It was not until he discovered a crook in a little finger，caused by an unset breakage of years before， that he knewhimself to be Marcus O’Brien. On the instant his pastrushed into his consciousness. When he discovered ablood-blister under a thumb-nail， which he had receivedthe previous week， his self-identification became doublysure， and he knew that those unfamiliar hands belonged toMarcus O’Brien， or， just as much to the point， that MarcusO’Brien belonged to the hands. His first thought was thathe was ill—that he had had river fever. It hurt him somuch to open his eyes that he kept them closed. A smallfloating branch struck the boat a sharp rap. He thought itwas some one knocking on the cabin door， and said， “Comein.” He waited for a while， and then said testily， “Stay out，then， damn you.” But just the same he wished they wouldcome in and tell him about his illness.
But as he lay there， the past night began to reconstructitself in his brain. He hadn’t been sick at all， was histhought； he had merely been drunk， and it was time forhim to get up and go to work. Work suggested his mine，and he remembered that he had refused ten thousanddollars for it. He sat up abruptly and squeezed open hiseyes. He saw himself in a boat， floating on the swollenbrown flood of the Yukon. The spruce-covered shores andislands were unfamiliar. He was stunned for a time. Hecouldn’t make it out. He could remember the last night’sorgy， but there was no connection between that and hispresent situation.
He closed his eyes and held his aching head in hishands. What had happened？ Slowly the dreadful thoughtarose in his mind. He fought against it， strove to driveit away， but it persisted： he had killed somebody. Thatalone could explain why he was in an open boat driftingdown the Yukon. The law of Red Cow that he had so longadministered had now been administered to him. He hadkilled some one and been set adrift. But whom？ He rackedhis aching brain for the answer， but all that came was avague memory of bodies falling upon him and of strikingout at them. Who were they？ Maybe he had killed morethan one. He reached to his belt. The knife was missingfrom its sheath. He had done it with that undoubtedly.
But there must have been some reason for the killing. Heopened his eyes and in a panic began to search about theboat. There was no grub， not an ounce of grub. He satdown with a groan. He had killed without provocation.
The extreme rigour of the law had been visited upon him.
For half an hour he remained motionless， holding hisaching head and trying to think. Then he cooled hisstomach with a drink of water from overside and feltbetter. He stood up， and alone on the wide-stretchingYukon， with naught but the primeval wilderness to hear，he cursed strong drink. After that he tied up to a hugefloating pine that was deeper sunk in the current than theboat and that consequently drifted faster. He washed hisface and hands， sat down in the stern-sheets， and did somemore thinking. It was late in June. It was two thousandmiles to Bering Sea. The boat was averaging five miles anhour. There was no darkness in such high latitudes at thattime of the year， and he could run the river every hour ofthe twenty-four. This would mean， daily， a hundred andtwenty miles. Strike out the twenty for accidents， andthere remained a hundred miles a day. In twenty dayshe would reach Bering Sea. And this would involve noexpenditure of energy； the river did the work. He could liedown in the bottom of the boat and husband his strength.
For two days he ate nothing. Then， drifting into theYukon Flats， he went ashore on the low-lying islands andgathered the eggs of wild geese and ducks. He had nomatches， and ate the eggs raw. They were strong， but theykept him going. When he crossed the Arctic Circle， hefound the Hudson Bay Company’s post. The brigade hadnot yet arrived from the Mackenzie， and the post wascompletely out of grub. He was offered wild-duck eggs，but he informed them that he had a bushel of the sameon the boat. He was also offered a drink of whisky， whichhe refused with an exhibition of violent repugnance.
He got matches， however， and after that he cookedhis eggs. Toward the mouth of the river head-windsdelayed him， and he was twenty-four days on the eggdiet. Unfortunately， while asleep he had drifted by boththe missions of St. Paul and Holy Cross. And he couldsincerely say， as he afterward did， that talk about missionson the Yukon was all humbug. There weren’t any missions，and he was the man to know.
Once on Bering Sea he exchanged the egg diet for sealdiet， and he never could make up his mind which he likedleast. In the fall of the year he was rescued by a UnitedStates revenue cutter， and the following winter he madequite a hit in San Francisco as a temperance lecturer.
In this field he found his vocation. “Avoid the bottle” ishis slogan and battle-cry. He manages subtly to conveythe impression that in his own life a great disaster waswrought by the bottle. He has even mentioned the lossof a fortune that was caused by that hell-bait of the devil，but behind that incident his listeners feel the loom ofsome terrible and unguessed evil for which the bottle isresponsible. He has made a success in his vocation， andhas grown grey and respected in the crusade against strongdrink. But on the Yukon the passing of Marcus O’Brienremains tradition. It is a mystery that ranks at par withthe disappearance of Sir John Franklin.
