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INSTALLMENT XIV
She said it without enthusiasm.
And I, in turn, had my suspi
cions. She was hungering, not un
like myself, for something beyond
the knowledge that comes out of
books.
“Love is never wasted,” I said,
reaching for solid ground in that
copybook maxim.
Salaria’s glowering eyes studied
my face.
“Then why,” she demanded, "does
a silk-wearin’ and washed-out she
cat who ain’t got the guts t’ stick
t’ his side tie up a real man like
Sid Lander? Why should she har
poon him for life and then back-trail
t’ the States and reckon he’s safe
among us walrus-eaters?”
I gravely considered that, double
barreled question.
“I suppose it’s because he’s a man
of honor,” I finally affirmed.
Salaria crossed to the door and
looked out at the towering peaks of
the Talkeetnas.
“Honor wouldn’t cut much ice,”
she said over her shoulder, “if I
was the blubber-eater he was pick
in’ out. If he wanted a woman
around his wickyup as much as he
wants this cock-eyed colony on the
map,” she abandonedly proclaimed,
“he’d damned soon see my shoe
packs under his bunk rail!”
I kept telling myself, after that
talk with Salaria, that there was
something dignifying in the job of
teaching, in molding the minds of
the young, in bringing light into the
dark places of the world. I was the
lamp in the valley.
But the lamp, plainly, stood in
need of some new oil. And full as
my days were, I’d a feeling that
something important in life was for
ever slipping around the corner be
fore I could quite catch up with it.
Yet all I could do, I argued with
myself, was to tighten my belt and
carry on. I’d no intention of turning
into a grumbler. These two hundred
families, I maintained, would even
tually do for Alaska what the cov
ered wagoners did for the Coast
States, seventy long years ago. Or
even what the Pilgrim Fathers did
for New England.
Yet construction lagged because
wrong material had been sent in
and the workers wouldn’t work.
Some of the misfits and trouble
makers had already been sent back
to the States, to spread the news of
the colony’s coltapse. Some of the
others imposed on the Commissary
and wolfed more than their share of
the supplies. Some growled in se
cret and some drew up a daily
" LAMP. -
VALLEY
A NOVEL OF ALASKA BY ARTHUR STRINGER
Arthur Stringer went up to Alaska to see for himself
the “red plush pioneers” of the federal colony in the
Matanuska valley. He got an eyeful. He put what he
saw into this vivid novel, which deals with Sidney
Lander, a mining engineer, and the three women who
loved him. There are complications aplenty, with
Sockeye Schlupp, the picturesque old-timer, thrown
in for good measure.
Here’s a story that will keep you burning the
midnight oil.
READ IT IN THIS PAPER
Sidney Lander, mining engineer, la
engaged to Barbara Trumbull, but ap
parently has fallen in love with Carol
Cobum, Matanuska school teacher. Sa
laria Bryson, one of her pupils, a big
out-door girl, is also in love with him.
round-robin of complaints. Others
went to Wasilla and got drunk. And
the less illiterate of the women-folk
deplored the rawness of the coun
try that had betrayed them.
In a city of tents, where privacy
was unknown, I saw things and
heard things that at first touched
me with horror: love-making with
all the candor of the kennel, family
fights echoing through thin walls of
canvas, the moans of child-birth
mixed with the strain? of a mouth
organ, a loose woman with a ca
nine cluster of idlers about her,
stripped men bathing openly in
wash-tubs, mothers in sunny cor
ners combing lice from their chil
dren’s hair, girls jeered at as they
slipped into an unscreened outhouse,
stained sheets and flimsy underwear
flapping on clotheslines, Xarm-stock
surrendering to the biologic urge'
under one’s very nose, profanity and
praying side by side, grossness and
greediness, empty cans and offal,
crying babies and thrumming ban
jos.
It was all honest and open enough.
It was too open, from Betsy Sebeck
unbuttoning her waist and giving her
big breast to a crying baby with a
dozen males watching the operation,
to the bed-pots which, in a land
without plumbing, had to be emp
tied in the light of day. But that re
version to the primitive, I told
Katie, produced both a bluntriess of
address and a coarseness of fiber.
And women, I contended, felt it
most.
“We’re here,” said Katie, “for
just one end: to work and repro
duce.”
“That,” I retorted, “leaves us no
better than animals.”
“Well, that’s what we are,” Ka
tie affirmed, “only the fripperies
make us forget it.”
“But surely civilization’s brought
us something worth keeping,” I sug
gested.
Katie laughed.
“We’re not as civilized as you im
agine,” she said as she buttoned
her mannish-looking leather coat.
“You’ll find that out when your ba
by’s pulling at your breast.”
A touch of unrest, I noticed, ex
tended even to my pupils. They
could boast of a big yellow motor
bus to carry them to the school door
THE BULLETIN
THE STORY SO FAR
Carol’s father died In Alaska with an
unproven claim which Trumbull is con
testing. Lander quits his employ, be
comes field manager for the Matanuska
Valley project. Sock-Eye Schlupp, an old
sourdough, and others, are skeptical of
|
Ms
“Why avoid me, Moon of my
Delight?”
every morning. But only a sprin
kling of them came. Compared with
the children of the old-timers, the
stolid little Scandinavians and Finns
and native Alaskans who were in
ured to hardship, the ARC new
comers were both harder to manage
and more exacting in their demands.
They arrived well fed and well
clothed, their lunch-boxes stuffed
with Commissary food. They were
eyed with envy by the native-born
children, who probably saw an or
ange only at Christmas. But these
wards of Uncle Sam came carry
ing two or three oranges, day by
day. Sometimes they had grapefruit
and chocolate bars and store cake.
Since the supply proved unlimited,
they liked to have a pitched battle
with those comestibles.
After a final overreckless barrage
of oranges I had to make it a rule
that no Project child was to bring
more than one orange into the class
room. It gave me an unpleasant
feeling just under the fifth rib to
see poor little Olie Eckstrom rum
maging through that waste, for a
half-eaten orange or two, to carry
home to his sister Frieda, who
couldn’t come to school until her
mother was able to get to Anchor
age to buy her a pair of shoes. I
began to realize that you can hurt
people by too much help.
I was singing as I went to the
road with my water pail one morn
ing. And as I turned I came face
to face with Eric the Red.
“Why avoid me, Moon of my De
light?” he said with his habitual
and hateful mockery.
“Why shouldn’t I?” I asked. I
compelled myself to meet his gaze.
For along the road I could see the
approaching figure of Olie Eckstrom,
swinging his tin milk pail as he
whistled to the tree tops.
There was something maddening
about the cool assurance of Eric
son’s smile.
“Why should you, sweet lady,
when it’s written in the stars we’re
to come together?” His laugh was
both brief and unpleasant. “I’m still
awaiting that happy hour. And when
it arrives I don’t intend to be the
forgotten man.”
the project’s success. Eric (the Red)
Ericson has been stirring discord
among the workers. At last, too, a
school is put up. Salaria discusses Sid
ney with Carol. Salaria has no idea
Carol is interested in him.
I made no response to that In
stead, I turned and called to Olie,
who quickened his pace as he caught
sight of me. My little Swedish friend
was no Goliath, but even his diminu
tive figure meant an acceptable ally
along that lonely road.
Ericson, watching that figure in
bibbed overalls, essayed an ironic
gesture of farewell and moved on
down the road.
"’E ban a bad man,” Olie an
nounced with quiet conviction.
“Why do you say that?” I asked.
Olie’s answer, when he gave his
reasons, was in English both broken
and bewildering. But in the end it
rather took my breath away. For
from the slow-tongued Swede boy I
gathered that he had been in the
habit of collecting building blocks
for his sister Frieda, small board
ends that could be picked up be
tween the lumber piles along the
siding track. The workmen there
were apt to treat him roughly and
drive him away with a cuff and a
kick. So it was natural, the night
before, that he should promptly hide
away when he heard voices. But
he was able to gather the gist of
the talk among those transient sore
heads. And their plan, apparently,
was to stage a demonstration in
front of the Commissary (where a
curb had been put on the open-hand
ed distribution of Federal supplies)
and while the officials were busy
with that riot Ericson and his fol
lowers were to start a fire, a purely
accidental fire, in the great piles of
timber and equipment that lined the
railway track.
CHAPTER XVIII
Lander listened, with a quiet
enough eye, as I told him what I
could of Olie’s story.
Instead of venturing any comment
on the situation he asked me if John
Trumbull had been in touch with
me during the last few days. When
I informed him to the contrary he
led me over to his truck, saying
he’d be glad to drop me at my
school door.
“But you can’t tell how this will
turn out,” I argued, “and if it’s go
ing to be dangerous I want to be
around.”
“That’s just when I don’t want
you around,” he said. “You’ve had
trouble enough in this valley."
“But it may mean danger for
you,” I persisted.
Our glances locked, for a mo
ment, and I could see a warmer
light well up in his eyes. His brief
laugh was both cool and self-confi
dent.
But when we stopped at Palmer
and he had a quiet look over the
towering supply piles along the sid
ing there his face took on a new se
riousness. For hidden under a lay
er of empty hemp bales, between
two piles of pine flooring, he found a
five-gallon can of gasoline. The con
tents of this can he quietly emp
tied into his truck tank. Then, aft
er a moment’s thought, he filled the
can with water. Making sure his
movements were unobserved, he re
stored the cap to the can and re
stored the can to its hiding place
under the hemp bales.
My pupils didn’t get the attention
they should have that day. There
was many a flicker, before the aft
ernoon wore away, in the lamp of
learning.
I was still in my classroom, after
the big yellow bus had carried away
the last of the children, when Sock-
Eye appeared in the doorway.
“I ain’t much of a hand at g’og
raphy,” he said as his bearlike eyes
blinked up at my wall map, “but
I’ve got me a homemade chart here
I’m needin’ a mess o' help on.”
He produced a soiled and rum
pled sheet of paper diversified with
many pencil-markings and placed it
on the desk top in front of me.
“What’s this?” I asked, trying in
vain to read some meaning into the
roughly penciled lines.
“That,” said Sock-Eye, "is a map
o’ Klondike Coburn’s claim on the
Chakitana as I kin best work it out.
That’s the mine, remember, that
ought t’ be yourn.”
“John Trumbull says it shouldn’t,'
I reminded him.
“And Sid Lander says it does,”
retorted Sock-Eye. “But I ain’t go
in' into that now, girlie. What I
want t’ check up on is where them
location stakes o’ your old pappy
ought to stand.” His stubby finger
pointed to a marking on the map.
“Here’s the Chakitana, and it ought
t’ be about here the Big Squaw
comes in. But I can’t Agger out
which side o’ that crick the Trum
bull outfit is anchored to.”
“I’m afraid I can’t help you
much,” I said. “You see, Sock-
Eye, I’ve never been there.”
“Then why ain’t you there now?”
demanded the old fire-eater.
“Because I’m needed here in the
valley,” I answered. "And Sidney
Lander’s supposed to be looking aft
er my claim.”
“Yes,” snapped Sock-Eye, “fuss
in’ round with these pie-eatin’ pikers
and waitin’ for a bunch of law
sharks t’ put in the final word. But
court rulin’s don’t git you nowhere,
back on the crieks.”
I sat looking at Sock-Eye until he
shifted a little uneasily under my
gaze. I was thinking, as I studied
his seamed old face, that he was so
misplaced in time that he was pa
thetic. He impressed me, for all
his bristlings of belligerency, as
childishly helpless before the newer
forces crowding in on his trail He
made me think of a cumbersomely
armored turtle, overconfident of his
safety as he ambles along a motor
highway between the flashing wheels
of change that could so easily crush
him.
“What’s right or wrong," I final
ly observed, “isn’t decided by gun
powder.”
Sock-Eye’s laugh was brief and
raucous.
"More’n once, girlie, I’ve seen it
blow a short cut t’ the seat o’ jus
tice,” he. said as he patted the worn
leather of his gun holster. "And
this valley wouldn’t be where she is
if she could rouse up a leather
slapper or two t’ straighten her out.”
The desolate old figure took a bite
of plug tobacco, chewed vigorously,
and spat into the stove front. “Filled
with a mess o’ women and gas cars
that ain’t needed here.”
“The trouble with you,” I sug
gested, “is that you’ve lived too long
alone.”
Sock-Eye looked at me with the
kingly scorn of the unmated male.
“Because I never got me a wom
an?” he demanded.
“If you want to put it that way,”
I acceded.
Still again Sock-Eye spat adroitly
into the stove front.
“I ain’t had trade nor truck with
’em for forty odd years," he
averred. “And I guess I’ll git along
without ’em to the last roundup. No,
ma’am, I ain’t succumbed t’ the
plumb loco idee a shack ain’t a
home unless there’s a female fussin'
round the dough-crock.”
“What can you do?” I asked.
Sock-Eye chuckled in his leathacy
old throat.
(TO BE CONTINUED)