but life must go on.

Slipping up to the cabin, she took Mark's gun from its place beside the door. With her heart beating a tattoo against her ribs, she crept back.

Closer and closer she crept until at last she lay, quite still, among the tall grass that skirted the pond.

"Where are they?" she whispered to herself. No answer, save the distant flapping of wings. How was one to shoot a wild goose he could not see?

"Ah, well," she thought. "I can wait. There will be a moon."

Wait she did. Once again the strangely silent night, like some great, friendly ghost, seemed to enfold her in its arms. Far away loomed the mountains, close at hand spread the plains, and over all silence. Only now and again this silence was broken by the flapping of wings, a sudden challenging scream, the call that told her a rich dinner still awaited her.

At last the moon crept over the white crested mountains. It turned the lake into a sheet of silver. Dark spots moved across that sheet. They came closer and closer. Thirty yards they were from shore, now twenty yards, and now ten yards. The girl caught one long sighing breath. Then, bang! Bang! Both barrels spoke.

A moment later, waist deep, the girl waded for the shore. In each hand she carried a dead bird, two big, fat geese. Tomorrow there would be a feast. Romance? Adventure? Well, perhaps, a little. But much more was to come. She felt sure of that now. Her heart leaped as she hurried forward to meet Mark and Mary, who were racing toward her demanding what all the shooting was about.

"A feast!" Mary cried joyously. "A real pioneer feast. Thanksgiving in June! The Pilgrim Fathers have nothing on us."

Such a feast as it was! Roast wild goose with dressing, great brown baked potatoes, slashed and filled with sweet home-made butter, all this topped with cottage pudding smothered in maple sauce.

"Who says pioneering is a hard life?" Mark drawled when the meal was over.

"It couldn't be with such a glorious cook," Florence smiled at her aunt.

When, at last, she crept up to her bed in the loft that night, she was conscious of an unusual stiffness in her joints. Little wonder this, for all day long she had wielded a grubbing hoe, tearing out the roots of stubborn young trees. They were preparing their land for the plow. They would raise a crop if no one else among the new settlers did. What crops? That had not been fully decided.

As Florence lay staring at the shadowy rafters she fell to musing about what life might be like if one remained in this valley year after year. "A farm of your own," she thought, "cows, chickens, pigs, a husband, children." Laughing softly, she turned on her side and fell asleep.

Five days later their first real visitor arrived. She was Mrs. Swenson, a short, plump farm mother and old-time settler of the valley. She had lived here for fifteen years.

Florence, who was churning while Mary and her mother were away in the town, gave her an enthusiastic welcome. The handle of the old-fashioned dasher churn went swish-swash.

"Just keep right on churnin'," Mrs. Swenson insisted. "You don't dare stop or the butter won't come.

"It's the strangest thing!" her eyes roved about the large room. "The Chicaskis-that was the name of the people who built this cabin-they disappeared, you might say, overnight."

"Oh! Did you know them?" the swish-swash stopped for a space of seconds.

"Well, yes and no," Mrs. Swenson smiled an odd smile. "No one got to know them very well. They left on foot," she leaned forward in her chair. "They'd had a horse. They sold that to Tim Huston. So away they went, each of them with satchels in both hands. That's all they took. It's the strangest thing."

She paused. The churn went swish-swash. The little tin clock in the corner went tick-tick-tick. Florence's lips parted.

Then her visitor spoke again: "They had other things. Wonderful things. A huge copper kettle and," her voice dropped to a whisper, "seven golden candlesticks. Leastwise, I always thought they was gold. She always had 'em up there above the fireplace, and how they did shine! Gold! I'm sure of it.

"They might have took them. Maybe they did, the candlesticks, I mean. But that huge copper kettle. They never took that, not in a satchel.

"I don't mind admitting," Mrs. Swenson's tone became confidential, "that those of us who've lived around here ever since have done a lot of snoopin' about this old place, lookin' for that copper kettle and-and other things.

"There are those who say they hid gold, lots of Russian, or maybe German gold, around here somewhere. But, of course, you can't believe all you hear. And no one has ever found anything, not even the big copper kettle. So," she settled back in her chair, "perhaps there's nothing to it after all. Mighty nice cabin, though," her tone changed. "Make you a snug home in winter. Not like these cabins the other settlers are building out of green logs. Them logs are goin' to warp something terrible when they dry. Then," she threw back her head and laughed, "then the children will be crawlin' through the cracks, and with the temperature at thirty below-think what that will be like!"

Florence did think. She shuddered at the very mention of it, and whispered a silent prayer of thanksgiving to the good God who had guided them to their snug cabin at the edge of the clearing beside that gem of a lake.

At thought of it all, she gave herself an imaginary hug. From without came the steady pop-pop-pop of a gasoline motor. Mark was driving a small tractor, plowing their clearing. They were to have a crop this first year, for it was still June. Few settlers would have crops. They were lucky.

She looked at her torn and blistered hand, then heaved a sigh of content. Those small trees had been stubborn, some had been thorny. It had been a heartbreaking job, but now all that was over. The tractor chugging merrily outside was music to her weary soul.

The tractor? That, too, had been a streak of luck. Or was it luck? Mark had always loved fine machinery. Because of this he had made it his business for years to learn all about trucks, tractors, mine hoists, motor-boats, and all else that came within his narrow horizon. When he had asked down at Palmer about the use of a tractor the man in charge had said: "Over yonder they are. Not assembled yet. Put one up and you can use it."

"Sure. I'll do that," Mark grinned. And he did.

Then they had wanted him to stay and set up others. He had turned his back on this promising position with good pay. He had come to this land to make a home for his family, and he was determined not to turn back. So here was the clearing, ten acres nearly plowed. A short task the harrowing would be. And then what should they plant?

"I'll ask Mrs. Swenson about that after a while," Florence promised herself. Mrs. Swenson had come a long way and was to stay for dinner. Florence had raised biscuits and a large salmon baking in the oven of the stove they had brought up from Palmer. They were to have one more royal feast. Three other guests were to arrive soon.

She smiled as she opened the oven door, releasing a wave of heat and delightful odors of cooking things.

"Mr. McQueen's an old dear," she thought. "He'll be the godfather of our little settlement. I'm sure of that."

Yes, the newly arrived settler whose land joined theirs at the back was an interesting old man. Gray haired and sixty, he stood straight as a ramrod, six feet four in his stockings. Strong, brave, wise with the wisdom that comes only with years, he would indeed prove a grand counsellor.

And there was Dave, his son, just turned twenty. "Slow, silent, steady going, hard working, dependable," had been Florence's instant snap-shot of his character; nor was she likely to be wrong.

Then, there was Bill Vale, whose land joined them on the west. How different was Bill! A dreamer, at twenty-two he was more a boy, less a man, than Dave. And Bill's mother, who adored him, agreed with him in every detail. The girl's brow wrinkled as she thought of Bill and his mother. How were such people to get on in a hard, new land? But then, what was the good of shouldering the problems of others? They had problems of their own. What were they to plant? That was their immediate problem and a large one.

The meal was over and they were all seated before the broad, screened door, looking away at the lake, blue as the sky, when Florence asked a question:

"Mrs. Swenson, what shall we plant?"

Mrs. Swenson did not reply at once. The dinner they had eaten was a rich and jolly one, just such a dinner as Florence could prepare. The day was warm. Mrs. Swenson was fat and chubby. Perhaps she had all but fallen asleep.

"Mrs. Swenson," Florence repeated, louder this time, "what shall we plant?"

"What's that?" the good lady started. "Plant? Why, almost anything. Peas, beans, carrots, beets, some oats and barley for your cow. May not get ripe, but you cut it for fodder. Soy beans are good, too. And potatoes! You should have seen our potatoes last year, four hundred bushels on an acre!"

"Four hundred on an acre!" Florence stared. "That would be four thousand on our ten acres if we planted it all to potatoes. Four thousand at how much a bushel, Mrs. Swenson?"

"Why, dear, at nothing at all!" Mrs. Swenson exclaimed. "You can't sell 'em. We haven't a market. A few go to Fairbanks. Those are all sold long ago."

No market. There it was again. Florence's heart sank.

"Potatoes and tomatoes," Mark gave a sudden start. His face lighted as the earth lights when the sun slips from behind a cloud.

"No," said Mrs. Swenson, quite emphatically. "Not tomatoes. You'll get huge vines and blossoms, beautiful blossoms, that's all."

"Tomatoes," Mark repeated with a slow, dreamy smile. "Bushels and bushels of tomatoes."

Mrs. Swenson stared at him in hurt surprise. "No tomatoes," she said again.

Florence favored Mark with a sidewise glance. She had seen that look on his face before two or three times and always something had come of it, something worth while. Like a song at sunrise, it warmed her heart.

Then, quite suddenly, the subject was changed. "I don't see what's the good of a market. Not just now," Bill Vale drawled. "The government's willing to provide us everything we need to eat or wear, and a lot of things besides. Mother and I are getting a gasoline motor to run the washing machine and a buzz-saw. No freezing at twenty below sawing wood for me."

"Nor me," laughed Dave McQueen. "I aim to work too fast on our old cross-cut saw to have time to freeze."

"Fact is, Bill," Mark put in, "in the end we've got to pay for all these things."

"Yes," Bill laughed lightly. "Got thirty years to pay, start in five years."

"Well," the older McQueen drawled. "Five years have rolled round a dozen times in my lifetime. They all seemed strangely short. And when the payments start, they'll be coming round with ominous regularity. Mark and Florence here have the right idea-keep debts down and get proceeds rolling in at the earliest possible moment."

"Tomatoes," Mark said dreamily. "Bushels and bush-"

At that they all started to their feet. From somewhere just out of their view had come the loud heehaw, heehaw of a donkey.

"What?" Florence sprang out the door. Then her lips parted in a smile, for there before her stood one more odd character from this strange new world: the oddest, she thought, of them all.

Tall, slim, white-haired, an old man sat astride a burro. And behind him came two other burros heavily laden with packs. From one pack protruded the handles of a pick and a shovel.

"A forty-niner," Florence thought.

"A real old sourdough Alaskan prospector!" Bill exclaimed, wild with enthusiasm.

"Whoa! Hello!" the old man shouted in one breath. "People livin' here! That's bad for me. I've been camping here as I came and went for a long spell."

"The latch-string is still on the outside," Florence laughed a welcome. "We've got hot raised biscuits," she encouraged. "Hot raised biscuits, sweet, home-churned butter and plenty of coffee."

"Hot raised biscuits." The man passed a hand before his eyes. "And sweet butter. Haven't heard those words in twenty years. Came to Alaska during the rush in '97. Just out of college then. Been prospecting for gold ever since. Found it twice. It's all gone now. But there's gold in them hills." His face lighted as he looked away at the snowy peaks. "Gold," he repeated softly. "Sure," his voice changed, the light in his eyes faded. "Sure. Hot biscuits and sweet butter. Sure, I'll stop and rest awhile."

"Well, folks," Mark stood looking away at his partly plowed field. "I've got to get back to work. Season's short. Must get in our seed."

"Bill," he slapped the tall boy on the back, "you've got an acre or two that's nearly clear. You get busy and root out the brush. Then I'll plow it for you."

"Yeah, maybe." Bill scarcely heard. His eyes were on the prospector's pack.

"How about offering the same to us?" Dave asked.

"Sure," Mark exclaimed. "But you got a hard forty to clear, all timber, looks like."

"We've picked a spot," Dave drawled. "We've got strong backs and weak minds, Dad and I have," he laughed a roaring laugh. "We'll have a garden spot ready in two days. You'll see."

Florence flashed Dave an approving smile.

"Mr. McQueen," she said quietly, turning to Dave's father, "we're having some of the folks in for a sing Sunday afternoon. Mary will play our reed organ, you know. Per-perhaps you'd like to say a few words to the folks."

"Why, yes, I-" the old man hesitated. "I-I'm no orator, but I might say a word or two. Good, old-fashioned time we'll have."

"Sure will!" Mark agreed.

While the others returned to their work, Bill lingered behind to talk with the prospector. After laying out a generous supply of food, Florence retired to the kitchen and the dinner dishes. Through the door there drifted scraps of Bill's talk with the old man.

"Ever really find gold?"... "Lots of times."... "Boy! That must have been great! I'm getting me a pick and shovel right now."... "Take your time about that, son," the old man counselled. "But there's gold. Plenty of it. I'll find it this time. Sure to." His voice rose.

"Any bears up there?" Bill asked.

"Plenty of 'em. But I don't bother 'em and they don't bother me."

"I'd bother them," Bill cried.

"Yes," Florence thought. "Bill would bother them." She remembered the high-powered rifle that decorated Bill's tent.

"Temptation," she thought, "does not belong to great cities alone. Here boys are tempted to go after big game, to search for gold, to chase rainbows." Already Bill's young brain was on fire.

To her consternation, she suddenly realized that her blood too was racing. Had she caught the gleam of gold on the horizon? Would she listen to the call of wild adventure until it led her away into those snow-capped mountains?

"No," she whispered fiercely. She had come to this valley to help those she loved, Mary, Mark, and their mother, to assist them in securing for themselves a home. She would cling to that purpose. She would! She stamped her foot so hard the dishes rattled and Bill in the other room gave a sudden start.

"Probably thought I was a bear," she laughed low.

Then a thought struck her with the force of a blow. "He said he'd been in Alaska since '97. That old man said that," she whispered. "Perhaps-" She sprang to the door.

"Mister-er," she hesitated.

"Name's Dale-Malcomb Dale," the old man rose and bowed.

"Oh, Mr. Dale," Florence caught her breath. "You said you had been in Alaska a long time. Did you ever know a man named Tom Kennedy?"

"Tom Kennedy! Sure! A fine man, but like the rest of us." He smiled oddly. "A little touched in the head, you might say, always looking for gold."

"And did-did he ever find it?"

"Yes, once, I'm told. Let's see. That was, well, never mind what year. They found gold, he and his partner, found it way back of the beyond, you might say, and-"

"And-" Florence prompted.

"And they lost it."

"Lost-lost it?" Florence stared.

"His partner, Dan Nolan, became ill. Tom Kennedy dragged him all the way to Nome on a small sled. No dogs. Stormed all that time. No trail, nothing. Got lost, nearly froze, but he came through. Powerful man, Tom Kennedy. Good man, too, best ever. True a man as ever lived."

"Oh, I-I'm glad." Unbidden the words slipped out.

The prospector stared at her. "I said they lost the mine, never found it again. Nolan died."

"And Tom Kennedy, he-"

"He's alive, far as I know. He's always hunting that mine. Never found it yet. But then," the old man sighed, "there's plenty of us like that up here where the sun forgets to set in summer. Gets in your blood.

"Well," he put out a hand, "I'll get my burros started. I-I'll be goin'," his voice was rich and mellow with years. "I shall not forget you. And when I strike it rich-" he hesitated, then smiled a smile that was like the sunset, "I'll trade you gold and diamonds for raised biscuits and sweet butter." He stared for a moment, as if seeing a vision of the past, then bowed himself out. He was gone. Bill went with him. How far he would go the girl could only guess.

Left alone with her thoughts, Florence found herself wondering about many things. Was there truly no market for the things they raised? As the months and years rolled on, would there still be no market? Fairbanks, a small city to the north of them, was in need of many kinds of food. Could they not supply some of these needs?

Then, of a sudden, she recalled Mark's words, "Tomatoes. Bushels and bushels of tomatoes." Why had he insisted, why repeated this word, even after Mrs. Swenson had said, "no tomatoes"? Mark had something in mind. What was it? She could not guess, but dared hope.

She recalled Mrs. Swenson's words about the mysterious pair that had, with so much labor, erected this cabin, cleared this land, then left it all. "I wonder why they left?"

Then, "Seven golden candlesticks," she murmured, "and a great copper kettle. We could use that kettle." After that, in spite of her desire to be practical, she found herself searching the place from foundation to the loft. All she found was an ancient Dutch oven, rusted beyond reclaiming.

"All the same," she thought, "it is strange what became of that copper kettle and-" She did not allow the thought to finish itself. She had been about to think "gold." She knew that in this land one must not dream-at least, not too much.