OLD EMPRESS HOTEL

Fully Licensed

LOUIE ROSS, Proprietor

Prince Rupert, B.C.

out of the shaft proved to be a keen dis-
appointment. There was not a speck of
gold in it. Dejectedly, the pair trudged
down the mountain to the cabin of their
benefactors to tell them the bad news. The
effect of their statement on the two miners
was startling.

“Gravel? You say you hit gravel way
up there?”

“No, no. It’s not gravel they have hit,”

said the elder miner. “It’s shale rock,
that’s what it is.”
The following morning the miners

from the creek toiled up the mountain-
side to have a look. Sure enough, the
bottom of the shaft had reached a gravel
bar. This was startling indeed. The ten-
derfeet were told to go on sinking and on
no account to mention this discovery at
store or roadhouse or to passing miners.

The claim on the creek was all but
abandoned, the owners watching the pans
brought up after every thaw. Light flakes
of gold were now appearing in almost
every pan, but not enough for pay dirt.

From eight feet below the first gravel
layer a pan was brought into the cabin
to be washed. By the flickering light of
a candle, the four miners watched the
swirling circular motion whisk away the
light dirt and leave the gleaming gold
threads in the black silt. This was but
the beginning. Succeeding pans were
richer. Pay-dirt at last.

The men were jubilant. The old timers
confessed to their trick on the cheechacos.
The tenderfeet roared along with them.
That very night they set out to rouse
their friends, to stake claims and to cele-
brate.

‘Cheechaco Hill’ changed the prospect-
ing methods of the Klondike. Creek bot-
toms were not the only places sought after.
The find there proved that ‘gold is where
you find it.’ Claims were staked in the
most unlikely places. One wit blazing a
tree with the claim for ‘25 feet straight
up in the air, for climbing purposes.’
THE NAMING OF LAST CHANCE

CREEK
There is a world of colour and glamour

in the names used in the Yukon: the
nick-names, the saloon names and_ the

WINTER EDITION

names of the creeks, placers and passes.
Most of these have some basis in fact,
some incident that has resulted in the title
being applied.

About fifteen miles back in the hills
from Dawson City, a little creek tumbles
into the much-travelled Hunker Creek.
Its name is “Last Chance’. At the height
of the gold rush a roadhouse, complete
with saloon, was the rendezvous of many
of the prospectors from the hills. It was
called the ‘Last Chance’ saloon, the last
chance for a drink before hitting the trail
for the diggings.

It was ‘Old Yank’ who had named the
creek and incidently the saloon. Joe
Chronister was his full name, but no one
knew that. He had travelled the contin-
ent over in search of gold. He would
yarn by the hour about Arizona, Nevada
and Montana. ‘Old Yank’ was nearing
the end of his prospecting days and often

found it much easier to yarn than to pan.
His knarled old hands were calloused and
twisted from years of weilding pick and
axe in the frozen north and in the heat
of the deserts.

Naturally a garrulous soul, he hailed
with a stentorian shout the little party
that appeared in the valley he was pros-
pecting at the time. Peering through the
haze of smoke from his ground fire, he
made out three in the party.

“Hi, there, strangers,” he called.

“Hello, old timer,” the man who seemed
to be the leader, greeted ‘Old Yank. The
other two were Indians, the leader a half-
breed.

“Heading for the coast?” asked the old
fellow. “Travellin’ light ain’t ye?” he
went on as he noticed the lack of pros-
pectors’ packs in the party.

“Fish salmon on Klondike,” laconically

replied the breed. “What you find here?”

Atlin Detachment, 1898. Here is the interior of the Chief Constable's office. From left to right:
Const. Harry Heal, Mrs. J. Clay, well known mining woman, and Chief Constable E. A. Desbrisay.

Page Forty-seven