The God of His Fathers and Other Stories HTML version

At The Rainbow's End
It was for two reasons that Montana Kid discarded his "chaps" and Mexican spurs, and
shook the dust of the Idaho ranges from his feet. In the first place, the encroachments of a
steady, sober, and sternly moral civilization had destroyed the primeval status of the
western cattle ranges, and refined society turned the cold eye of disfavor upon him and
his ilk. In the second place, in one of its cyclopean moments the race had arisen and
shoved back its frontier several thousand miles. Thus, with unconscious foresight, did
mature society make room for its adolescent members. True, the new territory was mostly
barren; but its several hundred thousand square miles of frigidity at least gave breathing
space to those who else would have suffocated at home.
Montana Kid was such a one. Heading for the sea-coast, with a haste several sheriff's
posses might possibly have explained, and with more nerve than coin of the realm, he
succeeded in shipping from a Puget Sound port, and managed to survive the contingent
miseries of steerage sea-sickness and steerage grub. He was rather sallow and drawn, but
still his own indomitable self, when he landed on the Dyea beach one day in the spring of
the year. Between the cost of dogs, grub, and outfits, and the customs exactions of the
two clashing governments, it speedily penetrated to his understanding that the Northland
was anything save a poor man's Mecca. So he cast about him in search of quick harvests.
Between the beach and the passes were scattered many thousands of passionate pilgrims.
These pilgrims Montana Kid proceeded to farm. At first he dealt faro in a pine-board
gambling shack; but disagreeable necessity forced him to drop a sudden period into a
man's life, and to move on up trail. Then he effected a corner in horseshoe nails, and they
circulated at par with legal tender, four to the dollar, till an unexpected consignment of a
hundred barrels or so broke the market and forced him to disgorge his stock at a loss.
After that he located at Sheep Camp, organized the professional packers, and jumped the
freight ten cents a pound in a single day. In token of their gratitude, the packers
patronized his faro and roulette layouts and were mulcted cheerfully of their earnings.
But his commercialism was of too lusty a growth to be long endured; so they rushed him
one night, burned his shanty, divided the bank, and headed him up the trail with empty
Ill-luck was his running mate. He engaged with responsible parties to run whisky across
the line by way of precarious and unknown trails, lost his Indian guides, and had the very
first outfit confiscated by the Mounted Police. Numerous other misfortunes tended to
make him bitter of heart and wanton of action, and he celebrated his arrival at Lake
Bennett by terrorizing the camp for twenty straight hours. Then a miners' meeting took
him in hand, and commanded him to make himself scarce. He had a wholesome respect
for such assemblages, and he obeyed in such haste that he inadvertently removed himself
at the tail-end of another man's dog team. This was equivalent to horse- stealing in a more
mellow clime, so he hit only the high places across Bennett and down Tagish, and made
his first camp a full hundred miles to the north.