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The Iron Trail

by Rex Beach · English · Gutenberg #5233 · 587,525 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Iron Trail

Author: Rex Beach


        
Release date: March 1, 2004 [eBook #5233]
                Most recently updated: June 19, 2017

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/5233

Credits: Produced by Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE IRON TRAIL ***




Produced by Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.










THE IRON TRAIL

By REX BEACH

Author of "THE AUCTION BLOCK" "RAINBOW'S END" "THE SPOILERS" Etc.




CONTENTS

CHAPTER

    I. IN WHICH THE TIDE TAKES A HAND

   II. HOW A GIRL APPEARED OUT OF THE NIGHT

  III. THE IRISH PRINCE

   IV. HOW A JOURNEY ENDED AT HOPE

    V. WHEREIN WE SEE CURTIS GORDON AND OTHERS

   VI. THE DREAMER

  VII. THE DREAM

 VIII. IN WHICH WE COME TO OMAR

   IX. WHEREIN GORDON SHOWS HIS TEETH

    X. IN WHICH THE DOCTOR SHOWS HIS WIT

   XI. THE TWO SIDES OF ELIZA VIOLET APPLETON

  XII. HOW GORDON FAILED IN HIS CUNNING

 XIII. WE JOURNEY TO A PLACE OF MANY WONDERS

  XIV. HOW THE TRUTH CAME TO ELIZA

   XV. THE BATTLE OF GORDON'S CROSSING

  XVI. THE FRUIT OF THE TEMPEST

 XVII. HOW THE PRINCE BECAME A MAN

XVIII. HOW THE MAN BECAME A PRINCE AGAIN

  XIX. MISS APPLETON MAKES A SACRIFICE

   XX. HOW GORDON CHANGED HIS ATTACK

  XXI. DAN APPLETON SLIPS THE LEASH

 XXII. HOW THE HAZARD WAS PLAYED

XXIII. A NEW CRISIS

 XXIV. GORDON'S FALL

  XXV. PREPARATIONS

 XXVI. THE RACE

XXVII. HOW A DREAM CAME TRUE




I

IN WHICH THE TIDE TAKES A HAND


The ship stole through the darkness with extremest caution, feeling her
way past bay and promontory. Around her was none of that phosphorescent
glow which lies above the open ocean, even on the darkest night, for
the mountains ran down to the channel on either side. In places they
overhung, and where they lay upturned against the dim sky it could be
seen that they were mantled with heavy timber. All day long the
NEBRASKA had made her way through an endless succession of straits and
sounds, now squeezing through an inlet so narrow that the somber spruce
trees seemed to be within a short stone's-throw, again plowing across
some open reach where the pulse of the north Pacific could be felt. Out
through the openings to seaward stretched the restless ocean, on across
uncounted leagues, to Saghalien and the rim of Russia's prison-yard.

Always near at hand was the deep green of the Canadian forests, denser,
darker than a tropic jungle, for this was the land of "plenty waters."
The hillsides were carpeted knee-deep with moss, wet to saturation. Out
of every gulch came a brawling stream whipped to milk-white frenzy;
snow lay heavy upon the higher levels, while now and then from farther
inland peered a glacier, like some dead monster crushed between the
granite peaks. There were villages, too, and fishing-stations, and
mines and quarries. These burst suddenly upon the view, then slipped
past with dreamlike swiftness. Other ships swung into sight, rushed by,
and were swallowed up in the labyrinthine maze astern.

Those passengers of the Nebraska who had never before traversed the
"Inside Passage" were loud in the praises of its picturesqueness, while
those to whom the route was familiar seemed to find an ever-fresh
fascination in its shifting scenes.

Among the latter was Murray O'Neil. The whole north coast from Flattery
to St. Elias was as well mapped in his mind as the face of an old
friend, yet he was forever discovering new vistas, surprising
panoramas, amazing variations of color and topography. The mysterious
rifts and passageways that opened and closed as if to lure the ship
astray, the trackless confusion of islets, the siren song of the
waterfalls, the silent hills and glaciers and snow-soaked forests--all
appealed to him strongly, for he was at heart a dreamer.

Yet he did not forget that scenery such as this, lovely as it is by
day, may be dangerous at night, for he knew the weakness of steel
hulls. On some sides his experience and business training had made him
sternly practical and prosaic. Ships aroused no manner of enthusiasm in
him except as means to an end. Railroads had no glamour of romance in
his eyes, for, having built a number of them, he had outlived all
poetic notions regarding the "iron horse," and once the rails were laid
he was apt to lose interest in them. Nevertheless, he was almost poetic
in his own quiet way, interweaving practical thoughts with fanciful
visions, and he loved his dreams. He was dreaming now as he leaned upon
the bridge rail of the Nebraska, peering into the gloom with watchful
eyes. From somewhere to port came the occasional commands of the
officer on watch, echoed instantly from the inky interior of the
wheelhouse. Up overside rose the whisper of rushing waters; from
underfoot came the rhythmic beat of the engines far below. O'Neil shook
off his mood and began to wonder idly how long it would be before
Captain Johnny would be ready for his "nightcap."

He always traveled with Johnny Brennan when he could manage it, for the
two men were boon companions. O'Neil was wont to live in Johnny's
cabin, or on the bridge, and their nightly libation to friendship had
come to be a matter of some ceremony.

The ship's master soon appeared from the shadows--a short, trim man
with gray hair.

"Come," he cried, "it's waiting for us."

O'Neil followed into Brennan's luxurious, well-lit quarters, where on a
mahogany sideboard was a tray holding decanter, siphon, and glasses,
together with a bottle of ginger ale. The captain, after he had mixed a
beverage for his passenger, opened the bottle for himself. They raised
their glasses silently.

"Now that you're past the worst of it," remarked O'Neil, "I suppose
you'll turn in. You're getting old for a hard run like this, Johnny."

Captain Brennan snorted. "Old? I'm a better man than you, yet. I'm a
teetotaler, that's why. I discovered long ago that salt water and
whiskey don't mix."

O'Neil stretched himself out in one of Brennan's easy-chairs. "Really,"
he said, "I don't understand why a ship carries a captain. Now of what
earthly use to the line are you, for instance, except for your beauty,
which, no doubt, has its value with the women? I'll admit you preside
with some grace at the best table in the dining-salon, but your
officers know these channels as well as you do. They could make the run
from Seattle to Juneau with their eyes shut."

"Indeed they could not; and neither could I."

"Oh, well, of course I have no respect for you as a man, having seen
you without your uniform."

The captain grinned in thorough enjoyment of this raillery. "I'll say
nothing at all of my seamanship," he said, relapsing into the faintest
of brogues, "but there's no denying that the master of a ship has many
unpleasant and disgusting duties to perform. He has to amuse the
prominent passengers who can't amuse themselves, for one thing, and
that takes tact and patience. Why, some people make themselves at home
on the bridge, in the chart-room, and even in my living-quarters, to
say nothing of consuming my expensive wines, liquors, and cigars."

"Meaning me?"

"I'm a brutal seafaring man, and you'll have to make allowances for my
well-known brusqueness. Maybe I did mean you. But I'll say that next to
you Curtis Gordon is the worst grafter I ever saw."

"You don't like Gordon, do you?" O'Neil queried with a change of tone.

"I do not! He went up with me again this spring, and he had his widow
with him, too."

"His widow?"

"You know who I mean--Mrs. Gerard. They say it's her money he's using
in his schemes. Perhaps it's because of her that I don't like him."

"Ah-h! I see."

"You don't see, or you wouldn't grin like an ape. I'm a married man,
I'll have you know, and I'm still on good terms with Mrs. Brennan,
thank God. But I don't like men who use women's money, and that's just
what our friend Gordon is doing. What money the widow didn't put up
he's grabbed from the schoolma'ams and servant-girls and society
matrons in the East. What has he got to show them for it?"

"A railroad project, a copper-mine, some coal claims--"

"Bah! A menagerie of wildcats!"

"You can't prove that. What's your reason for distrusting him?"

"Well, for one thing, he knows too much. Why, he knows everything, he
does. Art, literature, politics, law, finance, and draw poker have no
secrets from him. He's been everywhere--and back--twice; he speaks a
dozen different languages. He out-argued me on poultry-raising and I
know more about that than any man living. He can handle a drill or a
coach-and-four; he can tell all about the art of ancient Babylon; and
he beat me playing cribbage, which shows that he ain't on the level.
He's the best-informed man outside of a university, and he drinks tea
of an afternoon--with his legs crossed and the saucer balanced on his
heel. Now, it takes years of hard work for an honest man to make a
success at one thing, but Gordon never failed at anything. I ask you if
a living authority on all the branches of human endeavor and a man who
can beat me at 'crib' doesn't make you suspicious."

"Not at all. I've beaten you myself!"

"I was sick," said Captain Brennan.

"The man is brilliant and well educated and wealthy. It's only natural
that he should excite the jealousy of a weaker intellect."

Johnny opened his lips for an explosion, then changed his mind and
agreed sourly.

"He's got money, all right, and he knows how to spend it. He and his
valet occupied three cabins on this ship. They say his quarters at Hope
are palatial."

"My dear grampus, the mere love of luxury doesn't argue that a person
is dishonest."

"Would you let a hired man help you on with your underclothes?"
demanded the mariner.

"There's nothing criminal about it."

"Humph! Mrs. Gerard is different. She's all class! You don't mind her
having a maid and speaking French when she runs short of English. Her
daughter is like her."

"I haven't seen Miss Gerard."

"If you'd stir about the ship instead of wearing out my Morris chair
you'd have that pleasure. She was on deck all morning." Captain Brennan
fell silent and poked with a stubby forefinger at the ice in his glass.

"Well, out with it!" said O'Neil after a moment.

"I'd like to know the inside story of Curtis Gordon and this girl's
mother."

"Why bother your head about something that doesn't concern you?" The
speaker rose and began to pace the cabin floor, then, in an altered
tone, inquired, "Tell me, are you going to land me and my horses at
Kyak Bay?"

"That depends on the weather. It's a rotten harbor; you'll have to swim
them ashore."

"Suppose it should be rough?"

"Then we'll go on, and drop you there coming back. I don't want to be
caught on that shore with a southerly wind, and that's the way it
usually blows."

"I can't wait," O'Neil declared. "A week's delay might ruin me. Rather
than go on I'd swim ashore myself, without the horses."

"I don't make the weather at Kyak Bay. Satan himself does that. Twenty
miles offshore it may be calm, and inside it may be blowing a gale.
That's due to the glaciers. Those ice-fields inland and the warm air
from the Japanese Current offshore kick up some funny atmospheric
pranks. It's the worst spot on the coast and we'll lose a ship there
some day. Why, the place isn't properly charted, let alone buoyed."

"That's nothing unusual for this coast."

"True for you. This is all a graveyard of ships and there's been many a
good master's license lost because of half-baked laws from Washington.
Think of a coast like this with almost no lights, no beacons nor buoys;
and yet we're supposed to make time. It's fine in clear weather, but in
the dark we go by guess and by God. I've stood the run longer than most
of the skippers, but--"

Even as Brennan spoke the Nebraska seemed to halt, to jerk backward
under his feet. O'Neil, who was standing, flung out an arm to steady
himself; the empty ginger-ale bottle fell from the sideboard with a
thump. Loose articles hanging against the side walls swung to and fro;
the heavy draperies over Captain Johnny's bed swayed.

Brennan leaped from his chair; his ruddy face was mottled, his eyes
were wide and horror-stricken.

"Damnation!" he gasped. The cabin door crashed open ahead of him and he
was on the bridge, with O'Neil at his heels. They saw the first officer
clinging limply to the rail; from the pilot-house window came an
excited burst of Norwegian, then out of the door rushed a quartermaster.

Brennan cursed, and met the fellow with a blow which drove him
sprawling back.

"Get in there, Swan," he bellowed, "and take your wheel."

"The tide swung her in!" exclaimed the mate. "The tide--My God!"

"Sweet Queen Anne!" said Brennan, more quietly. "You've ripped her
belly out."

"It--was the tide," chattered the officer.

The steady, muffled beating of the machinery ceased, the ship seemed
suddenly to lose her life, but it was plain that she was not aground,
for she kept moving through the gloom. From down forward came excited
voices as the crew poured up out of the forecastle.

Brennan leaped to the telegraph and signaled the engine-room. He was
calm now, and his voice was sharp and steady.

"Go below, Mr. James, and find the extent of the damage," he directed,
and a moment later the hull began to throb once more to the thrust of
the propeller. Inside the wheelhouse Swan had recovered from his panic
and repeated the master's orders mechanically.

The second and third officers arrived upon the bridge now, dressing as
they came, and they were followed by the chief engineer. To them Johnny
spoke, his words crackling like the sparks from a wireless. In an
incredibly short time he had the situation in hand and turned to
O'Neil, who had been a silent witness of the scene.

"Glory be!" exclaimed the captain. "Most of our good passengers are
asleep; the jar would scarcely wake them."

"Tell me where and how I can help," Murray offered. His first thought
had been of the possible effect of this catastrophe upon his plans, for
time was pressing. As for danger, he had looked upon it so often and in
so many forms that it had little power to stir him; but a shipwreck,
which would halt his northward rush, was another matter. Whether the
ship sank or floated could make little difference, now that the damage
had been done. She was crippled and would need assistance. His
fellow-passengers, he knew, were safe enough. Fortunately there were
not many of them--a scant two hundred, perhaps--and if worse came to
worst there was room in the life-boats for all. But the Nebraska had no
watertight bulkheads and the plight of his twenty horses between decks
filled him with alarm and pity. There were no life-boats for those poor
dumb animals penned down yonder in the rushing waters.

Brennan had stepped into the chart-room, but returned in a moment to
say:

"There's no place to beach her this side of Halibut Bay."

"How far is that?"

"Five or six miles."

"You'll--have to beach her?"

"I'm afraid so. She feels queer."

Up from the cabin deck came a handful of men passengers to inquire what
had happened; behind them a woman began calling shrilly for her husband.

"We touched a rock," the skipper explained, briefly. "Kindly go below
and stop that squawking. There's no danger."

There followed a harrowing wait of several minutes; then James, the
first officer, came to report. He had regained his nerve and spoke with
swift precision.

"She loosened three plates on her port quarter and she's filling fast."

"How long will she last?" snapped Brennan.

"Not long, sir. Half an hour, perhaps."

The captain rang for full speed, and the decks began to strain as the
engine increased its labor. "Get your passengers out and stand by the
boats," he ordered. "Take it easy and don't alarm the women. Have them
dress warmly, and don't allow any crowding by the men. Mr. Tomlinson,
you hold the steerage gang in check. Take your revolver with you." He
turned to his silent friend, in whose presence he seemed to feel a
cheering sympathy, "I knew it would come sooner or later, Murray," he
said. "But--magnificent mummies! To touch on a clear night with the sea
like glass!" He sighed dolefully. "It'll be tough on my missus."

O'Neil laid a hand upon his shoulder. "It wasn't your fault, and there
will be room in the last boat for you. Understand?" Brennan hesitated,
and the other continued, roughly: "No nonsense, now! Don't make a
damned fool of yourself by sticking to the bridge. Promise?"

"I promise."

"Now what do you want me to do?"

"Keep those dear passengers quiet. I'll run for Halibut Bay, where
there's a sandy beach. If she won't make it I'll turn her into the
rocks, Tell 'em they won't wet a foot if they keep their heads."

"Good! I'll be back to see that you behave yourself." The speaker
laughed lightly and descended to the deck, where he found an incipient
panic. Stewards were pounding on stateroom doors, half-clad men were
rushing about aimlessly, pallid faces peered forth from windows, and
there was the sound of running feet, of slamming doors, of shrill,
hysterical voices.

O'Neil saw a waiter thumping lustily upon a door and heard him shout,
hoarsely:

"Everybody out! The ship is sinking!" As he turned away Murray seized
him roughly by the arm and thrusting his face close to the other's,
said harshly:

"If you yell again like that I'll toss you overboard."

"God help us, we're going--"

O'Neil shook the fellow until his teeth rattled; his own countenance,
ordinarily so quiet, was blazing.

"There's no danger. Act like a man and don't start a stampede."

The steward pulled himself together and answered in a calmer tone:

"Very well, sir. I--I'm sorry, sir."

Murray O'Neil was known to most of the passengers, for his name had
gone up and down the coast, and there were few places from San
Francisco to Nome where his word did not carry weight. As he went among
his fellow-travelers now, smiling, self-contained, unruffled, his
presence had its effect. Women ceased their shrilling, men stopped
their senseless questions and listened to his directions with some
comprehension. In a short time the passengers were marshaled upon the
upper deck where the life-boats hung between their davits. Each little
craft was in charge of its allotted crew, the electric lights continued
to burn brightly, and the panic gradually wore itself out. Meanwhile
the ship was running a desperate race with the sea, striving with every
ounce of steam in her boilers to find a safe berth for her mutilated
body before the inrush of waters drowned her fires. That the race was
close even the dullest understood, for the Nebraska was settling
forward, and plowed into the night head down, like a thing maddened
with pain. She was becoming unmanageable, too, and O'Neil thought with
pity of that little iron-hearted skipper on the bridge who was fighting
her so furiously.

There was little confusion, little talking upon the upper deck now;
only a child whimpered or a woman sobbed hysterically. But down forward
among the steerage passengers the case was different. These were mainly
Montenegrins, Polacks, or Slavs bound for the construction camps to the
westward, and they surged from side to side like cattle, requiring
Tomlinson's best efforts to keep them from rushing aft.

O'Neil had employed thousands of such men; in fact, many of these very
fellows had cashed his time-checks and knew him by sight. He went
forward among them, and his appearance proved instantly reassuring. He
found his two hostlers, and with their aid he soon reduced the mob to
comparative order.

But in spite of his confident bearing he felt a great uneasiness. The
Nebraska seemed upon the point of diving; he judged she must be
settling very fast, and wondered that the forward tilt did not lift her
propeller out of the water. Fortunately, however, the surface of the
sound was like a polished floor and there were no swells to submerge
her.

Over-side to starboard he could see the dim black outlines of mountains
slipping past, but where lay Halibut Bay or what distance remained to
be covered he could but vaguely guess.

In these circumstances the wait became almost unbearable. The race
seemed hours long, the miles stretched into leagues, and with every
moment of suspense the ship sank lower. The end came unexpectedly.
There was a sudden startled outcry as the Nebraska struck for a second
time that night. She rose slightly, rolled and bumped, grated briefly,
then came to rest.

Captain Brennan shouted from the bridge:

"Fill your life-boats, Mr. James, and lower away carefully."

A cheer rose from the huddled passengers.

The boiler-room was still dry, it seemed, for the incandescent lights
burned without a flicker, even after the grimy oilers and stokers had
come pouring up on deck.

O'Neil climbed to the bridge. "Is this Halibut Bay?" he asked Captain
Johnny.

"It is. But we're piled up on the reef outside. She may hold fast--I
hope so, for there's deep water astern, and if she slips off she'll go
down."

"I'd like to save my horses," said the younger man, wistfully. Through
all the strain of the past half-hour or more his uppermost thought had
been for them. But Brennan had no sympathy for such sentiments.

"Hell's bells!" he exclaimed. "Don't talk of horses while we've got
women and children aboard." He hastened away to assist in transferring
his passengers.

Instead of following, O'Neil turned and went below. He found that the
water was knee-deep on the port side of the deck where his animals were
quartered, which showed that the ship had listed heavily. He judged
that she must be much deeper by the head then he had imagined, and that
her nose was crushed in among the rocks. Until she settled at the
stern, therefore, the case was not quite hopeless.

His appearance, the sound of his voice, were the signals for a chorus
of eager whinnies and a great stamping of hoofs. Heads were thrust
toward him from the stalls, alert ears were pricked forward, satin
muzzles rubbed against him as he calmed their terror. This blind trust
made the man's throat tighten achingly. He loved animals as he loved
children, and above all he cared for horses. He understood them, he
spoke their language as nearly as any human can be said to do so.
Quivering muscles relaxed beneath his soothing palm; he called them by
name and they answered with gentle twitching lips against his cheek.
Some of them even began to eat and switch their tails contentedly.

He cursed aloud and made his way down the sloping deck to the square
iron door, or port, through which he had loaded them. But he found that
it was jammed, or held fast by the pressure outside, and after a few
moments' work in water above his knees he climbed to the starboard
side. Here the entrance was obstructed by a huge pile of baled hay and
grain in sacks. It would be no easy task to clear it away, and he fell
to work with desperate energy, for the ship was slowly changing her
level. Her stern, which had been riding high, was filling; the sea
stole in upon him silently. It crept up toward him until the horses,
stabled on the lower side, were belly-deep in it. Their distress
communicated itself to the others. O'Neil knew that his position might
prove perilous if the hulk should slip backward off the reef, yet he
continued to toil, hurling heavy sacks behind him, bundling awkward
bales out of the way, until his hands were bleeding and his muscles
ached. He was perspiring furiously; the commotion around him was
horrible. Then abruptly the lights went out, leaving him in utter
blackness; the last fading yellow gleam was photographed briefly upon
his retina.

Tears mingled with the sweat that drained down his cheeks as he felt
his way slowly out of the place, splashing, stumbling, groping
uncertainly. A horse screamed in a loud, horribly human note, and he
shuddered. He was sobbing curses as he emerged into the cool open air
on the forward deck.

His eyes were accustomed to the darkness now, and he could see
something of his surroundings. He noted numerous lights out on the
placid bosom of the bay, evidently lanterns on the life-boats, and he
heard distant voices. He swept the moisture from his face; then with a
start he realized his situation. He listened intently; his eyes roved
back along the boat-deck; there was no doubt about it--the ship was
deserted. Stepping to the rail, he observed how low the Nebraska lay
and also that her bow was higher than her stern. From somewhere beneath
his feet came a muffled grinding and a movement which told him that the
ship was seeking a more comfortable berth. He recalled stories of
explosions and of the boiling eddies which sometimes accompany sinking
hulls. Turning, he scrambled up to the cabin-deck and ran swiftly
toward his stateroom.




II

HOW A GIRL APPEARED OUT OF THE NIGHT


O'Neil felt for the little bracket-lamp on the wall of his stateroom
and lit it. By its light he dragged a life-preserver from the rack
overhead and slipped the tapes about his shoulders, reflecting that
Alaskan waters are disagreeably cold. Then he opened his traveling-bags
and dumped their contents upon the white counterpane of his berth,
selecting out of the confusion certain documents and trinkets. The
latter he thrust into his pockets as he found them, the former he
wrapped in handkerchiefs before stowing them away. The ship had listed
now so that it was difficult to maintain a footing; the lamp hung at a
grotesque angle and certain articles had become dislodged from their
resting-places. From outside came the gentle lapping of waters, a
gurgling and hissing as of air escaping through the decks. He could
feel the ship strain. He acknowledged that it was not pleasant thus to
be left alone on a sinking hulk, particularly on an ink-black night--

All at once he whirled and faced the door with an exclamation of
astonishment, for a voice had addressed him.

There,--clinging to the casing, stood a woman--a girl--evidently drawn
out of the darkness by the light which streamed down across the sloping
deck from his stateroom. Plainly she had but just awakened, for she was
clothed in a silken nightrobe which failed to conceal the outlines of
her body, the swelling contour of her bosom, the ripened fullness of
her limbs. She had flung a quilted dressing-gown of some sort over her
shoulders and with one bare arm and hand strove to hold it in place. He
saw that her pink feet were thrust into soft, heeless slippers--that
her hair, black in this light, cascaded down to her waist, and that her
eyes, which were very dark and very large, were fixed upon him with a
stare like that of a sleep-walker.

"It is so dark--so strange--so still!" she murmured. "What has
happened?"

"God! Didn't they waken you?" he cried in sharp surprise.

"Is the ship-sinking?" Her odd bewilderment of voice and gaze puzzled
him.

He nodded. "We struck a rock. The passengers have been taken off. We're
the only ones left. In Heaven's name where have you been?"

"I was asleep."

He shook his head in astonishment. "How you failed to hear that
hubbub--"

"I heard something, but I was ill. My head--I took something to ease
the pain."

"Ah! Medicine! It hasn't worn off yet, I see! You shouldn't have taken
it. Drugs are nothing but poison to young people. Now at my age there
might be some excuse for resorting to them, but you--" He was talking
to cover the panic of his thoughts, for his own predicament had been
serious enough, and her presence rendered it doubly embarrassing. What
in the world to do with her he scarcely knew. His lips were smiling,
but his eyes were grave as they roved over the cabin and out into the
blackness of the night.

"Are we going to drown?" she asked, dully.

"Nonsense!" He laughed in apparent amusement, showing his large, strong
teeth.

She came closer, glancing behind her and shrinking from the oily waters
which could be seen over the rail and which had stolen up nearly to the
sill of the door. She steadied herself by laying hold of him
uncertainly. Involuntarily he turned his eyes away, for he felt shame
at profaning her with his gaze. She was very soft and white, a fragile
thing utterly unfit to cope with the night air and the freezing waters
of Halibut Bay.

"I'm wretchedly afraid!" she whispered through white lips.

"None of that!" he said, brusquely. "I'll see that nothing happens to
you." He slipped out of his life-preserver and adjusted it over her
shoulders, first drawing her arms through the sleeves of her
dressing-gown and knotting the cord snugly around her waist. "Just as a
matter of precaution!" he assured her. "We may get wet. Can you swim?"

She shook her head.

"Never mind; I can." He found another life-belt, fitted it to his own
form, and led her out upon the deck. The scuppers were awash now and
she gasped as the sea licked her bare feet. "Cold, isn't it?" he
remarked. "But there's no time to dress, and it's just as well,
perhaps, for heavy clothes would only hamper you."

She strove to avoid the icy waters and finally paused, moaning: "I
can't! I can't go on!"

Slipping his arm about her, he bore her to the door of the main cabin
and entered. He could feel her warm, soft body quivering against his
own. She had clasped his neck so tightly that he could scarcely
breathe, but, lowering her until her feet were on the dry carpet, he
gently loosed her arms.

"Now, my dear child," he told her, "you must do exactly as I tell you.
Come! Calm yourself or I won't take you any farther." He held her off
by her shoulders. "I may have to swim with you; you mustn't cling to me
so!"

He heard her gasp and felt her draw away abruptly. Then he led her by
the hand out upon the starboard deck, and together they made their way
forward to the neighborhood of the bridge.

The lights he had seen upon coming from the forward hold were still in
view and he hailed them at the top of his voice. But other voices were
calling through the night, some of them comparatively close at hand,
others answering faintly from far in-shore. The boats first launched
were evidently landing, and those in charge of them were shouting
directions to the ones behind. Some women had started singing and the
chorus floated out to the man and the girl:

Pull for the shore, sailor, Pull for the shore.

It helped to drown their cries for assistance.

O'Neil judged that the ship was at least a quarter of a mile from the
beach, and his heart sank, for he doubted that either he or his
companion could last long in these waters. It occurred to him that
Brennan might be close by, waiting for the Nebraska to sink--it would
be unlike the little captain to forsake his trust until the last
possible moment--but he reasoned that the cargo of lives in the
skipper's boat would induce him to stand well off to avoid accident. He
called lustily time after time, but no answer came.

Meanwhile the girl stood quietly beside him.

"Can't we make a raft?" she suggested, timidly, when he ceased to
shout. "I've read of such things."

"There's no time," he told her. "Are you very cold?"

She nodded. "Please forgive me for acting so badly just now. It was all
so sudden and--so awful! I think I can behave better. Oh! What was
that?" She clutched him nervously, for from the forward end of the ship
had come a muffled scream, like that of a woman.

"It's my poor horses," said the man, and she looked at him curiously,
prompted by the catch in his throat.

There followed a wait which seemed long, but was in reality of but a
few minutes, for the ship was sliding backward and the sea was creeping
upward faster and faster. At last they heard a shuddering sigh as she
parted from the rocks and the air rushed up through the deck openings
with greater force. The Nebraska swung sluggishly with the tide; then,
when her upper structure had settled flush with the sea, Murray O'Neil
took the woman in his arms and leaped clear of the rail.

The first gasping moment of immersion was fairly paralyzing; after that
the reaction came, and the two began to struggle away from the sinking
ship. But the effect of the reaction soon wore off. The water was
cruelly cold and their bodies ached in every nerve and fiber. O'Neil
did his best to encourage his companion. He talked to her through his
chattering teeth, and once she had recovered from the mental shock of
the first fearful plunge she responded pluckily. He knew that his own
heart was normal and strong, but he feared that the girl's might not be
equal to the strain. Had he been alone, he felt sure that he could have
gained the shore, but with her upon his hands he was able to make but
little headway. The expanse of waters seemed immense; it fairly crushed
hope out of him. The lights upon the shore were as distant as fixed
stars. This was a country of heavy tides, he reflected, and he began to
fear that the current was sweeping them out. He turned to look for the
ship, but could see no traces of her, and since it was inconceivable
that the Nebraska could have sunk so quietly, her disappearance
confirmed his fears. More than once he fancied he heard an answer to
his cries for help--the rattle of rowlocks or the splash of oars--but
his ears proved unreliable.

After a time the girl began to moan with pain and terror, but as
numbness gradually robbed her of sensation she became quiet. A little
later her grip upon his clothing relaxed and he saw that she was
collapsing. He drew her to him and held her so that her face lay
upturned and her hair floated about his shoulders. In this position she
could not drown, at least while his strength lasted. But he was rapidly
losing control of himself; his teeth were clicking loosely, his muscles
shook and twitched It required a great effort to shout, and he thought
that his voice did not carry so far as at first. Therefore he fell
silent, paddling with his free arm and kicking, to keep his blood
stirring.

Several times he gave up and floated quietly, but courage was ingrained
in him; deep down beneath his consciousness was a vitality, an
inherited stubborn resistance to death, of which he knew nothing. It
was that unidentified quality of mind which supports one man through a
great sickness or a long period of privation, while another of more
robust physique succumbs. It was the same quality which brings one man
out from desert wastes, or the white silence of the polar ice, while
the bodies of his fellows remain to mark the trail. This innate power
of supreme resistance is found in chosen individuals throughout the
animal kingdom, and it was due to it alone that Murray O'Neil continued
to fight the tide long after he had ceased to exert conscious control.

At length there came through the man's dazed sensibilities a sound
different from those he had been hearing: it was a human voice, mingled
with the measured thud of oars in their sockets. It roused him like an
electric current and gave him strength to cry out hoarsely. Some one
answered him; then out of the darkness to seaward emerged a deeper
blot, which loomed up hugely yet proved to be no more than a life-boat
banked full of people. It came to a stop within an oar's-length of him.
From the babble of voices he distinguished one that was familiar, and
cried the name of Johnny Brennan. His brain had cleared now, a great
dreamlike sense of thanksgiving warmed him, and he felt equal to any
effort. He was vaguely amazed to find that his limbs refused to obey
him.

His own name was being pronounced in shocked tones; the splash from an
oar filled his face and strangled him, but he managed to lay hold of
the blade, and was drawn in until outstretched hands seized him.

An oarsman was saying: "Be careful, there! We can't take him in without
swamping."

But Brennan's voice shouted: "Make room or I'll bash in your bloody
skull."

Another protest arose, and O'Neil saw that the craft was indeed loaded
to the gunwales.

"Take the girl--quick," he implored. "I'll hang on. You can--tow me."

The limp form was removed from his side and dragged over the thwarts
while a murmur of excited voices went up.

"Can you hold out for a minute, Murray?" asked Brennan.

"Yes--I think so."

"I'd give you my place, but you're too big to be taken in without
danger."

"Go ahead," chattered the man in the water. "Look after the girl before
it's--too late."

The captain's stout hand was in his collar now and he heard him crying:

"Pull, you muscle-bound heathens! Everybody sit still! Now away with
her, men. Keep up your heart, Murray, my boy; remember it takes more
than water to kill a good Irishman. It's only a foot or two farther,
and they've started a fire. Serves you right, you big idiot, for going
overboard, with all those boats. Man dear, but you're pulling the arm
out of me; it's stretched out like a garden hose! Hey! Cover up that
girl, and you, lady, rub her feet and hands. Good! Move over please--so
the men can bail."

The next O'Neil knew he was feeling very miserable and very cold,
notwithstanding the fact that he was wrapped in dry clothing and lay so
close to a roaring spruce fire that its heat blistered him.

Brennan was bending over him with eyes wet. He was swearing, too, in a
weak, faltering way, calling upon all the saints to witness that the
prostrate man was the embodiment of every virtue, and that his death
would be a national calamity. Others were gathered about, men and
women, and among them O'Neil saw the doctor from Sitka whom he had met
on shipboard.

As soon as he was able to speak he inquired for the safety of the girl
he had helped to rescue. Johnny promptly reassured him.

"Man, dear, she's doing fine. A jigger of brandy brought her to,
gasping like a blessed mermaid."

"Was anybody lost?"

"Praise God, not a soul! But it's lucky I stood by to watch the old tub
go down, or we'd be mourning two. You'll be well by morning, for
there's a cannery in the next inlet and I've sent a boat's crew for
help. And now, my boy, lay yourself down again and take a sleep, won't
you? It'll be doing you a lot of good."

But O'Neil shook his head and struggled to a sitting posture.

"Thanks, Johnny," said he, "but I couldn't. I can hear those horses
screaming, and besides--I must make new plans."




III

THE IRISH PRINCE


As dawn broke the cannery tender from the station near by nosed her way
up to the gravelly shore where the castaways were gathered and blew a
cheering toot-toot on her whistle. She was a flat-bottomed,
"wet-sterned" craft, and the passengers of the Nebraska trooped to her
deck over a gang-plank. As Captain Brennan had predicted, not one of
them had wet a foot, with the exception of the two who had been left
aboard through their own carelessness.

By daylight Halibut Bay appeared an idyllic spot, quite innocent of the
terrors with which the night had endowed it. A pebbled half-moon of
beach was set in among rugged bluffs; the verdant forest crowded down
to it from behind. Tiny crystal wavelets lapped along the shingle,
swaying the brilliant sea mosses which clung to the larger rocks.
Altogether the scene gave a strong impression of peace and security,
yet just in the offing was one jarring contrast--the masts and funnel
of the Nebraska slanting up out of the blue serenity, where she lay
upon the sloping bottom in the edge of deep water.

The reaction following a sleepless night of anxiety had replaced the
first feeling of thankfulness at deliverance, and it was not a happy
cargo of humanity which the rescuing boat bore with her as the sun
peeped over the hills. Many of the passengers were but half dressed,
all were exhausted and hungry, each one had lost something in the
catastrophe. The men were silent, the women hysterical, the children
fretful.

Murray O'Neil had recovered sufficiently to go among them with the same
warm smile which had made him friends from the first. In the depths of
his cool gray eyes was a sparkle which showed his unquenchable Celtic
spirit, and before long smiles answered his smiles, jokes rose to meet
his pleasantries.

It was his turn now to comfort Captain Johnny Brennan, who had yielded
to the blackest despair, once his responsibility was over.

"She was a fine ship, Murray," the master lamented, staring with tragic
eyes at the Nebraska's spars.

"She was a tin washtub, and rusted like a sieve," jeered O'Neil.

"But think of me losing her on a still night!"

"I'm not sure yet that it wasn't a jellyfish that swam through her."

"Humph! I suppose her cargo will be a total loss. Two hundred thousand
dollars--"

"Insured for three hundred, no doubt. I'll warrant the company will
thank you."

"It's kind of you to cheer me up," said Brennan, a little less
gloomily, "especially after the way I abandoned you to drown, but the
missus won't allow me in the house at all when she hears I left you in
pickle. Thank God the girl didn't die, anyway! I've got that to be
thankful for. Curtis Gordon would have broken me--"

"Gordon?"

"Sure! Man dear, don't you know who you went bathing with? She's the
daughter of that widow Gerard, and the most prominent passenger aboard,
outside of your blessed self. Ain't that luck! If I was a Jap I'd split
myself open with a bread-knife."

"But, fortunately, you're a sensible 'harp' of old Ireland. I'll see
that the papers get the right story, 'o buck up."

"Do you think for a minute that Mrs. Brennan will understand why I
didn't hop out of the lifeboat and give you my place? Not at all. I'm
ruined nautically and domestically. In the course of the next ten years
I may live it down, but meanwhile I'll sleep in the woodshed and speak
when I'm spoken to."

Murray knew that Miss Gerard had been badly shaken by her ordeal, hence
he made no attempt to see her even after the steamer had reached the
fishing-village and the rescued passengers had been taken in by the
residents. Instead, he went directly to the one store in the place and
bought its entire stock, which he turned over to the sufferers. It was
well he did so, for the village was small and, although the townspeople
were hospitable, both food and clothing were scarce.

A south-bound steamer was due the next afternoon, it was learned, and
plans were made for her to pick up the castaways and return them to
Seattle. At the same time O'Neil discovered that a freighter for the
"westward" was expected some time that night, and as she did not call
at this port he arranged for a launch to take him out to the channel
where he could intercept her. The loss of his horses had been a serious
blow. It was all the more imperative now that he should go on, since he
would have to hire men to do horses' work.

During the afternoon Miss Gerard sent for him and he went to the house
of the cannery superintendent, where she had been received. The
superintendent's wife had clothed her, and she seemed to have recovered
her poise of body and mind. O'Neil was surprised to find her quite a
different person from the frightened and disheveled girl he had seen in
the yellow lamplight of his stateroom on the night before. She was as
pale now as then, but her expression of terror and bewilderment had
given place to one of reposeful confidence. Her lips were red and ripe
and of a somewhat haughty turn. She was attractive, certainly, despite
the disadvantage of the borrowed garments, and though she struck him as
being possibly a little proud and cold, there was no lack of warmth in
her greeting.

For her part she beheld a man of perhaps forty, of commanding height
and heavy build. He was gray about the temples; his eyes were gray,
too, and rather small, but they were extremely animated and kindly, and
a myriad of little lines were penciled about their corners. These were
evidently marks of expression, not of age, and although the rugged face
itself was not handsome, it had a degree of character that compelled
her interest. His clothes were good, and in spite of their recent hard
usage they still lent him the appearance of a man habitually well
dressed.

She was vaguely disappointed, having pictured him as being in the first
flush of vigorous youth, but the feeling soon disappeared under the
charm of his manner. The ideal figure she had imagined began to seem
silly and school-girlish, unworthy of the man himself. She was pleased,
too, by his faint though manifest embarrassment at her thanks, for she
had feared a lack of tact.

Above all things she abhorred obligation of any sort, and she was
inclined to resent masculine protection. This man's service filled her
with real gratitude, yet she rebelled at the position in which it
placed her. She preferred granting favors to receiving them.

But in fact he dismissed the whole subject so brusquely that he almost
offended her, and when she realized how incomplete had been her
acknowledgment, she said, with an air of pique:

"You might have given me a chance to thank you without dragging you
here against your will."

"I'm sorry if I seemed neglectful."

She fell silent for a moment before asking:

"Do you detest me for my cowardice? I couldn't blame you for never
wanting to see me again."

"You were very brave. You were splendid," he declared. "I simply didn't
wish to intrude."

"I was terribly frightened," she confided, "but I felt that I could
rely upon you. That's what every one does, isn't it? You see, you have
a reputation. They told me how you refused to be taken into the boat
for fear of capsizing it. That was fine."

"Oh, there was nothing brave about that. I wanted to get in badly
enough, but there wasn't, room. Jove! It was cold, wasn't it?" His
ready smile played whimsically about his lips, and the girl felt
herself curiously drawn to him. Since he chose to make light of
himself, she determined to allow nothing of the sort.

"They have told me how you bought out this whole funny little place,"
she said, "and turned it over to us. Is it because you have such a
royal way of dispensing favors that they call you 'The Irish Prince'?"

"That's only a silly nickname."

"I don't think so. You give people food and clothes with a careless
wave of the hand; you give me my life with a shrug and a smile; you
offer to give up your own to a boatful of strangers without a moment's
hesitation. I--I think you are a remarkable person."

"You'll turn my head with such flattery if you aren't careful," he said
with a slight flush. "Please talk of something sensible now, for an
antidote--your plans, for instance."

"My plans are never sensible, and what few I have are as empty as my
pockets. To tell the truth, I have neither plans nor pockets," she
laughed, "since this is a borrowed gown."

"Pockets in gowns are entirely matters of hearsay, anyhow; I doubt if
they exist. You are going back to Seattle?"

"Oh, I suppose so. It seems to be my fate, but I'm not a bit resigned.
I'm one of those unfortunate people who can't bear to be disappointed."

"You can return on the next ship, at the company's expense."

"No. Mother would never allow it. In fact, when she learns that I'm out
here she'll probably send me back to New York as fast as I can go."

"Doesn't she know where you are?"

"Indeed no! She thinks I'm safely and tamely at home. Uncle Curtis
wouldn't object to my visit, I fancy; at any rate, I've been counting
on his good offices with mother, but it's too late now."

"I'm like you," he said; "I can't brook disappointment. I'm going on."

In answer to her questioning look he explained his plan of intercepting
the freight-steamer that night, whereupon her face brightened with
sudden hope.

"Can't I go, too?" she implored, eagerly. She was no longer the haughty
young lady he had met upon entering the room, but a very wistful child.

"I'm afraid that's hardly---"

"Oh! If only you knew how much it means! If only you knew how badly I
want to! I'm not afraid of discomforts."

"It's not that---"

"Please! Please! Be a real prince and grant me this boon. Won't you? My
heart is set upon it."

It was hard to resist her imploring eyes--eyes which showed they had
never been denied. It was hard for O'Neil to refuse anything to a woman.

"If your uncle is willing," he began, hesitatingly.

"He isn't my really uncle--I just call him that."

"Well, if Mr. Gordon wouldn't object, perhaps I can manage it,
provided, of course, you promise to explain to your mother."

Miss Gerard's frank delight showed that she was indeed no more than a
child. Her changed demeanor awakened a doubt in the man's mind.

"It will mean that you'll have to sit up all night in an open launch,"
he cautioned her.

"I'll sit up for a week."

"With the creepy water all about, and big black mountains frowning at
you!"

"Oh, fiddle!" she exclaimed. "You'll be there if I get frightened."
Rising impulsively she laid her hand on his arm and thanked him with an
odd mingling of frankness and shyness, as if there could be no further
doubt of his acquiescence. He saw that her eyes were the color of
shaded woodland springs and that her hair was not black, but of a deep,
rich brown where the sun played upon it, the hue of very old mahogany,
with the same blood-red flame running through it. He allowed himself to
admire her in silence, until suddenly she drew back with a startled
exclamation.

"What is it?"

"I forgot--I have no clothes." Her words came with a doleful cadence.

"The universal complaint of your sex," he said, smiling. "Allow me to
talk with your hostess. I'm sure she will let you walk out with your
borrowed finery, just like Cinderella. You'll need a nice thick coat,
too."

"But this is her very, very best dress."

"She shall receive, on the next ship, a big box all lined with
tissue-paper, with the imprint of the most fashionable dressmaker in
Seattle. I'll arrange all that by cable."

"You don't know how she loves it," the girl said, doubtfully.

"Come! Call her in. If I'm to be a prince you mustn't doubt my power."

Nor did the event prove him over-confident. Before he had fairly made
known his request the good lady of the house was ready to surrender not
only her best Sunday gown, but her fluttering heart as well. Murray
O'Neil had a way of making people do what he wanted, and women
invariably yielded to him.




IV

HOW A JOURNEY ENDED AT HOPE


To Natalie Gerard the trip down the bay and into the sound that night
was a wonderful adventure. She remembered it afterward far more vividly
than the shipwreck, which became blurred in retrospect, so that she
soon began to think of it as of some half-forgotten nightmare. To begin
with, the personality of Murray O'Neil intrigued her more and more. The
man was so strong, so sympathetic, and he had such a resistless way of
doing things. The stories she had heard of him were romantic, and the
superintendent's wife had not allowed them to suffer in the telling.
Natalie felt elated that such a remarkable person should exert himself
on her behalf. And the journey itself impressed her imagination deeply.

Although it was nine o'clock when they boarded the launch, it was still
light. The evening was yellow with the peculiar diffused radiance of
high latitudes, lending a certain somberness to their surroundings.

The rushing tide, the ragged rock-teeth which showed through it, the
trackless, unending forests that clothed the hills in every direction,
awed her a little, yet gave her an unaccustomed feeling of freedom and
contentment. The long wait out between the lonely islands, where the
tiny cockle-shell rolled strangely, although the sea seemed as level as
a floor, held a subtle excitement. Darkness crept down out of the
unpeopled gorges and swallowed them up, thrilling her with a sense of
mystery.

When midnight came she found that she was ravenously hungry, and she
was agreeably surprised when O'Neil produced an elaborate lunch. There
were even thermos bottles filled with steaming hot coffee, more
delicious, she thought, than anything she had ever before tasted. He
called the meal their after-theater party, pretending that they had
just come from a Broadway melodrama of shipwreck and peril. The subject
led them naturally to talk of New York, and she found he was more
familiar with the city than she.

"I usually spend my winters there," he explained.

"Then you have an office in the city?"

"Oh yes. I've maintained a place of business there for years."

"Where is it? On Wall Street?"

"No!" he smiled. "On upper Fifth Avenue. It's situated in the extreme
southwest corner of the men's cafe at the Holland House. It consists of
a round mahogany table and a leather settee."

"Really!"

"That's where I'm to be found at least four months out of every twelve."

"They told me you built railroads."

"I do--when I'm lucky enough to underbid my competitors. But that isn't
always, and railroads aren't built every day."

"Mr. Gordon is building one."

"So I'm told." O'Neil marveled at the trick of fortune which had
entangled this girl and her mother in the web of that brilliant and
unscrupulous adventurer.

"Perhaps it will be a great success like your famous North Pass & Yukon
Railway."

"Let us hope so." He was tempted to inquire what use Gordon had made of
that widely advertised enterprise in floating his own undertaking, but
instead he asked:

"Your mother has invested heavily, has she not?"

"Not in the railroad. Her fortune, and mine too, is all in the coal
mines."

O'Neil smothered an exclamation.

"What is it?" she demanded.

"Nothing, only--are you sure?"

"Oh, quite sure! The mines are rich, aren't they?"

"There are no mines," he informed her, "thanks to our misguided
lawmakers at Washington. There are vast deposits of fine coal which
would--make mines if we were allowed to work them, but--we are not
allowed."

"'We'? Are you a--a coal person, like us?"

"Yes. I was one of the first men in the Kyak fields, and I invested
heavily. I know Mr. Gordon's group of claims well. I have spent more
than a hundred thousand dollars trying to perfect my titles and I'm no
nearer patent now than I was to begin with--not so near, in fact. I
fancy Gordon has spent as much and is in the same fix. It is a coal
matter which brings me to Alaska now."

"I hardly understand."

"Of course not, and you probably won't after I explain. You see the
Government gave us--gave everybody who owns coal locations in
Alaska--three years in which to do certain things; then it extended
that time another three years. But recently a new Secretary of the
Interior has come into office and he has just rescinded that later
ruling, without warning, which gives us barely time to comply with the
law as it first stood. For my part, I'll have to hustle or lose
everything I have put in. You see? That's why I hated to see those
horses drown, for I intended to use them in reaching the coal-fields.
Now I'll have to hire men to carry their loads. No doubt Mr. Gordon has
arranged to protect your holdings, but there are hundreds of claimants
who will be ruined."

"I supposed the Government protected its subjects," said the girl,
vaguely.

"One of the illusions taught in the elementary schools," laughed
O'Neil. "We Alaskans have found that it does exactly the opposite! We
have found it a harsh and unreasonable landlord. But I'm afraid I'm
boring you." He wrapped her more snugly in her coverings, for a chill
had descended with the darkness, then strove to enliven her with
stories garnered from his rich experience--stories which gave her
fascinating glimpses of great undertakings and made her feel personally
acquainted with people of unfamiliar type, whose words and deeds,
mirthful or pathetic, were always refreshingly original. Of certain
individuals he spoke repeatedly until their names became familiar to
his hearer. He called them his "boys" and his voice was tender as he
told of their doings.

"These men are your staff?" she ventured.

"Yes. Every one who succeeds in his work must have loyal hands to help
him."

"Where are they now?"

"Oh! Scattered from Canada to Mexico, each one doing his own particular
work. There's Mellen, for instance; he's in Chihuahua building a
cantilever bridge. He's the best steel man in the country. McKay, my
superintendent, is running a railroad job in California. 'Happy Tom'
Slater--"

"The funny man with the blues?"

"Exactly! He was at work on a hydraulic project near Dawson the last I
heard of him. Dr. Gray is practising in Seattle, and Parker, the chief
engineer, has a position of great responsibility in Boston. He is the
brains of our outfit, you understand; it was really he who made the
North Pass & Yukon possible. The others are scattered out in the same
way, but they'd all come if I called them." The first note of pride she
had detected crept into his voice when he said: "My 'boys' are never
idle. They don't have to be, after working with me."

"And what is your part of the work?" asked the girl.

"I? Oh, I'm like Marcelline, the clown at the Hippodrome--always
pretending to help, but forever keeping underfoot. When it becomes
necessary I raise the money to keep the performance going."

"Do you really mean that all those men would give up their positions
and come to you if you sent for them?"

"By the first train, or afoot, if there were no other way. They'd
follow me to the Philippines or Timbuctoo, regardless of their homes
and their families."

"That is splendid! You must feel very proud of inspiring such loyalty,"
said Natalie. "But why are you idle now? Surely there are railroads to
be built somewhere."

"Yes, I was asked to figure on a contract in Manchuria the other day. I
could have had it easily, and it would have meant my everlasting
fortune, but--"

"But what?"

"I found it isn't a white man's country. It's sickly and unsafe. Some
of my 'boys' would die before we finished it, and the game isn't worth
that price. No, I'll wait. Something better will turn up. It always
does."

As Natalie looked upon that kindly, square-hewn face with its tracery
of lines about the eyes, its fine, strong jaw, and its indefinable
expression of power, she began to understand more fully why those with
whom she had talked had spoken of Murray O'Neil with an almost
worshipful respect. She felt very insignificant and purposeless as she
huddled there beside him, and her complacence at his attentions
deepened into a vivid sense of satisfaction. Thus far he had spoken
entirely of men; she wondered if he ever thought of women, and thrilled
a bit at the intimacy that had sprung up between them so quickly and
naturally.

It confirmed her feeling of prideful confidence in the man that the
north-bound freighter should punctually show her lights around the
islands and that she should pause in her majestic sweep at the signal
of this pigmy craft. The ship loomed huge and black and terrifying as
the launch at length drew in beneath it; its sides towered like
massive, unscalable ramparts. There was a delay; there seemed to be
some querulousness on the part of the officer in command at being thus
halted, some doubt about allowing strangers to come aboard. But the
girl smiled to herself as the voices flung themselves back and forth
through the night. Once they learned who it was that called from the
sea their attitude would quickly change. Sure enough, in a little while
orders were shouted from the bridge; she heard men running from
somewhere, and a rope ladder came swinging down. O'Neil was lifting her
from her warm nest of rugs now and telling her to fear nothing. The
launch crept closer, coughing and shuddering as if in terror at this
close contact. There was a brief instant of breathlessness as the girl
found herself swung out over the waters; then a short climb with
O'Neil's protecting hand at her waist and she stood panting, radiant,
upon steel decks which began to throb and tremble to the churning
engines.

One further task remained for her protector's magic powers. It appeared
that there were no quarters on the ship for women, but after a subdued
colloquy between Murray and the captain she was led to the cleanest and
coziest of staterooms high up near the bridge. Over the door she
glimpsed a metal plate with the words "First Officer" lettered upon it.
O'Neil was bidding her good night and wishing her untroubled rest, then
almost before she had accustomed herself to her new surroundings an
immaculate, though sleepy, Japanese steward stood before her with a
tray. He was extremely cheerful for one so lately awakened, being still
aglow with pleased surprise over the banknote which lay neatly folded
in his waistcoat pocket.

Natalie sat cross-legged on her berth and munched with the appetite of
a healthy young animal at the fruit and biscuits and lovely heavy cake
which the steward had brought. She was very glad now that she had
disobeyed her mother. It was high time, indeed, to assert herself, for
she was old enough to know something of the world, and her judgment of
men was mature enough to insure perfect safety--that much had been
proved. She felt that her adventure had been a great success
practically and romantically. She wanted to lie awake and think it over
in detail, but she soon grew sleepy. Just before she dozed off she
wondered drowsily if "The Irish Prince" had found quarters for himself,
then reflected that undoubtedly the captain had been happy to tumble
out of bed for him. Or perhaps he felt no fatigue and would watch the
night through. Even now he might be pacing the deck outside her door.
At any rate, he was not far off. She closed her eyes, feeling
deliciously secure and comfortable.

In one way the southern coast of Alaska may be said to be perhaps a
million years younger than any land on this continent, for it is still
in the glacial period. The vast alluvial plains and valleys of the
interior are rimmed in to the southward and shut off from the Pacific
by a well-nigh impassable mountain barrier, the top of which is capped
with perpetual snow. Its gorges, for the most part, run rivers of ice
instead of water. Europe has nothing like these glaciers which overflow
the Alaskan valleys and submerge the hills, for many of them contain
more ice than the whole of Switzerland. This range is the Andes of the
north, and it curves westward in a magnificent sweep, hugging the shore
for a thousand leagues. Against it the sea beats stormily; its frozen
crest is played upon by constant rains and fogs and blizzards. But over
beyond lies a land of sunshine, of long, dry, golden summer days.

Into this chaos of cliff and peak and slanting canyon, midway to the
westward, is let King Phillip Sound, a sheet of water dotted with
islands and framed by forests. It reaches inland with long, crooked
tentacles which end like talons, in living ice. Hidden some forty miles
up one of these, upon the moraine of a receding glacier, sits Cortez, a
thriving village and long the point of entry to the interior, the
commencement of the overland trail to the golden valleys of the Yukon
and the Tanana. The Government wagon trail winds in from here, tracing
its sinuous course over one pass after another until it emerges into
the undulating prairies of the "inside country."

Looking at the map, one would imagine that an easier gateway to the
heart of Alaska would be afforded by the valley of the Salmon River,
which enters the ocean some few miles to the eastward of King Phillip
Sound, but there are formidable difficulties. The stream bursts the
last rampart of the Coast Range asunder by means of a canyon down which
it rages in majestic fury and up which no craft can navigate. Then it
spreads itself out through a dozen shallow mouths across a forty-mile
delta of silt and sand and glacial wash. As if Nature feared her arctic
strong-box might still be invaded by this route, she has placed
additional safeguards to the approach in the form of giant glaciers,
through the very bowels of which the Salmon River is forced to burrow.

In the early days of the Klondike rush men had attempted to ascend the
valley, but they had succeeded only at the cost of such peril and
disaster that others were warned away. The region had become the source
of many weird stories, and while the ice-fields could be seen from the
Kyak coal-fields, and on still days their cannonading could be heard
far out at sea, there were few who had ventured to cross the forty-mile
morass which lay below them and thus attempt to verify or to disprove
the rumors.

It was owing to these topographical conditions that Cortez had been
established as the point of entry to the interior; it was because of
them that she had grown and flourished, with her sawmills and her
ginmills, her docks, and her dives. But at the time when this story
opens Alaska had developed to a point where an overland outlet by
winter and a circuitous inlet, by way of Bering Sea and the crooked
Yukon, in summer were no longer sufficient, There was need of a
permanent route by means of which men and freight might come and go
through all the year. The famous North Pass & Yukon Railway, far to the
eastward, afforded transportation to Dawson City and the Canadian
territory, and had proven itself such a financial success that builders
began to look for a harbor, more to the westward, from which they could
tap the great heart of Alaska. Thus it was that Cortez awoke one
morning to find herself selected as the terminus of a new line. Other
railway propositions followed, flimsy promotion schemes for the most
part, but among them two that had more than paper and "hot air" behind
them. One of these was backed by the Copper Trust which had made heavy
mining investments two hundred miles inland, the other by Curtis
Gordon, a promoter, who claimed New York as his birthplace and the
world as his residence.

Gordon had been one of the first locaters in the Kyak coal-fields, and
he had also purchased a copper prospect a few miles down the bay from
Cortez, where he had started a town which he called Hope. There were
some who shook their heads and smiled knowingly when they spoke of that
prospect, but no one denied that it was fast assuming the outward
semblance of a mine under Gordon's direction. He had erected a fine
substantial wharf, together with buildings, bunk-houses, cottages, and
a spacious residence for himself; and daily the piles of debris beneath
the tunnel entries to his workings grew. He paid high wages, he spent
money lavishly, and he had a magnificent and compelling way with him
that dazzled and delighted the good people of Cortez. When he began
work on a railroad which was designed to reach far into the interior
his action was taken as proof positive of his financial standing, and
his critics were put down as pessimists who had some personal grudge
against him.

It was up to the raw, new village of Hope, with its odor of fresh-cut
fir and undried paint, that the freight-steamer with Natalie Gerard and
"The Irish Prince" aboard, came gingerly one evening.

O'Neil surveyed the town with some curiosity as he approached, for
Gordon's sensational doings had interested him greatly. He was
accustomed to the rapid metamorphoses of a growing land; it was his
business, in fact, to win the wilderness over to order, and therefore
he was not astonished at the changes wrought here during his absence.
But he was agreeably surprised at the businesslike arrangement of the
place, and the evidence that a strong and practised hand had guided its
development.

Even before the ship had tied up he had identified the tall, impressive
man on the dock as the genius and founder of Hope, and the dark-haired,
well-formed woman beside him as Natalie's mother. It was not until they
were close at hand that the daughter made her presence known; then,
unable to restrain herself longer, she shrieked her greeting down over
the rail. Mrs. Gerard started, then stared upward as if at an
apparition; she stretched out a groping hand to Gordon, who stood as if
frozen in his tracks. They seemed to be exchanging hurried words, and
the man appeared to be reassuring his companion. It looked very odd to
O'Neil; but any suspicion that Natalie was unwelcome disappeared when
she reached the dock. Her mother's dark eyes were bright with unshed
tears of gladness, her face was transfigured, she showed the strong,
repressed emotion of an undemonstrative nature as they embraced.
Natalie clung to her, laughing, crying, bombarding her with questions,
begging forgiveness, and babbling of her adventures. Their resemblance
was striking, and in point of beauty there seemed little to choose
between them. They might have been nearly of an age, except that the
mother lacked the girl's restless vivacity.

O'Neil remained in the background, like an uncomfortable bridegroom,
conscious meanwhile of the searching and hostile regard of Curtis
Gordon. But at last his protegee managed to gasp out in a more or less
coherent manner the main facts of the shipwreck and her rescue,
whereupon Gordon's attitude abruptly altered.

"My God!" he ejaculated. "You were not on the Nebraska?"

"Yes, yes, yes!" cried Natalie. "The life-boats went off and left me
all alone--in the dark--with the ship sinking! Mr. O'Neil saved me. He
took me up and jumped just as the ship sank, and we were all night in
the freezing water. We nearly died, didn't we? He fainted, and so did
I, mummie dear--it was so cold. He held me up until we were rescued,
though, and then there wasn't room in the life-boat for both of us. But
he made them take me in, just the same, while he stayed in the water.
He was unconscious when he reached the shore. Oh, it was splendid!"

O'Neil's identity being established, and the nature of his service
becoming apparent, Curtis Gordon took his hand in a crushing grip and
thanked him in a way that might have warmed the heart of a stone
gargoyle. The man was transformed, now that he understood; he became a
geyser of eloquence. He poured forth his appreciation in rounded
sentences; his splendid musical voice softened and swelled and broke
with a magnificent and touching emotion. Through it all the Irish
contractor remained uncomfortably silent, for he could not help
thinking that this fulsome outburst was aroused rather by the man who
had built the North Pass.

A crowd was collecting round them, but Gordon cleared it away with an
imperious gesture.

"Come!" he said. "This is no place to talk. Mr. O'Neil's splendid
gallantry renders our mere thanks inane. He must allow us to express
our gratitude in a more fitting manner."

"Please don't," exclaimed O'Neil, hastily.

"You are our guest; the hospitality of our house is yours. Hope would
be honored to welcome you, sir, at any time, but under these
circumstances--"

"I'm going right on to Cortez."

"The ship will remain here for several hours, discharging freight, and
we insist that you allow us this pleasure meanwhile. You shall spend
the night here, then perhaps you will feel inclined to prolong your
stay. All that Cortez has we have in double proportion--I say it with
pride. Cortez is no longer the metropolis of the region. Hope--Well, I
may say that Cortez is, of all Alaskan cities, the most fortunate,
since it has realized its Hope." He laughed musically. "This town has
come to stay; we intend to annex Cortez eventually. If you feel that
you must go on, I shall deem it a pleasure to send you later in my
motor-boat. She makes the run in fifteen minutes. But you must first
honor our house and our board; you must permit us to pledge your health
in a glass. We insist!"

"Please!" said Mrs. Gerard.

"Do come, your Highness," Natalie urged, from the shelter of the elder
woman's arms.

"You're more than kind," said O'Neil, and together the four turned
their faces to the shore.




V

WHEREIN WE SEE CURTIS GORDON AND OTHERS


Curtis Gordon's respect for his guest increased as they walked up the
dock, for, before they had taken many steps, out from the crowd which
had gathered to watch the ship's arrival stepped one of his foremen.
This fellow shook hands warmly with O'Neil, whereupon others followed,
one by one--miners, day laborers, "rough-necks" of many nationalities.
They doffed their hats-something they never did for Gordon--and
stretched out grimy hands, their faces lighting up with smiles. O'Neil
accepted their greetings with genuine pleasure and called them by name.

"We just heard you was shipwrecked," said Gordon's foreman, anxiously.
"You wasn't hurt, was you?"

"Not in the least."

"God be praised! There's a lot of the old gang at work here."

"So I see."

"Here's Shorty, that you may remember from the North Pass." The speaker
dragged from the crowd a red-faced, perspiring ruffian who had hung
back with the bashfulness of a small boy. "He's the fellow you dug out
of the slide at twenty-eight."

"Connors!" cried O'Neil, warmly. "I'm glad to see you. And how are the
two arms of you?"

"Better 'n ever they was, the both av them!" Mr. Connors blushed,
doubled his fists and flexed his bulging muscles. "An' why shouldn't
they be, when you set 'em both with your own hands, Misther O'Neil?
'Twas as good a job as Doc Gray ever done in the hospittle. I hope
you're doin' well, sir." He pulled his forelock, placed one foot behind
the other, and tapped it on the planking, grinning expansively.

"Very well indeed, thank you."

O'Neil's progress was slow, for half the crowd insisted upon shaking
his hand and exchanging a few words with him. Clumsy Swedes bobbed
their heads, dark-browed foreign laborers whose nationality it was hard
to distinguish showed their teeth and chattered words of greeting.

"Bless my soul!" Gordon exclaimed, finally.

"You know more of them than I do."

"Yes! I seldom have to fire a man."

"Then you are favored of the gods. Labor is my great problem. It is the
supreme drawback of this country. These people drift and blow on every
breeze, like the sands of the Sahara. With more and better help I could
work wonders here."

Unexpected as these salutations had been, O'Neil's greatest surprise
came a moment later as he passed the first of the company buildings.
There he heard his name pronounced in a voice which halted him, and in
an open doorway he beheld a huge, loose-hung man of tremendous girth,
with a war-bag in his hand and a wide black hat thrust back from a
shiny forehead.

"Why, Tom!" he exclaimed. "Tom Slater!"

Gordon groaned and went on with the women, saying: "Come up to the
house when you escape, Mr. O'Neil. I shall have dinner served."

Mr. Slater came forward slowly, dragging his clothes-bag with him. The
two shook hands.

"What in the world are you doing here, Tom?"

"Nothing!" said Slater. He had a melancholy cast of feature, utterly
out of keeping with his rotund form. In his eye was the somber glow of
a soul at war with the flesh.

"Nothing?"

"I had a good job, putting in a power plant for his nibs"--he indicated
the retreating Gordon with a disrespectful jerk of the thumb--"but I
quit."

"Not enough pay?"

"Best wages I ever got. He pays well."

"Poor grub?"

"Grub's fine."

"What made you quit?"

"I haven't exactly quit, but I'm going to. When I saw you coming up the
dock I said: 'There's the chief! Now he'll want me.' So I began to
pack." The speaker dangled his partly filled war-bag as evidence. In an
even sourer tone he murmured:

"Ain't that just me? I ain't had a day's luck since Lincoln was shot.
The minute I get a good job along you come and spoil it."

"I don't want you," laughed O'Neil.

But Slater was not convinced. He shook his head.

"Oh yes, you do. You've got something on or you wouldn't be here. I've
been drawing pay from you now for over five minutes."

O'Neil made a gesture of impatience.

"No! No! In the first place, I have nothing for you to do; in the
second place, I probably couldn't afford the wages Gordon is paying
you."

"That's the hell of it!" gloomily agreed "Happy Tom." "Where are your
grips? I'll begin by carrying them."

"I haven't any. I've been shipwrecked. Seriously, Tom, I have no place
for you."

The repetition of this statement made not the smallest impression upon
the hearer.

"You'll have one soon enough," he replied. Then with a touch of spirit,
"Do you think I'd work for this four-flusher if you were in the
country?"

"Hush!" O'Neil cast a glance over his shoulder. "By the way, how do you
happen to be here? I thought you were in Dawson."

"I finished that job. I was working back toward ma and the children. I
haven't seen them for two years."

"You think Gordon is a false alarm?"

"Happy Tom" spat with unerring accuracy at a crack, then said:

"He's talking railroads! Railroads! Why, I've got a boy back in the
state of Maine, fourteen years old--"

"Willie?"

"Yes. My son Willie could skin Curtis Gordon at railroad-building--and
Willie is the sickly one of the outfit. But I'll hand it to Gordon for
one thing; he's a money-getter and a money-spender. He knows where the
loose stone in the hearth is laid, and he knows just which lilac bush
the family savings are buried under. Those penurious Pilgrim Fathers in
my part of the country come up and drop their bankbooks through the
slot in his door every morning. He's the first easy money I ever had;
I'd get rich off of him, but"--Slater sighed--"of course you had to
come along and wrench me away from the till."

"Don't quit on my account," urged his former chief. "I'm up here on
coal matters. I can't take time to explain now, but I'll see you later."

"Suit yourself, only don't keep me loafing on full time. I'm an
expensive man. I'll be packed and waiting for you."

O'Neil went on his way, somewhat amused, yet undeniably pleased at
finding his boss packer here instead of far inland, for Slater's
presence might, after all, fit well enough into his plans.

"The Irish Prince" had gained something of a reputation for
extravagance, but he acknowledged himself completely outshone by the
luxury with which Curtis Gordon had surrounded himself at Hope. The
promoter had spoken of his modest living-quarters--in reality they
consisted of a handsome twenty-room house, furnished with the elegance
of a Newport cottage. The rugs were thick and richly colored; the
furniture was of cathedral oak and mahogany. In the library were deep
leather chairs and bookcases, filled mainly with the works of French
and German authors of decadent type. The man's taste in art was
revealed by certain pictures, undeniably clever, but a little too
daring. He was undoubtedly a sybarite, yet he evidently possessed rare
energy and executive force. It was an unusual combination.

The dinner was notable mainly for its lavish disregard of expense.
There were strawberries from Seattle, fresh cream and butter from
Gordon's imported cows, cheese prepared expressly for him in France,
and a champagne the date of which he took pains to make known.

On the whole he played the part of host agreeably enough and his
constant flow of talk was really entertaining. His anecdotes embraced
three continents; his wit, though Teutonic, was genial and
mirth-provoking. When Mrs. Gerard took time from her worshipful regard
of her daughter to enter the conversation, she spoke with easy charm
and spontaneity. As for Natalie, she was intoxicated with delight; she
chattered, she laughed, she interrupted with the joyful exuberance of
youth.

Under such circumstances the meal should have proved enjoyable, yet the
guest of honor had never been more ill at ease. Precisely what
accounted for the feeling he could not quite determine. Somewhere back
in his mind was a suspicion that things were not as they should be,
here in this house of books and pictures and incongruities. He told
himself that he should not be so narrow-minded as to resent Gloria
Gerard's presence here, particularly since she herself had told him
that her friendship for Gordon dated back many years. Nevertheless, the
impression remained to disturb him.

"You wonder, perhaps, why I have been so extravagant with my
living-quarters," said Gordon, as they walked into the library, "but it
is not alone for myself. You see I have people associated with me who
are accustomed to every comfort and luxury and I built this house for
them. Mrs. Gerard has been kind enough to grace the establishment with
her presence, and I expect others of my stock-holders to do likewise.
You see, I work in the light, Mr. O'Neil; I insist upon the broadest
publicity in all my operations, and to that end I strive to bring my
clients into contact with the undertaking itself. For instance, I am
bringing a party of my stockholders all the way from New York, at my
own expense, just to show them how their interests are being
administered. I have chartered a special train and a ship for them, and
of course they must be properly entertained while here."

"Quite a scheme," said O'Neil.

"I wanted to show them this marvelous country, God's wonderland of
opportunity. They will return impressed by the solidity and permanence
of their investment."

Certainly the man knew how to play his game. No more effective means of
advertising, no more profitable stock-jobbing scheme could be devised
than a free trip of that sort and a tour of Alaska under the watchful
guidance of Curtis Gordon. If any member of the party returned
unimpressed it would not be the fault of the promoter; if any one of
them did not voluntarily go out among his personal friends as a
missionary it would be because Gordon's magnetism had lost its power.
O'Neil felt a touch of unwilling admiration.

"I judge, from what you say, that the mine gives encouragement," he
ventured, eying his host curiously through a cloud of tobacco smoke.

"'Encouragement' is not the word. Before many years 'Hope Consolidated'
will be listed on the exchanges of the world along with 'Amalgamated'
and the other great producers. We have here, Mr. O'Neil, a tremendous
mountain of ore, located at tide water, on one of the world's finest
harbors. The climate is superb; we have coal near at hand for our own
smelter. The mine only requires systematic development under competent
hands."

"I was in Cortez when Lars Anderson made his first discovery here, and
I had an option on all this property. I believe the price was twelve
hundred dollars; at any rate, it was I who drove those tunnels you
found when you bought him out."

Gordon's eyes wavered briefly, then he laughed.

"My dear sir, you have my sincere sympathy. Your poison, my meat--as it
were, eh? You became discouraged too soon. Another hundred feet of work
and you would have been justified in paying twelve hundred thousand
dollars. This 'Eldorado' which the Copper Trust has bought has a
greater surface showing than 'Hope,' I grant; but--it lies two hundred
miles inland, and there is the all-important question of transportation
to be solved. The ore will have to be hauled, or smelted on the ground,
while we have the Kyak coal-fields at our door. The Heidlemanns are
building a railroad to it which will parallel mine in places, but the
very nature of their enterprise foredooms it to failure."

"Indeed? How so?"

"My route is the better. By a rigid economy of expenditure, by a
careful supervision of detail, I can effect a tremendous saving over
their initial cost. I hope to convince them of the fact, and thus
induce them to withdraw from the field or take over my road at--a
reasonable figure. Negotiations are under way."

At this talk of economy from Curtis Gordon O'Neil refrained from
smiling with difficulty. He felt certain that the man's entire
operations were as unsound as his statement that he could bring the
Trust to terms. Yet Gordon seemed thoroughly in earnest. Either he
expected to fool his present hearer, or else he had become hypnotized
by the spell of his own magnificent twaddle--O'Neil could not tell
which.

"Who laid out your right-of-way?" he asked with some interest.

"A very able young engineer, Dan Appleton. An excellent man,
but--unreliable in certain things. I had to let him go, this very
afternoon, in fact, for insubordination. But I discharged him more for
the sake of discipline than anything else. He'll be anxious to return
in a few days. Now tell me"--Gordon fixed his visitor with a bland
stare which failed to mask his gnawing curiosity--"what brings you to
King Phillip Sound? Are we to be rivals in the railroad field?"

"No. There are enough projects of that sort in the neighborhood for the
present."

"Five, all told, but only one destined to succeed."

"I'm bound for the Kyak coal-fields to perfect and amend my surveys
under the new ruling."

"Ah! I've heard about that ruling."

"Heard about it?" exclaimed O'Neil. "Good Lord! Haven't you complied
with it?"

"Not yet."

"You surely intend to do so?"

"Oh yes--I suppose so."

"If you don't you'll lose--"

"I'm not sure we can ever win."

"Nonsense!"

"I'm not sure that it's wise to put more good money into those coal
claims," said Gordon. "This ruling will doubtless be reversed as the
others have been. One never knows what the Land Office policy will be
two days at a time."

"You know your own business," O'Neil remarked after a pause, "but
unless you have inside information, or a bigger pull in Washington than
the rest of us, I'd advise you to get busy. I'll be on my way to Kyak
in the morning with a gang of men." Gordon's attitude puzzled him, for
he could not bring himself to believe that such indifference was
genuine.

"We have been treated unfairly by the Government."

"Granted!"

"We have been fooled, cheated, hounded as if we were a crowd of
undesirable aliens, and I'm heartily sick of the injustice. I prefer to
work along lines of least resistance. I feel tempted to let Uncle Sam
have my coal claims, since he has lied to me and gone back on his
promise, and devote myself to other enterprises which offer a certainty
of greater profits. But"--Gordon smiled deprecatingly--"I dare say I
shall hold on, as you are doing, until that fossilized bureau at
Washington imposes some new condition which will ruin us all."

Remembering Natalie's statement that her own and her mother's fortunes
were tied up in the mines, O'Neil felt inclined to go over Gordon's
head and tell the older woman plainly the danger of delay in complying
with the law, but he thought better of the impulse. Her confidence in
this man was supreme and it seemed incredible that Gordon should
jeopardize her holdings and his own. More likely his attitude was just
a part of his pose, designed to show the bigness of his views and to
shed a greater luster upon his railroad project.

It was difficult to escape from the hospitality of Hope, and O'Neil
succeeded in doing so only after an argument with Natalie and her
mother. They let him go at last only upon his promise to return on his
way back from the coal-fields, and they insisted upon accompanying him
down to the dock, whither Gordon had preceded them in order to have his
motor-boat in readiness.

As they neared the landing they overheard the latter in spirited debate
with "Happy Tom" Slater.

"But my dear fellow," he was saying, "I can't lose you and Appleton on
the same day."

"You can't? Why, you've done it!" the fat man retorted, gruffly.

"I refuse to be left in the lurch this way. You must give more notice."

Slater shrugged, and without a word tossed his bulging war bag into the
motor-boat which lay moored beneath him. His employer's face was purple
with rage as he turned to Murray and the ladies, but he calmed himself
sufficiently to say:

"This man is in charge of important work for me, yet he tells me you
have hired him away."

"Tom!" exclaimed O'Neil.

"I never said that," protested Slater. "I only told you I was working
for Murray."

"Well?"

"I hired myself. He didn't have anything to say about it. I do all the
hiring, firing, and boosting in my department."

"I appeal to you, O'Neil. I'm short-handed," Gordon cried.

"I tell you he don't have a word to say about it," Slater declared with
heat.

Natalie gave a little tinkling laugh. She recognized in this man the
melancholy hero of more than one tale "The Irish Prince" had told her.
Murray did his best, but knowing "Happy Tom's" calm obstinacy of old,
he had no real hope of persuading him.

"You see how it is," he said, finally. "He's been with me for years and
he refuses to work for any one else while I'm around. If I don't take
him with me he'll follow."

Mr. Slater nodded vigorously, then imparted these tidings:

"It's getting late, and my feet hurt." He bowed to the women, then
lowered himself ponderously yet carefully over the edge of the dock and
into the leather cushions of the launch. Once safely aboard, he took a
package of wintergreen chewing-gum from his pocket and began to chew,
staring out across the sound with that placid, speculative enjoyment
which reposes in the eyes of a cow at sunset.

Curtis Gordon's face was red and angry as he shook hands stiffly with
his guest and voiced the formal hope that they would meet again.

"I'm glad to be gone," Slater observed as the speed-boat rushed across
the bay. "I'm a family man, and--I've got principles. Gordon's got
neither."

"It was outrageous for you to walk out so suddenly. It embarrassed me."

"Oh, he'd let me go without notice if he felt like it. He fired Dan
Appleton this afternoon just for telling the truth about the mine.
That's what I'd have got if I'd stayed on much longer. I was filling up
with words and my skin was getting tight. I'd have busted, sure, inside
of a week."

"Isn't the mine any good?"

"It ain't a mine at all. It's nothing but an excavation filled with
damn fools and owned by idiots; still, I s'pose it serves Gordon's
purpose." After a pause he continued: "They tell me that snakes eat
their own young! Gordon ought to call that mine the Anaconda, for it'll
swallow its own dividends and all the money those Eastern people can
raise."

"I'm sorry for Mrs. Gerard."

Slater emitted a sound like the moist exhalation of a porpoise as it
rises to the surface.

"What do you mean by that snort?" asked Murray.

"It's funny how much some people are like animals. Now the ostrich
thinks that when his head is hid his whole running-gear is out of
sight. Gordon's an ostrich. As for you--you remind me of a mud turtle.
A turtle don't show nothing but his head, and when it's necessary he
can yank that under cover. Gordon don't seem to realize that he sticks
up above the underbrush--either that or else he don't care who sees
him. He and that woman--"

"Never mind her," exclaimed O'Neil, quickly. "I'm sure you're mistaken."

Mr. Slater grunted once more, then chewed his gum silently, staring
mournfully into the twilight. After a moment he inquired:

"Why don't you show these people how to build a railroad, Murray?"

"No, thank you! I know the country back of here. It's not feasible."

"The Copper Trust is doing it."

"All the more reason why I shouldn't. There are five projects under way
now, and there won't be more than enough traffic for one."

Slater nodded. "Every man who has two dollars, a clean shirt, and a
friend at Washington has got a railroad scheme up his sleeve."

"It will cost thirty million dollars to build across those three
divides and into the copper country. When the road is done it will be
one of heavy grades, and--"

"No wonder you didn't get the contract from the Heidlemanns--if your
estimate was thirty million."

"I didn't put in a figure."

Tom looked surprised. "Why didn't you? You know them."

"I was like the little boy who didn't go to the party--I wasn't asked."
The speaker's expression showed that his pride had been hurt and
discouraged further questioning. "We'll hire our men and our boats
to-night," he announced. "I've arranged for that freighter to drop us
off at Omar on her way out. We'll have to row from there to Kyak. I
expected to land my horses at the coast and pack in from Kyak Bay, but
that shipwreck changed my plans. Poor brutes! After my experience I'll
never swim horses in this water again."

An eleven-o'clock twilight enveloped Cortez when the two men landed,
but the town was awake. The recent railway and mining activity in the
neighborhood had brought a considerable influx of people to King
Phillip Sound, and the strains of music from dance-hall doors, the
click of checks and roulette balls from the saloons, gave evidence of
an unusual prosperity.

O'Neil had no difficulty in securing men. Once he was recognized, the
scenes at Hope were re-enacted, and there was a general scramble to
enlist upon his pay-roll. Within an hour, therefore, his arrangements
were made, and he and Tom repaired to Callahan's Hotel for a few hours'
sleep.

A stud game was going on in the barroom when they entered, and O'Neil
paused to watch it while Slater spoke to one of the players, a
clean-cut, blond youth of whimsical countenance. When the two friends
finally faced the bar for their "nightcap" Tom explained:

"That's Appleton, the fellow Gordon fired to-day. I told him I'd left
the old man flat."

"Is he a friend of yours?"

"Sure. Nice boy--good engineer, too."

"Umph! That game is crooked."

"No?" "Happy Tom" displayed a flash of interest.

"Yes, Cortez is fast becoming a metropolis, I see. The man in the derby
hat is performing a little feat that once cost me four thousand dollars
to learn."

"I'd better split Dan away," said Tom, hastily.

"Wait! Education is a good thing, even if it is expensive at times. I
fancy your friend is bright enough to take care of himself. Let's wait
a bit."

"Ain't that just my blamed luck?" lamented Slater. "Now if they were
playing faro I could make a killing. I'd 'copper' Appleton's bets and
'open' the ones he coppered!"

O'Neil smiled, for "Happy Tom's" caution in money matters was
notorious. "You know you don't believe in gambling," he said.

"It's not a belief, it's a disease," declared the fat man. "I was born
to be a gambler, but the business is too uncertain. Now that I'm
getting so old and feeble I can't work any more, I'd take it up, only I
broke three fingers and when I try to deal I drop the cards. What are
we going to do?"

"Just wait," said O'Neil.




VI

THE DREAMER


Unobserved the two friends watched the poker game, which for a time
proceeded quietly. But suddenly they saw Appleton lean over the table
and address the man with the derby hat; then, thrusting back his chair,
he rose, declaring, in a louder tone:

"I tell you I saw it. I thought I was mistaken at first." His face was
white, and he disregarded the efforts of his right-hand neighbor to
quiet him.

"Don't squeal," smiled the dealer. "I'll leave it to the boys if I did
anything wrong."

"You pulled that king from the bottom. It may not be wrong, but it's
damned peculiar."

"Forget it!" one of the others exclaimed. "Denny wouldn't double-cross
you."

"Hardly!" agreed Mr. Denny, evenly. "You're 'in' a hundred and eighty
dollars, but if you're sore you can have it back."

Appleton flung his cards into the middle of the table and turned away
disgustedly. "It's a hard thing to prove, and I'm not absolutely sure I
saw straight, or--I'd take it back, fast enough."

Denny shrugged and gathered in the discarded hand. "You've been
drinking too much, that's all. Your eyesight is scattered."

Appleton's face flushed as he beheld the gaze of the company upon him
and heard the laughter which greeted this remark. He turned to leave
when O'Neil, who had continued to watch the proceedings with interest,
crossed to the group and touched Denny on the shoulder, saying, quietly:

"Give him his money."

"Eh?" The smile faded from the fellow's face; he looked up with
startled inquiry. "What?"

"Give him his money."

In the momentary hush which followed, "Happy Tom" Slater, who had
frequently seen his employer in action and understood storm signals,
sighed deeply and reached for the nearest chair. With a wrench of his
powerful hands he loosened a leg. Although Mr. Slater abhorred trouble,
he was accustomed to meet it philosophically. A lifetime spent in
construction camps had taught him that, of all weapons, the one best
suited to his use was a pick-handle; second to that he had come to
value the hardwood leg of a chair. But in the present case his
precaution proved needless, for the dispute was over before he had
fairly prepared himself.

Without waiting for O'Neil to put his accusation into words Denny had
risen swiftly, and in doing so he had either purposely or by accident
made a movement which produced a prompt and instinctive reaction.
Murray's fist met him as he rose, met him so squarely and with such
force that he lost all interest in what followed. The other
card-players silently gathered Mr. Denny in their arms and stretched
him upon a disused roulette table; the bartender appeared with a wet
towel and began to bathe his temples.

Appleton, dazed by the suddenness of it all, found a stack of gold
pieces in his hand and heard O'Neil saying in an every-day tone:

"Come to my room, please. I'd like to talk to you." Something
commanding in the speaker's face made the engineer follow against his
will. He longed to loiter here until Denny had regained his senses--but
O'Neil had him by the arm and a moment later he was being led down the
hall away from the lobby and the barroom. As Slater, who had followed,
closed the door behind them, Dan burst forth:

"By Jove! Why didn't you tell me? I knew he was crooked--but I couldn't
believe--"

"Sit down!" said O'Neil. "He won't pull himself together for a while,
and I want to get to bed. Are you looking for a job?"

The engineer's eyes opened wide.

"Yes."

"Do you know the Kyak country?"

"Pretty well."

"I need a surveyor. Your wages will be the same that Gordon paid and
they begin now, if it's agreeable."

"It certainly is!"

"Good! We'll leave at six o'clock, sharp. Bring your bedding and
instruments."

"Thanks! I--This is a bit of a surprise. Who are you?"

"I'm O'Neil."

"Oh!" Mr. Appleton's expression changed quickly. "You're Murray--" He
stammered an instant. "It was very good of you to take my part, after
I'd been fool enough to--"

"Well--I didn't want to see you make a total idiot of yourself."

The young man flushed slightly, then in a quieter voice, he asked:

"How did you know I was out of work?"

"Mr. Gordon told me. He recommended you highly."

"He did?"

"He said you were unreliable, disloyal, and dishonest. Coming from him
I took that as high praise."

There was a moment's pause, then Appleton laughed boyishly.

"That's funny! I'm very glad to know you, Mr. O'Neil."

"You don't, and you won't for a long time. Tom tells me you didn't
think well of Gordon's enterprise and so he fired you."

"That's right! I suppose I ought to have kept my mouth shut, but it has
a way of flying open when it shouldn't. He is either a fool or a crook,
and his mine is nothing but a prospect. I couldn't resist telling him
so."

"And his railroad?"

Appleton hesitated. "Oh, it's as good a route as the Trust's. I worked
on the two surveys. Personally I think both outfits are crazy to try to
build in from here. I had to tell Gordon that, too. You see I'm a
volunteer talker. I should have been born with a stutter--it would have
saved me a lot of trouble."

O'Neil smiled. "You may talk all you please in my employ, so long as
you do your work. Now get some sleep, for we have a hard trip. And by
the way"--the youth paused with a hand on the doorknob--"don't go
looking for Denny."

Appleton's face hardened stubbornly.

"I can't promise that, sir."

"Oh yes you can! You must! Remember, you're working for me, and you're
under orders. I can't have the expedition held up on your account."

The engineer's voice was heavy with disappointment, but a vague
admiration was growing in his eyes as he agreed:

"Very well, sir. I suppose my time is yours. Good night."

When he had gone "Happy Tom" inquired:

"Now, why in blazes did you hire him? We don't need a high-priced
surveyor on this job."

"Of course not, but don't you see? He'd have been arrested, sure.
Besides--he's Irish, and I like him."

"Humph! Then I s'pose he's got a job for life," said Tom, morosely.
"You make friends and enemies quicker than anybody I ever saw. You've
got Curtis Gordon on your neck now."

"On account of this boy? Nonsense!"

"Not altogether. Denny is Gordon's right bower. I think he calls him
his secretary; anyhow, he does Gordon's dirty work and they're thicker
than fleas. First you come along and steal me, underhanded, then you
grab his pet engineer before he has a chance to hire him back again.
Just to top off the evening you publicly brand his confidential
understrapper as a card cheat and thump him on the medulla oblongata--"

"Are you sure it wasn't the duodenum?"

"Well, you hit him in a vital spot, and Gordon won't forget it."

Late on the following morning O'Neil's expedition was landed at the
deserted fishing-station of Omar, thirty miles down the sound from
Cortez. From this point its route lay down the bay to open water and
thence eastward along the coast in front of the Salmon River delta some
forty miles to Kyak. This latter stretch would have been well-nigh
impossible for open boats but for the fact that the numerous mud bars
and islands thrown out by the river afforded a sheltered course. These
inside channels, though shallow, were of sufficient depth to allow
small craft to navigate and had long been used as a route to the
coal-fields.

Appleton, smiling and cheerful, was the first member of the party to
appear at the dock that morning, and when the landing had been effected
at Omar he showed his knowledge of the country by suggesting a short
cut which would save the long row down to the mouth of the sound and
around into the delta. Immediately back of the old cannery, which
occupied a gap in the mountain rim, lay a narrow lake, and this, he
declared, held an outlet which led into the Salmon River flats. By
hauling the boats over into this body of water--a task made easy by the
presence of a tiny tramway with one dilapidated push-car which had been
a part of the cannery equipment--it would be possible to save much time
and labor.

"I've heard there was a way through," O'Neil confessed, "but nobody
seemed to know just where it was."

"I know," the young man assured him. "We can gain a day at least, and I
judge every day is valuable."

"So valuable that we can't afford to lose one by making a mistake,"
said his employer, meaningly.

"Leave it to me. I never forget a country once I've been through it."

Accordingly the boats were loaded upon the hand-car and transferred one
at a time. In the interval O'Neil examined his surroundings casually.
He was surprised to find the dock and buildings in excellent condition,
notwithstanding the fact that the station had lain idle for several
years. A solitary Norwegian, with but a slight suspicion of English,
was watching the premises and managed to make known his impression that
poor fishing had led the owners to abandon operations at this point.
He, too, had heard that Omar Lake had an outlet into the delta, but he
was not sure of its existence; he was sure of nothing, in fact except
that it was very lonesome here, and that he had run out of tobacco five
days before.

But Dan Appleton was not mistaken. A two hours' row across the
mirror-like surface of Omar Lake brought the party out through a hidden
gap in the mountains and afforded them a view across the level delta.
To their left the range they had just penetrated retreated toward the
canon where the Salmon River burst its way out from the interior, and
beyond that point it continued in a coastward swing to Kyak, their
destination. Between lay a flat, trackless tundra, cut by sloughs and
glacial streams, with here and there long tongues of timber reaching
down from the high ground and dwindling away toward the seaward
marshes. It was a desolate region, the breeding-place of sea fowl, the
hunting-ground for the great brown bear.

O'Neil had never before been so near the canon as this, and the wild
stories he had heard of it recurred to him with interest. He surveyed
the place curiously as the boats glided along, but could see nothing
more than a jumble of small hills and buttes, and beyond them the
dead-gray backs of the twin glaciers coming down from the slopes to
east and west. Beyond the foot-hills and the glaciers themselves the
main range was gashed by a deep valley, through which he judged the
river must come, and beyond that he knew was a country of agricultural
promise, extending clear to the fabulous copper belt whither the
railroads from Cortez were headed. Still farther inland lay the Tanana,
and then the Yukon, with their riches untouched.

What a pity, what a mockery, it was that this obvious entrance to the
country had been blocked by nature! Just at his back was Omar, with its
deep and sheltered harbor; the lake he had crossed gave a passage
through the guardian range, and this tundra--O'Neil estimated that he
could lay a mile of track a day over it--led right up to the glaciers.
Once through the Coast Range, building would be easy, for the upper
Salmon was navigable, and its banks presented no difficulties to
track-laying.

He turned abruptly to Appleton, who was pulling an oar.

"What do you know about that canyon?" he asked.

"Not much. Nobody knows much, for those fellows who went through in the
gold rush have all left the country. Gordon's right-of-way comes in
above, and so does the Trust's. From there on I know every foot of the
ground."

"I suppose if either of them gets through to the Salmon the rest will
be easy."

"Dead easy!"

"It would be shorter and very much cheaper to build from Omar, through
this way."

"Of course, but neither outfit knew anything about the outlet to Omar
Lake until I told them--and they knew there was the canon to be
reckoned with."

"Well?"

Appleton shook his head. "Look at it! Does it look like a place to
build a railroad?"

"I can't tell anything about it, from here."

"I suppose a road could be built if the glaciers were on the same side
of the river, but--they're not. They face each other, and they're
alive, too. Listen!" The oarsmen ceased rowing at Dan's signal, and out
of the northward silence came a low rumble like the sound of distant
cannonading. "We must be at least twenty miles away, in an air line.
The ice stands up alongside the river, hundreds of feet high, and it
breaks off in chunks as big as a New York office-building."

"You've been up there?"

"No. But everybody says so, and I've seen glacier ice clear out here in
the delta. They're always moving, too--the glaciers themselves--and
they're filled with crevasses, so that it's dangerous to cross them on
foot even if one keeps back from the river."

"How did those men get their outfits through in '98?" O'Neil queried.

"I'm blessed if I know--maybe they flew." After a moment Dan added,
"Perhaps they dodged the pieces as they fell."

O'Neil smiled. He opened his lips to speak, then closed them, and for a
long time kept his eyes fixed speculatively in the direction of the
canyon. When he had first spoken of a route from Omar he had thrown out
the suggestion with only a casual interest. Now, suddenly, the idea
took strong possession of his mind; it fascinated him with its daring,
its bigness. He had begun to dream.

The world owes all great achievements to dreamers, for men who lack
vivid imaginations are incapable of conceiving big enterprises. No
matter how practical the thing accomplished, it requires this faculty,
no less than a poem or a picture. Every bridge, every skyscraper, every
mechanical invention, every great work which man has wrought in steel
and stone and concrete, was once a dream.

O'Neil had no small measure of the imaginative power that makes great
leaders, great inventors, great builders. He was capable of tremendous
enthusiasm; his temperament forever led him to dare what others feared
to undertake. And here he glimpsed a tremendous opportunity. The
traffic of a budding nation was waiting to be seized. To him who gained
control of Alaskan transportation would come the domination of her
resources. Many were striving for the prize, but if there should prove
to be a means of threading that Salmon River canon with steel rails,
the man who first found it would have those other railroad enterprises
at his mercy. The Trust would have to sue for terms or abandon further
effort; for this route was shorter, it was level, it was infinitely
cheaper to improve. The stakes in the game were staggering. The mere
thought of them made his heart leap. The only obstacle, of course, lay
in those glaciers, and he began to wonder if they could not be made to
open. Why not? No one knew positively that they were impregnable, for
no one knew anything certainly about them. Until the contrary had been
proven there was at least a possibility that they were less formidable
than rumor had painted them.

Camp was pitched late that night far out on the flats. During the
preparation of supper Murray sat staring fixedly before him, deaf to
all sounds and insensible to the activities of his companions. He had
lost his customary breeziness and his good nature; he was curt,
saturnine, unsmiling. Appleton undertook to arouse him from this
abstraction, but Slater drew the young man aside hurriedly with a
warning,

"Don't do that, son, or you'll wear splints for the rest of the trip."

"What's the matter with him, anyhow?" Dan inquired. "He was boiling
over with enthusiasm all day, but now--Why, he's asleep sitting up! He
hasn't moved for twenty minutes."

Tom shook his head, dislodging a swarm of mosquitoes.

"Walk on your toes, my boy! Walk on your toes! I smell something
cooking--and it ain't supper."

When food was served O'Neil made a pretense of eating, but rose
suddenly in the midst of it, with the words:

"I'll stretch my legs a bit." His voice was strangely listless; in his
eyes was the same abstraction which had troubled Appleton during the
afternoon. He left the camp and disappeared up the bank of the stream.

"Nice place to take a walk!" the engineer observed. "He'll bog down in
half a mile or get lost among the sloughs."

"Not him!" said Slater. Nevertheless, his worried eyes followed the
figure of his chief as long as it was in sight. After a time he
announced: "Something is coming, but what it is or where it's going to
hit us I don't know."

Their meal over, the boatmen made down their beds, rolled up in their
blankets, and were soon asleep. Appleton and Tom sat in the smoke of a
smudge, gossiping idly as the twilight approached. From the south came
the distant voice of the sea, out of the north rolled the intermittent
thunder of those falling bergs, from every side sounded a harsh chorus
of water-fowl. Ducks whirred past in bullet-like flight, honkers
flapped heavily overhead, a pair of magnificent snow-white swans soared
within easy gunshot of the camp. An hour passed, another, and another;
the arctic night descended. And through it all the mosquitoes sang
their blood song and stabbed the watchers with tongues of flame.

"Happy Tom" sang his song, too, for it was not often that he obtained a
listener, and it proved to be a song of infinite hard luck. Mr. Slater,
it seemed, was a creature of many ills, the wretched abiding-place of
aches and pains, of colics, cramps, and rheumatism. He was the target
of misfortune and the sport of fate. His body was the galloping-ground
of strange disorders which baffled diagnosis; his financial affairs
were dominated by an evil genius which betrayed him at every turn. To
top it all, he suffered at the moment a violent attack of indigestion.

"Ain't that just my luck?" he lamented. "Old 'Indy's got me good, and
there ain't a bit of soda in the outfit."

Appleton, who was growing more and more uneasy at the absence of his
leader, replied with some asperity:

"Instead of dramatizing your own discomforts you'd better be thinking
of the boss. I'm going out to look for him."

"Now don't be a dam' fool," Slater advised. "It would be worth a broken
leg to annoy him when he's in one of these fits. You'd make yourself as
popular as a smallpox patient at a picnic. When he's dreamed his dream
he'll be back."

"When will that be?"

"No telling--maybe to-night, maybe to-morrow night."

"And what are we going to do in the mean time?"

"Sit tight." Mr. Slater chewed steadily and sighed. "No soda in camp,
and this gum don't seem to lay hold of me! That's luck!"

Darkness had settled when O'Neil reappeared. He came plunging out of
the brush, drenched, muddy, stained by contact with the thickets; but
his former mood had disappeared and in its place was a harsh, explosive
energy.

"Tom!" he cried. "You and Appleton and I will leave at daylight. The
men will wait here until we get back." His voice was incisive, its tone
forbade question.

The youthful engineer stared at him in dismay, for only his anxiety had
triumphed over his fatigue, and daylight was but four hours away.
O'Neil noted the expression, and said, more gently:

"You're tired, Appleton, I know, but in working for me you'll be called
upon for extraordinary effort now and then. I may not demand more than
an extra hour from you; then again I may demand a week straight without
sleep. I'll never ask it unless it's necessary and unless I'm ready to
do my share."

"Yes, sir."

"The sacrifice is big, but the pay is bigger. Loyalty is all I require."

"I'm ready now, sir."

"We can't see to travel before dawn. Help Tom load the lightest boat
with rations for five days. If we run short we'll 'Siwash' it." He
kicked off his rubber boots, up-ended them to drain the water out, then
flung himself upon his bed of boughs and was asleep almost before the
two had recovered from their surprise.

"Five days--or longer!" Slater said, gloomily, as he and Dan began
their preparations. "And me with indigestion!"

"What does it mean?" queried Appleton.

"It means I'll probably succumb."

"No, no! What's the meaning of this change of plan? I can't understand
it."

"You don't need to," "Happy Tom" informed him, curtly. There was a look
of solicitude in his face as he added, "I wish I'd made him take off
his wet clothes before he went to sleep."

"Let's wake him up."

But Slater shook his head. "I'd sooner wake a rattlesnake," said he.

O'Neil roused the members of his expedition while the sky was reddening
faintly, for he had a mind which worked like an alarm-clock. All except
Appleton had worked for him before, and the men accepted his orders to
await his return with no appearance of surprise.

With the first clear light he and his two companions set out, rowing up
the estuary of the Salmon until the current became too swift to stem in
that manner. Then landing, they rigged a "bridle" for the skiff, fitted
their shoulders to loops in a ninety-foot tow rope, and began to
"track" their craft up against the stream. It was heartbreaking work.
Frequently they were waist-deep in the cold water. Long "sweepers" with
tips awash in the flood interfered with their efforts. The many
branches of the stream forced them to make repeated crossings, for the
delta was no more than an endless series of islands through which the
current swirled. When dusk overtook them they were wet, weary, and weak
from hunger. With the dawn they were up and at it again, but their task
became constantly more difficult because of the floating glacier ice,
which increased with every mile. They were obliged to exercise the
extremest caution. Hour after hour they strained against the current,
until the ropes bit into their aching flesh, bringing raw places out on
neck and palm. Hour after hour the ice, went churning past, and through
it all came the intermittent echo of the caving glaciers ahead of them.

Dan Appleton realized very soon whither the journey was leading, and at
thought of actually facing those terrors which loomed so large in
conjecture his pulses began to leap. He had a suspicion of O'Neil's
intent, but dared not voice it. Though the scheme seemed mad enough,
its very audacity fascinated him. It would be worth while to take part
in such an undertaking, even if it ended in failure. And somehow,
against his judgment, he felt that his leader would find a way.

For the most part, O'Neil was as silent as a man of stone, and only on
those rare occasions when he craved relief from his thoughts did he
encourage Dan to talk. Then he sometimes listened, but more frequently
he did not. Slater had long since become a dumb draught animal,
senseless to discomfort except in the hour of relaxation when he
monotonously catalogued his ills.

"Are you a married man?" O'Neil inquired once of Dan.

"Not yet, sir."

"Family?"

"Sure! A great big, fine one, consisting of a sister. But she's more
than a family--she's a religion." Receiving encouragement from his
employer's look of interest, he continued: "We were wiped out by the
San Francisco earthquake, and stood in the bread line for a while. We
managed to save four thousand dollars from the wreck, which we divided
equally. Then we started out to make our fortunes. It was her idea."

"You came to Cortez?"

"Yes. Money was so easy for me that I lost all respect for it. The town
rang with my mirth for a while. I was an awful fool."

"Education!"

"Now it's my ambition to get settled and have her with me. I haven't
had a good laugh, a hearty meal, or a Christian impulse since I left
her."

"What did she do with her half of the fortune?"

"Invested it wisely and went to work. I bought little round celluloid
disks with mine; she bought land of some sort with hers. She's a
newspaper woman, and the best in the world--or at least the best in
Seattle. She wrote that big snow-slide story for The Review last fall.
She tells 'em how to raise eight babies on seven dollars a week, or how
to make a full set of library furniture out of three beer kegs, a
packing-case, and an epileptic icebox. She runs the 'Domestic Economy'
column; and she's the sweetest, the cleverest, the most stunning--"

Appleton's enthusiastic tribute ceased suddenly, for he saw that O'Neil
was once more deaf and that his eyes were fixed dreamily upon the canon
far ahead.

As the current quickened the progress of the little party became slower
and more exhausting. Their destination seemed to retreat before them;
the river wound back and forth in a maddening series of detours. Some
of the float ice was large now, and these pieces rushed down upon them
like charging horses, keeping them constantly on the alert to prevent
disaster. It seemed impossible that such a flat country could afford so
much fall. "Happy Tom" at length suggested that they tie up and pack
the remaining miles overland, but O'Neil would not hear to this.

They had slept so little, their labors had been so heavy, that they
were dumb and dull with fatigue when they finally reached the first
bluffs and worked their boat through a low gorge where all the waters
of the Salmon thrashed and icebergs galloped past like a pallid host in
flight. Here they paused and stared with wondering eyes at what lay
before; a chill, damp breath swept over them, and a mighty awe laid
hold of their hearts.

"Come on!" said O'Neil. "Other men have gone through; we'll do the
same."

On the evening of the sixth day a splintered, battered poling-boat with
its seams open swung in to the bank where O'Neil's men were encamped,
and its three occupants staggered out. They were gaunt and stiff and
heavy-eyed. Even Tom Slater's full cheeks hung loose and flabby. But
the leader was alert and buoyant; his face was calm, his eyes were
smiling humorously.

"You'll take the men on to the coal-fields and finish the work," he
told his boss packer later that night. "Appleton and I will start back
to Cortez in the morning. When you have finished go to Juneau and see
to the recording."

"Ain't that my luck?" murmured the dyspeptic. "Me for Kyak where there
ain't a store, and my gum all wet."

"Chew it, paper and all," advised Appleton, cheerfully.

"Oh, the good has all gone out of it now," Slater explained.

"Meet me in Seattle on the fifteenth of next month," his employer
directed.

"I'll be there if old 'Indy' spares me. But dyspepsia, with nothing to
eat except beans and pork bosom, will probably lay me in my grave long
before the fifteenth. However, I'll do my best. Now, do you want to
know what I think of this proposition of yours?" He eyed his superior
somberly.

"Sure; I want all the encouragement I can get, and your views are
always inspiriting."

"Well, I think it's nothing more nor less than hydrophobia. These
mosquitoes have given you the rabies and you need medical attention.
You need it bad."

"Still, you'll help me, won't you?"

"Oh yes," said Tom, "I'll help you. But it's a pity to see a man go
mad."




VII

THE DREAM


The clerk of the leading hotel in Seattle whirled his register about as
a man deposited a weather-beaten war-bag on the marble floor and leaned
over the counter to inquire:

"Is Murray O'Neil here?"

This question had been asked repeatedly within the last two hours, but
heretofore by people totally different in appearance from the one who
spoke now. The man behind the desk measured the stranger with a
suspicious eye before answering. He saw a ragged, loose-hung, fat
person of melancholy countenance, who was booted to the knee and
chewing gum.

"Mr. O'Neil keeps a room here by the year," he replied, guardedly.

"Show me up!" said the new-comer as if advancing a challenge.

A smart reply was on the lips of the clerk, but something in the
other's manner discouraged flippancy.

"You are a friend of Mr. O'Neil's?" he asked, politely.

"Friend? Um-m, no! I'm just him when he ain't around." In a loud tone
he inquired of the girl at the news-stand, "Have you got any
wintergreen gum?"

"Mr. O'Neil is not here."

The fat man stared at his informant accusingly, "Ain't this the
fifteenth?" he asked.

"It is."

"Then he's here, all right!"

"Mr. O'Neil is not in," the clerk repeated, gazing fixedly over Mr.
Slater's left shoulder.

"Well, I guess his room will do for me. I ain't particular."

"His room is occupied at present. If you care to wait you will find--"

Precisely what it was that he was to find Tom never learned, for at
that moment the breath was driven out of his lungs by a tremendous
whack, and he turned to behold Dr. Stanley Gray towering over him, an
expansive smile upon his face.

"Look out!" Slater coughed, and seized his Adam's apple. "You made me
swallow my cud." The two shook hands warmly.

"We've been expecting you, Tom," said the Doctor. "We're all here
except Parker, and he wired he'd arrive to-morrow."

"Where's Murray?"

"He's around somewhere."

Slater turned a resentful, smoldering gaze upon the hotel clerk, and
looked about him for a chair with a detachable leg, but the object of
his regard disappeared abruptly behind the key-rack.

"This rat-brained party said he hadn't come."

"He arrived this morning, but we've barely seen him."

"I left Appleton in Juneau. He'll be down on the next boat."

"Appleton? Who's he?" Dr. Gray inquired.

"Oh, he's a new member of the order--initiated last month. He's
learning to be a sleep-hater, like the rest of us. He's recording the
right-of-way."

"What's in the air? None of us know. We didn't even know Murray's
whereabouts--thought he was in Kyak, until he sounded the tocsin from
New York. The other boys have quit their jobs and I've sold my
practice."

"It's a railroad!"

Dr. Gray grinned. "Well! That's the tone I use when I break the news
that it's a girl instead of a boy."

"It's a railroad," Slater repeated, "up the Salmon River!"

"Good Lord! What about those glaciers?"

"Oh, it ain't so much the glaciers and the floating icebergs and the
raging chasms and the quaking tundra--Murray thinks he can overcome
them--it's the mosquitoes and the Copper Trust that are going to figure
in this enterprise. One of 'em will be the death of me, and the other
will bust Murray, if he don't look out. Say, my neck is covered with
bumps till it feels like a dog-collar of seed pearls."

"Do you think we'll have a fight?" asked the doctor, hopefully.

"A fight! It'll be the worst massacre since the Little Big Horn. We're
surrounded already, and no help in sight."

O'Neil found his "boys" awaiting him when he returned to his room.
There was Mellen, lean, gaunt and serious-minded, with the dust of
Chihuahua still upon his shoes; there were McKay, the superintendent,
who had arrived from California that morning; Sheldon, the commissary
man; Elkins; "Doc" Gray; and "Happy Tom" Slater. Parker, the chief
engineer, alone was absent.

"I sent Appleton in from Cortez," he told them, "to come down the river
and make the preliminary survey into Omar. He cables me that he has
filed his locations and everything is O. K. On my way East I stopped
here long enough to buy the Omar cannery, docks, buildings, and town
site. It's all mine, and it will save us ninety days' work in getting
started."

"What do you make of that tundra between Omar and the canon?" queried
McKay, who had crossed the Salmon River delta and knew its character.
"It's like calf's-foot jelly--a man bogs down to his waist in it."

"We'll fill and trestle," said O'Neil.

"We couldn't move a pile-driver twenty feet."

"It's frozen solid in winter."

McKay nodded. "We'll have to drive steam points ahead of every pile, I
suppose, and we'll need Eskimos to work in that cold, but I guess we
can manage somehow."

"That country is like an apple pie," said Tom Slater--"it's better cold
than hot. There's a hundred inches of rainfall at Omar in summer. We'll
all have web feet when we get out."

Sheldon, the light-hearted commissary man, spoke up. "If it's as wet as
all that, well need Finns--instead of Eskimos." He was promptly hooted
into silence.

"I understand those glaciers come down to the edge of the river," the
superintendent ventured.

"They do!" O'Neil acknowledged, "and they're the liveliest ones I ever
saw. Tom can answer for that. One of them is fully four hundred feet
high at the face and four miles across. They're constantly breaking,
too."

"Lumps bigger than this hotel," supplemented Slater. "It's quite a
sight--equal to anything in the state of Maine."

O'Neil laughed with the others at this display of sectional pride, and
then explained: "The problem of passing them sounds difficult, but in
reality it isn't. If those other engineers had looked over the ground
as I did, instead of relying entirely upon hearsay, we wouldn't be
meeting here to-day. Of course I realized that we couldn't build a road
over a moving river of ice, nor in front of one, for that matter, but I
discovered that Nature had made us one concession. She placed her
glaciers on opposite sides of the valley, to be sure, but she placed
the one that comes in from the east bank slightly higher upstream than
the one that comes in from the west. They don't really face each other,
although from the sea they appear to do so. You see the answer?" His
hearers nodded vigorously. "If we cross the river, low down, by a
trestle, and run up the east bank past Jackson glacier until we are
stopped by Garfield--the upper one--then throw a bridge directly
across, and back to the side we started from, we miss them both and
have the river always between them and us. Above the upper crossing
there will be a lot of heavy rock work to do, but nothing unusual, and,
once through the gorge, we come out into the valley, where the other
roads run in from Cortez. They cross three divides, while we run
through on a one-per-cent grade. That will give us a downhill pull on
all heavy freight."

"Sounds as simple as a pair of suspenders, doesn't it?" inquired
Slater. "But wait till you see it. The gorge below Niagara is stagnant
water compared with the cataract above those glaciers. It takes two
looks to see the top of the mountains. And those glaciers
themselves--Well! Language just gums up and sticks when it comes to
describing them."

Mellen, the bridge-builder, spoke for the first time, and the others
listened.

"As I understand it we will cross the river between the glaciers and
immediately below the upper one."

"Exactly!"

He shook his head. "We can't build piers to withstand those heavy bergs
which you tell me are always breaking off."

"I'll explain how we can," said O'Neil. "You've hit the bull's-eye--the
tender spot in the whole enterprise. While the river is narrow and
rapid in front of Jackson--the lower glacier--opposite Garfield there
is a kind of lake, formed, I suppose, when the glacier receded from its
original position. Now then, here lies the joker, the secret of the
whole proposition. This lake is deep, but there is a shallow bar across
its outlet which serves to hold back all but the small bergs. This
gives us a chance to cross in safety. At first I was puzzled to
discover why only the ice from the lower glacier came down-river; then,
when I realized the truth, I knew I had the key to Alaska in my hands.
We'll cross just below this bar. Understand? Of course it all depends
upon Parker's verdict, but I'm so sure his will agree with mine that
I've made my preparations, bought Omar and gathered you fellows
together. We're going to spring the biggest coup in railroad history."

"Where's the money coming from?" Slater inquired, bluntly.

"I'm putting in my own fortune."

"How much is that? I'm dead to all sense of modesty, you see."

"About a million dollars," said O'Neil.

"Humph! That won't get us started."

"I've raised another million in New York." The chief was smiling and
did not seem to resent this inquisitiveness in the least.

"Nothing but a shoe-string!"

"My dear 'Happy,'" laughed the builder, "I don't intend to complete the
road."

"Then--why in blazes are you starting it?" demanded Slater in a
bewilderment which the others evidently shared. "It's one thing to
build a railroad on a contractor's commission, but it's another thing
to build it and pay your own way as you go along. Half a railroad ain't
any good."

"Once my right-of-way is filed it will put those projects from Cortez
out of business. No one but an imbecile would think of building in from
there with the Omar route made possible. Before we come to that Salmon
River bridge the Copper Trust will have to buy us out!"

"That's language!" said "Happy Tom" in sudden admiration. "Those are
words I understand. I withdraw my objections and give my consent to the
deal."

"You are staking your whole fortune on your judgment, as I understand
it," McKay ventured.

"Every dollar of it," Murray answered.

"Say, chief, that's gambling some!" young Sheldon remarked with a
wondering look.

They were deep in their discussion when the telephone broke in noisily.
Sheldon, being nearest to the instrument, answered it. "There's a
newspaper reporter downstairs to interview you," he announced, after an
instant.

"I don't grant interviews," O'Neil said, sharply. He could not guess by
what evil chance the news of his plans had leaked out.

"Nothing doing!" Sheldon spoke into the transmitter. He turned again to
his employer. "Operator says the party doesn't mind waiting."

O'Neil frowned impatiently.

"Throw him out!" Sheldon directed, brusquely, then suddenly dropped the
receiver as if it had burnt his fingers. "Hell! It's a woman, Murray!
She's on the wire. She thanks you sweetly and says she'll wait."

"A woman! A newspaper woman!" O'Neil rose and seized the instrument
roughly. His voice was freezing as he said: "Hello! I refuse to be
interviewed. Yes! There's no use--" His tone suddenly altered. "Miss
Appleton! I beg your pardon. I'll be right down." Turning to his
subordinates, he announced with a wry smile: "This seems to terminate
our interview. She's Dan Appleton's sister, and therefore--" He
shrugged resignedly. "Now run along. I'll see you in the morning."

His "boys" made their way down to the street, talking guardedly as they
went. All were optimistic save Slater, whose face remained shrouded in
its customary gloom.

"Cheer up, 'Happy'!" Dr. Gray exhorted him. "It's the biggest thing we
ever tackled."

"Wait! Just wait till you've seen the place," Tom said.

"Don't you think it can be done?"

"Nope!"

"Come, come!"

"It's impossible! Of course WE'LL do it, but it's impossible, just the
same. It will mean a scrap, too, like none of us ever saw, and I was
raised in a logging-camp where fighting is the general recreation. If I
was young, like the rest of you, I wouldn't mind; but I'm old--and my
digestion's gone. I can't hardly take care of myself any more, Doc. I'm
too feeble to fight or--" He signaled a passing car; it failed to stop
and he rushed after it, dodging vehicles with the agility of a rabbit
and swinging his heavy war-bag as if it weighed no more than a good
resolution.

O'Neil entered the ladies' parlor with a feeling of extreme annoyance,
expecting to meet an inquisitive, bold young woman bent upon exploiting
his plans and his personality in the usual inane journalistic fashion.
He was surprised and offended that Dan Appleton, in whom he had reposed
the utmost faith, should have betrayed his secret. Publicity was a
thing he detested at all times, and at present he particularly dreaded
its effect. But he was agreeably surprised in the girl who came toward
him briskly with hand outstretched.

Miss Appleton was her brother's double; she had his frank blue eyes,
his straw-gold hair, his humorous smile and wide-awake look. She was
not by any means beautiful!--her features were too irregular, her nose
too tip-tilted, her mouth too generous for that--but she seemed crisp,
clean-cut, and wholesome What first struck O'Neil was her effect of
boyishness. From the crown of her plain straw "sailor" to the soles of
her sensible walking-boots there was no suggestion of feminine
frippery. She wore a plain shirtwaist and a tailored skirt, and her
hair was arranged simply. The wave in its pale gold was the only
concession to mere prettiness. Yet she gave no impression of deliberate
masculinity. She struck one as merely not interested in clothes,
instinctively expressing in her dress her own boyish directness and her
businesslike absorption in her work.

"You're furious, of course; anybody would be," she began, then laughed
so frankly that his eyes softened and the wrinkles at their corners
deepened.

"I fear I was rude before I learned you were Dan's sister," he
apologized. "But you see I'm a bit afraid of newspaper people."

"I knew you'd struggle--although Dan described you as a perfectly
angelic person."

"Indeed!"

"But I'm a real reporter, so I won't detain you long. I don't care
where you were born or where you went to school, or what patent
breakfast-food you eat. Tell me, are you going to build another
railroad?"

"I hope so. I'm always building roads when my bids are low enough to
secure the contracts; that's my business."

"Are you going to build one in Alaska?"

"Possibly! There seems to be an opportunity there--but Dan has probably
told you as much about that as I am at liberty to tell. He's been over
the ground."

She pursed her lips at him. "You know very well, or you ought to know,
that Dan wouldn't tell me a thing while he's working for you. He hasn't
said a word, but--Is that why you came in frowning like a
thunder-cloud? Did you think he set me on your trail?"

"I think I do know that he wouldn't do anything really indiscreet."
Murray regarded her with growing favor. There was something about this
boyish girl which awakened the same spontaneous liking he had felt upon
his first meeting with her brother. He surprised her by confessing
boldly:

"I AM building a railroad--to the interior of Alaska. I've been east
and raised the money, my men are here; we'll begin operations at once."

"That's what Mr. Gordon told me about his scheme, but he hasn't done
much, so far."

"My line will put his out of business, also that of the Trust, and the
various wildcat promoters."

"Where does your road start from?"

"The town of Omar, on King Phillip Sound, near Hope and Cortez. It will
run up the Salmon River and past the glaciers which those other men
refused to tackle."

"If I weep, it is for joy," said the girl. "I don't like Curtis Gordon.
I call him Simon Legree."

"Why?"

"Well, he impresses me as a real old-time villain--with the
riding-boots and the whip and all that. 'Uncle Tom's Cabin' is my
favorite play, it's so funny. This is a big story you've given me, Mr.
O'Neil."

"I realize that."

"It has the biggest news value of anything Alaskan which has 'broken'
for some time. I think you are a very nice person to interview, after
all."

"Wait! I don't want you to use a word of what I've told you."

Miss Appleton's clearly penciled brows rose inquiringly. "Then why
didn't you keep still?"

"You asked me. I told you because you are Dan Appleton's sister.
Nevertheless, I don't want it made public."

"Let's sit down," said the girl with a laugh. "To tell you the truth, I
didn't come here to interview you for my paper. I'm afraid I've tried
your patience awfully." A faint flush tinged her clear complexion. "I
just came, really, to get some news of Dan."

"He's perfectly well and happy, and you'll see him in a few days." Miss
Appleton nodded. "So he wrote, but I couldn't wait! Now won't you tell
me all about him--not anything about his looks and his health, but
little unimportant things that will mean something. You see, I'm his
mother and his sister and his sweetheart."

O'Neil did as he was directed and before long found himself reciting
the details of that trying trip up the Salmon River. He told her how he
had sent the young engineer out to run the preliminary survey for the
new railroad, and added: "He is in a fair way to realize his ambition
of having you with him all the time. I'm sure that will please you."

"And it is my ambition to make enough money to have him with me," she
announced. With an air of some importance she continued: "I'll tell you
a secret: I'm writing for the magazines--stories!" She sat back
awaiting his enthusiasm. When she saw that it was not forthcoming she
exclaimed: "My! How you do rave over the idea!"

"I congratulate you, of course, but--"

"Now don't tell me that you tried it once. Of course you did. I know
it's a harmless disease, like the measles, and that everybody has it
when they're young. Above all, don't volunteer the information that
your own life is full of romance and would make a splendid novel. They
all say that."

Murray O'Neil felt the glow of personal interest that results from the
discovery in another of a congenial sense of humor.

"I didn't suppose you had to write," he said. "Dan told me you had
invested your fortune and were on Easy Street."

"That was poetic license. I fictionized slightly in my report to him
because I knew he was doing so well."

"Then your investment didn't turn out fortunately?"

Miss Appleton hesitated. "You seem to be a kindly, trusting person. I'm
tempted to destroy your faith in human nature."

"Please don't."

"Yes, I shall. My experience may help you to avoid the pitfalls of high
finance. Well, then, it was a very sad little fortune, to begin with,
like a boy in grammar-school--just big enough to be of no assistance.
But even a boy's-size fortune looked big to me. I wanted to invest it
in something sure--no national-bank stock, subject to the danger of an
absconding cashier, mind you; no government bonds with the possibility
of war to depreciate them; but something stable and agricultural, with
the inexhaustible resources of nature back of it. This isn't my own
language. I cribbed it from the apple-man."

"Apple-man?"

"Yes. He had brown eyes, and a silky mustache, and a big irrigation
plan over east of the mountains. You gave him your money and he gave
you a perfectly good receipt. Then he planted little apple trees. He
nursed them tenderly for five years, after which he turned them over to
you with his blessing, and you lived happily for evermore. At least
that was the idea. You couldn't fail to grow rich, for the water always
bubbled through his little ditch and it never froze nor rained to spoil
things, I used to love apples. And then there was my name, which seemed
a good omen. But lately I've considered changing 'Appleton' to 'Berry'
or 'Plummer' or some other kind of fruit."

"I infer that the scheme failed." O'Neil's eyes were half closed with
amusement.

"Yes. It was a good scheme, too, except for the fact that the
irrigation ditch ran uphill, and that there wasn't any water where it
started from, and that apples never had been made to grow in that
locality because of something in the soil, and that Brown-eyed Betty's
title to the land wouldn't hold water any more than the ditch.
Otherwise I'm sure he'd have made a success and I'd have spent my
declining years in a rocking-chair under the falling apple blossoms,
eating Pippins and Jonathans and Northern Spies. I can't bear to touch
them now. Life at my boarding-house is one long battle against apple
pies, apple puddings, apple tapioca. Ugh! I hate the very word."

"I can understand your aversion," laughed O'Neil. "I wonder if you
would let me order dinner for both of us, provided I taboo fruit.
Perhaps I'll think of something more to tell you about Dan. I'm sure he
wouldn't object--"

"Oh, my card is all the chaperon I need; it takes me everywhere and
renders me superior to the smaller conventionalities." She handed him
one, and he read:

ELIZA V. APPLETON

THE REVIEW

"May I ask what the 'V' stands for?" He held up the card between his
thumb and finger.

Miss Appleton blushed, for all the world like a boy, then answered,
stiffly:

"It stands for Violet. But that isn't my fault, and I'm doing my best
to live it down."




VIII

IN WHICH WE COME TO OMAR


"Miss Appleton," said the editor of The Review, "would you like to take
a vacation?"

"Is that your delicate way of telling me I'm discharged?" inquired
Eliza.

"You know very well we wouldn't fire you. But you haven't had a
vacation for three years, and you need a rest."

"I thought I was looking extremely well, for me."

"We're going to send you on an assignment--to Alaska--if you'll go."

"I'm thinking of quitting newspaper-work for good. The magazines pay
better, and I'm writing a book."

"I know. Perhaps this will just fit in with your plans, for it has to
do with your pet topic of conservation. Those forestry stories of yours
and the article on the Water Power Combination made a hit, didn't they?"

"I judge so. Anyhow the magazine people want more."

"Good! Here's your chance to do something big for yourself and for us.
Those Alaskan coal claimants have been making a great effort in
Washington to rush their patents through, and there seems to be some
possibility of their succeeding unless the public wakes up. We want to
show up the whole fraudulent affair, show how the entries were illegal,
and how the agents of the Trust are trying to put over the greatest
steal of the century. It's the Heidlemanns that are back of it--and a
few fellows like Murray O'Neil."

"O'Neil!"

"You know him, don't you?"

"Yes. I interviewed him a year ago last spring, when he started his
railroad."

"He's fighting for one of the biggest and richest groups of claims.
He's backed by some Eastern people. It's the psychological moment to
expose both the railroad and the coal situation, for the thieves are
fighting among themselves--Gordon, O'Neil, and the Heidlemanns."

"Mr. O'Neil is no thief," said the girl, shortly.

"Of course not. He's merely trying to snatch control of an empire, and
to grab ten million dollars' worth of coal, for nothing. That's not
theft, it's financial genius! Fortunately, however, the public is
rousing itself--coming to regard its natural resources as its own and
not the property of the first financier who lays hold of them. Call it
what you will, but give us the true story of the Kyak coal and, above
all, the story of the railroad battle. Things are growing bitter up
there already, and they're bound to get rapidly worse. Give us the news
and we'll play it up big through our Eastern syndicate. You can handle
the magazine articles in a more dignified way, if you choose. A few
good vigorous, fearless, newspaper stories, written by some one on the
ground, will give Congress such a jolt that no coal patents will be
issued this season and no Government aid will be given to the
railroads. You get the idea?"

"Certainly! But it will take time to do all that."

"Spend a year at it if necessary. The Review is fighting for a
principle; it will back you to any extent. Isn't it worth a year, two
years, of hard labor, to awaken the American people to the knowledge
that they are being robbed of their birthright? I have several men whom
I could send, but I chose you because your work along this line has
given you a standing. This is your chance, Eliza--to make a big
reputation and to perform a real service to the country. It's a chance
that may never come your way again. Will you go?"

"Of course I'll go."

"I knew you would. You're all business, and that's what makes a hit in
this office. You're up against a tough proposition, but I can trust you
to make good on it. You can't fail if you play one interest against the
other, for they're all fighting like Kilkenny cats. The Heidlemanns are
a bunch of bandits; Gordon is a brilliant, unscrupulous promoter;
O'Neil is a cold, shrewd schemer with more brains and daring than any
of the others--he showed that when he walked in there and seized the
Salmon River canon. He broke up all their plans and set the Copper
Trust by the ears, but I understand they've got him bottled up at last.
Here's your transportation--on Saturday's steamer." The editor shook
Miss Appleton's hand warmly as she rose. "Good luck, Eliza! Remember,
we won't balk, no matter how lively your stuff is. The hotter the
better--and that's what the magazines want, too. If I were you, I'd
gum-shoe it. They're a rotten crowd and they might send you back if
they got wise."

"I think not," said Eliza, quietly.

The town of Omar lay drenched in mist as the steamer bearing the
representative of The Review drew in at the dock. The whole region was
sodden and rain-soaked, verdant with a lush growth. No summer sun shone
here, to bake sprouting leaves or sear tender grasses. Beneath the
sheltering firs a blanket of moss extended over hill and vale,
knee-deep and treacherous to the foot. The mountain crests were white,
and down every gully streamed water from the melting snows. The country
itself lay on end, as if crumpled by some giant hand, and presented a
tropical blend of colors. There was the gray of fog and low-swept
clouds, the dense, dark green of the spruces, underlaid with the
richer, lighter shades where the summer vegetation rioted. And running
through it all were the shimmering, silent reaches of the sound.

Omar itself was a mushroom city, sprung up by magic, as if the dampness
at its roots had caused it to rise overnight. A sawmill shrieked
complainingly; a noisy switch-engine shunted rows of flat cars back and
forth, tooting lustily; the rattle of steam-winches and the cries of
stevedores from a discharging freighter echoed against the hillsides.
Close huddled at the water-front lay the old cannery buildings, greatly
expanded and multiplied now and glistening with fresh paint. Back of
them again lay the town, its stumpy, half-graded streets terminating in
the forest like the warty feelers of a stranded octopus. Everywhere was
hurry and confusion, and over all was the ever-present shroud of mist
which thickened into showers or parted reluctantly to let the sun peep
through.

Dan Appleton, his clothing dewy from the fog, his cheeks bronzed by
exposure, was over the rail before the ship had made fast, and had
Eliza in his arms, crushing her with the hug of a bear.

"Come up to the house, Sis, quick!" he cried, when the first frenzy of
greeting was over--"your house and mine!" His eyes were dancing, his
face was alight with eagerness.

"But, Danny," she laughed, squeezing his arm tenderly, "you live with
Mr. O'Neil and all those other men in a horrible, crawling bunk-house."

"Oh, do I? I'll have you know that our bunk-houses don't crawl. And
besides--But wait! It's a s'prise."

"A s'prise?" she queried, eagerly. "For me?"

He nodded.

"Tell me what it is, quick! You know I never could wait for s'prises."

"Well, it's a brand-new ultra-stylish residence for just you and me.
When the chief heard you were coming he had a cottage built."

"Danny! It was only five days ago that I cabled you!"

"That's really ten days for us, for you see we never sleep. It is
finished and waiting, and your room is in white, and the paint will be
dry to-morrow. He's a wonder!"

Remembering the nature of her mission, Eliza demurred. "I'm afraid I
can't live there, Dan. You know"--she hesitated--"I may have to write
some rather dreadful things about him."

"What?" Dan's face fell. "You are going to attack the chief! I had no
idea of that!" He looked genuinely distressed and a little stern.

She laid a pleading hand upon his arm. "Forgive me, Dan," she said. "I
knew how you would feel, and, to tell the truth, I don't like that part
of it one bit. But it was my big chance--the sort of thing I have been
waiting years for. I couldn't bear to miss it." There was a suspicion
of tears in her eyes. "I didn't think it all out. I just came. Things
get awfully mixed, don't they? Of course I wouldn't attack him
unfairly, but I do believe in conservation--and what could I do but
come here to you?"

Dan smiled to reassure her. "Perhaps you won't feel like excoriating
him when you learn more about things. I know you wouldn't be unfair.
You'd flunk the job first. Wait till you talk to him. But you can't
refuse his kindness, for a time at least. There's nowhere else for you
to stay, and Murray would pick you up and put you into the cottage,
muck-rake and all, if I didn't. He had to go out on the work this
morning or he'd have been here to welcome you. He sent apologies and
said a lot of nice things, which I've forgotten."

"Well"--Eliza still looked troubled--"all right. But wait," she cried,
with a swift change of mood. "I've made a little friend, the dearest,
the most useless creature! We shared the same stateroom and we're
sisters. She actually says I'm pretty, so of course I'm her slave for
life." She hurried away in the midst of Dan's loyal protestations that
she WAS pretty--more beautiful than the stars, more pleasing to the eye
than the orchids of Brazil. A moment later she reappeared to present
Natalie Gerard.

Dan greeted the new arrival with a cordiality in which there was a
trace of shyness unusual with him. "We've made quite a change since you
were up here, Miss Gerard," he remarked. "The ships stop first at Omar
now, you see. I trust it won't inconvenience you."

"Not in the least," said Natalie. "I shall arrive at Hope quite soon
enough."

"Omar Khayyam is out in the wilderness somewhere," Eliza informed her
girl friend, "with his book of verses and his jug of wine, I suppose."

"Mr. O'Neil?"

"Yes. But he'll be back soon, and meanwhile you are to come up and see
our paradise."

"It--looks terribly wet," Natalie ventured. "Perhaps we'd better wait
until the rain stops."

"Please don't," Dan laughed. "It won't stop until autumn and then it
will only change to snow. We don't have much sunshine--"

"You must! You're tanned like an Indian," his sister exclaimed.

"That's rust! O'Neil wanted to get a record of the bright weather in
Omar, so he put a man on the job to time it, but the experiment failed!"

"How so?"

"We didn't have a stop-watch in town. Now come! Nobody ever catches
cold here--there isn't time."

He led the two girls ashore and up through the town to a moss-green
bungalow, its newness attested by the yellow sawdust and fresh shavings
which lay about. Amid their exclamations of delight he showed them the
neatly furnished interior, and among other wonders a bedroom daintily
done in white, with white curtains at the mullioned windows and a suite
of wicker furniture.

"Where he dug all that up I don't know," Dan said, pointing to the bed
and dresser and chairs. "He must have had it hidden out somewhere."

Eliza surveyed this chamber with wondering eyes. "It makes me feel
quite ashamed," she said, "though, of course, he did it for Dan. When
he discovers my abominable mission he'll probably set me out in the
rain and break all my lead-pencils. But--isn't he magnificent?"

"He quite overwhelms one," Natalie agreed. "Back in New York, he's been
sending me American Beauties every week for more than a year. It's his
princely way." She colored slightly, despite the easy frankness of her
manner.

"Oh, he's always doing something like that," Dan informed them,
whereupon his sister exclaimed:

"You see, Natalie! The man is a viper. If he let his beard grow I'm
sure we'd see it was blue."

"You shall have an opportunity of judging," came O'Neil's voice from
behind them, and he entered with hands outstretched, smiling at their
surprise. When he had expressed his pleasure at Natalie's presence and
had bidden both her and Eliza welcome to Omar, he explained:

"I've just covered eighteen miles on a railroad tricycle and my back is
broken. The engines were busy, but I came, anyhow, hoping to arrive
before the steamer. Now what is this I hear about my beard?"

It was Eliza's turn to blush, and she outdid Natalie.

"They were raving about your gallantry," said Dan with all a brother's
ruthlessness, "until I told them it was merely a habit of mind with
you; then Sis called you a Bluebeard."

O'Neil smiled, stroking his stubbly chin. "You see it's only gray."

"I--don't see," said Eliza, still flushing furiously.

"You would if I continued to let it grow."

"Hm-m! I think, myself, it's a sort of bluish gray," said Dan.

"You are still working miracles," Natalie told O'Neil, an hour later,
while he was showing his visitors the few sights of Omar--"miracles of
kindness, as usual."

Dan and his sister were following at a distance, arm in arm and
chattering like magpies.

"No, no! That cottage is nothing. Miss Appleton had to have some place
to stop."

"This all seems like magic." Natalie paused and looked over the busy
little town. "And to think you have done it in a year."

"It was not I who did it; the credit belongs to those 'boys' of whom I
told you. They are all here, by the way--Parker, McKay, Mellen,
Sheldon, 'Doc' Gray--he has the hospital, you know."

"And Mr. Slater?"

"Oh, we couldn't exist without 'Happy Tom'! No, the only miracle about
all this is the loyalty that has made it possible. It is that which has
broken all records in railroad-building; that's what has pushed our
tracks forward until we're nearly up to one of Nature's real miracles.
You shall see those glaciers, one of these days. Sometimes I wonder if
even the devotion of those men will carry us through the final test.
But--you shall meet them all, to-night--my whole family."

"I can't. The ship leaves this afternoon."

"I've arranged to send you to Hope in my motor-boat, just as Mr. Gordon
sent me on my way a year ago. You will stay with the Appletons to-night
and help at the house-warming, then Dan will take you on in the
morning. Women are such rare guests at Omar that we refuse to part with
them. You agree?"

"How can I refuse? Your word seems to be law here. I'll send word to
mother by the ship that I am detained by royal decree."

She spoke with a gaiety that seemed a little forced, and at mention of
her departure a subtle change had come over her face. O'Neil realized
that she had matured markedly since his last meeting with her; there
was no longer quite the same effect of naive girlishness.

"This was a very unhappy year for your loyal subject, Mr. O'Neil."

"I'm sorry," he declared with such genuine kindliness that she was
moved to confide in him.

"Mother and I are ruined."

"Will you tell me about it?"

"It's merely--those wretched coal claims. I have a friend in the Land
Office at Washington, and, remembering what you said, I asked him to
look them up. I knew no other way to go about it. He tells me that
something was done, or was not done, by us, and that we have lost all
we put in."

"I urged Gordon to obey that ruling, last spring." Natalie saw that his
face was dark with indignation, and the knowledge that he really cared
set her heart to pounding gratefully. She was half tempted to tell
about that other, that greater trouble which had stolen in upon her
peace of mind and robbed her of her girlhood, but she shrank from
baring her wounds--above all, a wound so vital and so personal as this.

"Does your mother know?" he queried.

"No, I preferred to tell her in Mr. Gordon's presence." Murray noticed
that she no longer called the man uncle. "But now that the time has
come, I'm frightened."

"Never allow yourself to be afraid. Fear is something false; it doesn't
exist."

"It seems to me he was--unfaithful to his trust. Am I right?"

"That is something you must judge for yourself," he told her, gravely.
"You see, I don't know anything about the reasons which prompted him to
sacrifice your rights. He may have had very good reasons. I dare say he
had. In building this railroad I have felt but one regret; that is the
indirect effect it may have upon you and your mother. Your affairs are
linked closely with Gordon's and the success of my enterprise will mean
the failure of his."

"You mustn't feel that way. I'm sure it won't affect us at all, for we
have nothing more to lose. Sometimes I think his judgment is faulty,
erratic, wonderful man though he is. Mother trusts him blindly, of
course, and so do I, yet I hardly know what to do. It is impossible
that he did worse than make a mistake."

Her dark eyes were bent upon Murray and they were eloquent with the
question which she could not bring herself to ask. He longed to tell
her frankly that Curtis Gordon was a charlatan, or even worse, and that
his fairest schemes were doomed to failure by the very nature of his
methods, but instead he said:

"I'm deeply distressed. I hope things are not as bad as you think and
that Mr. Gordon will be able to straighten them out for you. If ever I
can be of service you must be sure to call upon me."

Her thanks were conventional, but in her heart was a deep, warm
gratitude, for she knew that he meant what he said and would not fail
her.

Dan Appleton, eying Natalie and his chief from a distance, exclaimed,
admiringly:

"She's a perfect peach, Sis. She registered a home run with me the
first time at bat."

"She IS nice."

"You know a fellow gets mighty lonely in a place like this. She'd make
a dandy sister-in-law for you, wouldn't she?"

"Forget it!" said Eliza, sharply. "That's rank insubordination. Omar
Khayyam snatched her from the briny and tried to die for her. He has
bought her two acres of the most expensive roses and he remembers the
date of her birthday. Just you keep your hands off."

"How does she feel about him?"

"Oh, she heroizes him, of course. I don't know just how deep the
feeling goes, but I got the impression that it was pretty serious. Two
women can't borrow hair-pins and mix powder puffs for a week and remain
strangers."

"Then, as for Daniel Appleton, C.E., GOOD NIGHT!" exclaimed her
brother, ruefully. "If I were a woman I'd marry him myself, provided I
could get ahead of the rush; but, being a male of the species, I
suppose I shall creep out into the jungle and sulk."

"Right-o! Don't enter this race, for I'm afraid you'd be a bad loser!
Personally I can't see anything in him to rave about. What scares me
pink is the knowledge that I must tell him the wretched business that
brings me here. If he strikes me, Danny, remember I'm still your
sister."

When the big gong gave the signal for luncheon Appleton conducted
Natalie and Eliza to the company messroom, where the field and office
force dined together, and presented them to his fellow-lieutenants. At
supper-time those who had been out on the line during the day were
likewise introduced, and after a merry meal the whole party escorted
the two girls back to the green bungalow.

"Why, here's a piano!" Eliza exclaimed upon entering the parlor.

"I borrowed it for the evening from the Elite Saloon," O'Neil
volunteered. "It's a dissipated old instrument, and some of its teeth
have been knocked out--in drunken brawls, I'm afraid--but the owner
vouched for its behavior on this occasion."

"It knows only one tune--'I Won't Go Home until Morning,'" Dan declared.

McKay, however, promptly disproved this assertion by seating himself at
the keyboard and rattling off some popular melodies. With music and
laughter the long twilight fled, for O'Neil's "boys" flung themselves
into the task of entertaining his guests with whole-souled enthusiasm.

So successful were their efforts that even "Happy Tom" appeared to
derive a mild enjoyment from them, which was a testimonial indeed. His
pleasure was made evident by no word of praise, nor faintest smile, but
rather by the lightened gloom in which he chewed his gum and by the
fact that he complained of nothing. In truth, he was not only
entertained by the general gaiety, but he was supremely interested in
Miss Appleton, who resembled no creature he had ever seen. He had met
many girls like Natalie, and feared them, but Eliza, with her
straightforward airs and her masculine mannerisms, was different. She
affected him in a way at once pleasant and disagreeable. He felt no
diffidence in speaking to her, for instance--a phenomenon which was in
itself a ground for suspicion. Then, too, her clothes--he could not
take his eyes off her clothes--were almost like Dan's. That seemed to
show common sense, but was probably only the sign of an eccentric,
domineering nature. On the other hand, the few words she addressed to
him were gracious, and her eyes had a merry twinkle which warmed his
heart. She must be all right, he reluctantly concluded, being Dan's
sister and O'Neil's friend. But deep down in his mind he cherished a
doubt.

At her first opportunity Eliza undertook to make that confession the
thought of which had troubled her all the afternoon. Drawing O'Neil
aside, she began with some trepidation, "Have you any idea why I'm
here?"

"I supposed either you or Dan had achieved your pet ambition."

"Far from it. I have a fell purpose, and when you learn what it is I
expect you to move the piano out--that's what always happens in the
play when the heroine is dispossessed. Well, then, I've been sent by
The Review to bare all the disgraceful secrets of your life!"

"I'm delighted to learn you'll be here so long. You can't possibly
finish that task before next spring." His manner, though quizzical, was
genuinely hearty.

"Don't laugh!" said the girl. "There's nothing funny about it. I came
north as a spy."

"Then you're a Northern Spy!"

"Apples!" she cried. "You remembered, didn't you? I never supposed men
like you could be flippant. Well, here goes for the worst." She
outlined her conversation with the editor of her paper.

"So you think I'm trying to steal Alaska," he said when she had
concluded.

"That seems to be the general idea."

"It's a pretty big job."

"Whoever controls transportation will have the country by the throat."

"Yet somebody must build railroads, since the Government won't. Did it
ever occur to you that there is a great risk involved in a thing of
this sort, and that capital must see a profit before it enters a new
field? I wonder if you know how badly this country needs an outlet and
how much greater the benefit in dollars and cents will be to the men in
the interior than to those who finance the road. But I perceive that
you are a conservationist."

"Rabid!" Eliza bridled a little at the hint of amused superiority in
his voice. "I'm a suffragist, too! I dare say that adds to your
disgust."

"Nonsense!" he protested. "I have no quarrel with conservation nor with
'votes for women.' Neither have I anything to conceal. I'm only afraid
that, like most writers, you will be content with half-information.
Incomplete facts are responsible for most misunderstandings. If you are
in earnest and will promise to take the time necessary to get at all
the facts, I'll make an agreement with you."

"I promise! Time and a typewriter are my only assets. I don't intend to
be hurried."

Dan approached, drawn by the uncomfortable knowledge of his sister's
predicament, and broke in:

"Oh, Sis has time to burn! She's going to write a book on the salmon
canneries while she's here. It's bound to be one of the 'six best
smellers'!"

O'Neil waved him away with the threat of sending him out among the
mosquitoes.

"I'll agree to show you everything we're doing."

"Even to the coal-fields?"

"Even to them. You shall know everything, then you can write what you
please."

"And when I've exposed you to the world as a commercial pickpocket, as
a looter of the public domain--after Congress has appropriated your
fabulous coal claims--will you nail up the door of this little cottage,
and fire Dan?"

"No."

"Will you still be nice to me?"

"My dear child, you are my guest. Come and go when and where you will.
Omar is yours so long as you stay, and when you depart in triumph,
leaving me a broken, discredited wretch, I shall stand on the dock and
wave you a bon voyage. Now it's bedtime for my 'boys,' since we rise at
five o'clock."

"Heavens! Five! Why the sun isn't up at that time!"

"The sun shines very little here; that's why we want you to stay at
Omar. I wish we might also keep Miss Natalie."

When the callers had gone Eliza told Natalie and Dan:

"He took it so nicely that I feel more ashamed than ever. One would
think he didn't care at all. Do you suppose he does?"

"There's no denying that you appeared at an unfortunate time," said her
brother.

"Why?"

"Well--I'm not sure we'll ever succeed with this project. Parker says
the glacier bridge can be built, but the longer he studies it the
graver he gets. It's making an old man of him."

"What does Mr. O'Neil say?"

"Oh, he's sanguine, as usual. He never gives up. But he has other
things to worry him--money! It's money, money, all the time. He wasn't
terribly rich, to begin with, and he has used up all his own fortune,
besides what the other people put in. You see, he never expected to
carry the project so far; he believed the Trust would buy him out."

"Well?"

"It hasn't and it evidently doesn't intend to. When it learned of his
plan, its engineers beat it out to the glaciers and looked them over.
Then they gave up their idea of building in from Cortez, but instead of
making terms with us, they moved their whole outfit down to Kyak Bay,
right alongside of the coal-fields, and now it has become a race to the
glaciers, with Gordon fighting us on the side just to make matters
lively. The Trust has the shorter route, but we have the start."

"Why didn't Mr. O'Neil take Kyak as a terminus, instead of Omar?"

"He says it's not feasible. Kyak is an open harbor, and he says no
breakwater can be built there to withstand the storms. He still clings
to that belief, although the Trust is actually building one. If they
succeed we're cooked. Meanwhile he's rushing work and straining every
nerve to raise more money. Now you come along with a proposal to
advertise the whole affair to the public as a gigantic graft and set
Congress against him. I think he treated you mighty well, under the
circumstances."

"I won't act against my convictions," Eliza declared, firmly, "even if
it means calamity to everybody."

Natalie spoke for the first time, her voice tuned to a pitch of feeling
that contrasted oddly with their conversational tones.

"If you hurt my Irish Prince," she said, "I shall hate you as long as I
live."




IX

WHEREIN GORDON SHOWS HIS TEETH


Affairs at Hope were nearly, if not quite, as prosperous as those at
Omar, for Curtis Gordon's advertising had yielded large and quick
returns. His experiment, during the previous summer, of bringing his
richest stockholders north, had been a great success. They had come,
ostensibly at his expense, and once on the ground had allowed
themselves to be fairly hypnotized. They had gone where he led, had
seen what he pointed out, had believed what he told them. Their
imaginations were fired with the grandeur of an undertaking which would
develop the vast resources of the north country for the benefit of the
struggling pioneers of the interior and humanity in general.
Incidentally they were assured over and over again in a great variety
of ways that the profits would be tremendous. Gordon showed them Hope
and its half-completed mine buildings, he showed them the mountain
behind. It was a large mountain. They noticed there were trees on the
sides of it and snow on its top. They marveled. He said its heart was
solid copper ore, and they gasped. Had he told them in the same
impressive manner that the hill contained a vein three inches thick
they would have exhibited the same astonishment. They entered the
dripping tunnels and peered with grave approval at the drills, the
rock-cars and the Montenegrin miners. They rambled over the dumps, to
the detriment of shoe-leather and shins, filling their suit-cases with
samples of perfectly good country rock. They confessed to each other,
with admirable conservatism, that the proposition looked very
promising, very promising indeed, and they listened with appreciation
to Gordon's glowing accounts of his railroad enterprise, the physical
evidence of which consisted of a mile or two of track which shrank
along the steep shore-front and disappeared into a gulch as if ashamed
of itself. He had a wonderful plan to consolidate the mining and
railroad companies and talked of a giant holding corporation which
would share in the profits of each. The details were intricate, but he
seemed to see them all with perfect clearness, and his victims agreed.

He entertained them on a scale that was almost embarrassing, and when
they returned to their homes they outdid one another in their praise of
the financial genius who was leading them to the promised land of
profits and preferred stock. As a matter of course they one and all
advised their friends to buy, vouching for the fabulous richness of
Hope Consolidated, and since their statements were backed by a personal
examination of the property, subscriptions came pouring in.

All in all, the excursion had proven so profitable that Gordon had
arranged for another, designed to accommodate new investors and
promising "prospects." Preparations for their welcome were under way
when Natalie arrived.

The girl and her mother talked late that evening, and Gordon saw on the
following morning that Gloria, at least, had passed a trying night; but
he gave himself no uneasiness. Emotional storms were not unusual; he
always disregarded them as far as possible, and usually they passed off
quietly. During breakfast he informed them:

"I received a letter from Miss Golden in yesterday's mail. She is to be
one of the new party."

"Did you invite her to return this summer?" Mrs. Gerard inquired.

"Yes!"

"I remember her well," said Natalie--"too well, in fact. I thought her
very bold."

"She is one of our largest investors, and she writes she would enjoy
spending a fortnight here after the others go back."

"Will you allow it?"

"Allow it! My dear Gloria, I can't possibly refuse. In fact it would be
the height of inhospitality not to urge her to do so. She is welcome to
stay as long as she chooses, for these quarters are as much hers as
ours. I hope you will be nice to her."

Mrs. Gerard made no answer, but later in the morning sought Gordon in
his private office.

"I preferred not to discuss the Golden woman before Natalie," she
explained, coldly, "but--you don't really intend to have her here, do
you?"

"Most assuredly!"

"Then I shall have to tell her she is not welcome."

"You will do nothing of the sort, my dear: you will assume the duties
of hostess, for which no one is more charmingly qualified."

Mrs. Gerard's lips were white with anger as she retorted:

"I shall not allow that woman under the same roof with Natalie."

"As usual, you choose the most inconvenient occasion for insisting upon
your personal dislikes."

"My dislike has nothing to do with the matter. I overlooked her
behavior with you last year--as I have overlooked a good many things in
the past--but this is asking too much."

Gordon's coldness matched her own as he said:

"I repeat, this is no time for jealousy--"

"Jealousy! It's an insult to Natalie."

"Miss Golden is one of our largest stockholders."

"That's not true! I had Denny look up the matter."

"So!" Gordon flared up angrily. "Denny has been showing you the books,
eh! He had no more right to do that than you had to pry into my
affairs. While Miss Golden's investment may not be so large as some
others', she has influential friends. She did yeoman service in the
cause, and I can't allow your foolish fancies to interfere with my
plans."

"Fancies!" cried the woman, furiously. "You behaved like a school-boy
with her. It was disgraceful. I refuse to let her associate with my
daughter."

"Aren't we drawing rather fine distinctions?" Gordon's lip curled. "In
the first place, Natalie has no business here. Since she came,
uninvited, for the second time, she must put up with what she finds. I
warned you last summer that she might suspect--"

"She did. She does. She discovered the truth a year ago." Mrs. Gerard's
usually impassive face was distorted and she voiced her confession with
difficulty.

"The devil!" ejaculated Gordon.

The woman nodded. "She accused me last night. I tried to--lie,
but--God! How I have lived through these hours I'll never know."

"Hm-m!" Gordon reflected, briefly. "Perhaps, after all, it's just as
well that she knows; she would have found it out sooner or later, and
there's some satisfaction in knowing that the worst is over."

Never before had his callous cynicism been so frankly displayed. It
chilled her and made the plea she was about to voice seem doubly
difficult.

"I wish I looked upon the matter as you do," she said, slowly. "But
other people haven't the same social ideas as we. I'm--crushed, and
she--Poor child! I don't know how she had the courage to face it. Now
that she has heard the truth from my own lips I'm afraid it will kill
her."

Gordon laughed. "Nonsense! Natalie is a sensible girl. Disillusionment
is always painful, but never fatal. Sooner or later the young must
confront the bald facts of life, and I venture to say she will soon
forget her school-girl morality. Let me explain my views of--"

"Never!" cried the woman, aghast. "If you do I shall--" She checked
herself and buried her face in her hands. "I feel no regrets for
myself--for I drifted with my eyes open--but this--this is different.
Don't you understand? I am a mother. Or are you dead to all decent
feeling?"

"My dear, I'm the most tender-hearted of men. Of course I shall say
nothing, if you prefer, for I am subservient to your commands in all
things. But calm yourself. What is done cannot be undone."

In more even tones Mrs. Gerard said, "You seem to think the matter is
ended, but it isn't. Natalie will never allow us to continue this way,
and it isn't just to her that we should. We can't go on, Curtis."

"You mean I must marry you?"

She nodded.

He rose and paced the room before answering. "I always supposed you
understood my views on that subject. Believe me, they are unalterable,
and in no way the result of a pose."

"Nevertheless, for my sake and Natalie's you will do it. I can't lose
the one thing I love best in the world."

"It would seem that Natalie has filled your head with silly notions,"
he exclaimed, impatiently.

"She has awakened me. I have her life to consider as well as my own."

"We are all individuals, supreme in ourselves, responsible only to
ourselves. We must all live our own lives; she cannot live yours, nor
you hers."

"I am familiar with your arguments," Mrs. Gerard said, wearily, "but I
have thought this all out and there is no other way."

He frowned in his most impressive manner and his chest swelled
ominously.

"I will not be coerced. You know I can't be bullied into a thing. I
deny that you have any right to demand--"

"I'm not demanding anything. I merely ask this--this favor, the first
one I have ever asked. You see, my pride is crumbling. Don't answer
now; let's wait until we are both calmer. The subject came up--at least
she approached it, by asking about the coal claims. She is worried
about them."

"Indeed?"

"She was told by a friend in the Land Office that our rights had been
forfeited. I assured her--"

"I refused to heed the absurd rulings of the Department, if that is
what she refers to."

"Then we--have lost?" Mrs. Gerard's pallor increased.

"Technically, yes! In reality I shall show that our titles were good
and that our patents should issue."

"But"--the woman's bloodless fingers were tightly interlaced--"all I
have, all Natalie has, is in those claims."

"Yes! And it would require another fortune the size of both to comply
with the senseless vagaries of the Interior Department and to protect
your interests. I grew weary of forever sending good hard-earned
dollars after bad ones, merely because of the shifting whim of some
theorist five thousand miles away."

"Then I am afraid--" Mrs. Gerard's voice trailed out miserably. "It is
all we have, and you told me--"

Gordon broke in irritably: "My dear Gloria, spare me this painful
faultfinding. If I can win for you, I shall do so, and then you will
agree that I acted wisely. If I lose--it will merely be the luck of the
average investor. We played for big returns, and of course the risks
were great."

"But Mr. O'Neil told her his claims--"

Gordon's blazing eyes warned her. "O'Neil, eh? So, he is the 'friend in
the Land Office'! No doubt he also gave Natalie the suggestion that led
to her scene with you. Tell her to occupy herself less with affairs
which do not concern her and more with her own conduct. Her actions
with that upstart have been outrageous."

"What about your own actions with the Golden woman?" cried Mrs. Gerard,
reverting with feminine insistence to the subject of their first
difference. "What are you going to do about her?"

"Nothing."

"Remember, I refuse to share the same roof with her. You wouldn't ask
it of your wife."

Now this second reference to a disagreeable subject was unfortunate.
Gordon was given to the widest vagaries of temper, and this interview
had exasperated him beyond measure, for he was strained by other
worries. He exploded harshly:

"Please remember that you are not my wife! My ideas on matrimony will
never change. You ought to know by this time that I am granite."

"I can't give up Natalie. I would give up much, for we women don't
change, but--"

"A fallacy!" He laughed disagreeably. "Pardon me, Gloria, if I tell you
that you do change; that you have changed; that time has left its
imprint upon even you--a cruel fact, but true." He took a savage
pleasure in her trembling, for she had roused all the devils in him and
they were many.

"You are growing tired!"

"Not at all. But you have just voiced the strongest possible argument
against marriage. We grow old! Age brings its alterations! I have ever
been a slave to youth and beauty and the years bring to me only an
increasing appreciation, a more critical judgment, of the beautiful. If
I chose to marry--well, frankly, the mature charms of a woman of my own
age would have slight attraction for me."

"Then--I will go," said Mrs. Gerard, faintly.

"Not by any wish of mine," he assured her. "You are quite welcome to
stay. Things will run along in the usual way--more smoothly, perhaps,
now that we have attained a complete understanding. You have no place
to go, nor means with which to insure a living for yourself and
Natalie. I would hate to see you sacrifice yourself and her to a
Puritanical whim, for I owe you much happiness and I'm sure I should
miss you greatly. Some one must rule, and since nature has given me the
right I shall exercise it. We will have no more rebellion."

Mrs. Gerard left the room dazed and sick with despair.

"We must go! We must go!" she kept repeating, but her tragic look
alarmed Natalie far more than her words.

"Yes, yes!" The girl took her in her arms and tried to still the
ceaseless trembling which shook the mother's frame, while her own tears
fell unheeded.

"We must go! Now!"

"Yes, dearest! But where?"

"You--love me still?" asked Gloria. "I suppose you need me, too, don't
you? I hadn't thought of that."

"Every hour!" The round young arms pressed her closer. "You won't think
of--of leaving me."

Mrs. Gerard shook her head slowly. "No! I suppose that must be part of
the price. But--Penniless! Friendless! Where can we go?"

"Mr. O'Neil--my Irish Prince," faltered the daughter through her tears.
"Perhaps he would take us in."

"Omar Khayyam," said Eliza Appleton, entering O'Neil's office briskly,
"you are the general trouble man, so prepare to listen to mine."

"Won't the kitchen flue draw, or has a hinge come off the bungalow
door?" Murray smiled. He was harassed by endless worries, a dozen
pressing matters called for his instant attention; yet he showed no
trace of annoyance. "If so, I'll be right up and fix it."

"The kitchen chimney has a draught that threatens to draw Dan's salary
out with the smoke every time I cook a meal, and the house is dandy.
This is a real man's-size tribulation, so of course I run to you. Simon
Legree is at his tricks again."

"Legree!"

The girl nodded her blond head vigorously.

"Yes! He's stolen Mrs. St. Claire's slaves, and she and Little Eva are
out in the cold."

"What the deuce are you talking about?"

"Gordon, of course, and the two Gerards, Natalie and Gloria--'Town
Hall, To-night. Come one, Come all!'"

"Oh!" O'Neil's eyes brightened.

"There have been terrible goings-on over at Hope. I went up yesterday,
in my official capacity, to reconnoiter the enemy's position and to
give him a preliminary skirmish, but the great man was sulking in his
tent and sent word by a menial for me to begone or look out for the
bloodhounds. Isn't he the haughty thing? I don't like to 'begone'--I
refuse to git when I'm told, so, of course, I paid my respects to
Natalie and her mother. But what do you think I found? Mrs. St. Claire
desolated, Eva dissolved in tears and her hair down."

"Will you talk sense?"

"Just try a little nonsense, and see. Well, the great eruption has
taken place and the loss of life was terrible. Among those buried in
the cinders are the dusky-eyed heroine and her friend mother. It seems
Eva had a hand in the overseer's exposure--"

"Yes, yes! It's about those coal claims. I knew it was coming."

"She told her mother of the horrid treachery, and mother lugged the
complaint to Gordon and placed it in his lap. Result, confession and
defiance from him. Even the family jewels are gone."

"Is Gordon broke?"

"He's weltering in money, but the coal claims are lost, and he wants to
know what they're going to do about it. The women are ruined. He
magnanimously offers them his bounty, but of course they refuse to
accept it."

"Hasn't he made any provision for them?"

"Coffee and cakes, three times a day. That's all! He won't even provide
transportation, and the troupe can't walk home. They refuse to stay
there, but they can't get away. I've cabled The Review, overdrawing my
salary scandalously, and Dan is eager to help, but the worst of it is
neither of those women knows how to make a living. Natalie wants to
work, but the extent of her knowledge is the knack of frosting a layer
cake, and her mother never even sewed on a button in all her life. It
would make a lovely Sunday story, and it wouldn't help Curtis Gordon
with his stockholders."

"You won't write it, of course!"

"Oh, I suppose not, but it's maddening not to be able to do something.
Since there's a law against manslaughter, the pencil is my only weapon.
I'd like to jab it clear through that ruffian." Eliza's animated face
was very stern, her generous mouth was set firmly.

"You can leave out the personal element," he told her. "There's still a
big story there, if you realize that it runs back to Washington and
involves your favorite policy of conservation. Those claims belonged to
Natalie and her mother. I happen to know that their locations were
legal and that there was never any question of fraud in the titles,
hence they were entitled to patents years ago. Gordon did wrong, of
course, in refusing to obey the orders of the Secretary of the Interior
even though he knew those orders to be senseless and contradictory, but
the women are the ones to suffer. The Government froze them out. This
is only one instance of what delay and indecision at headquarters has
done. I'll show you others before we are through. As for those two--You
say they want to do something?"

"It's not a question of wanting; they've GOT to do something--or
starve. They would scrub kitchens if they knew how."

"Why didn't they come to me?"

"Do you need a cook and a dishwasher?"

Murray frowned. "Our new hotel is nearly finished; perhaps Mrs. Gerard
would accept a position as--as hostess."

"HOSTESS! In a railroad-camp hotel! Who ever heard of such a thing?"
Eliza eyed him incredulously.

O'Neil's flush did not go unnoticed as he said, quietly:

"It IS unusual, but we'll try it. She might learn to manage the
business, with a competent assistant. The salary will be ample for her
and Natalie to live on."

Eliza laid a hand timidly upon his arm and said in an altered tone:

"Omar Khayyam, you're a fine old Persian gentleman! I know what it will
mean to those two poor women, and I know what it will mean to you, for
of course the salary will come out of your pocket."

He smiled down at her. "It's the best I can offer, and I'm sure you
won't tell them."

"Of course not. I know how it feels to lose a fortune, too, for I've
been through the mill--Don't laugh! You have a load on your shoulders
heavier than Mr. Sinbad's, and it's mighty nice of you to let me add to
the burden. I--I hope it won't break your poor back. Now I'm going up
to your bungalow and lock myself into your white bedroom, and--"

"Have a good cry!" he said, noting the suspicious moisture in her eyes.

"Certainly not!" Eliza exclaimed, indignantly. "I'm not the least bit
sentimental."




X

IN WHICH THE DOCTOR SHOWS HIS WIT


O'Neil's talk with Mrs. Gerard upon her arrival from Hope was short and
businesslike. Neither by word nor look did he show that he knew or
suspected anything of the real reason of her break with Gordon. Toward
both her and Natalie he preserved his customary heartiness, and their
first constraint soon disappeared. Mrs. Gerard had been plunged in one
of those black moods in which it seems that no possible event can bring
even a semblance of happiness, but it was remarkable how soon this
state of mind began to give way before O'Neil's matter-of-fact
cheerfulness. He refused to listen to their thanks and made them
believe that they were conferring a real favor upon him by accepting
the responsibility of the new hotel. Pending the completion of that
structure he was hard pressed to find a lodging-place for them until
Eliza and her brother insisted that they share the bungalow with
them--a thing O'Neil had not felt at liberty to ask under the
circumstances. Nor was the tact of the brother and sister less than
his; they received the two unfortunates as honored guests.

Gradually the visitors began to feel that they were welcome, that they
were needed, that they had an important task to fulfil, and the sense
that they were really of service drove away depression. Night after
night they lay awake, discussing the wonderful change in their fortunes
and planning their future. Natalie at least had not the slightest doubt
that all their troubles were at an end.

One morning they awoke to learn that O'Neil had gone to the States,
leaving Dr. Gray in charge of affairs at Omar during his absence. The
physician, who was fully in his chief's confidence, gravely discussed
their duties with them, and so discreet was he that they had no
faintest suspicion that he knew their secret. It was typical of O'Neil
and his "boys" that they should show this chivalry toward two
friendless outcasts; it was typical of them, also, that they one and
all constituted themselves protectors of Natalie and her mother,
letting it be known through the town that the slightest rudeness toward
the women would be promptly punished.

While O'Neil's unexpected departure caused some comment, no one except
his trusted lieutenants dreamed of the grave importance of his mission.
They knew the necessities that hounded him, they were well aware of the
trembling insecurity in which affairs now stood, but they maintained
their cheerful industry, they pressed the work with unabated energy,
and the road crept forward foot by foot, as steadily and as smoothly as
if he himself were on the ground to direct it.

Many disappointments had arisen since the birth of the Salmon River &
Northwestern; many misfortunes had united to retard the development of
its builder's plans. The first obstacle O'Neil encountered was that of
climate. During the summer, unceasing rains, mists, and fogs dispirited
his workmen and actually cut their efficiency in half. He had made
certain allowances for this, of course, but no one could have foreseen
so great a percentage of inefficiency as later developed. In winter,
the cold was intense and the snows were of prodigious depth, while
outside the shelter of the Omar hills the winds howled and rioted over
the frozen delta, chilling men and animals and paralyzing human effort.
Under these conditions it was hard to get workmen, and thrice harder to
keep them; so that progress was much slower than had been anticipated.

Then, too, the physical difficulties of the country were almost
insurmountable. The morass which comprised the Salmon River plain was
in summer a bottomless ooze, over which nothing could be transported,
yet in winter it became sheathed with a steel-hard armor against which
piling splintered. It could be penetrated at that season only by the
assistance of steam thawers, which involved delay and heavy expense.
These were but samples of the obstacles that had to be met, and every
one realized that the work thus far had been merely preparatory. The
great obstruction, upon the conquest of which the success of the whole
undertaking hinged, still lay before them.

But of all handicaps the most serious by far was the lack of capital.
Murray had foreseen as inevitable the abandonment by the Trust of its
Cortez route, but its change of base to Kyak had come as a startling
surprise and as an almost crushing blow. Personally, he believed its
present plan to be even more impracticable than its former one, but its
refusal to buy him out had disheartened his financial associates and
tightened their purse-strings into a knot which no argument of his
could loose. He had long since exhausted his own liquid capital, he had
realized upon his every available asset, and his personal credit was
tottering. He was obliged to finance his operations upon new money--a
task which became ever more difficult as the months passed and the
Trust continued its work at Kyak. Yet he knew that the briefest
flagging, even a temporary abandonment of work, meant swift and utter
ruin. His track must go forward, his labor must be paid, his supplies
must not be interrupted. He set his jaws and fought on stubbornly,
certain of his ultimate triumph if only he could hold out.

A hundred miles to the westward was a melancholy example of failure in
railroad-building, in the form of two rows of rust upon a weed-grown
embankment. It was all that remained of another enterprise which had
succumbed to financial starvation, and the wasted millions it
represented was depressing to consider.

Thus far O'Neil's rivalry with the Trust had been friendly, if
spirited, but his action in coming to the assistance of Mrs. Gerard and
her daughter raised up a new and vigorous enemy whose methods were not
as scrupulous as those of the Heidlemanns.

Gordon was a strangely unbalanced man. He was magnetic, his geniality
was really heart-warming, yet he was perfectly cold-blooded in his
selfishness. He was cool and calculating, but interference roused him
to an almost insane pitch of passion. Fickle in most things, he was
uncompromising in his hatreds. O'Neil's generosity in affording
sanctuary to his defiant mistress struck him as a personal affront, it
fanned his dislike of his rival into a consuming rage. It was with no
thought of profit that he cast about for a means of crippling O'Neil.
He was quite capable of ruining himself, not to speak of incidental
harm to others, if only he could gratify his spleen.

Denny, his trusted jackal, resisted stoutly any move against "The Irish
Prince," but his employer would not listen to him or consent to any
delay. Therefore, a certain plausible, shifty-eyed individual by the
name of Linn was despatched to Omar on the first steamer. Landing at
his destination, Mr. Linn quietly effaced himself, disappearing out the
right-of-way, where he began moving from camp to camp, ostensibly in
search of employment.

It was a few days later, perhaps a week after O'Neil's departure, that
Eliza Appleton entered the hospital and informed Dr. Gray:

"I've finished my first story for The Review."

The big physician had a rapid, forceful habit of speech. "Well, I
suppose you uncorked the vitriol bottle," he said, brusquely.

"No! Since you are now the fount of authority here, I thought I'd tell
you that I have reserved my treachery for another time. I haven't
learned enough yet to warrant real fireworks. As a matter of fact, I've
been very kind to Mr. O'Neil in my story."

"Let me thank you for him."

"Now don't be sarcastic! I could have said a lot of nasty things, if he
hadn't been so nice to me. I suppose it is the corrupting influence of
his kindness."

"He really will be grateful," the doctor assured her, seriously.
"Newspaper publicity of the wrong sort might hurt him a great deal just
now. In every big enterprise there comes a critical time, when
everything depends upon one man; strong as the structure seems, he's
really supporting it. You see, the whole thing rests ultimately on
credit and confidence. An ill-considered word, a little unfriendly
shove, and down comes the whole works. Then some financial power steps
in, reorganizes the wreckage, and gets the result of all the other
fellow's efforts, for nothing."

"Dan tells me the affairs of the S. R. & N. are in just such a
tottering condition."

"Yes. We're up against it, for the time being. Our cards are on the
table, and you have it in your power to do us a lot of harm."

"Don't put it that way!" said Eliza, resentfully. "You and Mr. O'Neil
and even Dan make it hard for me to do my duty. I won't let you rob me
of my liberty. I'll get out and 'Siwash' it in a tent first."

The physician laughed. "Don't mistake leaf-mold for muck, that's all we
ask. O'Neil is perfectly willing to let you investigate him."

"Exactly! And I could bite off his head for being so nice about it. Not
that I've discovered anything against him, for I haven't-- I think he's
fine--but I object to the principle of the thing."

"He'll never peep, no matter what you do or say."

"It makes me furious to know how superior he is. I never detested a
man's virtues as I do his. Gordon is the sort I like, for he needs
exposing, and expects it. Wait until I get at him and the Trust."

"The Trust, too, eh?"

"Of course."

"Now what have the Heidlemanns done?"

"It's not what they have done; it's what they're going to do. They're
trying to grab Alaska."

Dr. Gray shook his head impatiently, but before he could make answer
Tom Slater entered and broke into the conversation by announcing:

"I've spotted him, Doc. His name is Linn, and he's Gordon's hand. He's
at mile 24 and fifty men are quitting from that camp."

"That makes two hundred, so far," said the doctor.

"He's offering a raise of fifty cents a day and transportation to Hope."

Gray scowled and Eliza inquired quickly:

"What's wrong, Uncle Tom?"

"Don't call me 'Uncle Tom,'" Slater exclaimed, irritably; "I ain't
related to you."

Miss Appleton smiled at him sweetly. "I had a dear friend once--you
remind me of him, he was such a splendid big man," she said.

Tom eyed her suspiciously.

"He chewed gum incessantly, too, and declared that it never hurt
anybody."

"It never did," asserted Slater.

"We pleaded, we argued, we did our best to save him, but--" She shook
her blond head sadly.

"What happened to him?"

"What always happens? He lingered along for a time, stubborn to the
last, then--" Turning abruptly to Dr. Gray, she asked, "Who is this man
Linn, and what is he doing?"

"He's an emissary of Curtis Gordon and he's hiring our men away from
us," snapped the physician.

"Why, Dan tells me Mr. O'Neil pays higher wages than anybody!"

"So he does, but Linn offers a raise. We didn't know what the trouble
was till over a hundred men had quit. The town is full of them, now,
and it's becoming a stampede."

"Can't you meet the raise?"

"That wouldn't do any good."

Tom agreed. "Gordon don't want these fellows. He's doing it to get even
with Murray for those wo--" He bit his words in two at a glance from
Gray. "What happened to the man that chewed gum?" he demanded abruptly.

"Oh yes! Poor fellow! We warned him time and again, but he was a sullen
brute, he wouldn't heed advice. Why don't you bounce this man Linn? Why
don't you run him out of camp?"

"Fine counsel from a champion of equal rights!" smiled Gray. "You
forget we have laws and Gordon has a press bureau. It would antagonize
the men and cause a lot of trouble in the end. What O'Neil could do
personally, he can't do as the president of the S. R. & N. It would
give us a black eye.

"We've go to do something dam' quick," said Slater, "or else the work
will be tied up. That would 'crab' Murray's deal. I've got a
pick-handle that's itching for Linn's head." The speaker coughed
hollowly and complained: "I've got a bad cold on my chest--feels like
pneumonia, to me. Wouldn't that just be my luck?"

"Do you have pains in your chest?" inquired the girl, solicitously.

"Terrible! But I'm so full of pains that I get used to 'em".

"It isn't pneumonia."

Slater flared up at this, for he was jealous of his sufferings.

"It's gumbago!" Eliza declared.

Dr. Gray's troubled countenance relaxed into a grin as he said:

"I'll give you something to rub on those leather lungs--harness-oil,
perhaps."

"Is this labor trouble really serious?" asked the girl.

"Serious! It may knock us out completely. Go away now and let me think.
Pardon my rudeness, Miss Appleton, but--"

Slater paused at the door.

"Don't think too long, Doc," he admonished him, "for there's a ship due
in three days, and by that time there won't be a 'rough-neck' left on
the job. It'll take a month to get a new crew from the States, and then
it wouldn't be any good till it was broke in."

When he was alone the doctor sat down to weigh the news "Happy Tom" had
brought, but the more squarely he considered the matter the more
alarming it appeared. Thus far the S. R. & N. had been remarkably free
from labor troubles. To permit them to creep in at this stage would be
extremely perilous: the briefest cessation of work might, and probably
would, have a serious bearing upon O

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