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Show 70 "I'm not named Erickson for nothing," I replied. "Ever hear of Leif Erickson, the Viking chief?"-I crossed my fingers as I stretched the truth-"He's my grandfather." I had planned to build a flat-bottomed scow, like most of the other men, hewing spruce trees and slicing them into planks at the sawpits. But it was with a heavy heart that I watched the men at the sawpits. Even the strongest of partners had problems there. A few stampeders had set up sawmills for business, but like the Chilkoot packers, their prices were exorbitant. I could not pay the price. I glanced around for my partner. She was sitting up in an old cottonwood tree, singing like a crazy bird. I could hear her above the whining of the saws: She's only a bird in a gilded cage, A beautiful sight to see- I looked away, suddenly angry with the partner fate had chosen for me. What if she started dancing and fell out of the tree? And I had to claim her? The tree looked as if it would topple over at any moment, anyway-its long branches leafless and dry, reaching out over the frozen lake. |