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Show 9U promised us everything. We said we were too slow. It was a humorous sight, worse than at Lake Bennett. But we did not laugh at the antics of these adults as we once had. As the journey neared its end, all the stampeders held their crafts to the right bank, moving cautiously around each bend of the wide river. After all these miles, no one wanted to miss the City of Gold, not even by one-half mile. Tip and I had not won the race with our raft, but neither had we lost. As far ahead as we could see, and as far back, the right bank of the river was lined with boats. It was the end of June 18 98. I had been on the gold trail for ten months, though it seemed like forever. And I was 2,500 miles from where I started. I remembered the old miner at the San Francisco harbor, dragging his heavy suitcases. I recalled the valuable gold piece he had given me, and how I had lost it in Skagway. I would not be so foolish again, I vowed. Besides, now I had a partner. I looked at Tip, perched on top of the supplies, peering up the river. She would notify me, she said, when she spotted Dawson City. Her black bangs hung so long over her eyes, I wondered how she could see anything. One day we sailed around a broad curve in the river, and there on the right the roaring Klondike River surged into the |
