Part 1

ACCORDING TO NG LOY

W. C. Tuttle

Author of “Blind Trails,” “Reputation,” etc.

Fate is a queer dealer in the game of life; a dealer whose sense of humor is not hampered by the grim play of put-and-take. It is not always a square deal. Fate knows how to stack the cards, and many a pat-hand is beaten by a four-card draw.

But Fate never dealt a worse assorted trio than it handed to Trinity Creek. An Irishman, a Swede and a Chinaman. Three court-cards that never belonged in the deck.

Ng Loy, the Chinaman, came first. Loy was very old. He had come from Seattle in the gold rush; a little, round-shouldered Celestial, wrinkled of face, but with the heart of an Argonaut. For a number of years he had clawed over deserted placer dumps; gleaning what gold had escaped the hurried sluicing, but now he had accumulated a grub-stake and penetrated to Trinity Creek--far from humanity.

Lars Anderson and Jimmy Mulcahy were partners. Wherever a strike was reported--there you would find them. Lars was a huge figure of a man, mustached like a Viking, slow of thought, slow of action. He growled in his throat like a grizzly bear, drank whisky like men drink water and was as superstitious as a voodoo worshipper.

Jimmy Mulcahy was a trifle smaller than Lars, typically Irish, and, if such a thing were possible, more superstitious.

Lars and Jimmy had been thawing gravel across the range from Trinity Creek; overstaying their grub-stake in hopes of uncovering some rich streak--which did not appear. The lack of food did not disturb them, because of the fact that they had made a grub-cache a few months before at a spot about fifty miles away, and this would suffice to take them back to an outfitting post.

But two days before they were ready to leave their diggings the Winter moved in upon them; a howling, swirling blizzard, in which the temperature tumbled downward until the fir-trees snapped like fire-crackers and the dirt floor of their cabin frosted to within inches of the rough fireplace.

Day after day it screamed and tore at the little cabin, while Lars and Jimmy humped beside the fire, swathed in blankets, watched their food supply dwindle to a mere handful of beans and a piece of bacon the size of a walnut.

“Christmas daisy, and wouldn’t ye think it would blow itself out?” queried Jimmy. “Sure, there must be a tail-ind to it somewhere, Lars.”

“Ay guess she’s de round vind,” said Lars hopelessly. “She goes round and round, all de time. Bot den, of course, she’ll vare out sometime, Yimmy.”

“And we’ll be a fine pair of hunks o’ ice. If ye stop breathin’ for a minute ye can feel yerself harden. Why in the ---- didn’t we mush out a week ago, I dunno?”

“If Ay ever get out of hare--ba gosh, Yimmy; how you like for feel de hot stove and de hot whisky. _Skoal!_”

Lars shook his head sadly. “Ay guess dis be de finish for us.”

Jimmy threw back his blanket and got to his feet.

“Finish, ye say? Ye cock-eyed Swede, are ye quittin’? Are ye goin’ to let a bit of a blow and a handful of snow make ye lie down and die?”

Lars got heavily to his feet and began folding his blanket.

“Ay guess we go now, eh, Yimmy? Ho, ho, ho, ho! Ve bite holes in de vind, eh? We find de grub-cache and mush to Dugout City. Ho, ho, ho! Ay am de cock-eyed Svede and you are de crazy Irishman. Fifty mile to de grub.”

“If we have any luck,” muttered Jimmy, “We’ve got to have a little luck.”

“By gosh, you bet. Bot den of course at de same time, ve need even-break. Come on, vild Irishman.”

There were no preparations to make; nothing to take with them, except their blankets. The blizzard whipped into them and the snow particles stung and cut like ground glass, but they headed into it, traveling in single file that they might not lose each other.

Straight over the divide they struggled; two men who looked like shadows in that gray whirl of the elements. But even the long climb did not warm their blood. There were no landmarks to follow. Everything was blotted out at a few feet distance and they did not realize that they had crossed the divide until the mountain sloped downward again.

And here a new trouble assailed them. The ice-like snow had gnawed the lacing of their snow-shoes into shreds, and the crust was not strong enough to hold them up without the shoes. There was no chance to repair them; so they went blindly on.

Mile after mile they floundered down the timbered slopes, praying for a break in the gray shroud that they might get their bearings; but the break would not come.

Night overtook them, but they went on. It was their only hope. Neither of them knew where they were, nor in which direction lay the cache, but they were trusting to luck to carry them through.

It was a hundred miles from the cache to Dugout City, they had estimated, and the cache would furnish them plenty of food for the hundred mile trip.

Then the last strands of Jimmy’s snow-shoes parted. Lars’ shoes were only good for a short distance more, and there were many miles of snow ahead of them.

And, as if in celebration of this last misfortune, the blizzard took on a new lease of life and fairly blotted them out in a maelstrom of whirling snow. Gone was all sense of direction, but they went on. Lars’ snow-shoe webs parted company with the bows, but he floundered on, with Jimmy following him blindly.

There was no chance for conversation. It was merely a case of flounder ahead, fall down, get up and keep going. And it was thus that Fate drove them almost into the snow-piled side of Ng Loy’s little cabin at the forks of Trinity Creek.

If the cabin had been a hundred feet farther on, Ng Loy would, in all probabilities, have found them in the Spring, when the snow went off for its short vacation from Trinity Creek.

But Fate caused them fairly to collide with the side of the cabin--or rather the roof, because the snow was piled high about Loy’s habitation--and he found them just in time.

* * * * *

It was several hours later that Jimmy awoke, swathed in blankets, in a warm cabin, and to his nostrils came the savory odor of simmering mulligan. Slowly he emerged from his blankets--his head did--and he looked straight at the wrinkled little Chinaman--who was watching him.

Jimmy’s face was raw from the frost and he ached in every muscle and joint, but his eye was clear. There was frank amusement on his face and his voice was husky as he said--

“Sure now, and where is Saint Peter?”

“No sabe.” The old Chinaman shook his head. “Why fo’ yo’ want him?”

“I’ve got to find him,” Jimmy shook his head slowly. “I’ve no doubt he mistook me nationality and sint me to a Chinese heaven, don’t ye see?”

Loy’s wrinkled face broke into a grin. He was not without his sense of humor and he knew what Jimmy meant.

“This no be heaven. This Tlinity Cleek, yo’ sabe?”

“I’ve no doubt ye think that, me friend,” said Jimmy seriously, “but it’s the nearest thing to heaven I’ve ever seen. Is me pardner no worse than I am?”

“No much bad. Pletty bad sto’m. I hear you bump my li’l cabin.”

“Pretty bad storm! Sure, I hope I niver see a worse. Hey! Lars! You cock-eyed Swede, wake up, will ye?”

Came a movement under the Swede’s blankets and his face emerged. He stared at Loy in a stolid sort of a way; blinking his eyes wonderingly. Then he caught sight of Jimmy.

“Halo dere! Where in de ---- are ve, Yimmy?”

“Right here, Lars,” Jimmy laughed joyfully. “We bumped into the Chinaman’s cabin and he hauled us inside.”

“By yee, dat was close call!”

The Swede grimaced with pain from his frost-bites and sniffed audibly.

“Yo’ lik’ soup?” grinned Loy, pointing at the black kettle. “Li’l piece car-boo, some onion, potato--ver’ nice.”

Jimmy started to struggle out of his blankets, but the Chinaman stopped him.

“Yo’ stay in bed. Long time yo’ ve’y sore; yo’ _sabe_? I bling soup. Li’l bit now, li’l bit bimeby. Yo’ too hungly.”

“You been assayin’ me while I was asleep,” complained Jimmy. “Nobody could tell I was too hungry. And it’s a lucky thing ye had plenty of blankets.”

Ng Loy nodded quickly.

“Yessah. Need plenty blanket. Chinaman get old, get ve’y chilly. I buy some blanket, trade fo’ some blanket, yo’ sabe? Bimeby I have plenty blanket--jus’ right.”

Ng Loy brought them tin cups of the hot mulligan. It warmed them up and put new life into their bodies. They begged for more, but Loy was adamant.

“No can do. I sabe yo’ ve’y hungly--too hungly. Bimeby I give yo’ mo’. Too much now--plenty sick.”

“I niver thought that a Chinaman could keep me from me food,” wailed Jimmy, “but I suppose I’ve got to keep me timper. What’s your name?”

“My name Ng Loy.”

“Thasso? And how do ye spell the first half of it?”

“How spell. Jus’ same like N.G. Make sound ‘Ing.’”

“Now, who the ---- iver gave ye that name. N.G., is it? Ye are not! In this country, Loy, they say anythin’ is N.G., when it’s no good.”

“Mebbe so Ng Loy no good.”

“The ---- ye say! Not to me they don’t say it.”

Loy smiled softly and stirred the soup.

“Ay know how das happen--” Lars shook the blankets off his head--“over in das China country they read and write everyt’ing oopside down und backvards, Yimmy.”

“Sure, and that’s a fact, Lars. He’s N.G., with the reverse-English. Whin do we eat agin’, Loy?”

“Bimeby.”

Loy’s cabin was very small, with a big fireplace which warmed it well. There were two bunks built into the sides of the cabin, the rear of which was piled high with wood. There was little room to move about, and the furniture consisted of a small, crudely-built table and one chair.

“You minin’, Loy?” asked Jimmy.

“Yessah, li’l bit mine. I come hea’ las’ Summa. Cabin not much good, I fix up nice. I got mine claim hea’.”

“Show anythin’, Loy?”

“Pletty good show. Splingtime, I make money. Where you flom?”

Jimmy tried to explain the location of their cabin, but Ng Loy had never crossed the divide.

“Yo’ locate hea’?” he asked.

Jimmy grinned and looked across at Lars. It was a novelty to find a miner who was willing to divulge the fact that there was pay-dirt in sight.

“I dunno,” Jimmy shook his head.

“Two fork hea’,” explained Ng Loy, holding out his hand, with two fingers spread.

“I plospect plenty, but nobody dig hea’. Mebbeso one fork have pay-stleak, mebbe so two fork. You tly. I catchum gold my claim. Gold come down stleam, I t’ink.”

“You want us to locate on the forks?” queried Jimmy.

“Yessah. Be good, I t’ink. Claim below me, mebbeso good. Nobody tly.”

“Well,” Jimmy settled back on his blankets, “you come near bein’ plumb white, Loy. We’ll outfit and come back.”

“Ay t’ink ve bane lucky,” observed Lars thoughtfully.

“Luck?” Ng Loy smiled softly. “Yes-s-s, luck.”

He stepped over to the table and picked up a little white object, holding it in his open palm.

“This is luck,” he said slowly. “Today I make an old Chinese prayer to the white elephant. It was for evelybody in storm; yo’ _sabe_?”

“Ye say ye did?” Jimmy’s eyes gleamed with interest. “What did ye say the thing is?”

Ng Loy held it out in his hand--a little, carved ivory elephant.

“And ye prayed to it?”

“Yes. Li’l white elephant of old China. Good luck.”

“Ay betcha das right,” nodded Lars solemnly. “Somet’ing bring us hare, Yimmy.”

“By golly, that looks like good luck,” breathed Jimmy. “The white elephant brought us out of the snow.”

“It is more than good luck,” said Ng Loy slowly and in perfectly good English. “The owner will in some way bring happiness to others. Good luck and happiness.”

“Some elephant!” exclaimed Jimmy. “By golly, I’d like to have one.”

“Ay like dat, too,” nodded Lars.

Ng Loy smiled and placed it on the table. “Mebbeso bling good luck to all.”

“Why do you speak good English sometimes and then pidgin-English, Loy?” asked Jimmy.

“I fo’get,” smiled Loy. “I been this country long time. I study English to talk like American. Sometimes I no can do--like now; yo’ sabe?”

“Like I mix in Irish brogue, I reckon,” smiled Jimmy. “But when do we eat agin’, Loy?”

* * * * *

Two days later Lars and Jimmy started for Dugout City after grub. The storm had broken the night they arrived at Ng Loy’s place. Ng Loy had two pairs of old snow-shoes, which they patched up with rawhide strips.

Much to their amazement Loy handed them a poke of gold to pay for the food.

“We are partners,” he declared and refused to take back the money. Then he gave them the white elephant.

“Long ways to go,” he declared. “Mebbe so big snow come--yo’ need luck. White elephant bling yo’ back to Ng Loy.”

“By ----, you’re a white man!” blurted Jimmy. “We’ll sure come back, partner.”

And it was three days later that they arrived at Dugout City, after a hard trip. Dugout consisted of a few log cabins, almost buried under the drifts, where the inhabitants holed up for the long Winter, with nothing to do but to eat, sleep, drink and gamble.

One building was used as a store. It was well stocked with supplies, but prices were almost prohibitive. Dugout City welcomed Jimmy and Lars with open arms. Any strange face was welcome in Dugout City in Winter.

It was the one community center in all that vast district, and the meeting place for all the sour-doughs for miles around. Jimmy and Lars bought their supplies first and became sociable afterward.

Ng Loy’s poke of gold was lighter by half when the purchases were over, but that lighter half was enough for their amusement and comfort.

The saloon was a small cabin, unventilated, where the miners crowded in until there was hardly room for the short bar and the one roulette wheel. Even the poker-table occupied so much room that it was advisable to shove one side of it against the wall, so cutting down the possible number of players by at least two.

In there was the reek of stale liquor, the stifling smoke from many strong pipes, and the varied smells of humanity; but to Jimmy and Lars it meant liquor and cards, something which had been denied them for a long time.

There was a vacant seat at the poker-table and room for another at the whirling roulette wheel. Lars settled heavily into the poker-seat, while Jimmy looked on and grinned.

And twenty-four hours later, Lars and Jimmy walked out into the below-zero air, with the accumulated wealth of Dugout City in their sagging pockets.

Their luck had been phenomenal. Dugout City was broke, and it would be many moons before there would be enough gold in the camp to pull off a decent-sized poker-game. Neither Jimmy nor Lars were gamblers. It was just simple, unadulterated luck--and they knew it.

They not only had all the gold of the camp, but Jimmy had won a dog-team from “Mukluk John,” a well-known musher. They had snow-shoed in with Ng Loy’s gold, bought a grub-stake and were going back in dog-team style, with their pockets lined with gold.

As they started to pack their grub on the sled, Lars grunted and straightened up as if with a sudden idea.

“What is it, Lars?” queried Jimmy, looking back.

“Ay just remember, Yimmy. All das luck.”

“That white elephant?” exploded Jimmy, searching frantically through his pockets and finding it in the last one to be searched.

“Ay tank das bane luck,” declared Lars, grinning widely.

“Jist as sure as there’s a banshee in Ireland.”

“Ay forgot it.” Lars was almost apologetic.

“Sure ye did--and so did I. But the elephant didn’t forget, Lars. We’re lucky ----, so we are.”

The weather held fine for their homeward journey and Ng Loy welcomed them with a smile and a mulligan stew. He listened closely while they told of their good luck and gazed in amazement at the gold they brought back with them. He fondled the little elephant for a while, but placed it back in the center of the table.

“Plenty good luck for t’lee,” he declared. “Bling plenty happiness sometimes--I hope.”

Lars and Jimmy had been inseparable for years, and now it looked as if Ng Loy was going to make the third member of the team.

“We’re a fine layout,” declared Jimmy. “A Chink, a Swede and a Mick. Sure it’s a ----’s own mess and there’s little choice I’m thinkin’.”

“Perhaps it is the will of the gods,” smiled Loy.

“That’s right, Loy; blame it on the gods. Why don’t ye blame some of it on the elephant?”

“Ah, yes, perhaps.”

“Ay tank you better not speak bad of de elephant,” warned Lars.

“Nor of the gods either, I’m thinkin’,” grinned Jimmy.

“Do you believe in gods?” queried Loy.

“Jist one,” said Jimmy seriously. “Lars had a lot of ’em. Get him drunk and he rumbles about a feller named Thor. Loy, that cock-eyed Swede thinks that a feller by the name of Erickson discovered this country.”

Loy smiled softly and put more wood on the fire.

“We all must have some gods,” he said. “Something to look up to. It is not good to look down all the time.”

“I s’pose. What is your idea of heaven, Loy?”

“Friendship.”

“Friendship, eh? Sure, that’s a queer idea. And what do ye think is hell like?”

“Losing that friendship.”

Jimmy laughed and sucked on his old pipe. It was a new angle with him.

“There is little worth while, except love and friendship.” Ng Loy was speaking good English now and was very thoughtful. “Love and friendship smooth the paths of life. Lose love and friendship and the path becomes very rough. If you love everybody, the world is filled with flowers and the song of birds; if you hate everybody, the world is dark, there are no flowers, except those of cruel thorns, and the song of the birds is like the croaking of buzzards.”

“Yes, that’s right,” admitted Jimmy. “You talk like a man who knows, Loy. Have you ever hated?”

“Yes, I have loved and hated, my friend. Ng Loy is very old in years and old in experience. Some day I will not be here. You wonder why I dig for gold? You wonder why I want much gold, when I will not be here long?

“You smile when I tell you that I wish to die in my own land. The Ng family are very old in China, and it is my wish to have my bones beside that of my ancestors. Queer, is it not?”

“I’ve heard of it,” nodded Jimmy. “Somethin’ about the rest of the family bein’ disgraced if ye don’t hole up with ’em. Is that it?”

“That is near enough. There are things that would sound queer to you, but to me they are not queer. I am of a different race and my thoughts are not your thoughts.”

“That’s right,” Jimmy agreed quickly. “Now you take this Swede pardner of ours, Loy. He sees things different than we do.”

“Ay betcha,” nodded Lars sleepily. “Ay am Swede--de best peoples in de vorld.”

“Bunch of white-haired snuff makers!” snorted Jimmy. “Let’s go to bed.”

And contrary to general belief, these three men remained friends, even though confined to the one cabin during those long Winter days. While the blizzard howled across the Trinity and the world seemed a smother of snow, the two white men sat and listened to the philosophy of Ng Loy, or argued questions which neither knew anything about.

Then came a day when the warmer winds moaned in the tall trees and the huge drifts moved jerkily, as if some giant were moving under his monster counterpane. The Chinook was at Trinity Creek. The huge slides rumbled down the steep mountains and the water hissed down the forks of the creek, past the cabin, as if trying to make up for the time lost in Winter.

The landscape changed hourly. Bushes, held down by a weight of snow, snapped upright like a jack-in-a-box; the jack-pines shook away their covering and stood forth in black blotches, where had been only a white expanse; and here and there ledges of rock appeared, as if looking out to see what had happened to the world during the Winter.

Lars and Jimmy located on the west fork of the creek and included Ng Loy’s name in their notice. It was still too early for active operations as the ground was frozen too hard; so they began enlarging Loy’s cabin, making it big enough for all three.

Then came another storm and more freezing weather, as if the elements were only joking and had no intentions of letting Spring hold sway for a long time to come.

“Sure, and it may be a good omen,” declared Jimmy. “It strikes me that this would be a good time to make a trip to Dugout City and bring in more grub. It will be harder when the snow is gone and we can’t use the dogs.”

“Ay betcha das good idea,” agreed Lars. “Ve go now, because dis not last long.”

Ng Loy agreed that this would be an opportune time; so the next morning Jimmy and Lars pulled out of Trinity Creek and drove straight for Dugout City. There was no talk of drinking nor gambling this trip.

Dugout City was in the throes of Spring outfitting and had no time for games. The Winter was about over and the prospectors were hurrying to break ground as early as possible.

Jimmy and Lars outfitted quickly, swung their team around and headed north. There was a soft feeling in the air and they did not want to run into a Chinook, which would make snow-shoeing and sledging almost impossible as the snow packs quickly.

On the sixth day after their departure from Trinity Creek they were back again. The last few miles were made over a wet snow and they entered the cabin just ahead of a rain storm, which cut the snow and ice like a knife.

Ng Loy seemed very grave, as Jimmy enumerated what they had brought back.

“We’re all set for a big season, Loy. We’ll take out a lot of money, old timer.”

“Yes, my friend. Did you bring the elephant safely back home?”

“The elephant?” Jimmy scratched his head wonderingly. “Why, I didn’t have no elephant, Loy.”

Jimmy turned and looked at Lars, who was pulling off his boots. Lars gawped open-mouthed at Loy.

Loy smiled depreciatingly.

“It is no matter, my friends. Let us forget it.”

“Huh!”

Jimmy snorted and searched the table-top, on which a flea could not have hidden itself.

“No, it is not there,” said Ng Loy. “It was gone after you left. But it doesn’t matter.”

Lars said nothing, but his beetling eyebrows seemed to draw down over his deep-set eyes, as if unable to think beyond a certain point. Jimmy’s mouth lost its habitual grin and the muscles of his jaw bulged as he gripped his pipe-stem. Ng Loy laughed and joked incessantly, but his words were lost on his hearers.

Suddenly Jimmy got to his feet and walked over to where Lars was sitting on the edge of a bunk.

“Now, you ---- cock-eyed Swede, give up that elephant!”

Lars peered at him, his mouth twisting nervously.

“Give it up, you thief!” roared Jimmy.

“Ay give up not’ing!”

Lars heaved his huge bulk off the bunk, only to jerk back from Jimmy’s smashing blow which caught him on the side of the head.

“Tryin’ to hog the luck, were ye!” growled Jimmy.

But Lars did not speak. He swung forward, hunched low and smashed at Jimmy with both hands. Lars was slow, awkward, but his blows were like the smashing of a pile-driver weight.

Back and forth across the little cabin they surged, smashing, cursing, growling like grizzlies. Both men were getting badly hurt. Neither used any science; only brute strength. There was no blocking of blows. Every punch went straight to its mark unhampered.

The walls, the blankets were spattered with gore. Loy begged and pleaded with them to stop, but his words fell on deaf ears. He finally climbed to the top of a bunk, where he crouched like an idol, but winced every time a smashing blow found its mark.

Flesh and blood could not stand such punishment for a great length of time. Both men were blinded, choked with blood, until their blows flailed into empty air and they went down on their knees, still striking, mouthing curses.

Lars toppled over and was still, while Jimmy rested on his side, propped up on one elbow, blind as a bat, but still anxious to fight. Loy bathed their heads and bound up their cuts, and they endured it in silence.

“Be friends,” begged Loy. “It was nothing to fight over.”

But neither man would speak to the other. Their fight had proved nothing; given neither any satisfaction. Loy pointed out this fact, but neither man would agree. All Jimmy would say was--

“I’ll never speak to that cock-eyed thief agin’!”