Billy Bird's Yarn - The Last Best West

Billy Bird was a disheveled looking wretch who needed a bath. He had the red eyes of a long time drunk, but damn if the man didn't carry himself with a certain swagger. He sat beside Poke with a flourish and helped himself to a drink.

They watched as the old Indian calmly poured himself a glass of whiskey, not hurriedly like most drunks do. The man drank it slowly and helped himself to another. Willie was about to say something, but Pokinow silenced him with a glare: He could see that the old prospector was ready to start his well-told story.

"Yer know, the color of the stream that day was clear as a glacier. It sparkled and gurgled as we reached down into the creek bed and pulled out the yellow lumps. The water was freezin' cold, but we didn't care, Swiftwater Jim said the white men back in civilization, would pay dearly for the yellow metal. Then the white man brought his civilization to us. Soon there was whites everywhere and our valleys became mud pits, filt with smoke and noise."

Billy Bird's sad, bloodshot eyes burned with the truth of his story. Pokinow glanced around the table, Willie and Carl were deeply interested in the Indian's words, as the old man gulped another shot of liquor and continued.

"Swiftwater Jim wanted to build a hotel and start a town, so we 'eaded off to Nome to buy all the gear. We had gold everywhere--in our pockets and old socks, piled in our traveling bags. We brought dang near 20,000 dollars in nuggets with us, and this is all I got left."

Billy dropped a small nugget, maybe half an ounce in weight, in Pokinow's hand. He rolled the nugget around in his hand, surprised at the heaviness of such a small pebble. It felt good in his hand. Billy Bird poured and gulped another shot of liquor. Poke grabbed the booze and placed it on the other side of the table. "So, where'd this all happen Billy?"

"Up in the Yukon," Billy replied, his speech slightly slurred, "on the Klondike River."

"How'd yer end up in Seattle?"

Billy licked his lips, "Well, ol' Swiftwater sent me to buy all the best trappings fer a hotel. A crystal chandelier, a grand piano, drapes and. . . ."

Poke could see where this was going. “. . . And you drank all your loot.” He turned to Willie, “You got a notion where this Klondike River is?”

Willie nodded, "I think so." He stared at the old man, "Billy; how far up the Yukon River from Alaska, is the Klondike?"

Billy Bird thought for a moment, "'Tis about a hundred and twenty miles."

Pokinow smiled excitedly as he looked around the table; everyone's face was alert and intense. He could see that the Klondike was where the action was, and if he'd never heard of the Yukon before, hell, the Yukon likely never heard about him.

He thoughtfully pulled on his cigarette, his mind putting it all together. They could always come back to Seattle, and buy or build a hotel. A moment later his mind was made up. He winked at Red Crow. "Well Willie, you reckon we should strike out fer the Yukon?"

"You bet." Willie smiled, "I were wonderin'’ how long before you'd cave in. The whole city's gone frantic with gold fever."

"Hell pards," Pokinow laughed, "we can have a hotel there – what’d you say the name of that gold town were Billy?!”

“Dawson City. . .me and me partners. . .Swift. . . .”

“That’s right!” Poke agreed, “Dawson City. We’ll have us a fine old time and who knows, could be we'll strike it rich, just like ol' Billy here."

He turned to Carl Strock, "What about you Carl, you up to coming to the Klondike?"

"Hell yes! “Carl exclaimed. “Someone's got to lend some class to this adventure. . . ."

"Well it won't be you Carl!" Countered Willie.

Poke turned back to the old Indian. "You said it was you and yore partners who made the first strike."

"That's right," Billy agreed, "me and Swiftwater Jim and my brother, Skookum Bob. Gold everywhere." Billy tried to reach across the table and get the bottle of Screech. Pokinow slid it further away and yelled over to the bartender.

"Hey Barkeep! Could yer send a pot of coffee over here, and four steak dinners. . .thanks." He winked at Billy Bird. "This is yore lucky day Billy, I'm going to buy yer dinner."

The old Indian leaned across the table and grabbed his arm. "Mister, if yer'd buy my passage and give me some pocket cash," Billy pleaded, "I'll pay yer back double in Dawson City."

Roberts shook off Billy's hand and sat back in his chair, actually considering the request. His hesitation spurred the old prospector on, "Come on mister. I'm a somebody in Dawson City. My partner, Swiftwater Jim, and I started that boomtown and I still got part of that gold claim. I'm a somebody mister, you'll get yore money."

Pokinow looked at the derelict old drunk, and then an insight popped in his head. This old fool's partner might be just the connection they needed to get in the middle of the action in that boomtown.

"All right Billy, your passage plus fifty bucks. You pay me double, as soon as we arrive, or you'll have a grave problem on your hands." He glared at Billy Bird, only to have the old Indian's face relax and a huge smile of relief wash across it.

"Oh, you bet. As soon as I get to the Swiftwater Hotel, you'll get yore money." Billy could hardly contain his excitement. "Now I can send Swiftwater Jim's telegram, and git that off me mind."

Pokinow was immediately on the alert. "What telegram?"

"The telegram that my partner, Swiftwater Jim, wanted me to send when I got to Seattle. I just remembered I had it, three weeks ago."

"You bin’ carrying this note around fer months," laughed Poke, "and yer just remembered it." He shook his head as he reached into his pocket and peeled off fifty dollars and slapped it on the table in front of Billy Bird. As the old Indian went to grab the bills, he slammed his hand onto the old man's.

"Two matters Billy, 'fore the deal's complete. I want that nugget of yours, and remember one thing." Pokinow squeezed the fingers of Billy's hand together, making the man go rigid with pain. "Don't yer ever cross me." He released the old man's hand and laughed, "Now gimme that nugget!"

Billy rubbed his hand, then reached into his vest pocket and gave Pokinow the nugget. "All right mister, fair is fair." Billy pulled himself out of his chair. "I'm gonna send that telegram now, 'fore the steaks show up." The old Indian calmly slid his chair back into the table, and then turned for the door.

Pokinow filled all their glasses and offered a toast. "To better days, boys, better days. . . ."

This is an excerpt from Chapter One of The Last Best West by Longfellow. Copyrite © 2002 All rights Reserved. No portion or part maybe reproduced by any physical, mechanical or electronic means. Please contact us at for further information or assistance.

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