The Promise
by James B. Hendryx · English · Gutenberg #23730 · 538,192 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: The Promise
Author: James B. Hendryx
Release date: December 4, 2007 [eBook #23730]
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/23730
Credits: Produced by K. Nordquist, Barbara Tozier and the Online
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PROMISE ***
Produced by K. Nordquist, Barbara Tozier and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
book was produced from scanned images of public domain
material from the Google Print project.)
Transcriber's Note: Minor typographical errors have been corrected
without note. Dialect spellings, contractions and discrepancies have
been retained.
THE PROMISE
A Tale of the Great Northwest
By
JAMES B. HENDRYX
A. L. BURT COMPANY
Publishers New York
Published by Arrangements with G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
COPYRIGHT, 1915
BY
JAMES B. HENDRYX
Seventh Impression
BY JAMES B. HENDRYX
The Promise
The Gun Brand
Connie Morgan in Alaska
Connie Morgan with the Northwest Mounted
This edition is issued under arrangement with the publishers
G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS, NEW YORK AND LONDON
The Knickerbocker Press, New York
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I.--THE PACE 1
II.--"BROADWAY BILL" 8
III.--THE FINAL KICK 17
IV.--LOVE OR HATE 26
V.--"THIEF!" 34
VI.--THE CROOKED GAME 39
VII.--THE WRECK 47
VIII.--NEW FRIENDS 53
IX.--BILL GETS A JOB 59
X.--NORTHWARD, HO! 65
XI.--BILL HITS THE TRAIL 72
XII.--THE TEST 83
XIII.--ON THE TOTE-ROAD 90
XIV.--AT BAY 99
XV.--THE WERWOLF 106
XVI.--MONCROSSEN 116
XVII.--A TWO-FISTED MAN 125
XVIII.--"BIRD'S-EYE" AND PHILOSOPHY 133
XIX.--A FRAME-UP 138
XX.--A FIRE IN THE NIGHT 147
XXI.--DADDY DUNNIGAN 161
XXII.--CREED SEES A GHOST 169
XXIII.--HEAD-LINES 178
XXIV.--THE LOG JAM 187
XXV.--"THE-MAN-WHO-CANNOT-DIE" 196
XXVI.--MAN OR TOY MAN? 209
XXVII.--JEANNE 217
XXVIII.--A PROPHECY 222
XXIX.--A BUCKSKIN HUNTING-SHIRT 230
XXX.--CREED 235
XXXI.--THE ROBE OF DIABLESSE 246
XXXII.--THE ONE GOOD WHITE MAN 253
XXXIII.--THE PROMISE 259
XXXIV.--THE NEW BOSS 263
XXXV.--A HUNTING PARTY 274
XXXVI.--TOLD ON THE TRAIL 282
XXXVII.--IN THE OFFICE 287
XXXVIII.--CHARLIE FINDS A FRIEND 296
XXXIX.--BILL'S WAY 306
XL.--CHARLIE GOES HUNTING 314
XLI.--THE BLIZZARD 319
XLII.--BUCKING THE STORM 326
XLIII.--IN CAMP AGAIN 338
XLIV.--THE MISSING BONDS 347
XLV.--SNOW-BOUND 358
XLVI.--AN ANNOUNCEMENT 366
XLVII.--MONCROSSEN PAYS A VISIT 374
XLVIII.--THE WEDDING 382
XLIX.--ON THE RIVER 391
L.--FACE TO FACE 399
LI.--THE PROMISE FULFILLED 406
LII.--THE BIG MAN 415
THE PROMISE
CHAPTER I
THE PACE
Young Carmody awoke to the realization of another day.
The sun of mid-forenoon cast a golden rhombus on the thick carpet, and
through the open windows the autumnal air, stirred by just the
suspicion of a breeze, was wafted deliciously cool against his burning
cheeks and throbbing temples.
He gazed about the familiar confines of the room in puffy-eyed
stupidity.
There was a burning thirst at his throat, and he moistened his dry lips
with a bitter-coated tongue. His mouth was lined with a brown slime of
dead liquor, which nauseated him and sent the dull ache to his head in
great throbbing waves.
Upon a beautifully done mahogany table near the door stood a silver
pitcher filled to the brim with clear, cold ice-water. It seemed miles
away, and, despite the horrible thirst that gnawed at his throat, he
lay for many minutes in dull contemplation of its burnished coolness.
The sodden condition of his imagination distorted his sense of
proportion. The journey across the room loomed large in the scheme of
things. It was a move of moment, to be undertaken not lightly, but
after due and proper deliberation.
He threw off the covers and placed a tentative foot upon the floor.
A groan escaped him as his right hand brushed the counterpane. Gingerly
he brought the member within range of his vision--it was swollen to the
wrist and smeared with dried blood, which had oozed from an ugly split
in the tight-drawn skin. Slowly he worked the fingers and frowned--more
in perplexity than distress--at the sharp pain of the stiffened
knuckles.
He crossed to the table and, springing the silver catch of a tiny door,
cunningly empaneled in the wall, selected from the cellaret a
long-necked, cut-glass decanter, from which he poured a liberal drink.
The sight of it sickened him, and for an instant he stood contemplating
the little beads that rushed upward and ranged themselves in a
sparkling semicircle along the curve of the liquor-line.
"The hair of the dog is good for the bite," he muttered, and with an
effort closed his eyes and conveyed the stuff jerkily to his lips. Part
of the contents spilled over his fingers and splashed upon the polished
table-top. As the diffused odor reached his nostrils a wave of nausea
swept over him. With a shudder he drained the glass at a gulp and
groped blindly for the water-pitcher, from which he greedily swallowed
great quantities of ice-water.
He paused before a tall pier-glass and surveyed himself through
bloodshot eyes. The telephone upon the opposite wall emitted a
peremptory ring. Young Carmody turned with a frown of annoyance. He
ignored the summons and carefully scrutinized his damaged hand.
His brain was rapidly clearing and, from out the tangled maze of
dancing girls, popping corks, and hilarious, dress-suited men, loomed
large the picture of a policeman. Just how it all happened he could not
recollect. He must see the boys and get the straight of it.
His mirrored image grinned at the recollection of the officer, the
quick, hard-struck blow, and the hysterical screams and laughter of the
girls as they were seized in the strong arms of their companions,
rushed across the sidewalk, and swung bodily into the waiting taxis.
_B-r-r-r-r-r. B-r-r-r-r-r-r. B-r-r-r-r-r!_ Again the telephone bell cut
short his musing. There was a compelling insistency in the sound and,
with a muttered imprecation, he jerked the receiver from the hook.
"Well?" he growled. "Yes, this is William Carmody. Oh, hello, governor!
I will be right down. I overslept this morning. Stay where I am! Why?
All right, I'll wait."
"Now what?" he murmured. "The old gentleman seems peeved."
After a cold bath and a vigorous rub he began leisurely to dress. His
eyes cleared and he noted with satisfaction that aside from a slight
pouchiness, and the faint mottling of red that blotched his cheeks, all
traces of the previous night's orgy had disappeared. True his hand
pained him, but he had neatly mended the split with plaster and the
swelling had, in a great measure, yielded to the cold water.
"Getting fat," he grunted, as he noticed the increasing heaviness at
his girth. "Fat and soft," he added, as a huge muscle yielded under the
grip of his strong fingers.
In college this man had pulled the stroke oar of his crew, and on the
gridiron had become a half-back of national renown. By the end of his
second year no amateur could be found who would willingly face him with
the gloves, and upon several occasions, under a carefully guarded
sobriquet, he had given a good account of himself against some of the
foremost professionals of the squared circle. He was a man of mighty
muscles, of red blood, and of iron, to whom the strain and sweat of
physical encounter were the breath of life.
He wondered as he carefully selected a tie, at the strange request he
had received at the telephone. He glanced at the French clock on the
mantel. His father, he knew, had been at his desk these two hours.
They had little in common--these two. After the death of his young
wife, years before, Hiram Carmody had surrounded himself with a barrier
of imperturbability beyond which even his son never ventured. Cold and
unyielding, men called him--a twentieth century automaton of big
business. Rarely, outside of banking hours, did the two meet. Never but
once did they hold extended conversation. It was upon the occasion of
the younger man's return from a year's Continental travel that his
father summoned him and, with an air of impersonal finality, laid out
his life work. The time had come for him to settle down to business. In
regard to the nature of this business, or any choice he might have in
the matter, William was not consulted. As a matter of course, being a
Carmody, he was to enter the bank. His official position was that of
messenger. His salary, six dollars a week, his private allowance, one
hundred. And thus he was dismissed.
It cannot be chronicled that young Carmody was either surprised or
disappointed at thus being assigned to a career. In truth, up to that
time he had thought very little of the future and made no plans. He
realized in a vague sort of way that some time he would engage in
business; therefore, upon receipt of the paternal edict he merely
looked bored, shrugged, and with a perfunctory, "Yes, sir," quit the
room without comment.
He entered upon his duties stoically and without enthusiasm. At the end
of a year his salary had increased to twelve dollars a week, and his
sphere of usefulness enlarged to embrace the opening and sorting of
mail. The monotony of the life palled upon him. He attended to his
duties with dogged persistence and in the evenings haunted the
gymnasiums. His athletic superiority was soon demonstrated and after a
time, neither in the ring nor on the mat could he find an opponent
worthy the name.
More and more he turned for diversion toward the white lights of
Broadway. Here was amusement, excitement--life! He became immensely
popular among certain of the faster set and all unconsciously found
himself pitted against the most relentless foeman of them all--John
Barleycorn.
Gradually the personnel of his friends changed. Less and less
frequently did he appear at the various social functions of the Avenue,
and more and more did he enter into the spirit of the Great White Way.
On every hand he was hailed as "Bill Carmody," and by the great force
of his personality maintained his universal popularity. Many smiled at
the rumors of his wild escapades--some even envied--a few frowned. If
his father knew he kept his own council--it was his way.
Only one warned him. Ethel Manton, beautiful, imperious, and altogether
desirable, with just the suspicion of a challenge in her daringly
flashing eyes, was the one person in all the world that Bill Carmody
loved. And loving her, he set her high upon a pedestal and entered the
lists with all the ardor of his being. His was the love of desire--the
love of a strong man for his mate, bringing out by turns all that was
best and worst in him.
Yet she remained cold--this girl of his golden dreams. Only at rare
intervals did she unbend and allow him a fleeting glimpse of her very
soul. At such times her eyes grew tender and she seemed very near to
him--and very dear. And then he would tell her of his great love, and
always her answer was the same: She would marry no man who was content
to live upon an allowance. He must make good--must win to the fore in
the business world as he had won in the athletic. And above all he must
forswear the pace!
In vain he explained that business held no interest for him; that it
was no man's game, but a sordid struggle of wits for the amassing of
unneeded gold. In vain he argued that his father, already rich, would,
in the event of their marriage, settle a large amount upon them in
their own right. In answer to her reference to his habits he would
laugh. He was not afraid; _there_ was a man's game!
Of course, once married, all that would be changed. But, pshaw; it is
all in a lifetime! And then he would lightly promise to mend his
ways--a promise that was forgotten within the hour. What do women know
of a strong man's play?
But one woman did know, and, knowing, cared.
CHAPTER II
"BROADWAY BILL"
William Carmody had scarcely completed his careful grooming when, with
a tap at the door, his father entered, closely followed by a rather
burly individual in citizen's clothing, whose jaw was correctly and
artistically swathed in bandages.
The two advanced a few paces into the room and paused. Father and son
regarded each other in silence. At length the older man spoke:
"Where were you last night?"
William flushed at the tone and cast an inquiring glance at the man in
bandages, who awkwardly shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
His father motioned him to proceed.
"I was out with a bunch from Philly. Chesterton, '05; Burke, '03;
little Hammond, '06; and old Busk Brater, star guard of the
naughty-naughts."
"Drunk, were you?" The words sounded coldly impersonal, and the tone
showed no surprise.
"Why, no, that is, I wouldn't exactly say----" his father silenced him
with a gesture.
"Did you ever see this man before?"
William scrutinized the other carefully.
"I think not."
"Oh, you hain't, eh?"
The man's awkwardness disappeared, he advanced a step and it was
evident that he spoke with difficulty.
"How about last night in front of Shanley's? Guess you wasn't there,
eh? Guess I just dreamt about a bunch of souses turkey-trottin' along
the sidewalk? I'd of stood for it, at that, but the girls got to
pullin' it too raw even for Broadway.
"I know'd you by sight an' started in to give you the tip to put the
soft pedal on the wiggle stuff, when, zowie! I guess you didn't reach
out an' soak me--a cop!" He tapped the bandage upon the aggressively
advanced jaw.
"Maybe the Times Building just tangoed across the square an' fell on
me!" he went on with ponderous sarcasm. "An' that ain't all; when I
gathers myself up, here's the tail-lights of a couple of taxis
disappearin' into Forty-fourth Street, an' the crowd laughin' an'
joshin' me somethin' fierce. I guess I dreamt that, too, eh?
"An' that ain't the worst of it. Down to headquarters I draws a
thirty-day space--without! An' then, again, I guess they'll shove me
right along for promotion on top of this. Not! I tell you I'm in bad
all the ways around, with the whole force passin' me the grin an'
askin' me have I saw Broadway Bill lately? An' in comes the inspector
this mornin' with an order when I came back on, to report to McClusky,
up in Harlem, an' help shoo the goats away from eatin' up the new
sidewalks in front of the five-dollar-instalment lots.
"Nice kettle of fish for me, that was in line for a lieut. I ain't
layin' it up again' you so much for the jolt; you're sure there with
the punch, nor for the thirty-day space, neither, though with my family
I can't afford that none. But, damn it, kid, you've broke me! With this
here again' me I'll never be a lieut in a thousand years. I'm done!"
During the recital, the officer's voice lost its belligerent tone. He
spoke as man to man, with no hint of self-pity. Young Carmody was
honestly sorry. Here was a man who, in the act of giving him a friendly
warning, had been felled by a brutal and unexpected blow. A hot blush
of shame reddened his cheeks. He was about to speak but was interrupted
by the voice of his father.
The old man seemed suddenly to have aged. His fine features, always
pallid, appeared a shade paler. Gone was the arrogant poise of the head
which for forty years had dominated boards of directors. The square-set
shoulders drooped wearily, and in the eyes was the tired, dumb look of
a beaten man.
"Officer, it seems hardly necessary for me to express my thanks for the
consideration you have shown in coming directly to me with this
matter," he said at last. "Had you been so inclined you could have
stirred up a nasty mess of it, and no one would have blamed you."
He stepped to a small table and, seating himself, produced check-book
and pen.
"I trust this will reimburse you for any financial loss you may have
incurred by reason of this most unfortunate affair," he went on; "and
as for the rest, leave that to me. I have, I believe, some little
influence at headquarters, and I shall personally call upon the
inspector."
The officer glanced at the slip of paper which the other thrust into
his hand. It was written in four figures. He looked up. Something in
the old man's attitude--the unspoken pain in the eyes--the pathetic
droop of the shoulders, struck a responsive chord in the heart of the
officer.
Impulsively he extended the hand in which the check remained unfolded.
"Here, Mr. Carmody, I can't take your money. You didn't get me right. I
start out to knife you for what I can get, an' you wind up by treatin'
me white. It wasn't your fault, nohow, an' I didn't know how you felt
about--things."
There may have been just the shadow of a smile at the corners of Hiram
Carmody's mouth as he waved a dismissal.
"We will consider the incident closed," he said.
At the door the officer turned to the younger man, who had been a
silent listener.
"It's a pity to waste yourself that way. It's a punk game, kid, take it
from me--they don't last! Where's your Broadway Bills of ten years ago?
Stop an' think, kid. Where are they at?"
"My God," he muttered, as he passed down the broad stairway, "how many
old fathers in New York is hidin' their feelin's behind a bold front,
an' at the same time eatin' their hearts out with worry for their boys!
An' folks callin' _them_ good fellows!
"Money ain't everything in this here world, after all," he added, as
his gaze traveled over the paintings and tapestries that lined the
great hall.
Above stairs an uncomfortable atmosphere of constraint settled upon
father and son. Both felt the awkwardness of the situation.
Young Carmody was a man with a heart as warm as his ways were wild. His
was an impulsive nature which acted upon first impressions. Loving
alike a fight or a frolic, he entered into either with a zest that made
of them events to be remembered. He glanced across to where his father
stood beside the table toying with a jade ink-well, and noted the
unwonted droop of the shoulders and the unfamiliar gaze of the gray
eyes in which the look of arrogance had dulled almost to softness--a
pathetic figure, standing there in his own house--alone--unloved--a
stranger to his only son.
The boy saw for the first time, not the banker, the dictator of high
finance--but the _man_. Could it be that here was something he had
missed? That through the long years since the death of his wife, the
sweet-faced mother whom the boy remembered so vividly, this strange,
inscrutable old man had craved the companionship of his son--had loved
him?
At that moment, had the elder man spoken the word--weakened, he would
have called it--the course of lives would have been changed. But the
moment passed. Hiram Carmody's shoulders squared to their accustomed
set, and his eyes hardened as he regarded his son.
"Well?" The word rang harsh, with a rising inflection that stung. The
younger man made no reply and favored the speaker with a level stare.
"And _you_ a Carmody!"
"Yes, I am a Carmody! But, thank God, I am only half Carmody! It is no
fault of mine that I bear the Carmody name! At heart I am a McKim!"
The young man's eyes narrowed, and the words flashed defiantly from his
lips. The shaft struck home. It was true. From the boy's babyhood the
father had realized it with fear in his heart.
The beautiful, dashing girl he had wooed so long ago; had married, and
had loved more deeply than she ever knew, was Eily McKim, descendant of
the long line of Fighting McKims, whose men-children for five hundred
years had loomed large in the world-wars of nations. Men of red blood
and indomitable courage--these, who pursued war for the very love of
the game, and who tasted blood in every clime, and under the flag of
every nation. Hard-riding, hard-drinking, hard-fighting cavaliers, upon
whose deeds and adventures the staid, circumspect Carmodys looked
aghast. And this girl-wife, whose soft eyes and gentle nature had won
his love, had borne him a son, and by some freak of atavism had
transmitted to him the turbulent spirit of the Fighting McKims.
Again the old man spoke, and his voice was the voice that Wall Street
knew--and feared.
"I suppose you are well pleased with yourself. You are referred to as
one of 'a bunch of souses.' You were 'pulling it too raw even for
Broadway.' You are known to fame as 'Broadway Bill.' You are a sport!
You, and your college friends. And last night you achieved the crowning
success of your career--you 'soaked a cop'! You, the last of a line of
men, who for a hundred years have dominated the finances of a nation!
You, the last of the Carmodys, are Broadway Bill, _the sport!_"
The biting scorn of his father's tone was not lost upon the younger
man, who paled to the lips.
"Where are the securities you were supposed to have delivered to
Strang, Liebhardt & Co.?"
"Here, in my desk. I intended to deliver them on my way to the bank
this morning. The boys blew in yesterday and it was up to me to show
them around a bit."
"I will relieve you of the securities. The deal with Strang, Liebhardt
& Co. is off. It depended upon the delivery of those bonds during
banking hours yesterday."
Without a word William crossed to the desk and, withdrawing a packet
sealed in a heavy manila envelope, handed it to his father.
"The bank no longer requires your services," went on the old man
coldly. "That a Carmody should prove himself absolutely untrustworthy
and unreliable is beyond my ken. I do not intend to take you to task
for your manner of living. It is a course many have chosen with varying
results. You have made your bed--now lie in it. I need only say that I
am bitterly disappointed in my son. Henceforth we are strangers.
"Here is my personal check for ten thousand dollars. That is the last
cent of Carmody money you will receive. Properly invested it will yield
you a competence. Many men have builded fortunes upon less. As pocket
money for a Broadway Bill it will soon be squandered."
Mechanically the younger man picked up the check from the table.
"I think, sir," he answered, "that you have succeeded in making
yourself perfectly clear. As a Carmody, I am a failure. You spoke of an
investment. I am about to make one of which any McKim would approve."
With slow, deliberate movements he tore the check into tiny pieces and
scattered them upon the carpet. "I shall leave your house," he
continued, meeting the other's gaze squarely, "without a dollar of
Carmody money, but with ten thousand dollars' worth of McKim
self-respect. Good-by."
There was a note of cold finality in those last two words and the elder
Carmody involuntarily extended his hand. He quitted the room abruptly
as the boy, ignoring the civility, turned away.
An hour later William walked hurriedly down the steps of the Carmody
mansion and, with never a backward glance, hailed a taxi and was
whirled rapidly uptown.
CHAPTER III
THE FINAL KICK
It was Saturday, and Ethel Manton was lunching early that she might
accompany her fifteen-year-old brother on a ride through the park.
A certain story in the morning paper arrested her attention, and she
reread it with flushed face and tightening lips. It was well done, as
newspaper stories go, this account of a lurid night on Broadway which
wound up in a crescendo of brilliance with the flooring of a policeman.
No names were mentioned, but the initiated who read between the lines
knew that only one man could have pulled off the stunt and gotten by
with it.
"For goodness' sake, Eth, aren't you ever going to finish? You'll waste
the whole afternoon over that old paper!"
Young Charlie had bolted his luncheon and waited impatiently in a deep
window-seat overlooking the park. His sister laid down the paper with a
sigh.
"Are the horses ready?" She asked the question in a dull, listless
tone, so unlike her usual self that even Charlie noticed.
"Gee! You don't seem very keen about it. And look what a day! You look
like you were going to a funeral."
Before the girl could reply he turned again to the window: "Look, a
taxi is stopping and somebody is getting out. Oh, it's Bill Carmody!
Ain't he a crackerjack, though? Say, Eth, why don't you marry Bill?
He's just crazy about you--everybody says so, and----"
"Charlie!" The word was jerked out hysterically, and the boy was
puzzled at the crimson of her face.
"Well, I don't care, it's so! And then I'd be a brother-in-law to Bill
Carmody! Why, he can lick everybody down to the gym. He put on the
gloves with _me_ once," he boasted, swelling visibly, "just sparring,
you know; but he promised to teach me the game. And football! There
never was a half-back like Bill Carmody! Why he----"
"Do hush! He might hear you. Run along, now. You ride on and I will
overtake you. I--I must see Mr. Carmody alone."
"_Mr._ Carmody! So you two have had a scrap! Well, if I was a girl, and
Bill Carmody wanted to marry _me_, you bet, I'd marry him before he got
a chance to change his mind. You bet, when I grow up I'm going to be
just like him--so there!"
The boy flounced defiantly out of the room, leaving the girl alone with
a new fear.
Since the death of her parents she had bravely and capably undertaken
the management of the household, and her chief care was this impulsive
boy who was so dear to her heart.
"Look after Charlie as long as he shall need you." The words of her
dying mother came to her vividly. "He is really a noble little
fellow--but hard to manage."
And now, added to the sorrow that already seemed crushing her, was this
new anxiety.
Charlie had set up an idol--and the fact that his idol was also her
idol--although she never admitted it--struck fear to her heart. For the
undiscerning eyes of the boy were blind to the feet of clay.
In the library across the hall, William Carmody paced nervously up and
down, pausing at each turn to gaze abstractedly out of the window.
After what seemed an interminable wait, the portieres parted and the
girl stepped into the room. In her hand she carried a carefully folded
newspaper. She crossed to the table and, regarding the man with a cold,
disconcerting stare, waited for him to speak.
"Hello, Ethel! No, thank you, I have had luncheon. I----" His gaze
encountered the unwavering blue eyes, and he suddenly dropped the air
of flippant assurance. "Er, I came to see you," he added lamely.
"Yes?" There was little of encouragement in the word with its
accompanying inflection.
"You see, I am leaving New York."
"Indeed?"
"Yes, I am going away." He paused, but receiving no answer, continued,
"I am going away to--to make good. And I came to say good-by. When I
return, if--if you are still free, I will have something to tell
you--something I have often told you before, but--well, things will be
different, then."
"I suppose you said good-by to your _other_ friends last night?" Her
glance rested for a moment on the folded newspaper, and the silky sneer
of her retort was brutal--with the studied brutality of the female of
the species who would inflict pain. The man winced under its sting.
"Last night cannot be recalled," he replied gravely. "Whatever happened
then is past and gone. You are right; figuratively speaking, I _have_
said good-by to the others--to Broadway, and all it stands for. You
alone know of my going. I am making no promises. If I fail no one will
know--nor care. When I make good I will return--and then----"
The girl looked up. Their glances met, and in the depths of the steady
gray eyes the soft blue ones read purpose--unflinching purpose to fight
and win for the glory of an infinite love.
Her eyes dropped. She felt the hot blood mount to her face under the
compelling magnetism of his gaze. She loved this man. In all the world
no other could so move her. She loved--yet feared him. The very
strength of him--the overmastering force of his personality--his
barbaric disregard of conventionality at once attracted and frightened
her.
In that moment she knew, deep down in her heart, that if this man
should take her in his arms and hold her close against the throbbing of
his great heart, his lips find hers, and should he pour into her ears
the pent-up torrent of his love, her surrender would be complete.
His was the master mind, and in all the years to come that mind would
rule, and she, the weaker one, would be forced under the yoke of its
supremacy. She prayed for strength.
Let those who believe that once the living flesh has turned to clay the
spirit dies, ascribe to a trick of memory the vision of her dying
mother that flashed before the eyes of the girl, and the whispered
words: "Look after Charlie as long as he shall need you."
But those there are who know that in that momentary vision spoke in
faint memory-whispers the gentle spirit-mother, who--ranking high in
that vast army which, in the words of the immortal Persian,
"Before us passed the door of Darkness through,"
--would guide the footsteps of her loved ones.
Thus strength came and steeled the heart of one great little woman who
battled alone against love for her right to rule and shape the destiny
of lives. The momentary flush receded from her face, and when her eyes
again sought the man's, their glance was coldly repellent. She even
forced a smile.
"Is it so amusing, then--my going?" he asked a little grimly.
"Yes, rather amusing to consider where a man would go and what he would
do. A man, I mean, whose sole recommendation seems to be that he can
'lick' most anybody, and can 'drink more and stay soberer than any of
the sports he travels with.'"
The dull red flooded the man's face at her words. Unconsciously he
squared his shoulders and there was an unwonted dignity in his reply:
"I am well aware that my accomplishments are more in the nature of
liabilities than assets. In spite of this I will make good--somewhere."
He stepped closer to the girl, and his voice grew harsh, almost rasping
in its intensity. "I _can_ beat the game. And I will beat it--now! Just
to show you and your kind what a _man_ can do--a man, I mean," he
added, "'whose sole recommendation seems to be that he can lick most
anybody--and can drink more and stay soberer than any of the sports he
travels with.' Incidentally, I am glad to know your real opinion of me.
I once believed that you were different from the others--that in you I
had found a woman who possessed a real soul."
He laughed, a short, grating laugh--deep down, as though rude fingers
drew a protest from raw heart-strings--a laugh that is not good to
hear.
"I even thought," he went on, "that you cared for me--a little. That
you were the one woman who, at the last of things, would give a man a
helping hand, a little word of encouragement and hope, perhaps, instead
of the final kick."
He bowed stiffly and turned toward the door. "Good-by!" he said, and
the heavy portieres closed behind him.
In the room the girl, white as marble, heard the click of the front
door, the roar of a newly cranked motor, and the dying _chug, chug_ of
the retreating taxi.
That afternoon Charlie Manton rode alone, and when he returned, hungry
as a young wolf, to be told that his sister had retired with a sick
headache, he drew his own conclusions, nodding sagely over his solitary
dinner.
Later, as he passed her door on the way to his room, he placed his ear
at the keyhole and listened a long time to her half-muffled sobs.
"Gee!" he muttered as he passed down the hall, "they must have had an
awful scrap!" He turned and quietly retraced his steps. In the library
he switched on the lights and crossed to the telephone.
"There isn't any sense in that," he said, speaking to himself. "Bill
loves Eth--that's a cinch. And she does love him, too, even if she
won't let on.
"She wouldn't stick up in her room all day bawling her eyes out if she
didn't. I'll call Bill up and tell him so, then he'll come and they'll
make up. I bet he's sorry, too, by now."
At the Carmody residence he was told that Bill was not in. He received
the same answer from several clubs, at each of which he left explicit
instructions for Mr. Carmody to call him up at the first possible
moment.
Thereafter Charlie frequented the gymnasiums and made industrious
inquiry, but it was many a day before he again saw his idol. Bill
Carmody was missing from his accustomed haunts, and none could tell
whither he had gone.
Those were days fraught with anxiety for the boy. Ethel, to whom he was
devoted, went about the house listless and preoccupied, in spite of her
efforts to appear cheerful. When he attempted to reason with her she
burst into tears and forbade him to mention Bill Carmody's name in her
hearing as long as he lived. Whereupon the youngster retired
disconsolately to his room to think things over.
"Love's a bum thing," he told himself. "If they do get married they die
or get a divorce or something; and if they don't--well, Bill has
prob'ly committed suicide and Eth is moping around, and most likely now
she'll marry that dang St. Ledger." He made a wry face as he thought of
St. Ledger.
"Runty little mollycoddle! Couldn't lick a chicken--him and his
monocle. And that day the wind took his hat and rolled it through the
mud, and he said: 'Oh, pshaw!' instead of damn it! Oh--_slush!_ And I
promised mother I'd take care of Eth."
He burrowed his face deep into the pillow, as, in spite of himself,
tears came to his eyes.
CHAPTER IV
LOVE OR HATE
Thus a week passed, in the course of which the heart of the girl was
torn by conflicting emotions. Love clashed with hate and self-pity with
self-reproach. Was it true--what he had said? Had she administered the
final kick to a man who was down--who, loving her--and deep down in her
heart she knew that he did love her--had come to her in the extremity
of his need for a word of encouragement?
Now that he was gone she realized how much he had meant to her. How, in
spite of his reckless disregard of life's serious side, she loved him.
Try as she would she could not forget the look of deep hurt that dulled
his eyes at her words.
Had she not been justified? Had he not needed just that to bring him to
a realization of his responsibilities? Had she not, at the sacrifice of
her own love, spurred and strengthened his purpose to make good? Or,
had she, by raising a barrier between them, removed his one incentive
to great effort?
Over and over the girl pondered these things. One moment her heart
cried out for his return, and the next she reiterated her undying hate
for the man in whose power it was so sorely to wound her with a word.
And so she sat one evening before an open fire in the library which had
been the scene of their parting. Mechanically she turned the pages of a
novel, but her mind was elsewhere, and her eyes lingered upon the
details of the room.
"He stood there," she mused, "and I here--and then--those awful words.
And, oh! the look in his eyes that day as the portieres closed between
us--and he was gone. Where?"
Somehow the idea obsessed her that he had gone to sea. She pictured him
big and strong and brave, battling before the mast on some wallowing,
storm-hectored trading ship outbound, bearing him away into the
melting-pot of strange world-ways.
Would he come clean through the moil, winning honor and his place among
men? And thus would he some day return--to _her_? Or would the sea
claim him for her own, roughen him, and buffet him about through the
long years among queer Far Eastern hell-ports where, jostling shoulder
to shoulder with brutish men and the women who do not care, he would
drink deep and laugh loud among the flesh-pots of society's discards?
The uncertainty was terrible to the girl, and she forced her thoughts
into the one channel in which there was a ray of comfort.
"At least," she murmured, "he has ceased to be a menace to Charlie."
"Mr. Hiram Carmody, miss."
The old manservant who had been with the Mantons always, stood framed
in the inverted V of the parted portieres.
Ethel started. Why had he called? During the lifetime of her father the
elder Carmody had been a frequent visitor in the Manton home.
Was it about Bill? Was he sick? Had there been an accident, and was he
hurt--possibly dead? There was an icy grip at her heart, though her
voice was quite firm as she replied:
"I will see Mr. Carmody at once, Craddon."
As the man silently withdrew from the doorway a new thought came to
her.
Could it be that Bill was still in New York? That his going away had
been an empty threat? And was he now trying to bring about a
reconciliation through the medium of his father? How she could despise
him for that!
Her lips thinned, and there was a hint of formality in her greeting as
she offered her hand to the tall, gray-haired man who advanced toward
her.
"Well, well! Miss Ethel," he began, "all alone with a book and a cozy
fire. That is what I call solid comfort." He crossed the room and
extended his hands to the blaze.
"It is a long time since you have called, Mr. Carmody."
"Yes. We old fellows rarely drift outside the groove of our fixed orbit.
One by one we drop out, and as each one passes beyond it shortens the
orbit of the others. The circle is always contracting--never expanding.
The last one of us will be found in his dotage never venturing beyond
the circle of his own fireside until he, too, shall answer the call."
The voice held a note of sadness which touched the girl deeply, and she
suddenly noted that the fine patrician face had aged.
"You should not speak of being old," she said gently. "Why, you are
called the Wizard of Wall Street."
"A man is only as old as he feels. Until recently I have considered
myself a young man. But of late I feel that I am losing my grip."
"Isn't that a dangerous admission? If it should become known on the
Street----"
"Ha!"--the heavy gray eyebrows met with a ferocity which belied the
smile that curved the thin lips--"if it were but whispered upon the
Street the wolves would be at my throat before morning. But they would
have a fight on their hands! However, all that is beside the purpose. I
suppose you are wondering why I called?"
The girl was momentarily at a loss for a reply. "Why, I--You know you
are always welcome here."
"Yes, yes. But, as you must have surmised, I called with a definite
object in view. A matter that concerns you and--er, my son."
The girl turned a shade paler.
"I do not understand," she replied.
"Nor do I. I have come to you at the risk of being thought a meddling
old fool! But the fact is, I have several times lately heard your name
mentioned in connection with William's, and recently there came into my
possession this packet of letters addressed to my son in a feminine
hand and bearing the Manton crest."
The girl's face flushed as she took the proffered packet and waited for
him to continue.
"Fred Manton was my best friend," went on the old man, "and I won't see
harm come to his daughter, if I can prevent it. You two may be just
friends; you may be engaged--or married, for all I know. My son never
deemed it worth while to take me into his confidence. In either case, I
am here--and I will have my say. I shall put myself in the place of
your father and speak as, I believe, he would have spoken. I may seem
harsh and bitter toward my own son, but remember, Miss Ethel, I have
had vastly more experience in the ways of the world than you have--and
I know whereof I speak.
"Slight as is the difference between your ages, you are but an
inexperienced girl, as the world knows experience, and William is a
man--and a man, I am sorry to say, who is no fit associate for a woman
like you."
Surprised and perplexed the girl felt her anger rise against this man.
Instinctively she rallied to Bill's defense:
"He is not bad at heart!" she said resentfully.
"What worse can you say?" returned Carmody with a harsh laugh. "Of all
expressions coined to damn a man with faint praise, there is only one
more effective: 'He means well.'"
Ethel was thoroughly angry now. She drew herself up, and her blue eyes
darkened as she faced him.
"That is not so!" she cried. "Bill is _not_ bad at heart! And he _does_
mean well! Whose fault is it that he has grown up reckless and wild?
Who is to blame? What chance has he had? What have you done for him?
Filled his pockets with money and packed him off to school. Filled his
pockets with money and sent him to college. Filled his pockets with
money and shipped him abroad.
"Then, without consulting his taste or desire, you peremptorily thrust
him into a business which he loathes--on an office boy's salary and an
allowance out of all proportion to his requirements.
"You say he has never taken you into his confidence. Have you ever
invited that confidence? Have you ever sought his companionship--even
his acquaintance?"
The man was astonished at her vehemence. Uncomfortably he found himself
forced to the defensive.
"He had his chance. I placed him in the bank that he might learn the
business as I learned it. If he had had the right stuff in him he would
have made good. As it was, he attended to his duties in the most
perfunctory and superficial manner. He showed not the slightest
interest in the business. In fact, his position could have been ably
filled by the veriest gutter-snipe. And _he_ is the man who one day, in
all probability, would have come into control of the Carmody millions!
And he would have scattered them in a riot of dissipation the length
and breadth of Broadway.
"But I have forestalled him. He is foot-loose--gone, God knows where,
to follow the fortune of adventure, perhaps, at the ends of the earth.
For in him, transmitted in some unaccountable manner through the blood
of the gentlest, sweetest little woman who ever warmed a heart, is the
restless spirit of the roistering, fighting McKims."
"Is it the boy's fault that he is a McKim?" returned the girl a little
sharply. "Who chose his mother? Of all men you should be the last to
speak disparagingly of a McKim. Turn the pages of history and you will
find written large in the story of the upbuilding of nations the name
of McKim. Carmody gold is the cabala of Carmody suzerainty. But the
McKim name has been carved deep in the annals of nations by sheer force
of the personalities behind blades of naked steel.
"Even now the crying world-need for men--big men--is as great as in the
days when the fighting McKims deserted their hearthstones to answer the
call of the falchion's clash or the cannon's roar. And some day you
will realize this--when your bank messenger makes good!"
The old man regarded her with a look of admiration.
"You love him!" he said quietly.
The girl started. Her eyes flashed and the play of the firelight gave
an added touch of crimson to her cheeks.
"I do not love him! I--I _hate him!_" Her voice faltered, and the man
saw that she was very near to tears.
"A strange hate, this, Miss Ethel. A strange and a most dangerous hate
for a girl to hold against a man who is a _thief_."
CHAPTER V
"THIEF!"
"A man who is a thief!" The words fell distinctly from Carmody's lips
with the studied quiet of desperation. Ethel stared wild-eyed at the
speaker, and in the frozen silence of the room her tiny fists doubled
until the knuckles whitened.
Noting the effect upon the girl, he continued, speaking more rapidly
now that the dreaded word had been uttered.
"I had no wish to tell you this thing. It is a secret I would gladly
have kept locked within my own breast. But I came here this evening
with a purpose--to save, in spite of herself, if need be, the daughter
of my dead friend from a life of suffering which would inevitably fall
to the lot of any pure-hearted woman who linked her life with that of
an unscrupulous scoundrel, in whom even common decency is dead, if,
indeed, it ever lived."
"He is _not_ a thief! He----" began Ethel vehemently, but the man
interrupted her.
"Wait until you have heard the facts. Last week, on Friday, there was
entrusted to my son's care for delivery a heavy manila envelope
containing fifty thousand dollars' worth of negotiable bonds. It was a
matter of vital importance that these be delivered within a specified
time. Ignoring this fact, he pocketed the bonds, and, in company with a
number of his acquaintances, indulged in a drunken spree which
culminated after midnight in a disgraceful street scene in the Broadway
theatre district.
"The following morning, when I confronted him, he flouted me to my
face, whereupon I virtually disinherited him. Not wishing to turn him
away penniless, I handed him a check for a considerable amount which he
saw fit to destroy melodramatically in my presence. Upon my request for
the return of the securities, he handed me an envelope identical with
that in which the bonds had been placed. I carried the packet to the
bank where it was opened and found to contain not the bonds--but those
letters.
"To avoid a scandal I made good the loss. I learned later, through
investigation, that upon leaving home he came directly to this house,
where he remained for upward of a half-hour.
"Further than this I know nothing of his movements except that he
reentered the taxi and proceeded down-town. At Thirty-Fourth Street,
where the chauffeur slowed down for instructions, he found the cab
empty."
"And _these_ are the facts upon which you base your accusation?" asked
the girl coldly. "You, his own father!"
"To an unbiased mind the evidence allows but one interpretation."
"But his eyes! Oh, can't you see there has been some mistake? His eyes
are not the eyes of a thief!"
"There has been no mistake. A most thorough search of the premises has
failed to disclose a trace of the missing securities. In his desk from
which he took the substituted packet were found several similar
envelopes, but these contained only worthless rubbish--newspaper
clippings of sporting events and the like.
"No, Miss Ethel, when William Carmody left my house that morning he
carried with him those bonds. And he came here, knowing that he was a
thief, with his pocket bulging with plunder!
"As I told you, I know nothing of the relations existing between you
and my son. I only hope that he has gone forever out of your life, as
he has gone out of mine."
The light died out of the girl's eyes and her voice sounded strangely
dull as she replied:
"Yes, he has gone out of my life--maybe forever. He came to me here, to
tell me that he was going away to make good. And I--I was not big
enough to see it. I sent him away with a sneer. Bill is no thief. For
what he has been you are to blame--you and the Carmody money. For the
first time in his life he has a fair chance. He has left New York the
man you made him. He will return the man he makes himself. Oh! If--if I
only----"
"There, there, Miss Ethel, your loyalty is admirable, if misplaced----"
"Don't speak to me of loyalty! I have been as narrow and as _mean_
as--as _you_ have!"
"My dear girl, you are overwrought. The sooner we learn that William
Carmody has ceased to exist the better it will be for both of us. I bid
you good-night."
The girl sank into the depths of her big chair and watched the
sputtering little jet-flames lick futilely at the artificial logs of
the fireplace. Believing herself alone, she was startled by the sound
of footsteps hurrying noisily across the room. The next instant a
tousle-headed boy with eyes ablaze was at her side working her hands
like pump-handles.
"By Jimmy, Eth, you're a brick--the way you gave it to him! You bet
I'll tell Bill how you stuck up for him."
"Charlie Manton! You were listening--eavesdropping."
"I didn't! I wasn't! I mean I couldn't help hearing! The door of the
den was open and I was in there studying. Old man Carmody is an old
liar!"
"Charlie!"
"Well, he is, and you know it! I hate him! You bet he wouldn't dare
call Bill a thief to his face! Bill could lick forty-seven like him
with one hand tied behind his back. Bill is square. He wouldn't swipe a
million dollars--let alone a rotten, measly fifty thousand!"
"Charlie Manton! What kind of talk is that? You ought to be ashamed!"
"Well, I ain't--so there! And I'm Bill's friend, and I ain't afraid to
say so, either. You do love Bill--and you know it! You can claim you
hate him till you're black in the face, but you can't fool _me_! What
did you stick up for him for if you hated him? I bet old man Carmody
swiped the bonds himself!"
"Stop right there! Aren't you ashamed to speak so disrespectfully of
Mr. Carmody? He was an old friend of father's."
"I don't care if he was. I'm an old friend of Bill's, too. And Bill
_ain't_ a thief, no matter what he says!"
"You go to bed this minute. I am surprised and mortified to think that
you would be so contemptible as to listen to other people's affairs."
"'Taint any worse than lying!"
The boy stamped angrily from the room, and the girl sat long by the
fire and, one by one, fed letters to the flames.
CHAPTER VI
THE CROOKED GAME
"Clickity-click, clickity-click, clickity-click," the monotonous song
of the rails told off the miles as the heavy train rushed westward
between the endless cornfields of a flat middle State. To the
well-built athletic young man who was one of the four occupants of the
little end-room, smoking compartment, the outlook was anything but
cheerful.
As far as the eye could reach long rows of shriveled husks, from which
the season's crop of yellow ears had been torn, flapped dejectedly
against their dried and broken stalks. Here and there a square of rich,
black loam, freshly turned, bespoke the forehanded farmer; while in the
fields of his neighbors straggling groups of cattle and hogs gleaned
half-heartedly in the standing roughage.
"Not much for scenery, is it?" The offensively garrulous passenger
directed his remarks to the young man, who abstractedly surveyed the
landscape. "No, sir," he continued, "you've got to go West for Scenery.
Ever been West?"
The young man nodded without removing his gaze from the window.
"I live in Colo_ray_do," the other persisted. "Went out there for my
health--and I stayed. Johnson's my name. I'm in the mining business."
His eyes swept the compartment to include the others in the too evident
geniality of their glance.
"Now that we're all acquainted," he ventured--"how about a little game
of seven-up, just to pass away the time? How about you, dad?"
Thus flippantly he addressed the ruddy-faced, middle-aged gentleman in
gray tweeds, whose attention was apparently concentrated upon the
lengthening ash of his cigar.
With enthusiasm undampened by the curtness of the latter's refusal, he
turned to the remaining passenger--a youth upon whose lip sprouted a
tenderly pruned mustache, so obviously new that it looked itchy.
"How about you, captain?" The top-heavy youth closed his magazine and
unlocked a brain-cell.
"I don't mind." He ostentatiously consulted a very gold watch. "Must be
in Chicago this evening," he muttered quite audibly, pulling a ten,
twent, thirt frown that caused his labial foliage to rustle with
importance.
He drew from his pocket a card upon which the ink was scarcely dry and
handed it to the effervescent Johnson, who read aloud:
Mr. LINCOLN S. TARBEL
Municipal Investigator
"You see," explained its owner, "it has reached the ears of the
managing editor of my paper in South Bend that vice in various forms
flourishes in Chicago! Thereupon he immediately sent for me and ordered
a sweeping investigation."
Further information was forestalled by the entrance of a suave-mannered
individual who introduced himself as a cigar salesman, and who was
readily induced to take a hand in the game.
The lightning-like glances that passed between the newcomer and the
Western Mr. Johnson, while entirely unnoted by the investigator of
municipal vice, aroused the interest of the athletic young man to the
point of assenting to make the fourth. Here, evidently, was something
about to be pulled off, and he decided to be actively among those
present.
The game progressed through several uneventful deals. Suddenly Johnson,
scrutinizing a hand dealt him by the cigar salesman, emitted a low
whistle.
"If we were playing poker now I'd have something to say!"
"Oh, I don't know! I've got some poker hand myself," opined the dealer.
"Discard one, to make a five-card hand, and I bet you five dollars I
beat you."
"You're on!" Each produced a bill which he handed to the athletic young
man to hold.
"Three eights and a pair of deuces," boasted the Westerner, exposing
the full hand upon the board.
"Beats three kings," admitted the other, ruefully laying down his hand.
The winner pocketed the money with an exaggerated wink in the direction
of the newspaper youth who had been an interested spectator.
The game progressed, and before many deals another challenge was passed
and accepted between the two. This time it was the salesman who
profited to the extent of twenty-five dollars which he received from
the stakeholder with the remark that he would bet his whole roll on a
jack full any old day.
The elderly gentleman smoked in silence and amused himself by mentally
cataloguing the players. Suddenly his attention became riveted.
What he saw jarred harshly upon his estimate of the athletic young man
who, at the conclusion of his deal, dexterously slipped some cards
beneath the table from his pile of tricks, then, bunching the pack,
passed it to the Westerner for the next deal.
He was on the point of exposing this cheap bit of knavery when the
young man glanced in his direction. Something in the steady gaze of the
gray eyes, though for the life of him he could not have told what,
stayed his purpose, and he settled into his seat, more puzzled than
before.
"If it had been any one of the others," he thought to himself; "and
then to think that he turns around and with a look virtually makes me a
party to his tuppenny trickery!"
His reflections were cut short by a sharp exclamation from the
investigator of vice who, in spite of his desire to appear composed,
was evidently laboring under great excitement.
"I'll bet twenty-five dollars I've got the best poker hand this time!"
He was staring at his tight-gripped cards. Johnson looked his hand
over--and with a careless:
"Here's where I get even," tossed the amount to the athletic young man,
who laid his cards upon the table. The cigar salesman broke in:
"Hold on! I'm in on this, too! Got a pretty fair hand myself. And just
to show you sports I'm game, I'll make it a hundred."
He passed a handful of bills to the stakeholder and glared defiantly at
the newspaper person who was in the act of returning a bill-fold to his
pocket.
"Why, that is all I've got!" he gasped, "and it's expense-money!"
"Well, of course," the other replied, "if you don't care to see my
hand, and I don't mind telling you it's more than a middling good
one----"
"I'll bet"--the hand that extracted the neatly folded bills from the
leather case shook and the voice rose to a ludicrous falsetto--"I've
got you beat, and if I had any more money with me I'd come back at
you."
"You've got a watch there," remarked Mr. Johnson. "Let's see it. I
ain't going to stay for the raise. My three sevens don't look as good
as they did."
"I paid fifty dollars for it!" piped the youth, passing the watch
across the board. Both men examined it.
"Oh, well, I don't know anything about watches, but I'll take your word
for it. Stick her up--here's the fifty."
"I've got _four_ aces!" squealed the reporter as he spread them out
face upward. He stared wildly at the other, and his hands made wet
marks where they touched the board.
"No good," remarked his opponent blandly. "Mine's hearts--all in a row,
with the jack at the top." One by one he laid them down--a straight
flush. South Bend stared incredulously at the cards.
"All right, Mr. Stakeholder," laughed the salesman, "pass over the
kale. Just slip out a five for your trouble."
"Just a minute." The voice of the stakeholder was quiet and his lips
smiled. The two across the board bristled aggressively and the plucked
one sniffled.
"Well"--there was an ugly note in the cigar salesman's voice--"a
straight flush beats four aces, don't it?"
"Oh, yes, there is no question as to that. Are these the same cards we
have been using?"
"Of course they are! What do you mean?" asked the dealer.
"Oh, nothing. I just wanted to know. Our friend here has the right to
know that he got a square deal. Count the cards." The look of
apprehension on the faces of the two men faded into smiles.
"Sure thing. That's fair enough," acquiesced the dealer, proceeding to
gather the cards from the board. Slowly and deliberately he counted;
"fifty, fifty-one, fifty-two," he finished. "Here, captain, count them
yourself." He handed them to the youth, who mechanically ran them
through.
"They are all here," he admitted.
"Now, that is funny," smiled the stakeholder, "because last deal I
dropped several cards onto the floor. This gentleman saw me do it."
He nodded toward the elderly gentleman, who was now keenly interested,
and reached under the table.
"See--here they are. And, by the way, the nine and ten of hearts are
among them. And now, you cheap crooks," he added as he flung a handful
of bills onto the board, "take your money and beat it!"
The two men opposite looked for an instant into the narrowing gray
eyes, noted a certain tightening of the square jaw and the clenching of
a pair of very capable fists, and tarried not upon further orders.
Sweeping the money into their pockets they quit the compartment,
casting venomous back glances toward the young man whose lips could
smile while his eyes threatened.
"Here is yours, kid. And let me put you wise to something. The first
thing you do when you strike Chicago, buy a ticket to South Bend. They
are waiting for you in the wicked town--they can see you coming. The
next ones will spring a real live game, green goods, or wire tapping.
They will roll you before you can locate a rescue mission. About the
only form of vice they will give you time to investigate will be what
the taxi boy does to you.
"The cold-deck stunt you just fell for, sonny, is so old it totters. It
is the identical trick that started the coolness between Brutus and
Julius Caesar."
CHAPTER VII
THE WRECK
The early darkness of late autumn settled over the flat country. Tiny
lights twinkled from distant farmhouses as the Limited plowed through
the night.
The athletic young man continued to stare moodily out of the window.
The black expanse of country became more thickly studded with lights.
They flashed in the foreground in regular constellations as the train
whizzed with undiminished speed past tall block towers and tiny
suburban stations.
Long parallel rows, narrowing to a point under a distant hazy nimbus,
marked the course of the outreaching arteries of a great city. Warning
bells clanged peremptorily at the lowered gates of grade crossings.
The car wheels crashed noisily over an ever-increasing number of frogs
and switch points, an occasional brilliantly illuminated trolley car
crept slowly over its rails, and the hundreds of green and red and
yellow lights of the widening railroad yards lent a variety of color to
the scene.
That infallible harbinger of an approaching terminal, the colored
porter, had appeared in the doorway, whisk-broom in hand,
when--suddenly--there was a grinding jar; the heavy coach trembled
through its length, and from forward came a muffled roar followed by
the tearing crash of riven metal.
The car reared upward--higher and higher it climbed to the
accompaniment of the terrible crunching grind that proclaims undirected
power and benumbs the brain with the horrid possibilities of energy
uncontrolled. When almost perpendicular the sleeper toppled and crashed
sidewise across other tracks at right angles to its course.
New sounds supplanted the mighty noise of tearing and rending--little
sounds--the sharp jangle of smashing glass, and the thin wail of an
infant. These were borne to the young man's ears as from a distance.
It was very dark and he was conscious of a great weight which seemed to
be crushing the breath from his body. He raised his arms and tore at
the thing on his chest. It yielded slightly to the pressure of his
hands but remained immovable. He reached above it and encountered
metal--a large iron cylinder with projecting pipes twisted and bent.
Frantically he tore at the weight, exerting to the utmost the mighty
strength of his shoulders. Inch by inch he worked it sidewise, using
the pipes as levers until at length it rolled free and settled with a
crash among the wreckage at his side. The other--the thing that
yielded--he lifted easily and sat up, filling his exhausted lungs with
great drafts of cool air.
His head ached terribly. He passed his hand across his forehead and
withdrew it wet and dripping. He struck a match and as the tiny flame
flickered and went out he struck another and another.
At his side lay the torso of the young reporter, his head mashed by the
heavy water-cooler. He shuddered as he realized that this was the thing
he had lifted from his chest.
In the opposite corner the elderly man struggled to release his arm
from the grip of a wedging timber. The body of the porter, doubled
grotesquely, partially protruded from under a seat.
His last match died out and he crept to the side of the imprisoned man.
A heave at the timber satisfied him as to the futility of accomplishing
anything in the darkness and without tools.
He stood erect and groped for the door of the compartment which he
located in the ceiling almost directly above him. Drawing himself
through the aperture, he made the narrow passage, but such was the
position of the car that it was only with the greatest difficulty he
succeeded in worming his way along, using the dividing wall as a floor.
He gained the body of the coach, and from the darkness about him came
groans and curses mingled with great gasping sobs, and that most
terrible of all sounds, the shriek of a woman in the night-time.
He located a window and, smashing the glass with his elbow, crawled
through.
From every direction men were running toward the scene of the wreck,
calling to each other in hoarse, throaty bellows, while here and there
in the darkness lanterns flashed.
Sick and dizzy he lowered himself to the ground and staggered across
some tracks. He snatched a lantern from the hand of a bewildered
switchman and stumbled again toward the overturned car.
Others swarmed upon it. He heard the blows of axes and the smashing of
glass. Already an army of men were engaged in the work of rescue.
Inert forms were passed through windows into waiting arms to be
deposited in long, ghastly rows upon the cinders of the road-bed, under
the flaring torches. A cold, drizzling rain was falling and the smell
of smoke was in the air.
A group of firemen hurried past carrying hand-extinguishers. The
lantern-light gleamed wetly upon their black rubber coats and metal
helmets, from under the brims of which their set faces showed grimly
white. Far up the track an ambulance gong clanged frantically.
The young man reentered the coach through a window and made his way
slowly toward the smoking compartment, pushing his lantern before him.
Reaching the door, he peered over the edge.
Some one was kneeling beside the elderly man, working swiftly by the
narrow light of an electric pocket lamp. As his eyes became accustomed
to the dim light of the interior, he realized that the elderly man
seemed to be resisting the efforts of the other who knelt upon his
unpinioned arm. From between the lips, which were forced wide apart,
protruded the ends of a handkerchief--he was gagged!
The hands of the kneeling man worked rapidly, but not in the prying
loose of the timber which lay across the other's arm. From the side
pocket of his coat, where it evidently had been hurriedly thrust,
dangled a watch chain which the young man recognized as belonging to
the dead reporter.
Suddenly the atrocity of the situation dawned upon him. He had heard of
such things, of the ghouls who haunt the scenes of great disaster,
preying upon the bodies of the dead--robbing the helpless.
With a curse he seized the wirebound railway lantern. At the sound the
man looked up--it was the cigar salesman. The young man swung the
weapon with all his might. It cut the air in a descending arc, but the
other avoided the blow and the heavy lantern crashed against the wall
and went out.
Without an instant's hesitation he dived through the opening and met
the fiend as he was rising to his feet. Together they rolled among the
wreckage. While no match for his antagonist in size, the pickpocket was
tough and wiry and apparently uninjured. He fought viciously, with the
violence of desperation.
The athlete could hear the voice of the elderly man, who with his free
hand had torn the gag from his mouth, roaring encouragement. He
received a stinging blow on the cheek from which the warm blood gushed
instantly. Knucks, he thought, the cur!
Suddenly his groping hand came in contact with the other's throat just
above the rim of his collar. Instantly his fingers closed about
yielding flesh, their ends biting deep between the muscles.
As the clutch tightened the man redoubled his efforts. His body writhed
and he lashed out furiously with hands and feet. Blows rained upon the
young man's head but he burrowed close, shielding his face--and always
his grip tightened--the finger ends drawing closer and closer together.
He was only half-conscious now and the blows ceased to hurt. He
experienced a sense of falling from a great height. His subconscious
mind concentrated upon one idea--to maintain his hold. He must grip
tighter and ever tighter.
The other ceased to struggle and lay limp beneath his body, but of this
he knew nothing. The muscles of his arms were rigid, the clamped
fingers, nearly together now, were locked, and all the world was a
blank.
CHAPTER VIII
NEW FRIENDS
William Carmody opened his eyes to a sense of drowsy contentment and
well-being. That the elegantly appointed room over which his glance
traveled was not his room, disturbed him not at all.
He realized that his head was heavily bandaged and that the
white-capped, linen-clad young woman at the window was a nurse. He
watched her fingers move swiftly and surely in the fashioning of a
small round of needlework.
Her face was turned from him but somehow he knew that she was young
and, in a dreamy sort of way, hoped she was pretty. He thought of
attracting her attention but decided to prolong the suspense--the
chances were against it--so many girls are not.
He closed his eyes and tried to think. The fact that he was in a
strange room with his head swathed in bandages, and that a young and
possibly pretty nurse sat at the window, evidently for the purpose of
ministering to him, suggested a hospital.
Young Carmody had never been in a hospital, but the atmosphere of this
room did not in any way conform to his rather vague notion of what a
hospital should be. There was no long row of white beds all just alike,
nor white walls, nor tiled floors over which people tip-toed to and fro
and talked in hurried, low-voiced tones; nor was the air laden with the
smell of drugs which he had always associated in his mind with such
places. He must ask the nurse.
He was so drowsily comfortable that it was with an effort he opened his
eyes. A rebellious lock of hair strayed from under her cap as she
leaned over her work. The sunlight caught it and through the rich
threads of its length shot tiny glints of gold.
"Ethel!" The name sprang involuntarily from his lips and even as he
spoke he smiled at the thought. The girl laid aside her work and
crossed to the bed.
"You called?" she asked, and the man realized vaguely that her voice
was low and very pleasant.
"Yes--that is, no--I mean, you _are_ pretty, aren't you?" He smiled
frankly up at her, and somehow the smile was contagious--she even
blushed slightly.
"You must excuse me this time," he continued, "I must have been
thinking out loud."
"You seem to be a--well, a rather abrupt young man," she smiled. "But
you must not try to think--yet. And my name is not Ethel."
"Oh, that's all right. You can't help that, you know--I mean, I think
your name is very pretty--whatever it is," he floundered. "The truth
is, I don't seem to be able to say what I do mean. But really I am not
a fool, although I don't suppose you will ever believe it."
"There, you have talked quite enough. The doctor said you must rest and
not get excited." She smoothed the covers with little pats of her soft
hands.
"But what I want to know," he persisted, with a frown of perplexity,
"is, where am I?"
"You are all right," she soothed. "You are here."
"But why am I here?"
"Because. Now go to sleep like a good boy. The doctor will be here
before long and he will hold me responsible for your condition."
Oddly enough her answers seemed eminently sufficient and satisfactory,
and he closed his eyes and slept contentedly.
Hours later he was awakened by the opening of a door.
A tall, dark man, with a brown beard neatly trimmed to a point, entered
closely followed by an elderly man who carried his arm in a sling, and
whom young Carmody recognized as his fellow-passenger of the smoker.
At once the whole train of recent events flashed through his brain: the
wild escapade on Broadway, the scene with his father, his parting with
Ethel Manton, the wreck, and his fight in the dark--each in its proper
sequence.
He was very wide awake now and watched the brown-bearded man eagerly as
he picked up a chart from the table and scrutinized it minutely.
"How is the head?" the man asked, with his fingers on the pulse.
"Fine, doctor. Wouldn't know I had one if it were not for these
bandages. And your arm, sir?" he added, with a smile of recognition
toward the elderly man.
"Doing fairly, thank you. It is broken, but our friend here thinks it
will come along all right."
The doctor, with a nod of approval returned the watch to his pocket and
was preparing to leave when his patient detained him with a question.
"I have not been able to locate myself. This is not a hospital, is it?"
"Hardly," smiled the other, "although it answers the purpose admirably.
This is the Brownstone Hotel."
"With rooms at twenty per!" gasped the invalid. "Doctor, some one has
blundered. After buying my railroad ticket I had just four dollars
left, and no chance in the world of getting hold of any more until I
connect with a job."
The men laughed.
"I must be going," said the doctor. "You two can chat for a while.
Don't tire yourself out, young man, and in a day or two you will be fit
as a fiddle. Wish I had your physique! That system of yours is a
natural shock absorber. We run across them once in a long
while--half-killed one day and back the next hunting for more on the
rebound."
At the door he paused: "Take care of yourself, eat anything that looks
good to you, smoke if you want to, talk, read, sleep, and in the
morning we will let you get up and stretch your legs. Good by!"
"Some doctor, that," laughed the patient. "Does a man good just to hear
him talk. Most of them go away leaving the patient guessing whether the
next visit will be from them or the undertaker--and rather hoping for
the latter. But with this fellow the professional man is swallowed up
in the human being--he fairly radiates life."
The other smiled as he settled himself into the chair near the bedside,
vacated by the physician.
"Yes, he is a great doctor. Stands well toward the head of his
profession. We have no finer in the Northwest." Young Carmody's face
clouded.
"But how am I to pay for all this? It is all well enough for you to
laugh, but to me it is a serious matter. I----"
"Young man, you are my guest. I don't know who you are, nor where you
came from, but, by gad, I know a man when I see one! From the time you
sat in that game to save that poor young fool from being fleeced until
you dove into that black hole and throttled that skunk----"
"They caught him, did they?"
"Caught him! They had to pry him loose! You have got the grip of the
devil himself. The police surgeon told me they would have to put a
whole new set of plumbing in his throat. Said he wouldn't have believed
that any living thing, short of a gorilla, could have clamped down that
hard with one hand.
"And there I had to lie pinned down and watch him go through a dead
man's pockets--it was our friend the reporter. And then he turned
around and calmly went through mine. Gad! If I'd had a gun! All the
time he kept up a run of talk, joking about the wreck and the easy
pickings it gave him.
"He was disappointed when he failed to find you--said he owed you
something for gumming his game. Well, he found you all right--and when
he gets out of the hospital he is slated for twenty years in Joliet."
The man paused and glanced at his watch.
"Bless my soul! It is after two o'clock! We will have luncheon served
here."
"It is a peculiar situation," mused the invalid. "The last thing I
remember is being in the thick of a railroad wreck, and here I wake up
in bed, with a trained nurse in the room, to find myself the guest of a
man whose name I do not even know."
"Appleton--H. D. Appleton, of Minneapolis. I am a lumberman--just
returning from the National Lumberman's Convention in Buffalo. And
yours?"
He was interrupted by a tap at the door and a couple of waiters entered
bearing trays.
CHAPTER IX
BILL GETS A JOB
After luncheon, over cigars, the conversation again became personal.
Appleton regarded the younger man thoughtfully.
"You spoke of being temporarily out of funds. Allow me to loan you what
you require."
"Thank you, sir, but I could not think of it. I am already deeply
indebted to you. If it were only a temporary embarrassment I wouldn't
mind. But I have no definite plans. I must find work, and I freely
confess I don't know exactly how to go about it. It might be a long
time before I could repay the loan. Then, too, if a man is broke he
will tackle the first job that comes along, whereas if he had money in
his pocket he would be tempted to wait for something better, no matter
what was offered."
"If you work it right you can easily get a couple of thousand out of
the railroad company--damages, you know."
The younger man looked up quickly. "Not me," he smiled. "I have not
sustained any loss to speak of. That crack on the head when the coach
tipped over didn't even knock me out. And as for the pummeling I got
afterward with the knucks--that was my own lookout--the railroad
company is not to blame for that. No. Getting something for nothing is
not playing the game--it savors too strongly of the methods of our
friend the pickpocket."
As he talked the elder man subjected him to a careful scrutiny. He
noted the deep-set, unwavering eyes, the smiling lips, and the firm,
square set of the jaw.
"So you are really in earnest about going to work?"
"In earnest! Mr. Appleton, you have just witnessed a fair demonstration
of the demands of my appetite," with a nod toward the array of empty
dishes. "I am subject to those attacks on an average of three times a
day. In my pocket are just four one-dollar bills. Can you guess the
answer?"
The lumberman smiled.
"What kind of position were you thinking of? What is your business?"
"Haven't any. And I am not thinking of a position--what I want is a
_job_."
"Know anything about lumber?"
"No."
The two smoked in silence while the waiters removed the remains of the
luncheon. When the door closed behind them the lumberman spoke. He
dropped the conversational tone and his words cut crisp and to the
point:
"Young man, I can use you. If you are foot-loose and are willing to
work, I will give you your chance. I am going to put it up to you
straight and let you decide for yourself.
"I can use you in my office at a very fair salary. In two or three
years you will, in all probability, become a valuable clerk--later, a
lumber salesman at a good salary and better commissions.
"Your duties will not be strenuous, and as you enlarge your
acquaintance you will naturally assume the social position to which you
are entitled.
"Or I can use you in the woods. Send you into a logging camp to learn
the business where it starts. Up there the work is not easy. Instead of
a salary you will receive wages--and you will earn them--every cent of
them. There are no snap jobs in a logging camp. Everybody, from the
boss down, works--and works hard. Instead of roast lamb and green peas
you will eat salt pork and baked beans.
"You will be called a lumberjack--a social pariah. Your associates will
be big men--some good and some bad--bad as they make them--and all
rough. Good and bad, they would rather fight than eat, and they would
rather watch others fight than fight.
"In summer you can loaf and blow in your wages, or you can go into the
mills and learn how lumber is made--learn to tell at a glance whether a
log will saw to the best profit into bridge timber or lath.
"It is no sinecure--the life of the logging camp. A hundred times you
will be called upon to face battle, murder, and sudden death, and it
will be up to you to make good.
"In the office I have clerks who will be found at the same desk twenty
years from now. And in the woods I have hundreds of swampers, skidders,
and sawyers who will always be swampers, skidders and sawyers. I have
camp bosses who will always be camp bosses, and a few who will become
lumbermen.
"But the man who comes up through that school is the man who learns the
game--the man who eventually will sit behind locked doors and talk in
millions, while the office-made salesman is out on the road dickering
in car-loads."
He paused and relighted his cigar.
"And you are offering me the choice of these jobs?"
"Just so. Take your time. Think it over carefully and give me your
answer in the morning."
"I have already made up my mind. If it is just the same to you I will
go to the woods. I need the exercise," he grinned.
"By the way, you have not told me your name."
"Bill," he answered, and watched the blue smoke curl upward from the
end of his cigar.
"Bill what?" Appleton regarded him through narrowing lids.
"Bill," he repeated. "Just Bill, for the present--and no references.
Sometime--if I make good, perhaps--but surely Bill ought to be name
enough for a lumberjack."
"Well, Bill, you are hired! Most men would call me a fool! Maybe I
am--but it's got to be proven. I came up through the woods myself and I
know men. It is my business to know men. A name is nothing to me--nor
references. Both are easy to get. I hire men--not names. And as for
references--I don't pay for past performances. It is up to you to make
good!
"I like your eyes. There is honesty in those eyes--and purpose. Your
mother's eyes, I should say." The young man turned his face away and
the blood surged upward, reddening the skin below the white bandages.
Thoughts of his mother crowded his brain--the beautiful, gentle
girl-mother, who used to snatch him up and hold him close--way back in
the curly-locks days.
He remembered her eyes--deep, soft blue eyes that shone bright and
mysterious with love for the little boy--so often such a bad,
self-willed little boy--and he thought of the hurt in those eyes. It
was his very worst punishment in the long ago--to read the pain and
sorrow in those eyes.
"No, no, no!" he murmured. "Not her eyes--not mother's! Oh, I am glad
that she did not live to know--" He stopped abruptly and faced the
other, speaking quietly:
"Mr. Appleton, I am not a criminal--not a fugitive from justice--as you
may have guessed. But I have been an--an awful fool!" The older man
arose and extended his hand:
"Good-by, Bill. You better sleep now. I will see you in the morning."
As the door closed behind Appleton, the pleasant-voiced nurse appeared
at the bedside. She straightened the covers, patted the pillows into
shape, and fed the patient medicine out of a spoon. She hesitated when
she finished and smiled down at him.
"Would you like to send any messages," she asked--"telegrams, to let
your people know you are safe?"
Young Carmody returned the smile. The nurse looked into his face and
knew that behind the smile was sadness rather than mirth.
"No," he said; "there is no one to tell." She leaned over and laid soft
fingers on his bandaged brow.
"Isn't--isn't there a real Ethel--somewhere?" He did not resent the
question of the sweet-faced nurse.
"Yes," he answered, "there _is_ a real Ethel--but she would not care.
Nobody cares."
CHAPTER X
NORTHWARD, HO!
Buck Moncrossen was a big man with a shrunken, maggoty soul, and no
conscience.
He had learned logging as his horses learned it--by repetition of
unreasoning routine, and after fifteen years' experience in the woods
Appleton had made him a camp boss.
His camps varied from year to year in no slightest detail. He made no
suggestions for facilitating or systematizing the work, nor would he
listen to any. He roared mightily at the substitution of horses for
oxen; he openly scoffed at donkey engines, and would have none of them.
During his years as a sawyer, by the very brute strength and doggedness
of him, he had established new records for laying down timber. And now,
as boss, he bullied the sawyers who could not equal those records--and
hated those who could.
Arbitrary, jealous, malignant, he ruled his camps with the bluff and
bluster of the born coward.
Among the lumber-jacks, he was known and hated as a hard driver of men
and a savage fighter. In the quick, brutish fights of the camps, men
went down under the smashing blows of his huge fists as they would go
down to the swing of a derrick-boom, and, once down, would be jumped
upon with calked boots and spiked into submission.
It was told in the woods that whisky flowed unchallenged in Buck
Moncrossen's camps. His crews were known as hard crews; they "hired out
for tough hands, and it was up to them to play their string out."
At the first cry of "gillon" (stormy days when the crews cannot work)
flat flasks and round black bottles circulated freely in the
bunk-house, and the day started, before breakfast, in a wild orgy of
rough horse-play, poker, and profanity.
But woe betide the man who allowed overindulgence to interfere with the
morrow's work. Evil things were whispered of Moncrossen's man-handling
of "hold-overs."
In the office, back in Minneapolis, if these things were known they
were winked at. For Moncrossen was a boss who "got out the logs," and
the details of his discipline were unquestioned.
On the Appleton holdings along Blood River the pine stood tall and
straight and uncut.
In the years of plenty--those wasteful years of frenzied logging, when
white pine lumber brought from twelve to twenty dollars a thousand and
rival concerns were laying down only the choicest of logs--Appleton's
crews were ordered to clean up as they went.
Toothpick logging it was called then, and H. D. Appleton was
contemptuously referred to as "the toothpicker."
Twenty years later, with the market clamoring for white pine at any
price, Appleton was selling white pine, while in the denuded forest the
crews of his rivals were getting out cull timber and Norway.
And this fall Appleton sent Buck Moncrossen into the Blood River
country with orders to put ten million feet of logs into the river by
spring.
So it was that the few remaining inhabitants of Hilarity were aroused
from their habitual apathy one early fall evening by the shrill shrieks
of an engine whistle as Moncrossen's ten-car train, carrying crew and
supplies for the new camp, came to a stop at the rusty switch. There
was something reminiscent in this whistle-sound. It came as a voice
from the past.
Time was, some eight or ten years before, when the old No. 9 and her
companion engine, No. 11, whistled daily and importantly into Hilarity,
pushing long strings of "flats" onto the spurs; and then whistled out
again with each car groaning and creaking under its towering pyramid of
logs.
But that was in the days of Hilarity's prosperity--in the days when the
little town was the chief loading point for two thousand square miles
of timber.
It had been a live town then--work and wages and the spirit to
spend--quick, hot life, and quick, cold death danced hand in hand to
the clink of glasses.
Everything ran wide open, and all night long rough men sinned abysmally
in their hell-envied play, and, crowding the saloons, laughed and
fought and drank red liquor in front of long pine bars, where the
rattle of chips and the click of pool-balls, mingled with lurid
profanity, floated out through the open doors and blended with the
incessant tintinnabulation of the dance-hall pianos.
These were the days of Hilarity's prosperity, when twenty train-loads
of logs were jerked from her spurs by day, and the nights rang loud
with false laughter.
A vanished prosperity--for now the little town stood all but deserted
in its clearing, with the encircling hills denuded of all vegetation
save a tangle of underbrush and a straggling growth of stunted jack
pine.
Even the "pig-iron loggers"--the hardwood men--had gleaned the last
stick from the ridges, and Hilarity had become but a name on the map.
Only those remained who were old or crippled, and a few--a very
few--who had undertaken to grub out tiny farms among the stumps.
Each evening these forlorn remnants were wont to forsake their
stolid-faced wives and yammering offspring and pick their way through
the solitary stump-dotted street, past windowless, deserted buildings
which were the saloons and dance-halls of better days, to foregather
around the huge stove in the rear of Hod Burrage's general store, which
was decrepit Hilarity's sole remaining enterprise, and there to brag
and maunder over the dead town's former glory.
The fact that certain of Hod's jugs never tilted to the filling of the
vinegar bottles or molasses pails of the women, not only served to
insure unflagging attendance, but the sale of their contents afforded
the storekeeper a small but steady income which more than offset any
loss incident to the preoccupied inroads upon his cracker barrel.
The sound of the once familiar whistle brought the men tumbling from
Burrage's door, while up and down the deserted street aproned forms
stood framed in the doorways, beflanked by tousled heads which gazed
wonder-eyed from behind tight-gripped skirts.
Not a person in town, except the very newest citizens, and they were
too young to care--for nobody ever came to Hilarity except by the stork
route--but recognized old No. 9's whistle.
Strange, almost apologetic, it sounded after its years of silence; not
at all like the throaty bellow of derision with which the long,
vestibuled coast trains thundered through the forsaken village.
A brakeman leaped from the cab and ran ahead. Stooping, he cursed the
corroded lock of the unused switch which creaked and jarred to the pull
of the lever as old No. 9 headed wheezily onto the rust-eaten rails of
the rotting spur.
An hour later she puffed noisily away, leaving Moncrossen's crew
encamped in the deserted cabins and dilapidated saloons of the worn-out
town.
Moncrossen, by making use of old tote-roads, saved about forty of the
eighty miles of road building which lay between Hilarity and the Blood
River.
Toward the end of October the work was completed, the camp buildings
erected, and a brush and log dam thrown across the river at the narrows
of a white water rapid.
Swampers and axe-men set to work building skidways and cross-hauls, and
the banks of the river were cleared for the roll-ways. The ground was
still bare of snow, but the sawyers were "laying them down," and the
logs were banked at the skidways.
Then one morning the snow came.
Quietly it fell, in big, downy flakes that floated lazily to earth from
the even gray of the cloud-spread sky, tracing aimless, zigzag patterns
against the dark green background of the pines, and covering the brown
needles of the forest floor and the torn mold of the skidways with a
soft blanket of white.
The men sprang eagerly to their work--heartened by the feel of the
snow. The tingling air was filled with familiar man-sounds--the
resonant stroke of axes, and the long crash of falling trees, the
metallic rattle of chains, the harsh rasp of saws, and the good-natured
calls of men in rude banter; sounds that rang little and thin through
the mighty silence of the forest.
Gradually the flakes hardened and the zigzag patterns resolved
themselves into long, threadlike lines which slanted earthward with a
soft, hissing sound.
Fast it fell, and faster, until the background disappeared, and all the
world was a swift-moving riot of white.
It was a real snow now--a snow of value which buried the soft blanket
of the feathery flakes under a stable covering which would pack hard
under the heavy runners of the wide log sleds.
It lodged in thick masses in the trees whose limbs bent under the
weight, and the woods rang to the cries of the sawyers when the
tottering of a mighty pine sent a small avalanche hurtling through the
lower branches, half-burying them in its white smother.
As the early darkness of the North country settled about them the men
plowed heavily to the bunk-house through a foot and a half of
fresh-fallen snow--and still it snowed.
CHAPTER XI
BILL HITS THE TRAIL
In a long-abandoned shack midway between Moncrossen's Blood River camp
and Hilarity, Bill Carmody hugged close the rusty, broken stove.
All day he had tramped northward, guided through the maze of abandoned
roads by the frozen ruts of Moncrossen's tote wagons, and it was long
after dark when he camped in the northernmost of the old shacks with
civilization, as represented by Hilarity's deserted buildings and the
jug-tilting, barrel-head conclave of Hod Burrage's store, forty miles
to the southward.
It had been a hard day--this first day of his new life in the
Northland. And now, foot-sore, dog-tired, and dispirited, he sat close
and fed sticks to his guttering fire which burned sullenly and flared
red for want of draft.
The chinking had long since fallen from between the logs and the night
wind whipped the smoke in stinging volleys from gaping holes in the
rust-eaten jacket of the dilapidated air-tight.
Tears streamed from the man's smoke-tortured eyes, every muscle of his
body ached horribly from the unaccustomed trail-strain, and his feet,
unused to the coarse woolen socks beneath heavy boots, were galled and
blistered until the skin hung in rolls from the edges of raw scalds.
He removed his foot-gear and the feel of the cold wind was good to his
burning feet. He scowled resentfully at the galling newness of his
high-laced boots and with a tentative finger explored his hurts.
Unbuckling his pack, he drew forth the ready prepared food with which
he had supplied himself at the store. The pack had seemed trifling when
he swung lightly into the trail that morning, but twelve hours later,
when he stumbled painfully into the disused shack, it had borne upon
his aching shoulders as the burden of Atlas.
Hungry as he was, he glared disgustedly at the flaunting label of the
salmon can and the unappetizing loaf of coarse bread dried hard, rather
than baked, from sodden dough, by Hod Burrage's slovenly spouse.
And as he glared he pondered the words of advice offered by the old man
with the twisted leg who sat upon Burrage's counter and punctuated his
remarks with quick, jerky stabs of his stout, home-made crutch.
"Tha' cann't fish ben't no good f'r trail grub, son. Ye're a greener,
you be. Better ye lay in what'll stay by ye--a bit o' bacon, like, or
some bologny--an' a little tin coffee-pot yonder.
"Ye'll be thinkin' o' steppin' out the door wi' ye're new boots an'
ye're pack an' trippin' up to Blood River in maybe it's two walks, wi'
naught in ye're belly but a can o' cold fish an' a stun weight o' Mary
Burrage's bread, which there ain't no more raisin' into it nor a
toggle-chain.
"'Tis plain ye're a greener, son; but take an old fool's advice an' get
ye a pair o' the shoe-packs yonder to spell off the boots. Bran' new,
they be, an' they'll gald ye're feet till ye'll be walkin' ankle-deep
in hell again' night. F'r Oi'll be tellin' ye Blood River lays a fine
two walks f'r a _good_ man, an' his boots broke in to the wear."
Now Bill Carmody was, by environment, undemocratic, and he resented
being called a greener. Also the emphasis which old Daddy Dunnigan had
placed upon the words "good man," in evident contrast to himself,
rankled.
How he wished, as he sat in the cold discomfort of the shack, that he
had heeded the timely and well-meant advice. His was not an arrogant
nature, nor a surly--but the change in his environment had been
painfully abrupt. All his life he had chosen for companions men whom he
looked upon as his social equals, and he knew no others except as paid
hirelings to do his bidding. And all his life money had removed from
his pathway the physical discomforts incident to existence.
But all this was in the past. Unconsciously he was learning a lesson
and this first lesson would be hard--but very thorough, and the next
time he met Daddy Dunnigan he would take him by the hand. For here was
a man--a good man--in the making. But a man new to his surroundings. A
man who would learn hard--but quickly--and who would fight hard against
the very conditions which were to make him.
His perspective must first be broken on the wheel of experience, that
he might know human nature, and the relative worth of men. His
unplastic nature would one day be his chief bulwark; as now, it was his
chief stumbling block. For in his chosen life-work he must take
men--many men--rough men--of diverse codes and warring creeds, and with
them build an efficient unit for the conquering of nature in her own
fastnesses. And this thing requires not only knowledge and strength,
but courage, and the will to do or die.
Alighting from the caboose of the local freight train on the previous
evening, he entered Hod Burrage's door as he had entered the doors of
trades-places all his life. To him, Hod Burrage was not a personality,
but a menial existing for the sole purpose of waiting upon and
attending to the wants of him, Bill Carmody. The others--the old men,
and the crippled ones, and the hard-handed grubbers of stumps, who sat
about in faded mackinaws and patched overalls--he regarded not at all.
He deposited his pack-sack on the floor where its canvas sides,
outbulging with blankets and duffel, fairly shrieked their newness.
After some minutes of silence--a silence neither friendly nor hostile,
during which Bill was conscious that all eyes were turned upon him in
frank curiosity, he spoke--and in speaking, inadvertently antagonized
the entire male population of Hilarity. For in his speech was no word
of greeting.
He addressed no one in particular, but called peremptorily, and with a
trace of irritation, for a salesman.
Now, Hod Burrage was anything but a salesman. His goods either sold
themselves or remained on their shelves, and to Mr. Burrage it was a
matter of supreme indifference which. He was wont to remark to
hesitating or undecided customers that "if folks didn't know what they
wanted when they come into the store, they better keep away till they
find out."
So, in answer to the newcomer's demand, Hod shifted his quid and, with
exasperating deliberation, spat in the direction of a sawdust-filled
box near which the other was standing.
Without rising from his seat in the one undamaged chair, he answered:
"If it's the storekeeper you mean, I'm him." Then, as an after-thought.
"Was they somethin' you wanted?"
Bill resented the implied rebuke in the storekeeper's words even more
than he resented the bombardment of tobacco juice which barely missed
his boots. Take it all in all he was having a rather rough time of it.
The railway people had refused to stop their fast train at Hilarity for
his special benefit, and he had been compelled to get off at the
nearest division point, some forty miles to the westward, and continue
his journey in the evil-smelling caboose of the local freight-train
which crawled jerkily over the rails, and stopped to shunt cars at
every siding.
Nearly the whole day had been consumed for the trip, during which time
he had sat in the stuffy, superheated car, whose foul air reeked of
cheap tobacco and drying garments, and listened to the guffaws of the
train-crew as they regaled each other with vile stories and long
accounts of revolting personal experiences among the dives of cities.
So now, tired, grimy, and with his head aching dully from the long
breathing of foul air, he was in no humor for comprehensive amiability.
He made his few purchases and replied curtly to the questions of the
storekeeper. It is doubtful if he would have replied at all but for the
fact that he must have information in regard to the whereabouts of
Moncrossen's Blood River camp.
There was a roar of merriment, which he answered with a scowl, when he
inquired the location of the hotel.
"Jest help yourself, stranger," said Burrage, with a generous sweep of
the arm which included all Hilarity not within the confines of the
room. "They's about fifty buildin's, cabins, an' shacks along the
street, an' you can take your pick. Rent's the cheapest thing they is
in Hilarity--jest kick out the rats an' spread your blankets."
It was when Bill stooped to add the gaudy-labeled cans to his pack that
Daddy Dunnigan, of the twisted leg, volunteered the bit of advice that
fell upon his ears unheeded.
He was openly resentful now, having detected certain smiles, winks, and
nudgings with which the assembled men called each other's attention to
various details of his clothing and pack.
During the storekeeper's temporary cessation of vigilance while waiting
upon his customer, the others had seized the opportunity to refresh
themselves at his expense.
A thick, heavy tumbler, so cloudy and begrimed as to be almost opaque,
was filled from a large jug placed conveniently upon a sack of
potatoes, and passed from one to the other, each absorbing little or
much as the thirst was upon him, and passing it on to his neighbor.
Daddy Dunnigan offered it to Bill along with the advice; but the latter
ungraciously refused and, turning abruptly away, shouldered his pack
and proceeded to select his "hotel."
"Wonder who's he?" remarked Hod Burrage as he lazily resumed his seat.
"Too damned upity to suit me!" vociferated Creed, Hilarity's
self-alleged bad man, with a fierce exhalation that dislodged a thin
volley of cracker-crumbs from his overhanging mustache. "A heap too
damned upity for this camp, says I."
He shook a hairy fist menacingly toward the door through which the man
had departed. "It's lucky for him it was old Daddy there 'stead of me
he wouldn't drink with or I'd of went to the floor with him an' teached
him his manners."
"Naw ye wouldn't, Creed," said the old man. "Ye'd done jest loike ye
done--set there atop yer barr'l an' blinked. An' when he'd went out
ye'd blowed an' bragged an' blustered, an' then fizzled out like a wet
fuse. 'Stead of which Oi predic' that the young feller's a real
man--once he gets strung out. Anyways, Oi bet he does his foightin'
whiles the other feller's there 'stead of settin' 'round an' snortin'
folks' whisky full o' cracker-crumbs."
He gazed ruefully into his half-filled glass.
"Throw it out, Daddy, an' have one on me," offered Burrage, reaching
for the jug.
With a sly wink toward the others, the old man drained the glass at a
gulp and passed it innocently to be refilled.
"I'll let him go this time," rumbled Creed with a frown. "He's headin'
for Buck Moncrossen's camp--Moncrossen'll break him!"
"Or he'll break Moncrossen!" interrupted Daddy, bringing his crutch
down upon the floor. "The one camp'll not hold the two o' thim f'r
long. Heed ye now, Oi predic' there'll be hell a poppin' on Blood
River, an' be this time a year fr' now one o' thim two'll be broke f'r
good an' all, an', not to mention no names, it won't be yon stranger."
The strong liquor had loosened the tongue of the ordinarily silent old
man and he continued:
"Oi catched his eye fair; an' 'tis the eye of a foightin' man--an eye,
the loike o' which Oi ain't seen since Oi looked f'r the last time in
the dead eyes o' Captain Fronte McKim, in the second outbreak o' the
wild Boh, Hira Kal, in the brown hills o' the Punjab."
The men listened expectantly, for when the liquor was right the old man
could tell of strange wars in far climes.
"One night the little hillmen sneaked up on Captain Barkley's flyin'
battery. They left his head an' his men's stickin' atop a row o' stakes
an' dragged the guns to a hilltop overlookin' the pass. An' in the
mornin' they unlimbered, sweepin' our left wing.
"Fronte McKim was captain o' the Lights an' Oi was a corp'l. All that
mornin' the Boh kep' pepperin' away, wi' 'Miss Fanny,' the colonel he
was, an' his parade-groun' staff o' book sogers, wi' tables o' figgers
an' the book o' rules an' maps an' a pair o' dividers, tryin' to figger
out how to chase a bad Boh offen a hilltop wi'out clim'in' the same.
"An' he lived a long time after, did Miss Fanny, to die in his bed o'
some nice, fine disease, wi' his fambly an' his Scotch an' sody
gathered about him.
"An' he was put in a foine, big coffin wi' a bran' new flag spread atop
to keep off the dust, an' carried back to Englan' in a war-ship, wi'
the harbor guns firin' salutes--the whiles Fronte McKim lays back among
the hills o' Punjab, wropped in his powder-burnt, shot-tore blanket.
"The hillmen an' their women an' the shiny hill kids give wide berth in
passin', an' make low salaams to the grave o' the terrible fightin'
_sahib_ that put the fear o' God in the heart o' the wild Boh. An' it's
as Captain Fronte would wished--Oi know'd um well.
"But, as Oi was sayin', the whiles Miss Fanny was tryin'--by nine times
six is forty-seven an' traject'ry an' muzzle v'locity an' fours right
an' holler squares--to wish the Boh offen the hilltop so he could march
us through the pass accordin' to Hoyle, Fronte McKim was off ahead
among the rocks, layin' on his belly behint a ant-hill studyin' the
hillside through his spyglass.
"Well, 'long 'bout noon he come gallopin' up, wi' his big black horse
all a lather, to where we was layin' in the scrub cursin' the flies an'
the department an' the outbreaks o' Bohs.
"'Come on, boys!' he hollers, wi' the glitter in his eye; 'Oi found the
way! All together now, an' we'll see the top o' yon hill or we'll see
hell this day!'
"Wi' that he tears loose a yell 'twould strike a chill to the heart o'
an iceberg, an' wheels his horse into the open--an' us in the saddle
an' follerin', all yellin' like a hellful o' devils turned loose for
recess."
The old man shifted his crutch and sipped at his liquor.
"Most o' us seen the top o' the hill," he resumed, "an' the brown
hillmen, what of 'em wasn't layin' limp by the guns, a skitterin'
through the scrub after a Boh who'd took off on a stray cavalry horse.
"But they was a many o' us as didn't--layin' sprawled among the rocks
o' the bare hillside, an' their horses runnin' wild to keep up wi' the
charge. We found Captain Fronte wi' his whole front blow'd out by a
shell an' his shoulders kind o' tumbled in where his lungs
belonged--but thim eyes was lookin' straight at the hilltop.
"An' Oi looked in 'em long--for Oi loved him--an' was glad. 'Cause Oi
know'd Captain Fronte McKim was seein' hell--an' enjoyin' it."
He set down the empty glass and favored Creed with a cold stare: "An'
his eyes is like _that_--the stranger's--an' yours ain't, nor
Moncrossen's."
CHAPTER XII
THE TEST
With only one-half of his journey behind him and the chill night-wind
whipping through the unchinked crevices of the deserted shack; with the
prospect of an unsavory supper of soggy sock-eye and a lump of frozen
bread, Bill Carmody fervently wished himself elsewhere.
His mind lingered upon the long row of squat, fat-footed shoe-packs
which the old man had indicated with his gnarled crutch. How good they
would feel after the grinding newness of his boots! And coffee--he
could see the row of tin pots hanging from their wires, and the long,
flat slabs of bacon suspended from the roof-logs of the store.
He found himself, for the first time in his life, absolutely dependent
upon his own resources. He cut the top from a can of salmon and thawed
out his bread on the top of the dirty stove. He had no cup, so he used
the salmon-can, limping in stockinged feet to the spring near the door,
whose black waters splashed coldly in a tiny rivulet that found its way
under the frozen surface of a small creek. The water was clear and
cold, but tasted disgustingly fishy from its contact with the can.
As he entered the shack and closed the sagging door, his glance was
arrested by an object half concealed in the cobwebbed niche between the
lintel and the sloping roof-logs--an object that gleamed shiny and
black in the dull play of the firelight. He reached up and withdrew
from its hiding-place a round quart bottle, across whose top was pasted
a familiar green stamp which proclaimed that the contents had been
bottled in bond.
He carried it to the fire and with the sleeve of his mackinaw removed
the accumulated dust from the label. "Old Morden Rye," he read aloud,
holding it close to the firelight. And as he read his thoughts flew
backward to past delights. Here was an old friend come to cheer him in
the wilderness.
He was no longer cold nor hungry, and before his eyes danced the
bright, white lights of the man-made night of Broadway. His shoulders
straightened and the sparkle came into his eyes. Forgotten was his
determination to make good, and the future was a remote thing of no
present moment nor concern. Once again he was Broadway Bill, the sport!
Carefully and deliberately he broke the seal and removed the
cork-rimmed glass stopper, which he flung to a far corner of the
room--for that was Bill's way--to throw away the cork. There was
nothing small in his make-up; and for why is whisky, but to drink while
it lasts? And one cannot drink through a cork-rimmed stopper. So he
threw it away.
Only that day as he had laboriously stepped off the long miles he had
thought with virtuous complacence of the completeness of his
reformation.
He thought how he had refused to drink with Daddy Dunnigan from the
smeared and cloudy glass half-filled with the raw, rank liquor, across
the surface of which had trailed the tobacco-stained mustaches of the
half-dozen unkempt men.
A week before he had refused to drink good whisky with Appleton--but
that was amid surroundings against which he had fortified himself;
surroundings made familiar by a little veneered table in the corner of
the tile-floored bar of a well-known hotel, and while the spirit of his
determination to quit was strong upon him. Besides, it was good policy.
Therefore, he ordered ginger ale; but Appleton drank whisky and noted
that the other eyed the liquor as the little beads rose to the top, and
that as he looked he unconsciously moistened his lips with his
tongue--just that little thing--as he looked at the whisky in
Appleton's glass. By that swift movement Appleton understood, for he
knew men--it was his business to know men--and then and there he
decided to send Bill to Moncrossen's camp, where it was whispered
whisky flowed freely.
Appleton had no son, and he felt strangely drawn toward the young man
whose eyes had held him from the time of their first meeting. But he
must prove his worth, and the test should be hard--and very thorough.
Appleton realized that to place him in any one of the other camps,
where the ban was on whisky, and where each smuggled bottle was
ferreted out and smashed, would be no test. It is no credit to a man to
refrain from whisky where no whisky is.
But place a man who has created an appetite for whisky among men who
drink daily and openly, and enjoy it; who urge and encourage him to do
likewise; where whisky is continually before his eyes, and the rich
bouquet of it in his nostrils, and that _is_ a test.
Appleton knew this, and knowing, he sent Bill to Moncrossen, and smiled
as he bet with himself on the outcome. But there is one other test--the
supreme test of all, of which even Appleton did not know.
Place this same man alone, tired out, hungry, thirsty, and cold, with
every muscle of his body crying its protest of aches against the
overstrain of a long day's work; surround him with every attribute of
physical discomfort; with the future stretching away in a dull gray
vista of uncertainty, and the memory strong upon him that the girl--the
one girl in all the world--has ceased to believe in him--has ceased to
care; add to this the recollection of good times gone--times when good
liquor flowed freely among good fellows, and at this particular
psychological moment let him come suddenly and unexpectedly upon a
bottle of whisky--good whisky, of a brand of which he has always
approved--_that_ is the acid test--and in writing this I know whereof I
write.
And that is why Bill Carmody carefully and deliberately broke the seal
and threw the cork away, and shook the bottle gently, and breathed deep
of its fragrance, and smiled in anticipation as the little beads flew
upward.
The fire had died down, and he set the bottle on the floor beside him
and reached for the firewood. As he did so a long, sealed envelope, to
the outside of which was tightly bound a photograph, fell to the floor
from the inner pocket of his mackinaw.
As he stooped to recover it his eyes encountered those of the picture
gazing upward through the half-light. A flickering tongue of flame
flared brightly for a moment and illumined the features, bringing out
their expression with startling distinctness.
It was the face of the girl. The flame died out, leaving the pictured
likeness half concealed in the soft semi-darkness of the dying embers.
It seemed hours that the man sat motionless, staring into the upturned
eyes--those eyes into which he had so often gazed, but which were now
lost to him forever. And as he looked, other thoughts crowded his
brain; thoughts of his father, and the scorn of their parting; thoughts
of the girl, of her words, and of his own boast: "_I_ can beat the
game! And I will beat it--now!... And some day you will know."
His anger rose against the man whose own flesh and blood he was, who
had driven him from home with words of bitter sarcasm, and against the
girl and her sneering repudiation of him. He leaped to his feet and
shook a clenched fist to the southward:
"I told you I would make good!" he roared, "and, by God, I will! I am a
McKim--do you hear? I am a McKim--and I shall make good!"
He reached for the bottle and placed it beside him on the pine table.
He did not pour out the whisky, for he did not fear it--only if he
drank it need he fear.
Just one little drink, and he was lost--and he knew this. And now he
knew that he would never take that drink--and he looked at the bottle
and laughed--laughed as the girl had laughed when she sent him from her
forever.
"It's no go, old boy," he smiled, apostrophizing John Barleycorn. "I
served you long--and well. But I quit. You would not believe that I
quit, and came out here to get me. And you almost got me. Almost, but
not quite, John, for I have quit for good and all. We can still be
friends, only now I am the master and you are the servant, and to start
out with, I am going to pour half of you over my blistered feet."
He recovered the packet from the floor and looked long at the picture.
"And some day you will know," he repeated, as he returned it to his
pocket.
Thus did the lonely girl in a far distant city unconsciously win a
silent victory for the man she loved--and who loved her.
CHAPTER XIII
ON THE TOTE-ROAD
Very early in the morning on the day of the storm which had been
welcomed by the lumber-jacks of the Blood River camp, old Wabishke
started over his trap-line.
The air was heavy with the promise of snow, and one by one the Indian
took up his traps and hung them in saplings that they might not be
buried.
After the storm, with the Northland lying silent under its mantle of
white, and the comings and goings of the fur-bearers recorded in
patterns of curious tracery, Wabishke would again fare forth upon the
trap-line.
With wise eyes and the cunning of long practice, he would read the sign
in the snow, and by means of craftily concealed iron jaws and innocent
appearing deadfalls, renew with increased confidence in his "winter
set," the world-old battle of skill against instinct.
On the crest of a low ridge at the edge of the old chopping where
Moncrossen's new Blood River tote-road made a narrow lane in the
forest, the Indian paused.
In the stump-dotted clearing, indistinct in the sullen dimness of the
overcast dawn, rotted the buildings of the abandoned log-camp. From one
of these smoke rose. Wabishke decided to investigate, for in the
Northland no smallest detail may pass unaccounted for. Swiftly he
descended the ridge and, gliding silently into the aftergrowth of
spindling saplings that reared their sickly heads among the stumps,
gained the rear of the shack. Noiselessly he advanced, and, peering
between the unchinked logs, surveyed the interior.
A man sat upon the floor near the stove and laboriously applied
bandages to his blistered feet. Near by was a new pack-sack against
which leaned a pair of new high-laced boots toward which the man shot
wrathful glances as he worked.
"_Chechako_," muttered the Indian, and passed around to the door.
A popular-fiction Indian would have glided stealthily into the shack
and, with becoming dignity, have remarked "How."
But Wabishke was just a common Indian--one of the everyday kind, that
may be seen any time hanging about the trading-posts of the
North-country--unimaginative, undignified--dirty. So he knocked loudly
upon the door and waited.
"Come in!" called Carmody, and gazed in surprise at the newcomer, who
stared back at him without speaking. Wabishke advanced to the stove,
and, fumbling in the pocket of his disreputable mackinaw, produced a
very old and black cob-pipe, which he gravely extended toward the
other.
"No, thanks!" said Bill hastily. "Got one of my own."
He eyed with disfavor the short, thick stem, about the end of which was
wound a bit of filthy rag, which served as a mouthpiece for the grip of
the yellow fangs which angled crookedly at the place where a portion of
the lip had been torn away in some long-forgotten combat of the wilds.
"T'bacco," grunted the visitor, with a greasy distortion of the
features which passed for a smile.
"Oh, that's it? Well, here you are."
Carmody produced a bright-colored tin box, which he handed to the
Indian, who squatted upon his heels and regarded its exterior in
thoughtful silence for many minutes, turning it over and over in his
hand and subjecting every mark and detail of its lettered surface to a
minute scrutiny.
Finally with a grunt he raised the lid and contemplated the tobacco,
which was packed evenly in thin slices.
He stared long and curiously at his own distorted image, which was
reflected from the unpainted tin of the inside of the cover, felt
cautiously of the paraffined paper, and, raising the box to his nose,
sniffed noisily at the contents.
Apparently satisfied, he removed a dozen or more of the slices and
ground them slowly between the palms of his hands. This done, he rammed
possibly one-tenth of the mass into the bowl of his ancient pipe and
carefully conveyed the remainder to his pocket.
"Match?" he asked. And Bill passed over his monogrammed silver
match-box, which received its share of careful examination, evidently,
however, not meeting the approval accorded the gaudy tobacco-box.
The Indian abstracted about one-half of the matches, which he
transferred to the pocket containing the tobacco. Then, calmly
selecting a dry twig from the pile of firewood, thrust the end through
a hole in the broken stove, and after much noisy puffing at length
succeeded in igniting the tightly tamped tobacco in his pipe-bowl.
"Thank you," said Bill, contemplating his few remaining matches.
"You're a bashful soul, aren't you? Did you ever serve a term in the
Legislature?"
The Indian's command of English did not include a word Bill had
uttered; nevertheless, his mangled lip writhed about the pipe-stem in
grotesque grin.
"Boots!" he grunted, eying the bandaged feet. "No good!" and he
complacently wriggled the toes in his own soft moccasins. Bill noted
the movement, and a sudden desire obsessed him to possess at any cost
those same soft moccasins.
Wabishke, like most Indians, was a born trader, and he was quick to
note the covetous glance that the white _chechako_ cast toward his
footgear.
"Will you sell those?" asked Bill, pointing toward the moccasins. The
Indian regarded them thoughtfully, and again the toes wriggled
comfortably beneath the pliable moose-skin covering. Bill tried again.
"How much?" he asked, touching the moccasins with his finger.
The Indian pondered the question through many puffs of his short pipe.
He pointed to the new boots, and when Bill handed them to him he
carefully studied every stitch and nail of each. Finally he laid them
aside and pointed to the tobacco-box, which he again scrutinized and
laid with the boots.
"Match," he said.
"Get a light from the fire like you did before, you old fraud! I only
have a few left."
"Match," repeated the Indian, and Bill passed over his match-box, which
was placed with the other items. Wabishke pointed toward the pack-sack.
"Look here, you red Yankee!" exclaimed Bill. "Do you want my whole
outfit for those things?"
The other merely shrugged and pointed first at the bandaged feet, and
then at the boots. One by one, a can of salmon, a sheath-knife, and a
blue flannel shirt were added to the pile, and still Wabishke seemed
unsatisfied.
While the Indian pawed over the various articles of his pack, Bill
found time to put the finished touches on his bandages, and, reaching
under the table, drew forth the whisky bottle and poured part of its
contents upon the strips of cloth.
At the sight of the bottle the Indian's eyes brightened, and he reached
for it quickly. Bill shook his head and set the bottle well out of his
reach.
"Me drink," the other insisted, and again Bill shook his head. The
Indian seemed puzzled.
"No like?" he asked.
"No like," repeated Bill, and smiled grimly.
Wabishke regarded him in wondering silence. In his life he had seen
many strange things, but never a thing like this--a white man who of
his own choice drank spring-water from a fish-can and poured good
whisky upon his feet!
The Indian's eyes wandered from the pile of goods to the bottle, in
which about one-fourth of the contents remained, and realized that he
was at a disadvantage, for he knew by experience that a white man and
his whisky are hard to part.
Selecting the can of salmon from the pile, he shoved it toward the man,
who again shook his head. Then followed the match-box, the
sheath-knife, and the shirt, until only the tobacco-box and the boots
remained, and still the man shook his head.
Slowly the tobacco-box was handed back, and the Indian was eying the
boots. Bill laughed.
"No. You'll need those. Just hand over the moccasins, and you are
welcome to the boots and the booze."
The Indian hastily untied the thongs, and the white man thrust his
bandaged feet into the soft comfort of the mooseskin moccasins. A few
minutes later he took the trail, following the windings of Moncrossen's
new tote-road into the North.
The air was filled with a light, feathery snow, and, in spite of the
ache of his stiffened muscles, he laughed.
"The first bottle of whisky _I_ ever entered on the right side of the
ledger," he said aloud--and again he laughed.
He was in the big timber now. The tall, straight pines of the Appleton
holdings stretched away for a hundred miles, and formed a high wall on
either side of the tote-road, which bent to the contour of ridge and
swamp and crossed small creeks on rough log bridges or corduroy
causeways.
Gradually the stiffness left him, and his aching muscles limbered to
their work. His moccasins sank noiselessly into the soft snow as mile
after mile he traversed the broad ribbon of white.
At noon he camped, and over a tiny fire thawed out his bread and warmed
his salmon, which he washed down with copious drafts of snow-water.
Then he filled his pipe and blew great lungfuls of fragrant smoke into
the air as he rested with his back against a giant pine and watched the
fall of the snow.
During the last hour the character of the storm had changed. Cold, dry
pellets, hissing earthward had replaced the aimless dance of the
feathery flakes, and he could make out but dimly the opposite wall of
the rod-wide tote-road.
He returned the remains of his luncheon to his pack, eying with disgust
the heel of the loaf of hard bread and the soggy, red mass of sock-eye
that remained in the can.
"The first man that mentions canned salmon to me," he growled, "is
going to get _hurt_!"
The snow was ankle-deep when he again took the trail and lowered his
head to the sting of the wind-driven particles. On and on he plodded,
lifting his feet higher as the snow deepened. As yet, in his ignorance
of woodcraft, no thought of danger entered his mind. "It is harder
work, that is all," he thought; but, had he known it, his was a
situation that no woodsman wise in the ways of the winter trails would
have cared to face.
During the morning he had covered but fifteen of the forty miles which
lay between the old shack and Moncrossen's camp. Each minute added to
the difficulties of the journey, which, in the words of Daddy Dunnigan
was "a fine two walks for a good man," and, with the added hardship of
a heavy snowfall, would have been a man's-sized job for the best of
them equipped, as they would have been, with good grub and snowshoes.
Bill was forced to rest frequently. Not only were his softened muscles
feeling the strain--it was getting his wind, this steady bucking the
snow--but each time he again faced the storm and plowed doggedly
northward.
Darkness found him struggling knee-deep in the cold whiteness, and, as
he paused to rest in the shelter of a pile of tops left by the axe-men,
the foremost of the gray shadows that for the last two hours had dogged
his footsteps, phantom-like, resolved itself into a very tangible pair
of wicked eyes which smoldered in greenish points of hate above a very
sharp, fang-studded muzzle, from which a long, red tongue licked
suggestively at back-curled lips.
CHAPTER XIV
AT BAY
Bill Carmody was no coward; but neither was he a fool, and for the
first time the seriousness of his position dawned upon him. Other
shapes appeared and ranged themselves beside their leader, and as the
man looked upon their gaunt, sinewy leanness, the slavering jaws, and
blazing eyes, he shuddered. Here, indeed, was a very real danger.
He decided to camp. Fire, he remembered to have read, would hold the
brutes at bay. Wood there was in plenty, and, quickly clearing a space
in the snow, he soon had the satisfaction of seeing tiny tongues of
flame crackle in a pile of dry branches.
He unslung his light axe and attacked the limbs of a dead pine that lay
at the edge of the road.
After an hour's work his cleared space was flanked on either side by
piles of dry firewood, and at his back the great pile of tops afforded
shelter from the wind which swept down the roadway, driving before it
stinging volleys of snow.
He spread his blanket and drew from his pack the unappetizing food. He
warmed the remaining half-can of salmon and whittled at his nubbin of
bread.
"Dinner is served, sir," he announced to himself, "dead fish with
formaldehyde dressing, petrified dough, and _aqua nivis_." The storm
continued, and as he smoked the gravity of his plight forced itself
upon him.
The laggards had caught up, and at the edge of the arc of firelight a
wide semicircle of insanely glaring eyeballs and gleaming fangs told
where the wolf-pack waited.
There was a terrifying sense of certainty in their method. They took no
chance of open attack, wasted no breath in needless howling or
snarling, but merely sat upon their haunches beyond the circle of the
firelight--waiting.
Again the man shuddered. Before him, he knew, lay at least fifteen
miles of trail knee-deep with snow, and he had left but one small
ration of unpalatable and unnutritious food.
"I seem to be up against a tough proposition," he mused. "What was it
Appleton said about battle, murder, and sudden death? It looks from
here as if the old boy knew what he was talking about. But it is kind
of rough on a man to roll them all up into one bundle and hand it to
him right on the kick-off."
He had heard of men who became lost in the woods and died horribly of
cold and starvation, or went down to the rush of the wolf-pack.
"As long as I stick to this road I won't get lost," he thought. "I may
freeze to death, or starve, or furnish a cozy meal for the wolves
yonder, but even at that I still have the edge on those others--I'm
damned if I'm _lost_!"
And, strange as it may seem, the thought gave him much comfort.
He tossed more wood on the fire and watched the shower of sparks which
shot high above the flames.
"To-morrow will be my busy day," he remarked, addressing the wolves.
"Good night, you hell-hounds! Just stick around and see that nothing
sneaks up and bites me."
He hurled a blazing firebrand among the foremost of the hungry hoard,
but these did not retreat--merely leaped back, snarling, to lurk in the
outer shadows.
Bill's sleep was fitful. The snow ceased to fall during the early hours
of the night, and the pair of blankets with which he had provided
himself proved entirely inadequate protection against the steadily
increasing cold.
Time and again he awoke and replenished the fire, for, no matter in
what position he lay, one side of his body seemed freezing, while the
other toasted uncomfortably in the hot glare of the flames. And
always--just at the rim of the fire-light--sat the wolves, waiting in
their ominous circle of silence.
But in the interims between these awakenings he slept profoundly,
oblivious alike to discomfort and danger--as the dead sleep.
At the first hint of dawn Bill hastily consumed the last of his
unpalatable food and resumed his journey.
Hour after hour he toiled through the snow, and always the wolf-pack
followed, haunting his trail in the open roadway and flanking him in
the deep shade of the evergreen forest, moving tirelessly through the
loose snow in long, slow leaps.
Seventeen of them he counted--seventeen murderous, ill-visaged curs of
the savage kill! And the leader of the pack was a very demon wolf. A
monstrous female, almost pure white, huge, misshapen, hideous--the
ultimate harridan of the wolf-breed--she stood a full two hands above
the tallest of the rank and file of her evil clan.
The foot and half of a foreleg had been left between iron jaws where
she had gnawed herself out of a trap, and the shrunken stub, depending
from a withered shoulder, dragged over the surface of the snow, leaving
a curious mark like the trail of a snake.
The remaining foreleg was strong and thick and, from redistribution of
balance, slanted inward from the massive shoulder, which was developed
out of all proportion to its mate, giving the great white brute a
repulsive, lopsided appearance.
The long, stiff hair stood out upon her neck in a great ruff, which
accentuated the fiendish ferocity of her, adding a hyena-like slope to
her ungainly body. But it was in the expression of her face that she
reached the climax of hideous malevolence.
One pointed ear stood erect upon her head, while the other, mangled and
torn into a serried red excrescence, formed the termination of a broad,
ragged scar which began at the corner of her mouth, giving her face the
expression of a fiendish grin that belied the green glare of her
venomous, opalescent eyes.
The loss of the leg seemed in nowise to hamper her freedom of action.
She moved ceaselessly among the pack with a peculiar bounding gallop,
fawning in subtle cajolery upon those in the forefront, slashing right
and left among the laggards with vicious clicks of her long, white
fangs; and always she watched the tiring man who found his own gaze
fixed upon her in horrid fascination.
There was something sinister in the wolf-pack's noiseless pursuit. The
brutes drew nearer as the man's pace slowed to the wearying of his
muscles.
Instinctively he knew that at the last there would be no waiting--no
delay. The very minute he sank exhausted into the snow they would be
upon him--the great white leader and her rapacious horde--and in his
imagination he could feel the viselike clench of iron jaws and the
tearing rip with which the quivering flesh would be stripped from his
bones.
At midday the man placed the sheath-knife in his belt and threw away
the pack. Relieved of the burden, his shoulders felt strangely light.
There was a new buoyancy in his stride.
But the relief was temporary, and as the sun sank early behind the
pines his brain was again driving his wearied muscles to their work.
The wolves were following close in now, and the silence of their
relentless persistence filled the man with a dumb terror which no
pandemonium of howling could have inspired.
His advance was halting. Each step was a separate and conscious
undertaking, and it was with difficulty that he lifted his moccasins
clear of the snow.
Suddenly he stumbled. The leaders were almost upon him as he recovered
and faced them there in the white reach of the tote-road. They halted
just out of reach of the swing of his axe, and as the man looked into
their glaring eyes a frenzy of unreasoning fury seized him.
His nerves could no longer stand the strain. Something seemed to snap
in his brain, and through his veins surged the spirit of his fighting
ancestors.
A sudden memory flash, as of deeds forgotten through long ages, and
with it came strength--the very abandon of fierce, brute strength of a
man with the mind to kill.
"Come on!" he cried. "Fight it out, you fiends! I may die, but I'll be
damned if I'll be hounded to death! You may get me, but you'll _fight_!
When a McKim goes down some one pays! And if it is die--By God!
There'll be fun in the dying!"
With a weird primordial scream, as the first man might have screamed in
the face of the first saber-tooth, he hurled his axe among them and
sprang forward, flashing the cold, gray blade of his sheath-knife!
CHAPTER XV
THE WERWOLF
Now, as all men know, Bill Carmody had done a most foolish and insane
thing.
But the very audacity of his act--and the god of chance--favored him,
for as the axe whizzed through the air the keen edge of the whirling
bit caught one of the larger wolves full on the side of the head.
There followed the peculiar, dull scrunching sound that stands alone
among all other sounds, being produced by no other thing than the
sudden crush of a living skull.
The front and side of the skull lifted and turned backward upon its
hinge of raw scalp and the wolf went down, clawing and biting, and over
the snow flowed thick red blood, and a thicker mucus of soft, wet
brains.
At the sight and scent of the warm blood, the companions of the
stricken brute--the gaunt, tireless leaders, who had traveled beside
him in the van, and the rag-tag and bobtail alike--fell upon him tooth
and nail, and the silence of the forest was shattered by the blood-cry
of the meat-getters.
Not so the great she-wolf, who despised these others that fought among
themselves, intent only upon the satisfaction of their hunger.
Her purpose in trailing this man to destruction was of deep vengeance:
the assuagement of an abysmal hatred that smoldered in her heart
against every individual of the terrible man kind, whose cruel traps of
iron, blades of steel, and leaden bullets had made her a monstrous,
sexless thing, feared and unsought by mating males, hated of her own
breed.
And now, at the moment she had by the cunning of her generalship
delivered this man an easy prey to her followers, they deserted her and
fell in swinish greed upon the first meat at hand.
So that at the last she faced her enemy alone, and the smoldering fury
of her heart blazed green from her wicked eyes. She stood tense as a
pointer, every hair of her long white coat bristlingly aquiver.
Suddenly she threw back her head, pointed her sharp muzzle to the sky,
and gave voice to the long-drawn ululation which is the battle-cry of
wolves.
Yet it was not the wolf-cry, for long ago the malformation of a healing
throat-wound had distorted the bell-like cry into a hideous scream like
the shriek of a soul foredamned, which quavered loud and shrill upon
the keen air and ended in a series of quick jerks, like stabs of
horrible laughter.
And then, with tight-drawn lips and jaws agape, she hurled herself
straight at the throat of the stumbling man.
* * * * *
Darkness was gathering when, a mile to the northward, Jake LaFranz and
Irish Fallon, who were laboring with six big horses and a rough log
drag to break out the trail, suddenly paused to listen.
Through the thin, cold air rang a sound the like of which neither had
ever heard. And then, as if in echo, the long-drawn wail of the great
white wolf.
They stared at each other white-lipped; for that last cry was a thing
men talked about of nights with bated breath and deep curses. Neither
had heard it before--nor would either hear it again--but each
recognized the sound instinctively, as he would recognize the sound of
Gabriel's trump.
"It's _her_!" gasped LaFranz. "God save us! It's Diablesse--the
_loup-garou_!"
"'Tis none other--that last. But, man! Man! The first wan! Was it a
human cry or from the throat of another of her hell-begotten breed?"
Without waiting to reply the Frenchman swung the big six-team in their
tracks and headed them toward camp. But Irish Fallon reached for him as
he fumbled at the clevis.
"Howld on, ye frog-eater! Be a man! If 'twas human tore loose that yell
he'll be the bether fer help, notwithstandin' there was more av foight
nor fear in th' sound."
"No, no, no! It's _her_! It's Diablesse!" He crossed himself.
"Sure, an' ut is; bad cess to her altogether. But Oi got a hear-rt in
me ribs o'good rid blood that takes relish now an' agin in a bit av a
foight. An', man or baste, Oi ain't particular, so 'tis a good wan.
Oi'll be goin' down th' thrail a piece an' see phwat's to see. Oi ain't
axin' ye to go 'long. Ye poor prayer-dhrivlin' haythen, wid yer limon
av a hear-rt ye've got a yallar shtripe that raches to th' length an'
width av ye. Ye'd be no good nohow.
"But 'tis mesilf ain't fearin' th' evil eye av th' werwolf--an' she is
called be the name av th' divil's own.
"But listen ye here, ye pea-soup Frinchy! Ye'll not go shnakin' off wid
thim harses. Ye'll bide here till Oi come back."
The other made a whimper of protest, but Irish Fallon reached out a
great hairy hand and shook him roughly.
"Yez moind now, an' Oi mane ut! Here ye shtay. An' av ye ain't here,
ye'd bether kape on goin'. F'r th' nixt toime Oi lay eyes on ye Oi'll
br-reak ye in two! An' don't ye fergit ut!"
The big Irishman turned and swung down the tote-road, the webs of his
rackets leaving a broad trail in the snow. LaFranz cowered upon the
snow-plow and sought refuge in craven prayer and curses the while he
shot frightened glances into the darkening forest.
He thought of cutting the horses loose and starting them for camp at a
run. But, much as he feared the werwolf, he feared Irish Fallon more;
for many were the tales of Fallon's man-fights when his "Irish was up."
* * * * *
When the white wolf sprang the man had nearly reached the snarling
pack. Before him, scarcely six feet away, lay his axe, the blade
smeared with blood and brains, to which clung stiff gray hairs.
Instinctively he ducked and, as the huge form flashed past, his right
arm shot out straight from the shoulder. The long, clean blade entered
just at the point of the brisket and, ranging upward, was buried to the
haft as the knife was torn from his grasp.
One step and the man's fingers closed about the helve of his axe, and
he whirled to meet the second onslaught.
But there was small need. The great brute stood still in her tracks
and, with lowered head, snapped and wrenched at the thing that bit into
her very lungs.
The stag-horn plates of the protruding hilt were splintered under the
clamp of the mighty jaws, and the long, gleaming teeth made deep dents
in the brass beneath. Her lips reddened, and before her the snow was
flecked with blood.
All this the man took in at a glance without conscious impression. He
gripped his weapon and sprang among the fighting pack, which ripped and
dragged at the carcass of the dead wolf.
Right and left he struck in a reckless fume of ferocity, which spoke of
unreasoning fights in worlds of savage firstlings. And under the
smashing blows of the axe wolves went down--skulls split, spines
crushed, ribs caved in--a side at a stroke, and shoulders were cloven
clean and deep to pink sponge lungs.
As if realizing that her hurt was mortal, the great she-wolf abandoned
her attack on the knife-haft and, summoning her strength for a supreme
effort, sprang straight into the midst of the red shambles.
The man, caught unawares, went down under the impact of her body. For
one fleeting second he stared upward into blazing eyes. From between
wide-sprung rows of flashing fangs the blood-dripping tongue seemed to
writhe from the cavernous throat, and the foul breath blew hot against
his face. Instantly his strong fingers buried themselves in the shaggy
fur close under the hinge of the jaw, while his other hand closed about
the dented brass of the protruding knife-hilt.
With the whole strength of his arm he held the savage jaws from his
face as he wrenched and twisted at the firmly embedded knife. Finally
it loosened, and as the thick-backed blade was withdrawn from the wound
it was followed by spurt after spurt of blood--bright, frothy blood,
straight from the lungs, which gushed hot and wet over him.
Blindly he struck; stabbing, thrusting, slashing at the great form
which was pressing him deeper and deeper into the snow. Again and again
the knife was turned against rib and shoulder-blade, inflicting only
shallow surface wounds.
At length a heavy, straight upthrust encountered no obstacle of bone,
and the blade bit deep and deeper into living flesh.
As with a final effort the knife was driven home, a convulsive shiver
racked the body of the great white wolf, and with a low, gurgling moan
of agony her jaws set rigid, her muscles stiffened, and she toppled
sidewise into the snow, where she lay twitching spasmodically with
glazing eyes.
Bill staggered weakly to his feet.
The uninjured wolves had vanished, leaving their dead upon the snow,
while the wounded left flat, red trails as they sought to drag their
broken bodies to the cover of the forest.
Irish Fallon rounded a turn of the tote-road. He brought up sharply and
stared open-mouthed at the man who, sheath-knife in hand, stood looking
down at an indistinct object which lay upon the blood-trampled snow.
Carmody turned and shouted a greeting, but without a word the Irishman
advanced to his side until he, too, stood looking down at the thing in
the snow. Suddenly Bill's hand was seized in a mighty grip.
"Man! 'Tis _her_, an' no mistake! She's done for at lasht--an' blade to
fang, in open foight ye've knoifed her! Sure, 'tis a gr-rand toime
ye've had altogether," he said, glancing at the carcasses, "wid six
dead besides her an' three more as good as."
Bill laughed: "This wolf--the big white one--seems to enjoy a
reputation, then?"
"R-r-reputation! R-r-reputation, is ut? Good Lord, man! Don't ye know
her? 'Tis th' werwolf! D'ablish, th' _loup-garou_, the Frinchies call
her; an' the white divil, the Injuns--an' good rayson, f'r to me own
knowledge she's kilt foive folks, big an' shmall, an' some Injuns
besides. They claim she's a divil, an' phwin she howls, 'tis because
some sowl has missed th' happy huntin' grounds in th' dyin', an' she's
laughin'."
"I don't know that I blame them," said Bill. "She favored me with a
vocal selection. And, believe me, she was no mocking-bird."
"Well, she looks dead, now," grinned Fallon; "but we'd besht make sure.
Owld man Frontenelle kilt her wunst. Seven year back, ut was over on
Monish.
"He shot her clean t'rough th' neck an' dhrug her to his cabin be th'
tail. He was for skinnin' her flat f'r th' robe she'd make. He had her
stretched out phwin wid a flash an' a growl, she was at um, an' wid wan
clap av th' jaws she ripped away face an' half th' scalp.
"They found um wanderin' blind on th' lake ice an' carried um to
Skelly's phwere he died in tin days' toime av hydrophoby, shnarlin' an'
bitin' at folks till they had to chain um in th' shtoreroom."
As he spoke, Fallon picked up the axe, and with several well-directed
blows shattered the skull of the werwolf against any possibility of a
repetition of the Frontenelle incident.
"But come, man, get yer rackets an' we'll be hittin' the thrail f'r
camp. Sure, Frinchy'll be scairt shtiff av we lave um longer."
"Rackets?" asked Bill, with a look of perplexity.
"Yer shnow shoes, av coorse."
"Haven't got any. And I don't suppose I could use them if I had." The
other stared at him incredulously.
"Not got any! Thin how'd ye git here?"
"Walked--or rather, stumbled along."
"Phwere from?"
"It started to snow as I left the old shack--the last one this way, I
don't know how far back. It was there I traded my boots to an Indian
for these." He extended a moccasined foot.
"'Tis a good job ye traded. But even at that--thirty-foive moile
t'rough th' snow widout webs!" The Irishman looked at him in open
admiration. "An' on top av that, killin' th' werwolf wid a knoife, an'
choppin' her pack loike so much kindlin's! Green, ye may be--an'
ignorant. But, frind, ye've done a man's job this day, an' Oi'm pr-roud
to know yez."
Again he extended his hand and Bill seized it in a strong grip.
Somehow, he did not resent being called green, and ignorant--he was
learning the North.
"Fallon's me name," the other continued, "an' be an accident av birth,
Oi'm called Oirish, f'r short."
"Mine is Bill, which is shorter," replied Carmody, smiling.
For just a second Irish hesitated as if expecting further
enlightenment, but, receiving none, reached down and grasped the tail
of the white wolf.
"'Tis a foine robe she'll make, Bill, an' in th' North, among white min
an' Injuns, 'twill give ye place an' shtandin'--but not wid
Moncrossen," he added with a frown.
"Come on along. Foller yez in behint, f'r th' thrail'll be fair
br-roke. Phwat wid two thrips wid th' rackets an' th' dhrag av th'
wolf, 'twill not be bad. 'Tis only a mather av twinty minutes to phwere
Frinchy'll bether be waitin' wid th' harses."
CHAPTER XVI
MONCROSSEN
They found LaFranz waiting in fear and trembling. The heavy snow-plow
was left in readiness for the morrow's trail-breaking, and the horses
hitched to a rough sled and headed for camp.
"An' ye say Misther Appleton sint ye up to wor-rk in Moncrossen's
camp?" The two were seated on the log bunk at the back of the sled
while the Frenchman drove, keeping a fearful eye on the white wolf. For
old man Frontenelle had been his uncle.
"Yes, he told me to report here."
"D'ye know Moncrossen?"
"No."
"Well, ye will, ag'in' shpring," Irish replied dryly.
"What do you mean?" asked Bill.
Irish shrugged. "Oi mane this," he answered. "Moncrossen is a har-rd
man altogether. He hates a greener. He thinks no wan but an owld hand
has any business in th' woods, an' 'tis his boast that in wan season
he'll make a lumberjack or a corpse out av any greener.
"An' comin' from Appleton hisself he'll hate ye worse'n ever, f'r he'll
think ye'll be afther crimpin' his bird's-eye game. Take advice, Bill,
an' kape on th' good side av um av ye can. He'll t'row ut into ye wid
all manner av dhirty thricks, but howld ye're timper, an' maybe ye'll
winter ut out--an' maybe ye won't."
"What is a bird's-eye game?"
Fallon glanced at him sharply. "D'ye mane ye don't know about th'
bird's-eye?" he asked.
"Not a thing," replied Bill.
"Thin listen to me. Don't ye niver say bird's-eye in this camp av ye
expect to winter ut out."
Bill was anxious to hear more about the mysterious bird's-eye, but the
sled suddenly emerged into a wide clearing and Irish was pointing out
the various buildings of the log camp.
Bright squares of light showed from the windows of the bunk-house,
office, and grub-shack, with its adjoining cook-shack, from the iron
stovepipe of which sparks shot skyward in a continuous shower.
Fallon shouldered the wolf and, accompanied by Bill, made toward the
bunk-house, while the Frenchman turned the team toward the stable.
"Ag'in' we git washed up, supper'll be ready," announced Irish, as he
deposited the wolf carcass beside the door and entered.
Inside the long, low room, lined on either side by a double row of
bunks, were gathered upward of a hundred men waiting the supper call.
They were big men, for the most part, rough clad and unshaven. Many
were seated upon the edges of the bunks smoking and talking, others
grouped about the three big stoves, and the tobacco-reeking air was
laden with the rumble of throaty conversation, broken here and there by
the sharp scratch of a match, a loud laugh, or a deep-growled,
good-natured curse.
Into this assembly stepped Irish Fallon, closely followed by Bill, the
sight of whose blood-stained face attracted grinning attention. The two
men passed the length of the room to the wash-bench, where a few
loiterers still splashed noisily at their ablutions.
"I heard it plain, I'm tellin' you," some one was saying. "'Way off to
the south it sounded."
"That ain't no lie," broke in another, "I hearn it myself--jest before
dark, it was. An' I know! Didn't I hear it that night over on Ten Fork?
The time she got Jack Kane's woman, four year ago, come Chris'mus. Yes,
sir! I tell you the werwolf's nigh about this camp, an' it's me in off
the edges afore dark!"
"They say she never laughs but she makes a kill," said one.
"God! I was at Skelly's when they brought old man Frontenelle in,"
added a big man, whose heavy beard was shot with gray, as he turned
from the stove with a shudder.
"They's some Injuns trappin' below; she might of got one of them,"
opined a short, stockily built man who, catching sight of the
newcomers, addressed Fallon:
"Hey, Irish, you was down on the tote-road; did you hear Diablesse?"
Fallon finished drying his face upon the coarse roller-towel and turned
toward the group who waited expectantly. "Yis, Oi hear-rd her, all
roight," he replied lightly. "An' thin Oi _see'd_ her."
Others crowded about, hanging upon his words. "An' thin, be way av
showin' me contimpt," he added, "Oi dhrug her a moile or more t'rough
th' woods be th' tail."
Loud laughter followed this assertion; but not a few, especially among
the older men, shook their heads in open disapproval, and muttered
curses at his levity.
"But me frind Bill, here," Irish continued, "c'n tell ye more about
her'n phwat Oi kin. He's new in th' woods, Bill is; an' so damned green
he know'd nayther th' manein' nor use av th' rackets. So, be gad, he
come widout 'em. Mushed two whole days t'rough th' shnow.
"But, listen; no mather how ignorant, nor how much he don't know, a
good man's a man--an' to pr-rove ut he jumps wid his axe roight into
th' middle av th' werwolf's own an' kills noine, countin' th' three
cripples Oi finished.
"But wid D'ablish herself, moind, he t'row'd away his axe an' goes to a
clinch wid his knoife in his fisht. An' phwin 'tis over an' he picks
himsilf up out av th' shnow an' wipes th' blood from his eyes--her
blood--f'r he comes out av ut widout scratch nor scar--D'ablish lays at
his feet dead as a nit."
Fallon gazed triumphantly into the incredulous faces of the men, and,
with a smile, added, "'Twas thin Oi dhrug her be th' tail to th' sled,
afther shmashin' her head wid th' axe to make sure."
"An' where is she now, Irish?" mocked one. "Did she jump off the sled
an' make a get-away?"
Over at the grub-shack the cook's half-breed helper beat lustily upon
the discarded saw-blade that hung suspended by a wire, and the men
crowded noisily out of the doors.
"Oi'll show ye afther supper, ye damned shpalpeen, how much av her got
away!" shouted Irish, who waited for Bill to remove the evidence of his
fight before piloting him to the grub-shack.
A single table of rough lumber covered with brown oilcoth extended the
full length of the center of the room. Above this table six huge
"Chicago burners" lighted the interior, which, as the two men entered,
was a hive of noisy activity.
Men scuffled for places upon the stationary benches arranged along
either side of the table. Heavy porcelain thumped the board, and the
air was filled with the metallic din of steel knives and forks being
gathered into bearlike hands.
Up and down the wide alleys behind the benches hurried flunkies bearing
huge tin pots of steaming coffee, and the incessant returning of thick
cups to their saucers was like the rattle of musketry.
But the thing that impressed the half-famished Bill was the profusion
of food; never in his life, he thought, had he beheld so tempting an
array of things to eat. Great trenchers of fried pork, swimming in its
own grease, alternated the full length of the table with huge pans of
baked beans.
Mountains of light, snowy bread rose at short intervals from among
foot-hills of baked potatoes, steaming dishes of macaroni and stewed
tomatoes, canned corn, peas, and apple sauce, and great yellow rolls of
butter into which the knives of the men skived deeply.
The two passed behind the benches in search of vacant places when
suddenly an undersized flunky stumbled awkwardly, dropping the
coffee-pot, which sent a wash of steaming brown liquid over the floor.
Instantly a great, hulking man with a wide, flat face and low forehead
surmounted by a thick thatch of black hair, below which two swinish
eyes scintillated unevenly, paused in the act of raising a great
calk-booted foot over the bench.
The thick, pendulous lips under his ragged mustache curled backward,
exposing a crenate row of jagged brown teeth. He stepped directly in
front of the two men and, reaching out a thick hand caught the
unfortunate flunky by the scruff as he regained his balance.
From his lips poured an unbroken stream of vile epithets and
soul-searing curses while he shook the whimpering wretch with a
violence that threatened serious results, and ended by pinning him
against the log wall and drawing back his huge arm for a terrific
shoulder blow.
The vicious brutality of the attack following so trivial an offense
aroused Bill Carmody's anger. The man's back was toward him, and Bill
grasped the back-drawn arm at the wrist and with an ungentle jerk
whirled the other in his tracks.
The man released the flunky and faced him with a snarl. "Who done
that?" he roared.
"I did. Hit me. I tripped him."
Bill's voice was dead level and low, but it carried to the farthest
reaches of the room, over which had fallen a silence of expectation.
Men saw that the hard gray eyes of the stranger narrowed ominously.
"An' who the hell are _you_?" The words whistled through the bared
teeth and a flush of fury flooded the man's face.
"What do you care? I tripped him. Hit me!" and the low, level tone
blended into silence. It seemed a _thing_--that uncanny silence when
noise should have been.
There were sounds--sounds that no one heeded nor heard--the heavy
breathing of a hundred men waiting for something to happen--the thin
creak of the table boards as men leaned forward upon hands whose
knuckles whitened under the red skin, and stared, fascinated, at the
two big men who faced each other in the broad aisle.
The swinish eyes of the brutish man glared malignantly into the gray
eyes of the stranger, in which there appeared no slightest flicker of
rage nor hate, nor any other emotion.
Only a cold, hard stare which held something of terrible intensity,
accentuated by the little fans of whitening wrinkles which radiated
from their corners.
In that instant the other's gaze wavered. He knew that this man had
lied; and he knew that every man in the room knew that he had lied.
That he had deliberately lied into the row and then, without raising
his guard, had dared him to strike.
It was inconceivable.
Had the man loudly shouted his challenge or thrown up his guard when he
dared him to strike, or had his eye twitched or burned with anger, he
would have unhesitatingly lunged into a fight to the finish.
But he found himself at a disadvantage. He was up against something he
did not understand. The calm assurance of the stranger--his fists were
not doubled and his lips smiled--disconcerted him.
A strange, prickly chill tingled at the back of his neck, and in his
heart he knew that for the first time in his life he dared not strike a
man. He cast about craftily to save his face and took his cue from the
other's smile. With an effort his loose, thick lips twisted into a
grin.
"G'wan with yer jokin', stranger," he laughed.
"Y'u damn near made me mad--fer a minute," and he turned to the table.
Instantly a clatter of noise broke forth. Men rattled dishes nervously
in relief or disappointment, and the room was filled with the rumble of
voices in unmeaning chatter. But in the quick glances which passed from
man to man there was much of meaning.
"God, man, that was Moncrossen!" whispered Fallon, when the two found
themselves seated near the end of the table. Bill smiled.
"Was it?" he asked. "I don't like him."
CHAPTER XVII
A TWO-FISTED MAN
A half-hour later when Bill sought out the boss in the little office,
the latter received him in surly silence; and as he read Appleton's
note his lip curled.
"So you think you'll make a lumberjack, do you?"
"Yes." There was no hesitation; nothing of doubt in the reply.
"My crew's full," the boss growled. "I don't need no men, let alone a
greener that don't know a peavey from a bark spud. Wha'd the old man
send you up here for, anyhow?"
"That, I presume, is _his_ business."
"Oh, it is, is it? Well, let me tell you first off--I'm boss of this
here camp!" Moncrossen paused and glared at the younger man. "You get
that, do you? Just you remember that what I say goes, an' I don't take
no guff offen no man, not even one of the old man's pets--an' that's
_my_ business--see?"
Bill smiled as the scowling man crushed the note in his hand and
slammed it viciously into the wood-box.
"Wants you broke in, does he? All right; I'll break you! Ag'in' spring
you'll know a little somethin' about logs, or you'll be so damn sick of
the woods you'll run every time you hear a log chain rattle; an' either
way, you'll learn who's boss of this here camp."
Moncrossen sank his yellow teeth into a thick plug of tobacco and tore
off the corner with a jerk.
"Throw yer blankets into an empty bunk an' be ready fer work in the
mornin'. I'll put you swampin' fer the big Swede--I guess that 'll hold
you. Yer wages is forty-five a month--an' I'm right here to see that
you earn 'em."
"Can I buy blankets here? I threw mine away coming out."
"Comin' out! Comin' in, you mean! Men come _in_ to the woods. In the
spring they go _out_--if they're lucky. Get what you want over to the
van; it'll be charged ag'in' yer wages." Bill turned toward the door.
"By the way," the boss growled, "what's yer name--back where you come
from?"
"Bill."
"Bill what?"
"No. Just Bill--with a period for a full stop. And that's _my_
business--see?" As Moncrossen encountered the level stare of the gray
eyes he leered knowingly.
"Oh, that's it, eh? All right, _Bill_! 'Curiosity killed the cat,' as
the feller says. An' just don't forget to remember that what a man
don't know don't hurt him none. Loggin' is learned _in_ the choppin's.
Accidents happens; an' dead men tells no tales. Them that keeps their
eyes to the front an' minds their own business gen'ally winters
through. That's all."
Bill wondered at the seemingly irrelevant utterances of the boss, but
left the office without comment.
On the floor of the bunk-house Irish Fallon, assisted by several of the
men, was removing the skin from Diablesse, while others looked on.
The awkward hush that fell upon them as he entered told Bill that he
had been the subject of their conversation. Men glanced at him
covertly, as though taking his measure, and he soon found himself
relating the adventures of the trail to an appreciative audience, which
grinned approval and tendered flasks, which he declined.
Later, as he helped Fallon nail the wolfskin to the end of the
bunk-house he told him of the interview with Moncrossen. The Irishman
listened, frowning.
"Ye've made a bad shtar-rt wid um," he said, shaking his head. "Ye eyed
'im down in th' grub-shack, an' he hates ye fer ut. How ye got by wid
ut Oi don't know, fer he's a scr-rapper from away back, an' av he'd
sailed into ye Oi'm thinkin' he'd knocked th' divil out av ye, fer he's
had experience, which ye ain't. But he didn't dast to, an' he knows ut,
an' he knows that the men knows ut. An' now he'll lay fer a chanst to
git aven. Ut's th' besht ye c'n do--loike he says, kape th' two eyes av
ye to th' front an' moind yer own business--only kape wan eye behint ye
to look out fer throuble. Phwat fer job did he give yez?"
"I am to start swamping, whatever that is, for the big Swede."
The Irishman grinned.
"Oi thoucht so; an' may God have mercy on yer sowl."
"What is the matter with the Swede?"
"Mather enough. Bein' hand an' glove wid Moncrossen is good rayson to
suspicion any man. Fer t'is be the help av Shtromberg that Moncrossen
kapes a loine on th' men an' gits by wid his crooked wor-rk.
"He ain't long on brains nohow, Moncrossen ain't, an' he ain't a good
camp-boss nayther, fer all he gits out th' logs.
"Be bluff an' bullyin' he gits th' wor-rk out av th' crew; but av ut
wasn't that Misther Appleton lets um pay a bit over goin' wages, he'd
have no crew, fer th' men hate um fer all they're afraid av um.
"Th' rayson he puts ye shwampin' fer th' big Swede is so's he'll kape
an eye on yez. As long as ye do yer wor-rk an' moind yer own business
ye'll get along wid him as well as another. But, moind ye, phwin th'
bird's-eye shtar-rts movin' ye don't notice nothin,' or some foine
avenin' ye'll turn up missin'."
"What is this bird's-eye thing?" asked Bill. "What has it got to do
with Moncrossen--and me?"
The Irishman considered the question and, without answering, walked to
the corner of the bunk-house near which they were standing and peered
into the black shadow of the wall. Apparently satisfied, he returned
again to where Bill was standing.
"Come on in th' bunk-house, now," he said. "I want to locate Shtromberg
an' wan or two more. We'll sit around an' shmoke a bit, an' phwin they
begin rollin' in ye'll ask me phwere is th' van, fer ye must have
blankets an' phwat not. Oi'll go along to show ye, an' we'll take a
turn down th' tote-road phwere we c'n talk widout its gittin' to th'
ears av th' boss."
Wondering at the man's precautions for secrecy, he followed, and for a
half-hour listened to the fireside gossip of the camp. He noticed that
Fallon's glance traveled over the various groups as if seeking some
one, and he wondered which of the men was Stromberg.
Suddenly the door was flung open and a huge, yellow-bearded man stamped
noisily to the stove, disregarding the curses that issued from the
bunks of those who had already turned in.
This man was larger even than Moncrossen, with protruding eyes of china
blue, which stared weakly from beneath heavy, straw-colored eyebrows.
Two hundred and fifty pounds, thought Bill, as the man, snorting
disagreeably, paused before him and fixed him with an insolent stare.
"Hey, you! Boss says you swamp for me," he snorted. Bill nodded
indifferently.
"You know how to swamp good?" he asked. Bill studied the toes of his
moccasins and, without looking up, replied with a negative shake of his
head.
"I learn you, all right. In couple days you swamp good, or I fix you."
Bill looked up, encountered the watery glare of the blue eyes, and
returned his gaze to the points of his moccasins. The voice of the
Swede grew more aggressive. He snorted importantly as the men looked
on, and smote his palm with a ponderous fist.
"First thing, I duck you in waterhole. Then I slap you to peak an'
break off the peak." The men snickered, and Stromberg, emboldened by
the silence of his new swamper, continued:
"It's time boys was in bed. To-morrow I make you earn your wages."
Bill rose slowly from his seat, and as he looked again into the face of
the big Swede his lips smiled. But Fallon noticed, and others, that in
the steely glint of the gray eyes was no hint of smile, and they
watched curiously while he removed his mackinaw and tossed it
carelessly onto the edge of a near-by bunk from where it slipped
unnoticed to the floor.
Stromberg produced a bottle, drank deep, and returned the flask to his
pocket. He rasped the fire from his throat with a harsh, grating sound,
drew the back of his hand across his mouth, and kicked contemptuously
at the mackinaw which lay almost at his feet.
As he did so a long, thick envelope, to which was tightly bound the
photograph of a girl, slipped from the inner pocket. Instantly he
stooped and seized it.
"Haw, haw!" he roared, "the greener's got a woman. Look, she's a----"
"Drop that!" The voice was low, almost soft in tone, but the words cut
quick and clear, with no hint of gentleness.
"Come get it, greener!" The man taunted as he doubled a huge fist, and
held the photograph high that the others might see.
Bill came. He covered the intervening space at a bound, springing
swiftly and straight--as panthers spring; and as his moccasined feet
touched the floor he struck. Once, twice, thrice--and all so quickly
that the onlookers received no sense of repeated effort.
The terrific force of the well-placed blows, and their deadly accuracy,
seemed to be consecutive parts of a single, continuous, smoothly
flowing movement.
In the tense silence sounds rang sharp--the peculiar smack of living
flesh hard hit, as the first blow landed just below the ear, the dull
thump of a heavy body blow, and the clash of teeth driven against teeth
as the sagging jaw of the big Swede snapped shut to the impact of the
long swing that landed full on his chin's point.
The huge form stiffened, spun half-way around, and toppled sidewise
against a rack of drying garments, which fell with a crash to the
floor.
Without so much as a glance at the ludicrously sprawled figure, Bill
picked up his mackinaw and returned the envelope to the pocket.
"Irish," he asked, "where is the van? I must get some blankets. My
nurse, there, says it's time to turn in."
"Oi'll go wid ye," said Fallon, and a roar of laughter followed them
out into the night.
CHAPTER XVIII
"BIRD'S-EYE" AND PHILOSOPHY
Bill quickly made his purchases, and shouldering the roll of blankets,
followed Irish to the head of a rollway, where the two seated
themselves on the bunk of a log sled.
"Oi don't know how ye done ut," Fallon began. "'Twas th' handiest bit
av two-fisted wor-rk Oi iver see'd. 'Tis well ye've had ut out wid
Shtromberg. Fer all his crookedness, he's a bether man thin th' boss,
an' he'll not be layin' that lickin' up ag'in yez. 'Twas a foight av
his own pickin', an' he knows ye've got him faded.
"Aven av he w'ud of befoor, he'll see to ut that no har-rm comes to ye
now t'rough fault av his own, fer well he knows the men 'ud think 'twas
done to pay ye back, an' he'll have no wish to play th' title role at a
hangin'.
"From now on, 'tis only Moncrossen ye'll have to watch, fer ye're in
good wid th' men. We undershtand ye now. Ye see, in th' woods we don't
loike myshtery an', whiles we most av us know that Moncrossen's givin'
Appleton th' double cross, 'tis none av our business, an' phwin we
thoucht ye'd come into th' woods undher false pretinces to catch um at
ut, they was more or less talk.
"Mesilf was beginnin' to think ye'd come into th' woods fer th' rist
cure, ye read about in th' papers, seein' ye'd loafed about fer maybe
it's foive hours an' done nothin' besides carve up th' werwolf an' her
pack, eye down th' boss in his own grub-shack, an' thin top off th'
avenin' be knockin' th' big Swede cold, which some claims he c'ud put
th' boss himself to th' brush, wunst he got shtar-rted. But now we know
phy ye're here. We're pr-roud ye're wan av us."
"What do you mean--you know why I am here? I am here because I needed a
job, and Appleton hired me."
"Sure, lad. But, ye moind th' picture in yer pocket. 'Twas a woman."
"But----"
"'Tis none av our business, an' 'tis nayther here nor there. Av there's
a woman at th' bottom av ut, 'tis rayson enough--phwativer happens."
Bill laughed.
"You were going to tell me about the bird's-eye," he reminded.
"Ut's loike this: Here an' yon in th' timber there's a bird's-eye
tree--bird's-eye maple, ye know. 'Tis scarce enough, wid only a tree
now an' again, an' ut takes an expert to spot ut.
"Well, th' bird's-eye brings around a hundred dollars a thousan', an'
divil a bit av ut gits to Appleton's mills.
"Moncrossen's got a gang--Shtromberg's in ut, an' a Frinch cruiser
named Lebolt, an' a boot-leggin' tree-spotter named Creed, that lives
in Hilarity, an' a couple av worthless divils av sawyers that's too
lazy fer honest wor-rk, but camps t'rough th' winter, trappin' an
sawin' bird's-eye an calico ash on other men's land.
"Shtromberg'll skid till along toward sphring phwin he'll go to
teamin'. Be that toime th' bird's-eye logs'll be down, here an' there
in th' woods beyant th' choppin's, an' Shtromberg'll haul um an' bank
um on some river; thin in th' summer, Moncrossen an' his men'll slip
up, toggle um to light logs so they'll float, an' raft um to th'
railroad phwere there'll be a buyer from th' Eastern vaneer mills
waitin'.
"Ut's a crooked game, shtealin' Appleton's logs, an' haulin' um wid
Appleton's teams, an' drawin' Appleton's wages fer doin' ut.
"Now, bechune man an' man, th' big Swede's th' brains av th' gang. He's
a whole lot shmar-rter'n phwat he lets on. Such ain't th' nature av
men, but 'tis th' way av women."
Irish thoughtfully tamped his pipe-bowl, and the flare of the match
between his cupped palms brought out his honest features distinctly in
the darkness. Bill felt a strong liking for this homely philosopher,
and he listened as the other eyed him knowingly and continued:
"'Tis be experience we lear-rn. An' th' sooner a man lear-rns, th'
bether ut is fer um, that all women know more thin they let on--an'
they've always an ace fer a hole car-rd bekase av ut.
"Fer women run men, an' men politics, an' politics armies, an' armies
th' wor-rld--an' at th' bottom av ut all is th' wisdom an' schemin' av
women.
"Phwin a man fools a woman, he's a fool--fer she ain't fooled at all.
But, she ain't fool enough to let on she ain't fooled, fer well she
knows that as long as she knows more thin he thinks she knows, she
holds th' edge--an' th' divil av ut is, she does.
"Take a man, now; phwin ye know um, ye know um. He's always willin' to
admit he's as shmar-rt as he is, or a damn soight shmar-rter, which
don't fool no wan, fer 'tis phwat they expect.
"A man c'n brag an' lie about phwat he knows, an' phwere he's been, an'
phwat he's done; an' noine toimes out av tin, ye cud trust him to th'
inds av th' earth wid ye're lasht dollar.
"But wanst let um go out av his way to belittle himsilf an' phwat he
knows, an' Oi w'udn't trust him wid a bent penny as far as Oi cud t'row
a bull be th' tail fer 'tis done wid a purpose. 'Tis so wid
Shtromberg."
Fallon arose, consulted his watch, and led the way toward the
bunk-house.
"So now ye know fer phwy Moncrossen hates ye," he continued. "He knows
ye're a greener in th' woods, but he knows be this toime ye'll be a
har-rd man to handle, an' he fears ye. Oi've put ye wise to th'
bird's-eye game so ye c'n steer clear av ut, an' not be gittin' mixed
up in ut wan way or another."
"I am much obliged, Fallon, for what you have told me," replied Bill
quietly; "but inasmuch as I am working for Appleton, I will just make
it my business to look after his interests in whatever way possible. I
guess I will take a hand in the bird's-eye game myself. I am not afraid
of Moncrossen and his gang of thieves. Anyway, I will give them a run
for their money."
Fallon shrugged.
"D'ye know, Oi thoucht ye'd say that. Well, 'tis ye're own funeral.
Tellin' ye about me, Oi ain't lost no bird's-eye trees, mesilf, but av
ye need help--Be th' way, th' bunk above mine's empty; ye moight t'row
ye're blankets in there."
CHAPTER XIX
A FRAME-UP
In the days that followed Bill threw himself into the work with a vigor
that won the approval of the men. A "top" lumber crew is a
smooth-running machine of nice balance whose working units are
interdependent one upon another for efficiency. One shirking or
inexperienced man may appreciably curtail the output of an entire camp
and breed discontent and dissatisfaction among the crew. But with Bill
there was no soldiering. He performed a man's work from the
start--awkwardly at first, but, with the mastery of detail acquired
under the able tutelage of Stromberg, he became known as the best
swamper on the job.
Between him and the big Swede existed a condition of armed neutrality.
Neither ever referred to the incident of the bunk-house, nor did either
show hint of ill-feeling toward the other. The efficiency of each
depended upon the efforts of the other, and neither found cause for
complaint.
With the crew working to capacity to supply Appleton's demand for ten
million feet of logs, there was little time for recreation.
Nevertheless, Bill bought a pair of snowshoes from a passing Indian
and, in spite of rough weather and aching muscles, utilized stormy days
and moonlight nights in perfecting himself in their use.
He and Fallon had become great chums and contrary to the Irishman's
prediction, instead of hectoring the new man, Moncrossen left him
severely alone.
And so the routine of the camp went on until well into February. The
clearing widened, the timber line receded, and tier upon tier of logs
was pyramided upon the rollways. As yet Bill had made no
progress--formulated no definite plan for the detection and ultimate
exposure of the gang of bird's-eye thieves.
Occasionally men put up at the camp for a short stay. Creed and Lebolt
were the most frequent visitors, but neither gave evidence of being
other than he appeared to be--Creed a hunter seeking to dispose of
venison taken out of season, and Lebolt a company cruiser engaged in
estimating timber to the northward.
It was about this time that Bad Luck, that gaunt specter that lurks
unseen in the shadows and hovers over the little lives of men for the
working of harm, swooped down upon the camp and in a series of untoward
happenings impaired its efficiency and impregnated the atmosphere with
the blight of discontent.
An unprecedented thaw set in, ruining the skidways and reducing the
snow of the forest to a sodden slush that chilled men to the bone as
they floundered heavily about their work.
Reed and Kantochy, two sawyers, were caught by a "kick-back." One of
the best horses was sweenied. A teamster who fell asleep on the top of
his load awoke in the bottom of a ravine with a shattered arm, a dead
horse, and a ruined log-sled. Bill's foot was mashed by a rolling log;
and last, and most far-reaching in its effect, the cook contracted
spotted fever and died in a reverse curve.
Moncrossen raged. From a steady eighty thousand feet a day the output
dropped to seventy, sixty, fifty thousand--and the end was not in
sight. Good-natured banter and friendly tussles among the men gave
place to surly bickering and ugly fist-fighting, and in spite of the
best efforts of the second cook the crew growled sullenly or openly
cursed the grub.
Then it was that Moncrossen knew that something must be done--and that
something quickly. He shifted Stromberg and Fallon to the sawing crew,
made a skidder out of a swamper, and filled his place with a grub-shack
flunky.
Then one afternoon he dropped in upon Bill in the bunk-house, where
that young man sat fuming at his inaction with his foot propped up on
the edge of a bunk.
"How's the foot?" growled the boss.
"Pretty sore," answered Bill, laying aside a magazine. "Swelling is
going down a bit."
"Ever handle horses?"
"Yes, a few."
The boss cleared his throat and proceeded awkwardly.
"I don't like to ask no crippled man to work before he's able," he
began grudgingly. "But things is goin' bad. What with them two pilgrims
that called theirselves sawyers not bein' able to dodge a kick-back,
an' Gibson pickin' a down-hill pull on an iced skidway for to go to
sleep on his load, an' your gettin' pinched, an' the cook curlin' up
an' dyin' on us, an' the whole damned outfit roarin' about the grub,
there's hell to pay all around."
He paused and, receiving no answer, shot a crafty look at the man
before him.
"Now, if you was able," he went on, "you c'd take the tote-sled down to
Hilarity an' fetch us a cook. It seems like that's the onliest way;
there ain't nary 'nother man I c'n spare--an' he's a good cook, old
Daddy Dunnigan is, if he'll come. He's a independent old cuss--work if
he damn good an' feels like it, an' if he don't he won't.
"If you think you c'n tackle it, I'll have the blacksmith whittle you
out a crutch, an' you c'n take that long-geared tote team an' make
Hilarity in two days. They's double time in it for you," he added, as a
matter of special inducement.
Bill did not hesitate over his decision.
"All right; I think I can manage," he said. "When do I start?"
"The team'll be ready early in the mornin'. If you start about four
o'clock you c'n make Melton's old No. 8 Camp by night without crowdin'
'em too hard. It's the first one of them old camps you strike, and you
c'n stable the horses without unharnessin'; just slip off the bridles
an' feed 'em."
Bill nodded. At the door Moncrossen halted and glanced at him
peculiarly.
"I'm obliged to you," he said. "For a greener, you've made a good hand.
I'll have things got ready."
Bill was surprised that the boss had paid him even this grudging
compliment, and as he sat beside the big stove, puzzled over the
peculiar glance that had accompanied it.
In a few minutes, however, he dismissed the matter and turned again to,
his six-months-old magazine. Could he have followed Moncrossen and
overheard the hurried conversation which took place in the little
office, he would have found food for further reflection, but of this he
remained in ignorance; and, all unknown to him, a man left the office,
slipped swiftly and noiselessly into the forest, and headed southward.
"'Tis a foine va-acation ye're havin' playin' nurse fer a pinched toe,
an' me tearin' out th' bone fer to git out th' logs on salt-horse an'
dough-gods 't w'd sink a battle-ship. 'Tis a lucky divil ye ar-re
altogither," railed Fallon good-naturedly as he returned from supper
and found Bill engaged in the task of swashing arnica on his bruised
foot.
"Oh, I don't know. I'll be back in the game to-morrow."
"To-morry!" exclaimed Irish, eying the swollen and discolored member
with a grin. "Yis; ut'll be to-morry, all right. But 'tis a shame to
waste so much toime. Av ye c'd git th' boss to put ye on noight shift
icin' th' skidways, ye wudn't have to wait so long."
"It's a fact, Irish," laughed Bill. "I go on at 4 A.M. to-morrow."
"Fure A.M., is ut? An' phwat'll ye be doin'? Peelin' praties fer that
dommed pisener in th' kitchen. Ye've only been laid up t'ree days an'
talk av goin' to wor-rk. Man! Av Oi was lucky enough to git squose
loike that, Oi'd make ut lasht a month av Oi had to pour ink on me foot
to kape up th' color."
"I'm going to Hilarity for a cook," insisted Bill. "Moncrossen says
there is a real one down there--Daddy Dunnigan, he called him."
"Sure, Dunnigan'll not come into th' woods. An' phy shud he? Wid money
in th' bank, an' her majesty's--Oi mane, his nibs's pension comin' in
ivery month, an' his insides broke in to Hod Burrage's whisky--phwat
more c'd a man want?"
"The boss thinks maybe he'll come. Anyway, I am going after him."
"Ye shud av towld um to go to hell! Wor-rkin' a man wid a foot loike
that is croolty to animals; av ye was a harse he'd be arrested."
"He didn't tell me to go. He is crowded for men; the grub is rotten;
something has to be done; and he asked me if I thought I could make
it."
Irish pulled thoughtfully at his pipe, and slowly his brows drew
together in a frown.
"He said ye c'd make ut in two days?" he inquired.
"Yes. The tote-road is well broken, and forty miles traveling light
with that rangy team is not such an awful pull."
"An' he towld ye phwere to camp. It'll be Melton's awld No. 8, where ye
camped comin' in?"
"Yes."
Fallon nodded thoughtfully, and Bill wondered what was passing in his
mind. For a long time he was silent, and the injured man responded to
the hearty greetings and inquiries of the men returning from the
grub-shack.
When these later had disposed themselves for the evening, the Irishman
hunched his chair closer to the bunk upon which Bill was sitting.
"At Melton's No. 8, Oi moind, th' shtables is a good bit av a way from
th' rist av th' buildin's, an' hid from soight be a knowl av ground."
"I don't remember the stables, but they can't be very far; they are in
the clearing, and Moncrossen had the blacksmith make me a crutch."
"A crutch, is ut? A crutch! Well, a man ud play hell makin' foorty
moiles on a crutch in th' winter--no mather how good th' thrail was
broke."
"Forty miles! Look here, Irish--what are you talking about? I thought
your bottle had been empty for a week."
"Impty ut is--which me head ain't. Listen: S'posin'--just s'posin',
moind yez Oi'm sayin'--a man wid a bum leg was camped in th' shack av
Melton's No. 8, an' th' harses in th' shtable. An' s'posin' some one
shnaked in in th' noight an' stole th' harses on um an' druv 'em to
Hilarity, an' waited f'r th' boss to sind f'r 'em. An' s'posin' a wake
wint by befoor th' boss c'd sind a man down to look up th' team he'd
sint f'r a cook, wid orders to hurry back. An' s'posin' he found th'
bum-legged driver froze shtiff on th' tote-road phwere he'd made out to
hobble a few moiles on his crutch--phwat thin? Why, th' man was a
greener, an', not knowin' how to handle th' team, they'd got away from
um."
Bill followed the Irishman closely, and knew that he spoke with a
purpose. His eyes narrowed, and his lips bent into that cold smile
which the men of the camp had come to know was no smile at all, but a
battle alarm, the more ominous for its silence.
"Do you mean that it is a frame-up? That Moncrossen----" Fallon silenced
him with a motion.
"Whist!" he whispered and glanced sharply about him, then leaned over
and dug a stiffened forefinger into the other's ribs. "Oi don't mane
nothin'. But 'tis about toime they begun bankin' their bird's-eye.
"Creed et dinner in camp, but he never et supper. Him an' th' boss made
medicine in th' office _afther_ th' boss talked to ye. Put two an' two
togither an' Oi've towld ye nothin' at all; but av ye fergit ut Oi'll
see that phwat th' wolves lave av th' bum-legged teamster is buried
proper an' buried deep, an' Oi'll blow in tin dollars f'r a mass f'r
his sowl.
"Av ye _don't_ fergit ut, ye moight fetch back a gallon jug av Hod
Burrage's embalmin' flooid, f'r me inwards is that petrified be th'
grub we've been havin' av late, they moight mishtake ut f'r rale
liquor. Good-by, an' good luck--'tis toime to roll in."
CHAPTER XX
A FIRE IN THE NIGHT
The sledding was good on the tote-road.
The thaw that ruined the iced surface of the skid-ways was followed by
several days of freezing weather that put a hard, smooth finish on the
deep snow of the longer road, over which the runners of the box-bodied
tote-sled slipped with scarcely any resistance to the pull of the
sharp-shod team.
Bill Carmody, snugly bundled in robes in the bottom of the sled, idly
watched the panorama of tree-trunks between which the road twisted in
an endless succession of tortuous windings.
It was not yet daylight when he rounded the bend which was the scene of
his fight with the werwolf.
But by the thin, cold starlight and the pale luminosity of the fading
aurora, he recognized each surrounding detail, and wondered at the
accuracy with which the trivialities of the setting had been
subconsciously impressed upon his memory.
It was here he had first met Fallon, and he remembered the undisguised
approval in the Irishman's voice and the firm grip of the hand that
welcomed him into the comradery of the North-men as he stood, faint
from hunger and weary from exertion, staring dully down at the
misshapen carcass of Diablesse.
"Good old Irish," he muttered, and smiled as he thought of himself,
Bill Carmody, proud of the friendship of a lumberjack.
He had come to know that in the ceaseless whirl of society the heavier
timbers--the real men are thrown outward--forced to the very edges of
the bowl, where they toil among big things upon the outskirts of
civilization.
He pulled off his heavy mitten and fumbled for his pipe. In the
side-pocket of his mackinaw his hand encountered an object--hard and
cold and unfamiliar to his touch.
He withdrew it and looked at the wicked, blue-black outlines of an
automatic pistol. Idly he examined the clip, crowded with shiny, yellow
cartridges. He recognized the gun as Fallon's, and smiled as he
returned it to his pocket.
"Only in case of a pinch," he grinned, and glanced approvingly at the
fist that doubled hard to the strong clinch of his fingers.
Hour after hour he slipped smoothly southward, relieving the monotony
of the journey by formulating his plan of action in case the
forebodings of Fallon should be realized.
Personally he apprehended no trouble, but he made up his mind that
trouble coming should not find him unprepared.
When at last the team swung into the clearing of Melton's old No. 8,
the stars winked in cold brilliance above the surrounding pines, and
the deserted buildings stood lifeless and dim in the deepening gloom.
Bill headed the horses for the stable which he found, as Irish had told
him, located at some distance from the other buildings and cut off from
sight by a knoll and a heavy tangle of scrub that had sprung up in the
clearing.
He climbed stiffly and painfully from the sled-box, and with the aid of
his crutch, hobbled about the task of unhitching the horses. He watered
them where a plume of thin vapor disclosed the whereabouts of a
never-freezing spring which burbled softly between its low,
ice-encrusted banks.
It proved a difficult matter, crippled as he was, to handle the horses,
but at length he got them into the stable, chinked the broken
feed-boxes as best he could, and removed the bridles, hanging them upon
the hames.
He closed the door and, securing his lantern, blankets, and
lunch-basket, made his way toward the old shack where he had spent his
first night in the timber land.
The sagging door swung half open, and upon the rough floor the
snow-water from the recent thaw had collected in puddles and frozen,
rendering the footing precarious.
Bill noted with satisfaction that there still remained a goodly portion
of the firewood which he had cut and carried in upon his previous
visit, and he soon had a fire roaring in the rusty stove.
He was in no hurry. He knew that any attempt to make away with the team
would be delayed until the thief believed him to be asleep, and his
plans were laid to the minutest detail.
Setting the lantern upon the table, he proceeded to eat his lunch,
after which he lighted his pipe, and for an hour smoked at the
fireside. In spite of the pain of his injured foot his mind wandered
back to the events of his first visit to the shack.
There, in the black shadow of the pile of firewood, lay the empty
whisky bottle where the Indian had tossed it after drinking the last
drop of its contents.
Carmody stared a long time at this silent reminder of his first serious
brush with King Alcohol, then, from the inner pocket of his mackinaw,
he drew the sealed packet and gazed for many minutes at the likeness of
the girl--dimming now from the rub of the coarse cloth of the pocket.
Suddenly a great longing came over him--a longing to see this girl, to
hear the soft accents of her voice and, above all, to tell her of his
great love for her, that in all the world there was no woman but her,
and that each day, and a hundred times each day, her dear face was
before his eyes, and in his ears, ringing above the mighty sounds of a
falling forest, was the soft, sweet sound of her voice.
He could not speak to her, but she could speak to him, even if it were
but a repetition of the words of the letters he already knew by heart,
but which had remained sealed in the envelope ever since the day he bid
farewell to Broadway--and to _her_.
His fingers fumbled at the flap of the heavy envelope. He could at
least feast his eyes upon the lines traced by her pen and press his
lips to the page where her little hand had rested.
His foot throbbed with dull persistence. He was conscious of being
tired, but he must not sleep this night. Rough work possibly, at any
rate, a man's work, awaited him there in the gloom of the silent
clearing.
Again his eye sought the whisky bottle and held. His fingers ceased to
toy with the flap, for in that moment the thought came to him that had
the bottle not been empty, had it been filled with liquor--strong
liquor--with the pain in his foot and the stiffness of his tired
muscles and the work ahead--well, he might--for the old desire was
strong upon him--he might take a drink.
"Not yet," he muttered, and returned the packet to his pocket unopened.
"I told her I would beat the game. I've bucked old John Barleycorn's
line and scored a touchdown; the hardest of the fighting is past, but
there is just a chance that I might miss goal."
Bill looked at his watch; it was eight o'clock. He stood up, wincing as
his injured foot touched the floor, and hobbled across the room where
he wrenched a rough, split shelf from the wall. This, together with
some sticks of firewood, he rolled in a blanket, placing it near the
stove. He added more wood until the bundle was about the size and shape
of a man, and covered it with his other two blankets. Filling the
broken stove with wood he blew out the lantern and limped silently out
into the night.
Two hours later Creed, bird's-eye spotter and bad man of the worn-out
little town of Hilarity, knocked the ashes from his pipe and held a
glowing brand to the dial of his watch.
"The greener should be asleep by now," he muttered, and, rolling his
blanket, kicked snow over the remnant of his camp-fire, picked up his
rifle, and ascended the steep side of a deep ravine lying some two
hundred yards to the westward of the clearing where Bill Carmody had
encamped for the night.
After leaving Moncrossen's office on the previous afternoon he had
traveled all night, and reached Melton's old No. 8 in the early
morning.
All day he had slept by the side of his fire in the bottom of the
ravine, and in the evening had lain in the cover of the scrub and
watched the greener stable the horses and limp to the deserted shack.
At heart Creed was a craven, a bullying swashbuckler, who bragged and
blustered among the rheumy-eyed down-and-outers who nightly
foregathered about Burrage's stove, but who was servile and cringing as
a starved puppy toward Moncrossen and Stromberg, who openly despised
him.
They made good use of his ability to "spot" a bird's-eye tree as far as
he could see one, however, an ability shared by few woodsmen, and which
in Creed amounted almost to genius.
The man had never been known to turn his hand to honest work, but as a
timber pirate and peddler of rotgut whisky among the Indians, he had
arisen to comparative affluence.
His hate for the greener was abysmal and unreasoning, and had been
carefully fostered by Moncrossen who, instinctively fearing that the
new man would eventually expose his nefarious double-dealing with his
employer, realized that at the proper time Creed could be induced to do
away with the greener under circumstances that would leave him,
Moncrossen, free from suspicion.
In the framing of Bill Carmody, Stromberg had no part. Moncrossen could
not fathom the big Swede, upon whose judgment and acumen he had come to
rely in the matter of handling and disposing of the stolen timber.
Several times during the winter he had tentatively broached plans and
insinuated means whereby the Swede could "accidentally" remove his
swamper from their path.
The reversing of a hook which would cause a log to roll just at the
right time on a hillside; the filing of a link; the snapping of a
weakened bunk-pin, any one of these common accidents would render them
safe from possible interference.
But to all these suggestions Stromberg turned a deaf ear. The boss even
taunted him with the knock-out he had received at the hands of the
greener.
"That's all right, Moncrossen," he replied; "I picked the fight purpose
to beat him up. It didn't work. He's a better man than me--or you
either--an' you know it. Only he had to lick me to prove it. He chilled
your heart with a look an' a grin--an' the whole crew lookin' on.
"But beatin' up a man is one thing an' murder is another. Appleton's
rich, besides he's a softwood man an' ain't fixed for handlin' veneer,
so I might's well get in on the bird's-eye as let you an' Creed an'
Lebolt steal it all. But I ain't got to the point where I'd murder a
good man to cover up my dirty tracks--an' I never will!"
And so, without consulting Stromberg, Moncrossen bided his time and
laid his plans. And now the time had come. The plan had been gone over
in detail in the little office, and Creed in the edge of the timber
stood ready to carry it out.
Stealthily he slipped into the dense shadows of the scrub and made his
way toward the shack where a thin banner of smoke, shot with an
occasional yellow spark, floated from the dilapidated stovepipe that
protruded from the roof.
The hard crust rendered snowshoes unnecessary, and his soft moccasins
made no sound upon the surface of the snow.
Gaining the side of the shack, he peered between the unchinked logs.
The play of the firelight that shone through the holes of the broken
stove sent flickering shadows dancing over the floor and walls of the
rough interior.
Near the fire, stretched long and silent beneath its blankets, lay the
form of a man. Creed shifted his position for a better view of the
sleeper. His foot caught in the loop of a piece of discarded wire whose
ends were firmly frozen into the snow, and he crashed heavily backward
into a pile of dry brushwood.
It seemed to the frightened man as if the accompanying noise must wake
the dead. He lay for a moment where he had fallen, listening for sounds
from within. He clutched his rifle nervously, but the deathlike silence
was unbroken save for his own heavy breathing and the tiny snapping of
the fire in the stove.
Cautiously he extricated himself from the brush-heap, his heart
pounding wildly at the snapping of each dry twig. It was incredible
that the man could sleep through such a racket in a country where life
and death may hang upon the rustle of a leaf.
But the silence remained unbroken, and, after what seemed to the
cowering man an eternity of expectant waiting, he crawled again to the
wall and glanced furtively into the interior. The form by the fire was
motionless as before--it had not stirred.
Then, as he looked, a ray of firelight fell upon the white label of the
black whisky bottle that lay an easy arm's reach from the head of the
sleeper. A smile of comprehension twisted the lips of his evil face as
he leered through the crevice at the helpless form by the fireside.
"Soused to the guards," he sneered, "an' me with ten years scairt offen
my life fer fear I'd wake him." He stood erect and, with no attempt at
the stealth with which he had approached the shack, proceeded rapidly
in the direction of the stable.
It was but the work of a few moment to bridle the horses, lead them
out, and hitch them to the sled.
Tossing the horse-blankets on top of the big tarpaulin which lay in the
rear of the sled-box ready for use in the covering of supplies, he
settled himself in front and pulled the robes about him.
He turned the team slowly onto the tote-road and glanced again toward
the shack. A spark, larger than the others, shot out of the stovepipe
and lodged upon the bark roof, where it glowed for a moment before
going out. The man watched it in sudden fascination.
He halted the team and stared long at the spot where the spark had
vanished in blackness, but which in the brain of the man appeared as an
ever-widening circle of red, which spread until it included the whole
roof in its fiery embrace, and crept slowly down the log walls.
So realistic was the picture that he seemed to hear the crackle and
roar of the leaping flames. He drew a trembling hand across his eyes,
and when he looked again the shack stood silent and black in the
half-light of the starlit clearing.
"God!" he mumbled aloud. "If it had only happened thataway----" He
passed his tongue over his dry, thick lips. "Why not?" he argued
querulously. "Moncrossen said 'twa'nt safe to bushwhack him like I
wanted to--said how I ain't got nerve nor brains to stand no
investigation.
"But if he'd git burnt up in the shack, that's safer yet. He got that
booze somewhere--some one knows he had it. He got spiflicated, built a
roarin' fire in the old stove--an' there y'are, plain as daylight. No
brains! I'll show him who's got brains--an' there won't be no
investigation, neither."
He drew the team to the side of the tote-road and, slipping the halters
over the bridles, tied them to a stout sapling and made his way toward
the shack.
One look satisfied him that the sleeper had not stirred, and
noiselessly he slipped the heavy hasp of the door over the staple and
secured it with the wooden pin.
He collected dry branches, piling them directly beneath the small,
square window which yawned high in the wall. Higher and higher the pile
grew until its top was almost on a level with the sill.
His hands trembled as he applied the match. Tiny tongues of flame
struggled upward through the branches, lengthening and widening as
fresh twigs ignited, and in his ears the crackle and snap of the dry
wood sounded as the rattle of musketry.
His first impulse as the flames gained headway was to fly--to place
distance between himself and the scene of his crime. But he dared not
go. His knees shook, and he stared with blanched face in horrid
fascination as the flames roared and crackled through the brushwood.
They were curling about the window now, and the whole clearing was
light as day. He slunk around the corner and gained the shadow of the
opposite wall. Fearfully he applied his eye to a crevice--the form by
the stove had not moved.
The air of the interior was heavy with smoke and tiny flames were
eating their way between the logs. The smoke thickened, blurring and
blotting out the prostrate figure. He glanced across at the window. Its
aperture was a solid sheet of flame--he was safe!
With a low, animal-like cry Creed sprang away and dashed in the
direction of the team. With shaking fingers he clawed at the knots and
slipped the halters.
Leaping into the sled, he grabbed up the lines and headed the horses
southward at a run. Behind him the sky reddened as the flames licked
hungrily at the dry logs of the shack.
"It's his own fault! It's his own fault!" he mumbled over and over
again. "Serves him right fer gittin' soused an' buildin' up a big fire
in a busted stove. 'Twasn't no fault of his that spark didn't catch the
roof. Serves him right! Maybe it did catch--maybe it did. 'Taint my
fault no-how--it must 'a' caught--I seen it thataway so plain! Oh, my
God! Oh, my God," he babbled, "if they git to askin' me!
"It was thisaway, mister; yes, sir; listen: I was camped in the ravine,
an' all to wunst I seen the flare of the fire an' I run over there; but
'twas too late--the roof had fell in an' the pore feller must 'a' been
cooked alive. It was turrible, mister--turrible!
"An' I run an' hitched up the team an' druv to Hilarity hell bent fer a
potlatch--that's the way of it--s'elp me God it is! If you don't
b'lieve it ask Moncrossen--ask Moncrossen, I mean, if he d
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