He was a striking figure of a man, despite his garb
being similar to that of all the men in the Tivoli.
Soft-tanned moccasins of moose-hide, beaded in Indian
designs, covered his feet. His trousers were
ordinary overalls, his coat was made from a blanket.
Long-gauntleted leather mittens, lined with wool,
hung by his side. They were connected in the
Yukon fashion, by a leather thong passed around the
neck and across the shoulders. On his head was
a fur cap, the ear-flaps raised and the tying-cords
dangling. His face, lean and slightly long, with
the suggestion of hollows under the cheek-bones, seemed
almost Indian. The burnt skin and keen dark
eyes contributed to this effect, though the bronze
of the skin and the eyes themselves were essentially
those of a white man. He looked older than thirty,
and yet, smooth-shaven and without wrinkles, he was
almost boyish. This impression of age was based
on no tangible evidence. It came from the abstracter
facts of the man, from what he had endured and survived,
which was far beyond that of ordinary men. He
had lived life naked and tensely, and something of
all this smouldered in his eyes, vibrated in his voice,
and seemed forever a-whisper on his lips.
The lips themselves were thin, and prone to close
tightly over the even, white teeth. But their
harshness was retrieved by the upward curl at the
corners of his mouth. This curl gave to him
sweetness, as the minute puckers at the corners of
the eyes gave him laughter. These necessary
graces saved him from a nature that was essentially
savage and that otherwise would have been cruel and
bitter. The nose was lean, full-nostrilled, and
delicate, and of a size to fit the face; while the
high forehead, as if to atone for its narrowness,
was splendidly domed and symmetrical. In line
with the Indian effect was his hair, very straight
and very black, with a gloss to it that only health
could give.
“Burning Daylight’s burning candlelight,”
laughed Dan MacDonald, as an outburst of exclamations
and merriment came from the dancers.
“An’ he is der boy to do it, eh, Louis?”
said Olaf Henderson.
“Yes, by Gar! you bet on dat,” said French
Louis. “Dat boy is all gold—”
“And when God Almighty washes Daylight’s
soul out on the last big slucin’ day,”
MacDonald interrupted, “why, God Almighty’ll
have to shovel gravel along with him into the sluice-boxes.”
“Dot iss goot,” Olaf Henderson muttered,
regarding the gambler with profound admiration.
“Ver’ good,” affirmed French Louis.
“I t’ink we take a drink on dat one time,
eh?”
CHAPTER II
Copyrights
Burning Daylight from Project Gutenberg. Public domain.
