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The Silver Horde

by Rex Beach · English · Gutenberg #6017 · 604,780 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Silver Horde

Author: Rex Beach


        
Release date: July 1, 2004 [eBook #6017]
                Most recently updated: December 20, 2014

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/6017

Credits: Produced by Carel Lyn Miske, Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SILVER HORDE ***




Produced by Carel Lyn Miske, Charles Franks and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team.









THE SILVER HORDE

BY REX BEACH

Author of "The Auction Block" "The Spoilers" "The Iron Trail" etc.





  BOOKS BY REX BEACH


  TOO FAT TO FIGHT
  THE WINDS OF CHANCE
  LAUGHING BILL HYDE
  RAINBOW'S END
  THE CRIMSON GARDENIA AND OTHER TALES OF ADVENTURE
  HEART OF THE SUNSET
  THE AUCTION BLOCK
  THE IRON TRAIL
  THE NET
  THE NE'ER-DO-WELL
  THE SPOILERS
  THE BARRIER
  THE SILVER HORDE
  GOING SOME





CONTENTS


    I. WHEREIN A SPIRITLESS MAN AND A ROGUE APPEAR
   II. IN WHICH THEY BREAK BREAD WITH A LONELY WOMAN
  III. IN WHICH CHERRY MALOTTE DISPLAYS A TEMPER
   IV. IN WHICH SHE GIVES HEART TO A HOPELESS MAN
    V. IN WHICH A COMPACT IS FORMED
   VI. WHEREIN BOREAS TAKES A HAND
  VII. AND NEPTUNE TAKES ANOTHER
 VIII. WHEREIN BOYD ADMITS HIS FAILURE
   IX. AND IS GRANTED A YEAR OF GRACE
    X. IN WHICH BIG GEORGE MEETS HIS ENEMY
   XI. WHEREIN BOYD EMERSON IS TWICE AMAZED
  XII. IN WHICH MISS WAYLAND IS OF TWO MINDS
 XIII. IN WHICH CHERRY MALOTTE BECOMES SUSPICIOUS
  XIV. IN WHICH THEY RECOGNIZE THE ENEMY
   XV. THE DOORS OF THE VAULT SWING SHUT
  XVI. WILLIS MARSH COMES OUT FROM COVER
 XVII. A NEW ENEMY APPEARS
XVIII. WILLIS MARSH SPRINGS A TRAP
  XIX. IN WHICH A MUTINY IS THREATENED
   XX. WHEREIN "FINGERLESS" FRASER RETURNS
  XXI. A HAND IN THE DARK
 XXII. THE SILVER HORDE
XXIII. IN WHICH MORE PLANS ARE LAID
 XXIV. WHEREIN "THE GRANDE DAME" ARRIVES, LADEN WITH DISAPPOINTMENTS
  XXV. THE CHASE
 XXVI. IN WHICH A SCORE IS SETTLED
XXVII. AND A DREAM COMES TRUE





ILLUSTRATIONS


THE GIRL STOOD BAREHEADED UNDER THE WINTRY SKY

OUT ACROSS THE LONESOME WASTE THEY JOURNEYED

MILDRED CEASED PLAYING AND SWUNG ABOUT--"WHAT DO YOU MEAN?"




[Illustration: THE GIRL STOOD BAREHEADED UNDER THE WINTRY SKY]




THE SILVER HORDE




CHAPTER I

WHEREIN A SPIRITLESS MAN AND A ROGUE APPEAR


The trail to Kalvik leads down from the northward mountains over the
tundra which flanks the tide flats, then creeps out upon the salt ice
of the river and across to the village. It boasts no travel in summer,
but by winter an occasional toil-worn traveller may be seen issuing
forth from the Great Country beyond, bound for the open water; while
once in thirty days the mail-team whirls out of the forest to the
south, pauses one night to leave word of the world, and then is
swallowed up in the silent hills. Kalvik, to be sure, is not much of a
place, being hidden away from the main-travelled routes to the interior
and wholly unknown except to those interested in the fisheries.

A Greek church, a Russian school with a cassocked priest presiding,
and, about a hundred houses, beside the cannery buildings, make up the
village. At first glance these canneries might convey the impression of
a considerable city, for there are ten plants, in all, scattered along
several miles of the river-bank; but in winter they stand empty and
still, their great roofs drummed upon by the fierce Arctic storms,
their high stacks pointing skyward like long, frozen fingers black with
frost. There are the natives, of course, but they do not count,
concealed as they are in burrows. No one knows their number, not even
the priest who gathers toll from them.

Early one December afternoon there entered upon this trail from the
timberless hills far away to the northward a weary team of six dogs,
driven by two men. It had been snowing since dawn, and the dim
sled-tracks were hidden beneath a six-inch fluff which rendered
progress difficult and called the whip into cruel service. A gray
smother sifted down sluggishly, shutting out hill and horizon, blending
sky and landscape into a blurred monotone, playing strange pranks with
the eye that grew tired trying to pierce it.

The travellers had been plodding sullenly, hour after hour, dispirited
by the weight of the storm, which bore them down like some impalpable,
resistless burden. There was no reality in earth, air, or sky. Their
vision was rested by no spot of color save themselves, apparently
swimming through an endless, formless atmosphere of gray.

"Fingerless" Fraser broke trail, but to Boyd Emerson, who drove, he
seemed to be a sort of dancing doll, bobbing and swaying grotesquely,
as if suspended by invisible wires. At times, it seemed to the driver's
whimsical fancy as if each of them trod a measure in the centre of a
colorless universe, something after the fashion of goldfish floating in
a globe.

Fraser pulled up without warning and instantly the dogs stopped,
straightway beginning to soothe their trail-worn pads and to strip the
ice-pellets from between their toes. But the "wheelers" were too tired
to make the effort, so Emerson went forward and performed the task for
them, while Fraser floundered back and sank to a sitting posture on the
sled.

"Whew!" he exclaimed, "this is sure tough. If I don't see a tree or
something with enough color to bust this monotony I'll go dotty."

"Another day like this and we'd both be snow-blind," observed Emerson
grimly, as he bent to his task. "But it can't be far to the river now."

"This fall has covered the trail till I have to feel it out with my
feet," grumbled Fraser. "When I step off to one side I go in up to my
hips. It's like walking a plank a foot deep in feathers, and I feel
like I was a mile above the earth in a heavy fog." After a moment he
continued: "Speaking of feathers, how'd you like to have a fried
chicken _a la_ Maryland?"

"Shut up!" said the man at the dogs, crossly.

"Well, it don't do any harm to think about it," growled Fraser,
good-naturedly. He felt out a pipe from his pocket and endeavored
unsuccessfully to blow through it, then complained:

"The damn thing is froze. It seems like a man can't practice no vices
whatever in this country. I'm glad I'm getting out of it."

"So am I," agreed the younger man. Having completed his task, he came
back to the sled and seated himself beside the other.

"As I was saying a mile back yonder," Fraser resumed, "whatever made
you snatch me away from them blue-coated minions of the law, I don't
know. You says it's for company, to be sure, but we visit with one
another about like two deef-mutes. Why did you do it, Bo?"

"Well, you talk enough for both of us."

"Yes, but that ain't no reason why you should lay yourself liable to
the 'square-toes.' You ain't the kind to take a chance just because
you're lonesome."

"I picked you up because of your moth-eaten morals, I dare say. I was
tired of myself, and you interested me. Besides," Emerson added,
reflectively, "I have no particular cause to love the law, either."

"That's how I sized it," said Fraser, wagging his head with animation,
"I knew you'd had some kind of a run-in. What was it? This is low down,
see, and confidential, as between two crooks. I'll never snitch."

"Hold on there! I'm not a crook. I'm not sufficiently ingenious to be a
member of your honorable profession."

"Well, I guess my profession is as honorable as most. I've tried all of
them, and they're all alike. It's simply a question of how the other
fellow will separate easiest." He stopped and tightened his snow-shoe
thong, then rising, gazed curiously at the listless countenance of his
travelling companion, feeling anew the curiosity that had fretted him
for the past three weeks; finally he observed, with a trace of
impatience:

"Well, if you ain't one of us, you'd ought to be. You've got the best
poker face I ever see; it's as blind as a plastered wall. You ain't had
a real expression on it since you hauled me off that ice-floe in Norton
Sound."

He swung ahead of the dogs; they rose reluctantly, and with a crack of
the whip the little caravan crawled noiselessly into the gray twilight.

An hour later they dropped from the plain, down through a gutter-like
gully to the river, where they found a trail, glass-hard beneath its
downy covering. A cold breath sucked up from the sea; ahead they saw
the ragged ice up-ended by the tide, but their course was well marked
now, so they swung themselves upon the sled, while the dogs shook off
their lethargy and broke into their pattering, tireless wolf-trot.

At length they came to a point where the trail divided, one branch
leading off at right angles from the shore and penetrating the hummocks
that marked the tide limit. Evidently it led to the village which they
knew lay somewhere on the farther side, hidden by a mile or more of
sifting snow, so they altered their course and bore out upon the river.

The going here was so rough that both men leaped from their seats and
ran beside the sled, one at the front, the other guiding it from the
rear. Up and down over the ridges the trail led, winding through the
frozen inequalities, the dogs never breaking their tireless trot. They
mounted a swelling ridge and rushed down to the level river ice beyond,
but as they did so they felt their footing sag beneath them, heard a
shivering creak on every side, and, before they could do more than cry
out warningly, saw water rising about the sled-runners. The momentum of
the heavy sledge, together with the speed of the racing dogs, forced
them out upon the treacherous ice before they could check their speed.
Emerson shouted, the dogs leaped, but with a crash the ice gave way,
and for a moment the water closed over him.

Clinging to the sled to save himself, his weight slowed it down, and
the dogs stopped. "Fingerless" Fraser broke through in turn, gasping as
the icy water rose to his armpits. Slowly at first the sled sank, till
it floated half submerged, and this spot which a moment before had
seemed so safe and solid became now a churning tangle of broken
fragments, men and dogs struggling in a liquid that seemed dark as
syrup contrasted with the surrounding whiteness. The lead animals,
under whose feet the ice was still firm, turned inquiringly, then
settled on their haunches with lolling tongues. The pair next ahead of
the sledge paddled frantically, straining to reach the solid sheet
beyond, but were held back by their harness. Emerson used the sled for
a footing and endeavored to gain the ice at one side, but it broke
beneath him and he lunged in up to his shoulders. Again he tried, but
again the ice broke under his hand, more easily now.

Fraser struggled to get out in the opposite direction, each man aiming
to secure an independent footing, but their efforts only enlarged the
pool. The chill went through them like thin blades, and they chattered
gaspingly, fighting with desperation, while the wheel dogs, involved in
the harness, began to whine and cough, at which Emerson shouted:

"Cut the team loose, quick!" But the other spat out a mouthful of salt
water and spluttered:

"I--I can't swim!"

Whereupon the first speaker half swam half dragged himself through the
slush and broken debris to the forward end of the sled, and seeking out
the sheath-knife from beneath his parka, cut the harness of the two
distressed animals. Once free, they scrambled to safety, shook
themselves, and rolled in the dry snow.

Emerson next attempted to lift the nose of the sled up on the ice,
shouting at the remainder of the team to pull, but they only wagged
their tails and whined excitedly at this unusual form of entertainment.
Each time he tried to lift the sled he crashed through fresh ice,
finally bearing the next pair of dogs with him, and then the two
animals in the lead. All of them became hopelessly entangled.

He could have won his way back to the permanent ice as Fraser was
doing, but there was no way of getting his team there and he would not
sacrifice those dumb brutes now growing frantic. One of them pawed the
sheath-knife from his hand. He had become almost numb with cold and
despair when he heard the jingle of many small bells, and a sharp
command uttered in a new voice.

Out of the snow fog from the direction in which they were headed broke
a team running full and free. At a word they veered to the right and
came to a pause, avoiding the danger-spot. Even from his hasty glance
Emerson marvelled at the outfit, having never seen the like in all his
travels through the North, for each animal of the twelve stood hip-high
to a tall man, and they were like wolves of one pack, gray and gaunt
and wicked. The basket-sled behind them was long and light, and of a
design that was new to him, while the furs in it were of white fox.

The figure wrapped up in them spoke again sharply, whereupon a tall
Indian runner left the team and headed swiftly for the scene of the
accident. As he approached, Emerson noted the fellow's flowing parka of
ground-squirrel skins, from which a score of fluffy tails fell free,
and he saw that this was no Indian, but a half-breed of peculiar
coppery lightness. The man ran forward till he neared the edge of the
opening where the tide had caused the floes to separate and the cold
had not had time as yet to heal it; then flattening his body to its
full length on the ice, he crawled out cautiously and seized the lead
dog. Carefully he wormed his way backward to security, then leaned his
weight upon the tugline.

It had been a ticklish operation, requiring nice skill and dexterity,
but now that his footing was sure the runner exerted his whole
strength, and as the dogs scratched and tore for firm foothold, the
sled came crunching closer and closer through the half-inch skin of
ice. Then he reached down and dragged Emerson out, dripping and
nerveless from his immersion. Together they rescued the outfit.

The person in the sledge had watched them silently, but now spoke in a
strange patois, and the breed gave voice to her words, for it was a
woman.

"One mile you go--white man house. Go quick--you freeze." He pointed
back whence the two men had come, indicating the other branch of the
trail.

Fraser had emerged meanwhile and circled the water-hole, but even this
brief exposure to the open air had served to harden his wet garments
into a crackling armor. With rattling teeth, he asked:

"Ain't you got no dry clothes? Our stuff is soaked."

Again the Indian translated some words from the girl.

"No! You hurry and no stop here. We go quick over yonder. No can stop
at all."

He hurried back to his mistress, cried once to the pack of gray dogs,
"Oonah!" and they were off as if in chase. They left the trail and
circled toward the shore, the driver standing erect upon the heels of
the runners, guiding his team with wide-flung gestures and sharp cries,
the rush of air fluttering the many squirrel-tails of his parka like
fairy streamers.

As they dashed past, both white men had one fleeting glimpse of a
woman's face beneath a furred hood, and then it was gone. For a moment
they stood and stared after the fast-dwindling team, while the breath
of the Arctic sea stiffened their garments and froze their boot-soles
to the ice.

"Did you see?" Fraser ejaculated. "Good Lord, it's a _woman!_ A
_blonde_ woman!"

Emerson stirred himself. "Nonsense! She must be a breed," said he.

"Breeds don't have yellow hair!" declared the other.

Swiftly they bent in the free dogs and lashed the team to a run. They
felt the chill of death in their bones, and instead of riding they ran
with the sled till their blood beat painfully. Their outer coverings
were like shells, their underclothes were soaked, and although their
going was difficult and clumsy, they dared not stop, for this is the
extremest peril of the North.

Ten minutes later they swung over the river-bank and into the midst of
great rambling frame buildings, seen dimly through the falling snow.
Their trail led them to a high-banked cabin, from the stovepipe of
which they saw heat-waves pouring. The dogs broke into cry, and were
answered by many others conjured from their hiding-places. Both men
were greatly distressed by now, and could handle themselves only with
difficulty. Another mile would have meant disaster.

"Rout out the owner and tell him we're wet," said Emerson; "I'll free
the dogs."

As Fraser disappeared, the young man ran forward to slip the harness
from his animals, but found it frozen into their fur, the knots and
buckles transformed into unmanageable lumps of ice, so he wrenched the
camp axe from the sled and cut the thongs, then hacked loose the stiff
sled-lashings, seized the sodden sleeping-bags, and made for the house.
A traveller's first concern is for his dogs, then for his bedding.

Before he could reach the cabin the door opened and Fraser appeared, a
strange, dazed look on his face. He was followed by a large man of
coarse and sullen countenance, who paused on the threshold.

"Don't bother with the rest of the stuff," Emerson chattered.

"It's no use," Fraser replied; "we can't go in."

The former paused, forgetting the cold in his amazement.

"What's wrong? Somebody sick?"

"I don't know what's the matter. This man just says 'nix,' that's all."

The fellow, evidently a watchman, nodded his head, and growled, "Yaas!
Ay got no room."

"But you don't understand," said Emerson. "We're wet. We broke through
the ice. Never mind the room, we'll get along somehow." He advanced
with the tight-rolled sleeping-bags under his arm, but the man stood
immovable, blocking the entrance.

"You can't come in har! You find anoder house t'ree mile furder."

The traveller, however, paid no heed to these words, but pushed
forward, shifting the bundle to his shoulder and holding it so that it
was thrust into the Swede's face. Involuntarily the watchman drew back,
whereupon the unwelcome visitor crowded past, jostling his inhospitable
host roughly, laughing the while, although in his laughter there rang a
dangerous metallic note. Emerson's quick action gained him entrance and
Fraser followed behind into the living-room, where a flat-nosed squaw
withdrew before them. The young man flung down his burden, and
addressed her peremptorily.

"Punch up that fire, and get us something to eat, quick!" Turning to
the owner of the house, who lumbered in after them, he disregarded the
fellow's scowl, and said:

"Why, you've got lots of room, old man! We'll pay our way. Now get some
more firewood, will you? I'm chilled to the bone. That's a good
fellow." His forceful heartiness forbade dispute, and the man obeyed,
sourly.

The two new-comers stripped off their outer clothing, and in a trice
the small room became littered and hung with steaming garments. They
took possession of the house, and ordered the Swede and his squaw about
with firm good nature, until the couple slunk into an inner room and
began to talk in low tones.

Fraser had been watching the fellow, and now remarked to his companion:

"Say, what ails that ginney?"

The assumption of good-nature fell away from Boyd Emerson as he replied:

"I never knew anybody to refuse shelter to freezing men before. There's
something back of this--he's got some reason for his refusal. I don't
want any trouble, but--"

The inner door opened, and the watchman reappeared. Evidently his
sluggish resolution had finally set itself.

"You can't stop har!" he said. "Ay got orders."

Emerson was at the fire, busy rubbing the cramps from his arms, and did
not answer. When Fraser likewise ignored the Swede, he repeated his
command, louder this time.

"Get out of may house, quick!"

Both men kept their backs turned and continued to ignore him, at which
the fellow advanced heavily, and threatened them in a big, raucous
voice, trembling with rage:

"By Yingo, Ay trow you out!"

He stooped and gathered up the garments nearest him, then stepped
toward the outer door; but before he could make good his threat,
Emerson whirled like a cat, his deep-set eyes dark with sudden fury,
and seized his host by the nape of the neck. He jerked him back so
roughly that the wet clothes flapped to the floor in four directions,
whereat the Scandinavian let forth a bellow; but Emerson struck him
heavily on the jaw with his open hand, then hurled him backward into
the room so violently that he reeled, and his legs colliding with a
bench, he fell against the wall. Before he could recover, his assailant
stepped in between his wide-flung hands and throttled him, beating his
head violently against the logs. The fellow undertook to grapple with
him, at which Emerson wrenched himself free, and, stepping back, spoke
in a quivering voice which Fraser had never heard before:

"I'm just playing with you now--I don't want to hurt you."

"Get out of my house! Ay got orders!" cried the watchman wildly, and
made for him again. It was evident that the man was not lacking in
stupid courage, but Emerson, driven to it, stepped aside, and swung
heavily. The squaw in the doorway screamed, and the Swede fell full
length. Again Boyd was upon him, the restraint of the past long weeks
now unbridled, his temper unchecked. He dragged his victim through the
store-room, grinding his face into the floor at every effort to rise.
He forced him to his own door-sill, jerked the door open, and kicked
him out into the snow; then barred the entrance, and returned to the
warmth of the logs, his face convulsed and his lips working.

"Fingerless" Fraser gazed at him queerly, as if at some utterly strange
phenomenon, then drawled, with a sly chuckle:

"Well, well, you're bloody gentle, I must say. I didn't think it was in
you."

When the other vouchsafed no answer, he took his pipe from a pocket of
his steaming mackinaw, and filled it from a tobacco-box on the
window-sill; then, leaning back in his chair, he propped his feet up on
the table and sighed luxuriously, as he murmured:

"These scenes of violence just upset me something dreadful!"





CHAPTER II

IN WHICH THEY BREAK BREAD WITH A LONELY WOMAN


It was perhaps two hours later that Fraser went to the window for the
twentieth time, and, breathing against the pane, cleared a peep-hole,
announcing:

"He's gone!"

Emerson, absorbed in a book, made no answer. After his encounter with
the householder he had said little, and upon finding this coverless,
brown-stained volume--a tattered copy of Don Quixote--he had relapsed
into utter silence.

"I say, he's gone!" reiterated the man at the window.

Still no reply was forthcoming, and, seating himself near the stove,
Fraser spread his hands before him in the shape of a book, and began
whimsically, in a dry monotone, as if reading to himself:

"At which startling news, Mr. Emerson, with his customary vivacity,
smiled engagingly, and answered back:

"'Why do you reckon he has departed, Mr. Fraser?"

"'Because he's lost his voice cussing us,' I replied, graciously.

"'Oh no!' exclaimed the genial Mr. Emerson, more for the sake of
conversation than argument; 'he has got cold feet!' Evidently unwilling
to let the conversation lag, the garrulous Mr. Emerson continued, 'It's
a dark night without, and I fear some mischief is afoot.'

"'Yes; but what of yonder beautchous gel?' said I, at which he burst
into wild laughter."

Emerson laid down his book.

"What are you muttering about?" he asked.

"I merely remarked that our scandalized Scandalusian has got tired of
singin' Won't You Open that Door and Let Me In? and has ducked."

"Where has he gone?"

"I ain't no mind-reader; maybe he's loped off to Seattle after a
policeman and a writ of _ne plus ultra._ Maybe he has gone after a
clump of his countrymen--this is herding-season for Swedes."

Without answering, Emerson rose, and, going to the inner door, called
through to the squaw:

"Get us a cup of coffee."

"Coffee!" interjected Fraser; "why not have a real feed? I'm hungry
enough to eat anything except salt-risin' bread and Roquefort cheese."

"No," said the other; "I don't want to cause any more trouble than
necessary."

"Well, there's a lot of grub in the cache. Let's load up the sled."

"I'm hardly a thief."

"Oh, but--"

"No!"

"Fingerless" Fraser fell back into sour silence.

When the slatternly woman had slunk forth and was busied at the stove,
Emerson observed, musingly:

"I wonder what possessed that fellow to act as he did."

"He said he had orders," Fraser offered. "If I had a warm cabin, a lot
of grub--and a squaw--I'd like to see somebody give _me_ orders."

Their clothing was dry now, and they proceeded to dress leisurely. As
Emerson roped up the sleeping-bags, Fraser suddenly suspended
operations on his attire, and asked, querulously:

"What's the matter? We ain't goin' to move, are we?"

"Yes. We'll make for one of the other canneries," answered Emerson,
without looking up.

"But I've got sore feet," complained the adventurer.

"What! again?" Emerson laughed skeptically. "Better walk on your hands
for a while."

"And it's getting dark, too."

"Never mind. It can't be far. Come now."

He urged the fellow as he had repeatedly urged him before, for Fraser
seemed to have the blood of a tramp in his veins; then he tried to
question the woman, but she maintained a frightened silence. When they
had finished their coffee, Emerson laid two silver dollars on the
table, and they left the house to search out the river-trail again.

The early darkness, hastened by the storm, was upon them when they
crept up the opposite bank an hour later, and through the gloom beheld
a group of great shadowy buildings. Approaching the solitary gleam of
light shining from the window of the watchman's house, they applied to
him for shelter.

"We are just off a long trip, and our dogs are played out," Emerson
explained. "We'll pay well for a place to rest."

"You can't stop here," said the fellow, gruffly.

"Why not?"

"I've got no room."

"Is there a road-house near by?"

"I don't know."

"You'd better find out mighty quick," retorted the young man, with
rising temper at the other's discourtesy.

"Try the next place below," said the watchman, hurriedly, slamming the
door in their faces and bolting it. Once secure behind his barricade,
he added: "If he won't let you in, maybe the priest can take care of
you at the Mission."

"This here town of Kalvik is certainly overjoyed at our arrival," said
Fraser, "ain't it?"

But his irate companion made no comment, whereat, sensing the anger
behind his silence, the speaker, for once, failed to extemporize an
answer to his own remark.

At the next stop they encountered the same gruff show of inhospitality,
and all they could elicit from the shock-headed proprietor was another
direction, in broken English, to try the Russian priest.

"I'll make one more try," said Emerson, between his teeth, gratingly,
as they swung out into the darkness a second time. "If that doesn't
succeed, then I'll take possession again. I won't be passed on all
night this way."

"The 'buck' will certainly show us to the straw," said "Fingerless"
Fraser.

"The what?"

"The 'buck'--the sky-dog--oh, the priest!"

But when, a mile farther on, they drew up before a white pile
surmounted by a dimly discerned Greek cross, no sign of life was to be
seen, and their signals awakened no response.

"Gone!--and they knew it."

The vicious manner in which Emerson handled his whip as he said the
words betrayed his state of mind. Three weeks of unvarying hardship and
toilsome travel had worn out both men, and rendered them well-nigh
desperate. Hence they wasted no words when, for the fourth time, their
eyes caught the welcome sight of a shining radiance in the gloom of the
gathering night. The trail-weary team stopped of its own accord.

"Unhitch!" ordered Emerson, doggedly, as he began to untie the ropes of
the sled. He shouldered the sleeping-bags, and made toward the light
that filtered through the crusted windows, followed by Fraser similarly
burdened. But as they approached they saw at once that this was no
cannery; it looked more like a road-house or trading-post, for the
structure was low and it was built of logs. Behind and connected with
it by a covered hall or passageway crouched another squat building of
the same character, its roof piled thick with a mass of snow, its
windows glowing. Those warm squares of light, set into the black walls
and overhung by white-burdened eaves, gave the place the appearance of
a Christmas-card, it was so snug and cozy. Even the glitter was there,
caused by the rays refracted from the facets of the myriad
frost-crystals.

They mounted the steps of the nigh building, and, without knocking,
flung the door open, entered, then tossed their bundles to the floor.
With a sharp exclamation at this unceremonious intrusion, an Indian
woman, whom they had surprised, dropped her task and regarded them,
round-eyed.

"We're all right this time," observed Emerson, as he swept the place
with his eyes. "It's a store." Then to the woman he said, briefly: "We
want a bed and something to eat."

On every side the walls were shelved with merchandise, while the
counter carried a supply of clothing, skins, and what not; a
cylindrical stove in the centre of the room emanated a hot, red glow.

"This looks like the Waldorf to me," said "Fingerless" Fraser, starting
to remove his parka, the fox fringe on the hood of which was white from
his breath.

"What you want?" demanded the squaw, coming forward.

Boyd, likewise divesting himself of his furs, noticed that she was
little more than a girl--a native, undoubtedly; but she was neatly
dressed, her skin was light, and her hair twisted into a smooth black
knot at the back of her head.

"Food! Sleep!" he replied to her question.

"You can't stop here," the girl asserted, firmly.

"Oh yes, we can," said Emerson. "You have plenty of room, and there's
lots of food"--he indicated the shelves of canned goods.

The squaw, without moving, raised her voice and called: "Constantine!
Constantine!"

A door in the farther shadows opened, and the tall figure of a man
emerged, advancing swiftly, his soft soles noiseless beneath him.

"Well, well! It's old Squirrel-Tail," cried Fraser. "Good-evening,
Constantine."

It was the copper-hued native who had rescued them from the river
earlier in the day; but although he must have recognized them, his
demeanor had no welcome in it. The Indian girl broke into a torrent of
excited volubility, unintelligible to the white men.

"You no stop here," said Constantine, finally; and, making toward the
outer door, he flung it open, pointing out into the night.

"We've come a long way, and we're tired," Emerson argued, pacifically.
"We'll pay you well."

Constantine only replied with added firmness, "No," to which the other
retorted with a flash of rising anger, "_Yes!_"

He faced the Indian with his back to the stove, his voice taking on a
determined note. "We won't leave here until we are ready. We're tired,
and we're going to stay here--do you understand? Now tell your
'klootch' to get us some supper. Quick!"

The breed's face blazed. Without closing the door, he moved directly
upon the interloper, his design recognizable in his threatening
attitude; but before he could put his plan into execution, a soft voice
from the rear of the room halted him.

"Constantine," it said.

The travellers whirled to see, standing out in relief against the
darkness of the passage whence the Indian had just come a few seconds
before, the golden-haired girl of the storm, to whom they had been
indebted for their rescue. She advanced, smiling pleasantly, enjoying
their surprise.

"What is the trouble?"

"These men no stop here!" cried Constantine violently. "You speak! I
make them go."

"I--I--beg pardon," began Emerson. "We didn't intend to take forcible
possession, but we're played out--we've been denied shelter
everywhere--we felt desperate--"

"You tried the canneries above?" interrupted the girl.

"Yes."

"And they referred you to the priest? Quite so." She laughed softly,
her voice a mellow contralto. "The Father has been gone for a month; he
wouldn't have let you in if he'd been there."

She addressed the Indian girl in Aleut and signalled to Constantine, at
which the two natives retired--Constantine reluctantly, like a
watch-dog whose suspicions are not fully allayed.

"We're glad of an opportunity to thank you for your timely service this
afternoon," said Emerson. "Had we known you lived here, we certainly
should not have intruded in this manner." He found himself growing
hotly uncomfortable as he began to realize the nature of his position,
but the young woman spared him further apologies by answering,
carelessly:

"Oh, that was nothing. I've been expecting you hourly. You see,
Constantine's little brother has the measles, and I had to get to him
before the natives could give the poor little fellow a Russian bath and
then stand him out in the snow. They have only one treatment for all
diseases. That's why I didn't stop and give you more explicit
directions this morning."

"If your--er--father--" The girl shook her head.

"Then your husband--I should like to arrange with him to hire lodgings
for a few days. The matter of money--"

Again she came to his rescue.

"I am the man of the house. I'm boss here. This splendor is all mine."
She waved a slender white hand majestically at the rough surroundings,
laughing in a way that put Boyd Emerson more at his ease. "You are
quite welcome to stay as long as you wish. Constantine objects to my
hospitality, and treats all strangers alike, fearing they may be
Company men. When you didn't arrive at dark, I thought perhaps he was
right this time, and that you had been taken in by one of the watchmen."

"We throwed a Swede out on his neck," declared Fraser, swelling with
conscious importance, "and I guess he's 'crabbed' us with the other
squareheads."

"Oh, no! They have instructions not to harbor any travellers. It's as
much as his job is worth for any of them to entertain you. Now, won't
you make yourselves at home while Constantine attends to your dogs?
Dinner will soon be ready, and I hope you will do me the honor of
dining with me," she finished, with a graciousness that threw Emerson
into fresh confusion.

He murmured "Gladly," and then lost himself in wonder at this
well-gowned girl living amid such surroundings. Undeniably pretty,
graceful in her movements, bearing herself with certainty and
poise--who was she? Where did she come from? And what in the world was
she doing here?

He became aware that "Fingerless" Fraser was making the introductions.
"This is Mr. Emerson; my name is French. I'm one of the Virginia
Frenches, you know; perhaps you have heard of them. No? Well, they're
the real thing."

The girl bowed, but Emerson forestalled her acknowledgment by breaking
in roughly, with a threatening scowl at the adventurer:

"His name isn't French at all, Madam; it's Fraser--'Fingerless' Fraser.
He's an utterly worthless rogue, and absolutely unreliable so far as I
can learn. I picked him up on the ice in Norton Sound, with a marshal
at his heels."

"That marshal wasn't after me," stoutly denied Fraser, quite unabashed.
"Why, he's a friend of mine--we're regular chums--everybody knows that.
He wanted to give me some papers to take outside, that's all."

Boyd shrugged his shoulders indifferently:

"Warrants!"

"Not at all! Not at all!" airily.

Their hostess, greatly amused at this remarkable turn of the ceremony,
prevented any further argument by saying:

"Well, French or Fraser, whichever it is, you are both welcome.
However, I should prefer to think of you as a runaway rather than as an
intimate friend of the marshal at Nome; I happen to know him."

"Well, we ain't what you'd exactly call pals," Fraser hastily
disclaimed. "I just sort of bow to him"--he gave an imitation of a
slight, indifferent headshake--"that way!"

"I see," commented their hostess, quizzically; then recalling herself,
she continued: "I should have made myself known before; I am Miss
Malotte."

"Ch--" began the crook, then shut his lips abruptly, darting a shrewd
glance at the girl. Emerson saw their eyes meet, and fancied that the
woman's smile sat a trifle unnaturally on her lips, while the delicate
coloring of her face changed imperceptibly. As the fellow mumbled some
acknowledgment, she turned to the younger man, inquiring impersonally:

"I suppose you are bound for the States?"

"Yes; we intend to catch the mail-boat at Katmai. I am taking Fraser
along for company; it's hard travelling alone in a strange country.
He's a nuisance, but he's rather amusing at times."

"I certainly am," agreed that cheerful person, now fully at his ease.
"I've a bad memory for names!"--he looked queerly at his hostess--"but
I'm very amusing, very!"

"Not 'very,'" corrected Emerson.

Then they talked of the trail, the possibilities of securing supplies,
and of hiring a guide. By-and-by the girl rose, and after showing them
to a room, she excused herself on the score of having to see to the
dinner. When she had withdrawn, "Fingerless" Fraser pursed his thin
lips into a noiseless whistle, then observed:

"Well, I'll--be--cussed!"

"Who is she?" asked Emerson, in a low, eager tone. "Do you know?"

"You heard, didn't you? She's Miss Malotte, and she's certainly some
considerable lady."

The same look that Emerson had noted when their hostess introduced
herself to them flitted again into the crook's unsteady eyes.

"Yes, but _who_ is she? What does this mean?" Emerson pointed to the
provisions and fittings about them. "What is she doing here alone?"

"Maybe you'd better ask her yourself," said Fraser.

For the first time in their brief acquaintance, Emerson detected a
strange note in the rogue's voice, but it was too slight to provoke
reply, so he brushed it aside and prepared himself for dinner.

The Indian girl summoned them, and they followed her through the long
passageway into the other house, where, to their utter astonishment,
they seemed to step out of the frontier and into the heart of
civilization. They found a tiny dining-room, perfectly appointed, in
the centre of which, wonder of wonders, was a round table gleaming like
a deep mahogany pool, upon the surface of which floated gauzy
hand-worked napery, glinting silver, and sparkling crystal, the dark
polish of the wood reflecting the light from shaded candles. It held a
delicately figured service of blue and gold, while the selection of
thin-stemmed glasses all in rows indicated the character of the
entertainment that awaited them. The men's eyes were too busy with the
unaccustomed sight to note details carefully, but they felt soft carpet
beneath their feet and observed that the walls were smooth and
harmoniously papered.

When one has lived long in the rough where things come with the husk
on, he fancies himself weaned away from the dainty, the beautiful, and
the artistic; after years of a skillet-and-sheath-knife existence he
grows to feel a scorn for the finer, softer, inconsequent trifles of
the past, only to find, of a sudden, that, unknown to him perhaps, his
soul has been hungering for them all the while. The feel of cool linen
comes like the caress of a forgotten sweetheart, the tinkle of glass
and silver are so many chiming fairy bells inviting him back into the
foretime days. And so these two unkempt men, toughened and browned to
the texture of leather by wind and snow, brought by trail and campfire
to disregard ceremony and look upon mealtime as an unsatisfying,
irksome period, stood speechless, affording the girl the feminine
pleasure of enjoying their discomfiture.

"This is m--marvelous," murmured Emerson, suddenly conscious of his
rough clothing, his fur boots, and his hands cracked by frost. "I'm
afraid we're not in keeping."

"Indeed you are," said the girl, "and I am delighted to have somebody
to talk to. It's very lonesome here, month after month."

"This is certainly a swell tepee," Fraser remarked, staring about in
open admiration. "How did you do it?"

"I brought my things with me from Nome."

"Nome!" ejaculated Emerson, quickly.

"Yes."

"Why, I've been in Nome ever since the camp was discovered. It's
strange we never met."

"I didn't stay there very long. I went back to Dawson."

Again he fancied the girl's eyes held a vague challenge, but he could
not be sure; for she seated him, and then gave some instructions to the
Aleut girl, who had entered noiselessly. It was the strangest meal Boyd
Emerson had ever eaten, for here, in a forgotten corner of an unknown
land, hidden behind high-banked log walls, he partook of a perfect
dinner, well served, and presided over by a gracious, richly gowned
young woman who talked interestingly on many subjects, For a second
time he lost himself in a maze of conjecture. Who was she? What was her
mission here? Why was she alone? But not for long; he was too heavily
burdened by the responsibility and care of his own affairs to waste
much time by the way on those of other people; and becoming absorbed in
his own thoughts, he grew more silent as the signs of refinement and
civilization about him revived memories long stifled. Fraser, on the
contrary, warmed by the wine, blossomed like the rose, and talked
garrulously, recounting marvellous stories, as improbable as they were
egotistical. He monopolized his hostess' attention, the while his
companion became more preoccupied, more self-contained, almost sullen.

This was not the effect for which the girl had striven; her younger
guest's taciturnity, which grew as the dinner progressed, piqued her,
so at the first opportunity she bent her efforts toward rallying him.
He answered politely, but she was powerless to shake off his mood. It
was not abashment, as she realized when, from the corner of her eye,
she observed him covertly stroke the linen and finger the silver as if
to renew a sense of touch long unused. Being unaccustomed to any sort
of indifference in men, his spiritless demeanor put her on her mettle,
yet all to no avail; she could not find a seam in that mask of listless
abstraction. At last he spoke of his own accord:

"You said those watchmen have instructions not to harbor travellers.
Why is that?"

"It is the policy of the Companies. They are afraid somebody will
discover gold around here."

"Yes?"

"You see, this is the greatest salmon river in the world; the 'run' is
tremendous, and seems to be unfailing; hence the cannery people wish to
keep it all to themselves."

"I don't quite understand--"

"It is simple enough. Kalvik is so isolated and the fishing season is
so short that the Companies have to send their crews in from the States
and take them out again every summer. Now, if gold were discovered
hereabouts, the fishermen would all quit and follow the 'strike,' which
would mean the ruin of the year's catch and the loss of many hundreds
of thousands of dollars, for there is no way of importing new help
during the short summer months. Why, this village would become a city
in no time if such a thing were to happen; the whole region would fill
up with miners, and not only would labor conditions be entirely upset
for years, but the eyes of the world, being turned this way, other
people might go into the fishing business and create a competition
which would both influence prices, and deplete the supply of fish in
the Kalvik River. So you see there are many reasons why this region is
forbidden to miners."

"I see."

"You couldn't buy a pound of food nor get a night's lodging here for a
king's ransom. The watchmen's jobs depend upon their unbroken bond of
inhospitality, and the Indians dare not sell you anything, not even a
dogfish, under penalty of starvation, for they are dependent upon the
Companies' stores."

"So that is why you have established a trading-post of your own?"

"Oh dear, no. This isn't a store. This food is for my men."

"Your men?"

"Yes, I have a crew out in the hills on a grub-stake. This is our
cache. While they prospect for gold, I stand guard over the provisions."

Fraser chuckled softly. "Then you are bucking the Salmon Trust?"

"After a fashion, yes. I knew this country had never been gone over, so
I staked six men, chartered a schooner, and came down here from Nome in
the early spring. We stood off the watchmen, and when the supply-ships
arrived, we had these houses completed, and my men were out in the
hills where it was hard to follow them. I stayed behind, and stood the
brunt of things."

"But surely they didn't undertake to injure you?" said Emerson, now
thoroughly interested in this extraordinary young woman.

"Oh, didn't they!" she answered, with a peculiar laugh. "You don't
appreciate the character of these people. When a man fights for money,
just plain, sordid money, he loses all sense of honor, chivalry, and
decency, he employs any means that come handy. There is no real code of
financial morality, and the battle for dollars is the bitterest of all
contests. Of course, being a woman, they couldn't very well attack me
personally, but they tried everything except physical violence, and I
don't know how long they will refrain from that. These plants are owned
separately, but they operate under an agreement, with one man at the
head. His name is Marsh--Willis Marsh, and, of course, he's not my
friend."

"Sort of 'United we stand, divided we fall.'"

"Exactly. That spreads the responsibility, and seems to leave nobody
guilty for their evil deeds. The first thing they did was to sink my
schooner--in the morning you will see her spars sticking up through the
ice out in front there. One of their tugs 'accidentally' ran her down,
although she was at anchor fully three hundred feet inside the channel
line. Then Marsh actually had the effrontery to come here personally
and demand damages for the injury to his towboat, claiming there were
no lights on the schooner."

Cherry Malotte's eyes grew dark with indignation as she continued:
"Nobody thinks of hanging lanterns to little crafts like her at anchor
under such conditions. Having allowed me to taste his power, that man
first threatened me covertly, and then proceeded to persecute me in a
more open manner. When I still remained obdurate, he--he"--she paused.
"You may have heard of it. He killed one of my men."

"Impossible!" ejaculated Boyd.

"Oh, but it isn't impossible. Anything is possible with unscrupulous
men where there is no law; they halt at nothing when in chase of money.
They are different from women in that. I never heard of a woman doing
murder for money."

"Was it really murder?"

"Judge for yourself. My man came down for supplies, and they got him
drunk--he was a drinking man--then they stabbed him. They said a
Chinaman did it in a brawl, but Willis Marsh was to blame. They brought
the poor fellow here, and laid him on my steps, as if I had been the
cause of it. Oh, it was horrible, horrible!" Her eyes suddenly dimmed
over and her white hands clenched.

"And you still stuck to your post?" said Emerson, curiously.

"Certainly! This adventure means a great deal to me, and, besides, _I
will not be beaten_"--the stem of the glass with which she had been
toying snapped suddenly--"at anything."

She appeared, all in a breath, to have become prematurely hard and
worldly, after the fashion of those who have subsisted by their wits.
To Emerson she seemed to have grown at least ten years older. Yet it
was unbelievable that this slip of a woman should be possessed of the
determination, the courage, and the administrative ability to conduct
so desperate an enterprise. He could understand the feminine rashness
that might have led her to embark upon it in the first place, but to
continue in the face of such opposition--why, that was a man's work and
required a man's powers, and yet she was utterly unmasculine. Indeed,
it seemed to him that he had never met a more womanly woman. Everything
about her was distinctly feminine.

"Fortunately, the fishing season is short," she added, while a pucker
of perplexity came between her dainty brows; "but I don't know what
will happen next summer."

"I'd like to meet this Marsh-hen party," observed Fraser, his usually
colorless eyes a bright sea-green.

"Do you fear further--er--violence?" asked Emerson.

Cherry shrugged her rounded shoulders. "I anticipate it, but I don't
fear it. I have Constantine to protect me, and you will admit he is a
capable bodyguard." She smiled slightly, recalling the scene she had
interrupted before dinner. "Then, too, Chakawana, his sister, is just
as devoted. Rather a musical name, don't you think so, Chakawana? It
means 'The Snowbird' in Aleut, but when she's aroused she's more like a
hawk. It's the Russian in her, I dare say."

The girl became conscious that her guests were studying her with
undisguised amazement now, and therefore arose, saying, "You may smoke
in the other room if you wish."

Lost in wonder at this unconventional creature, and dazed by the
strangeness of the whole affair, Emerson gained his feet and followed
her, with "Fingerless" Fraser at his heels.





CHAPTER III

IN WHICH CHERRY MALOTTE DISPLAYS A TEMPER


The unsuspected luxury of the dining-room, and the excellence of the
dinner itself had in a measure prepared Emerson for what he found in
the living-room. One thing only staggered him--a piano. The bear-skins
on the floor, the big, sleepy chairs, the reading-table littered with
magazines, the shelves of books, even the basket of fancy-work--all
these he could accept without further parleying; but a piano! in
Kalvik! Observing his look, the girl said:

"I am dreadfully extravagant, am I not? But I love it, and I have so
little to do. I read and play and drive my dog-team--that's about all."

"And rescue drowning men in time for dinner," added Boyd Emerson, not
knowing whether he liked this young woman or not. He knew this north
country from bitter experience, knew that none but the strong can
survive, and recognizing himself as a failure, her calm assurance and
self-certainty offended him vaguely. It seemed as if she were
succeeding where he had failed, which rather jarred his sense of the
fitness of things. Then, too, conventionality is a very agreeable
social bond, the true value of which is not often recognized until it
is found missing, and this girl was anything but conventional.

Again he withdrew into that silent mood from which no effort on the
part of his hostess could arouse him, and it soon became apparent from
the listless hang of his hands and the distant light in his eyes that
he had even become unconscious of her presence in the room. Observing
the cause of her impatience, Fraser interrupted his interminable
monologue to say, without change of intonation:

"Don't get sore on him; he's that way half the time. I rode herd one
night on a feller that was going to hang for murder at dawn, and he set
just like that for hours." She raised her brows inquiringly, at which
he continued: "But you can't always tell; when my brother got married
he acted the same way."

After an hour, during which Emerson barely spoke, she tired of the
other man's anecdotes, which had long ceased to be amusing, and, going
to the piano, shuffled the sheet music idly, inquiring:

"Do you care for music?" Her remark was aimed at Emerson, but the other
answered:

"I'm a nut on it."

She ignored the speaker, and cast another question over her shoulder:

"What kind do you prefer?" Again the adventurer outran his companion to
the reply:

"My favorite hymn is the _Maple Leaf Rag_. Let her go, professor."

Cherry settled herself obligingly and played ragtime, although she
fancied that Emerson stirred uneasily as if the musical interruption
disturbed him; but when she swung about on her seat at the conclusion,
he was still lax and indifferent.

"That certainly has some class to it," "Fingerless" Fraser said,
admiringly. "Just go through the reperchure from soda to hock, will
you? I'm certainly fond of that coon clatter." And realizing that his
pleasure was genuine, she played on and on for him, to the muffled
thump of his feet, now and then feeding her curiosity with a stolen
glance at the other. She was in the midst of some syncopated measure
when Boyd spoke abruptly: "Please play something."

She understood what he meant and began really to play, realizing very
soon that at least one of her guests knew and loved music. Under her
deft fingers the instrument became a medium for musical speech. Gay
roundelays, swift, passionate Hungarian dances, bold Wagnerian strains
followed in quick succession, and the more utter her abandon the more
certainly she felt the younger man respond.

Strange to say, the warped soul of "Fingerless" Fraser likewise felt
the spell of real music, and he stilled his loose-hinged tongue.
By-and-by she began to sing, more for her own amusement than for
theirs, and after awhile her fingers strayed upon the sweet chords of
Bartlett's _A Dream_, a half-forgotten thing, the tenderness of which
had lived with her from girlhood. She heard Emerson rise, then knew he
was standing at her shoulder. Could he sing, she wondered, as he began
to take up the words of the song? Then her dream-filled eyes widened as
she listened to his voice breathing life into the beautiful words. He
sang with the ease and flexibility of an artist, his powerful baritone
blending perfectly with her contralto.

For the first time she felt the man's personality, his magnetism, as if
he had dropped his cloak and stood at her side in his true semblance.
As they finished the song she wheeled abruptly, her face flushed, her
ripe lips smiling, her eyes moist, and looked up to find him
marvelously transformed. His even teeth gleamed forth from a brown face
that had become the mirror of a soul as spirited as her own, for the
blending of their voices had brought them into a similar harmony of
understanding.

"Oh, _thank_ you," she breathed.

"Thank _you_," he said. "I--I--that's the first time in ages that I've
had the heart to sing. I was hungry for music, I was starving for it.
I've sat in my cabin at night longing for it until my soul fairly ached
with the silence. I've frozen beneath the Northern Lights straining my
ears for the melody that ought to go with them--they must have an
accompaniment somewhere, don't you think so?"

"Yes, yes," she breathed.

"They _must_ have; they are too gloriously, terribly beautiful to be
silent. I've stood in the whispering spruce groves and tried to sing
contentment back into my heart, but I couldn't do it. This is the first
real taste I've had in three years. Three years!"

He was talking rapidly, his blue eyes dancing. Cherry remembered
thinking at dinner that those eyes were of too light and hard a blue
for tenderness. She now observed that they were singularly deep and
passionate.

"Why, I've gone about with a comb and a piece of tissue-paper at my
lips like any kid. I once made a banjo out of a cigar-box and bale
wire, and while I was in the Kougarok I walked ten miles to hear a
nigger play a harmonica. I did all sorts of things to coax music into
this country, but it is silent and unresponsive, absolutely dead and
discordant." He made a gesture which in a woman would have ended in a
shudder.

He took a seat near the girl, and continued to talk feverishly, unable
to give voice to his thoughts rapidly enough. His reserve vanished, his
silence gave way to a confidential warmth which suffused his listener
and drew her to him. The overpowering force of his strong nature swept
her out of herself, while her ready sympathy took fire and caught at
his half-expressed ideas and stumbling words, stimulating him with her
warm understanding. Her quick wit rallied him and awoke echoes of his
past youth, until they began to laugh and jest with the _camaraderie_
of boy and girl. With their better acquaintance her assumption of
masculinity fell from her, and she became the "womanly woman"--dainty,
vivacious, captivating.

Fraser, whom both had forgotten, looked on at first in gaping, silent
awe, staring and blinking at his travelling companion, who had
undergone such a metamorphosis. But restraint and silence were
impossible to him for long, and in time he ambled clumsily into the
conversation. It jarred, of course, but he could not be ignored, and
gradually he claimed more and more of the talk until the young couple
yielded to the monologue, smiling at each other in mutual understanding.

Emerson listened tolerantly, idly running through the magazines at his
hand, his hostess watching him covertly, albeit her ears were drummed
by the other's monotone. How much better this mood became the young
man! Suddenly the smile of amusement that lurked about his lip corners
and gave him a pleasing look hardened in a queer fashion--he started,
then stared at one of the pages while the color died out of his brown
cheeks. Cherry saw the hand that held the magazine tremble. He looked
up at her, and, disregarding Fraser, broke in, harshly:

"Have you read this magazine?"

"Not entirely. It came in the last mail."

"I'd like to take one page out of it," he said. "May I?"

"Why, certainly," she replied. "You may have the whole thing if you
like." He produced a knife, and with one quick stroke cut a single leaf
out of the magazine, which he folded and thrust into the breast of his
coat.

"Thank you," he muttered; then fell to staring ahead of him, again
heedless of his surroundings. This abrupt relapse into his former state
of sullen and defiant silence tantalized the girl to the verge of
anger, especially now that she had seen something of his true self. She
was painfully conscious of a sense of betrayal at having yielded so
easily to his pleasant mood, only to be shut out on an instant's whim,
while a girlish curiosity to know the cause of the change overpowered
her. He offered no explanation, however, and took no further part in
the conversation until, noting the lateness of the hour, he rose and
thanked her for her hospitality in the same deadly indifferent manner.

"The music was a great treat," he said, looking beyond her and holding
aloof--"a very great treat. I enjoyed it immensely. Good-night."

Cherry Malotte had experienced a new sensation, and she didn't like it.
She vowed angrily that she disliked men who looked past her; indeed,
she could not recall any other who had ever done so. Her chief concern
had always been to check their ardor. She resolved viciously that
before she was through with this young man he would make her a less
listless adieu. She assured herself that he was a selfish, sullen boor,
who needed to be taught a lesson in manners for his own good if for
nothing else; that a woman's curiosity had aught to do with her
exasperation she would have denied. She abhorred curiosity. As a matter
of fact, she told herself that he did not interest her in the least,
except as a discourteous fellow who ought to be shocked into a
consciousness of his bad manners, and therefore the moment the two men
were well out of the room she darted to the table, snatched up the
magazine, and skimmed through it feverishly. Ah! here was the place!

A woman's face with some meaningless name beneath filled each page.
Along the top ran the heading, "Famous American Beauties." So it was a
woman! She skipped backward and forward among the pages for further
possible enlightenment, but there was no article accompanying the
pictures. It was merely an illustrated section devoted to the
photographs of prominent actresses and society women, most of whom she
had never heard of, though here and there she saw a name that was
familiar. In the centre was that tantalizingly clean-cut edge which had
subtracted a face from the gallery--a face which she wanted very much
to see. She paused and racked her brain, her brows furrowed with the
effort at recollection, but she had only glanced at the pages when the
magazine came, and had paid no attention to this part of it. Her anger
at her failure to recall this particular face aroused her to the fact
that she was acting very foolishly, at which she laughed aloud.

"Well, what of it?" she demanded of the empty room. "He's in love with
some society ninny, and I don't care what she looks like." She shrugged
her shoulders carelessly; then, in a sudden access of fury, she flung
the mutilated magazine viciously into a far corner of the room.

The travellers slept late on the following morning, for the weariness
of weeks was upon them, and the little bunk-room they occupied adjoined
the main building and was dark. When they came forth they found
Chakawana in the store, and a few moments later were called to
breakfast.

"Where is your mistress?" inquired Boyd.

"She go see my sick broder," said the Indian girl, recalling Cherry's
mention of the child ill with measles. "She all the time give medicine
to Aleut babies," Chakawana continued. "All the time give, give, give
something. Indian people love her."

"She's sort of a Lady Bountiful to these bums," remarked Fraser.

"Does she let them trade in yonder?" Boyd asked, indicating the store.

"Oh yes! Everything cheap to Indian people. Indian got no money, all
the same." Then, as if realizing that her hasty tongue had betrayed
some secret of moment, the Aleut girl paused, and, eying them sharply,
demanded, "What for you ask?"

"No reason in particular."

"What for you ask?" she insisted. "Maybe you b'long Company, eh?"
Emerson laughed, but she was not to be put off easily, and, with
characteristic guile, announced boldly: "I lie to you. She no trade
with Aleut people. No; Chakawana lie!"

"She's afraid we'll tell this fellow Marsh," Fraser remarked to
Emerson; then, as if that name had some powerful effect upon their
informant, Chakawana advanced to the table, and, leaning over it, said:

"You know Willis Marsh?" Her pretty wooden face held a mingled
expression of fear, malice, and curiosity.

"Ouch!" said Fraser, shoving back from his plate. "Don't look at me
like that before I've had my coffee."

"Maybe you know him in San Flancisco, eh?"

"No, no! We never heard of him until last night."

"I guess you lie!" She smiled at them wheedlingly, but Boyd reassured
her.

"No! We don't know him at all."

"Then what for you speak his name?"

"Miss Malotte told us about him at dinner."

"Oh!"

"By-the-way, what kind of a looking feller is he?" asked Fraser.

"He's fine, han'some man," said Chakawana. "Nice fat man. Him got hair
like--like fire."

"He's fat and red-headed, eh? He must be a picture."

"Yes," agreed the girl, rather vaguely.

"Is he married?"

"I don't know. Maybe he lie. Maybe he got woman."

"The masculine sex seems to stand like a band of horse-thieves with
this dame," Fraser remarked to his companion. "She thinks we're all
liars."

After a moment, Chakawana continued, "Where you go now?"

"To the States; to the 'outside,'" Boyd answered.

"Then you see Willis Marsh, sure thing. He lives there. Maybe you
speak, eh?"

"Well, Mr. Marsh may be a big fellow around Kalvik, but I don't think
he occupies so much space in the United States that we will meet him,"
laughed Emerson; but even yet the girl seemed unconvinced, and went on
rather fearfully: "Maybe you see him all the same."

"Perhaps. What then?"

"You speak my name?"

"Why, no, certainly not."

"If I see him, I'll give him your love," offered "Fingerless" Fraser,
banteringly; but Chakawana's light-hued cheeks blanched perceptibly,
and she cried, quickly:

"No! No! Willis Marsh bad, bad man. You no speak, please! Chakawana
poor Aleut girl. Please?"

Her alarm was so genuine that they reassured her; and having completed
their meal, they rose and left the room. Outside, Fraser said: "This
cannery guy has certainly buffaloed these savages. He must be a
slave-driver." Then as they filled their pipes, he added: "She was
plumb scared to death of him, wasn't she?"

"Think so?" listlessly.

"Sure. Didn't she show it?"

"Um-m, I suppose so."

They were still talking when they heard the jingle of many bells, then
a sharp command from Constantine, and the next instant the door burst
open to admit Cherry, who came with a rush of youth and health as fresh
as the bracing air that followed her. The cold had reddened her cheeks
and quickened her eyes; she was the very embodiment of the day itself,
radiantly bright and tinglingly alive.

"Good-morning, gentlemen!" she cried, removing the white fur hood which
gave a setting to her sparkling eyes and teeth. "Oh, but it's a
glorious morning! If you want to feel your blood leap and your lungs
tingle, just let Constantine take you for a spin behind that team. We
did the five miles from the village in seventeen minutes."

"And how is your measley patient?" asked Fraser.

"He's doing well, thank you." She stepped to the door to admit
Chakawana, who had evidently hurried around from the other house, and
now came in, bareheaded and heedless of the cold, bearing a bundle
clasped to her breast. "I brought the little fellow home with me. See!"

The Indian girl bore her burden to the stove, where she knelt to lift
the covering from the child's face.

"Hey there! Look out!" ejaculated Fraser, retreating in alarm. "I never
had no measles." But Chakawana went on cuddling the infant in a
motherly fashion while Cherry reassured her guests.

"Is that an Indian child?" asked Emerson, curiously, noting the little
fellow's flushed fair skin. The kneeling girl turned upward a pair of
tearful, defiant eyes, answering quickly:

"Yes, him Aleut baby."

"Him our little broder," came the deep voice of Constantine, who had
entered unnoticed; and a moment later, in obedience to an order from
Cherry, they bore their charge to their own quarters at the rear.





CHAPTER IV

IN WHICH SHE GIVES HEART TO A HOPELESS MAN


"I dare say Kalvik is rather lively during the summer season," Emerson
remarked to Cherry, later in the day.

"Yes; the ships arrive in May, and the fish begin to run in July. After
that nobody sleeps."

She had come upon him staring dispiritedly at the fire, and his
dejection softened her and drew out her womanly sympathy. She had
renewed her efforts to cheer him up, seeking to stir him out of the
gloom that imprisoned him. With the healthy optimism and exuberance of
her normal youth she could not but deplore the mischance that had
changed him into the sullen, silent brute he seemed.

"It must be rather interesting," he observed, indifferently.

"It is more than that; it is inspiring. Why, the story of the salmon is
an epic in itself. You know they live a cycle of four years, no more,
always returning to the waters of their nativity to die; and I have
heard it said that during one of those four years they disappear, no
one knows where, reappearing out of the mysterious depths of the sea as
if at a signal. They come by the legion, in countless scores of
thousands; and when once they have tasted the waters of their birth
they never touch food again, never cease their onward rush until they
become bruised and battered wrecks, drifting down from the
spawning-beds. When the call of nature is answered and the spawn is
laid they die. They never seek the salt sea again, but carpet the
rivers with their bones. When they feel the homing impulse they come
from the remotest depths, heading unerringly for the particular parent
stream whence they originated. If sand-bars should block their course
in dry seasons or obstacles intercept them, they will hurl themselves
out of the water in an endeavor to get across. They may disregard a
thousand rivers, one by one; but when they finally taste the sweet
currents which flow from their birthplaces their whole nature changes,
and even their physical features alter: they grow thin, and the head
takes on the sinister curve of the preying bird."

"I had no idea they acted that way," said Boyd. "You paint a vivid
picture."

"That's because they interest me. As a matter of fact, these fisheries
are more fascinating than any place I've ever seen. Why, you just ought
to witness the 'run.' These empty waters become suddenly crowded, and
the fish come in a great silver horde, which races up, up, up toward
death and obliteration. They come with the violence of a summer storm;
like a prodigious gleaming army they swarm and bend forward, eager,
undeviating, one-purposed. It's quite impossible to describe it--this
great silver horde. They are entirely defenceless, of course, and
almost every living thing preys upon them. The birds congregate in
millions, the four-footed beasts come down from the hills, the Apaches
of the sea harry them in dense droves, and even man appears from
distant coasts to take his toll; but still they press bravely on. The
clank of machinery makes the hills rumble, the hiss of steam and the
sighs of the soldering-furnaces are like the complaint of some giant
overgorging himself. The river swarms with the fleets of fish-boats,
which skim outward with the dawn to flit homeward again at twilight and
settle like a vast brood of white-winged gulls. Men let the hours go by
unheeded, and forget to sleep."

"What sort of men do they hire?"

"Chinese, Japs, and Italians, mainly. It's like a foreign country here,
only there are no women. The bunk-rooms are filled with opium fumes and
noisy with clacking tongues. On one side of the village streets the
Orientals burn incense to their Joss, across the way the Latins worship
the Virgin. They work side by side all day until they are ready to
drop, then mass in the street and knife each other over their rival
gods."

"How long does it all last?"

"Only about six weeks; then the furnace fires die out, the ships are
loaded, the men go to sleep, and the breezes waft them out into the
August haze, after which Kalvik sags back into its ten months' coma,
becoming, as you see it now, a dead, deserted village, shunned by man."

"Jove! you have a graphic tongue," said Boyd, appreciatively. "But I
don't see how those huge plants can pay for their upkeep with such a
short run."

"Well, they do; and, what's more, they pay tremendously; sometimes a
hundred per cent. a year or more."

"Impossible!" Emerson was now thoroughly aroused, and Cherry continued:

"Two years ago a ship sailed into port in early May loaded with an army
of men, with machinery, lumber, coal, and so forth. They landed, built
the plant, and had it ready to operate by the time the run started.
They made their catch, and sailed away again in August with enough
salmon in the hold to pay twice over for the whole thing. Willis Marsh
did even better than that the year before, but of course the price of
fish was high then. Next season will be another big year."

"How is that?"

"Every fourth season the run is large; nobody knows why. Every time
there is a Presidential election the fish are shy and very scarce; that
lifts prices. Every year in which a President of the United States is
inaugurated they are plentiful."

Boyd laughed. "The Alaska salmon takes more interest in politics than I
do. I wonder if he is a Republican or a Democrat?"

"Inasmuch as he is a red salmon, I dare say you'd call him a
Socialist," laughed Cherry.

Emerson rose, and began to pace back and forth. "And you mean to say
the history of the other canneries is the same?"

"Certainly."

"I had no idea there were such profits in the fisheries up here."

"Nobody knows it outside of those interested. The Kalvik River is the
most wonderful salmon river in the world, for it has never failed once;
that's why the Companies guard it so jealously; that's why they denied
you shelter. You see, it is set away off here in one corner of Behring
Sea without means of communication or access, and they intend to keep
it so."

It was evident that the young man was vitally interested now. Was it
the prospective vision of almighty dollars that was needed to release
the hidden spring that had baffled the girl? With this clue in mind,
she watched him closely and fed his eagerness.

"These figures you mention are on record?" he inquired.

"I believe they are available."

"What does it cost to install and operate a cannery for the first
season?"

"About two hundred thousand dollars, I am told. But I believe one can
mortgage his catch or borrow money on it from the banks, and so not
have to carry the full burden."

The man stared at his companion with unseeing eyes for a moment, then
asked: "What's to prevent me from going into the business?"

"Several things. Have you the money?"

"Possibly. What else?"

"A site."

"That ought to be easy."

Cherry laughed. "On the contrary, a suitable cannery site is very hard
to get, because there are natural conditions necessary, fresh flowing
water for one; and, furthermore, because the companies have taken them
all up."

"Ah! I see." The light died out of Emerson's eyes, the eagerness left
his voice. He flung himself dejectedly into a chair by the fire,
moodily watching the flames licking the burning logs. All at once he
gripped the arms of his chair, and muttered through set jaws: "God, I'd
like to take one more chance!" The girl darted a swift look at him, but
he fell to brooding again, evidently insensible to her presence. At
length he stirred himself to ask: "Can I hire a guide hereabout? We'll
have to be going on in a day or so."

"Constantine will get you one. I suppose, of course, you will avoid the
Katmai Pass?"

"Avoid it? Why?"

"It's dangerous, and nobody travels it except in the direst emergency.
It's much the shortest route to the coast, but it has a record of some
thirty deaths. I should advise you to cross the range farther east,
where the divide is lower. The mail-boat touches at both places."

He nodded agreement. "There's no use taking chances. I'm in no hurry. I
wish there was some way of repaying you for your kindness. We were
pretty nearly played out when we got here."

"Oh, I'm quite selfish," she disclaimed. "If you endured a few months
of this monotony, you'd understand."

During the rest of that day Boyd was conscious several times of being
regarded with scrutinizing eyes by Cherry. At dinner, and afterward in
the living-room while Fraser talked, he surprised the same questioning
look on her face. Again she played for him, but he refused to sing,
maintaining an unbroken taciturnity. After they retired she sat long
alone, her brows furrowed as if wrestling with some knotty problem. "I
wonder if he would do it!" she said, at last. "I wonder if he _could_
do it!" She rose, and began to pace the floor; then added, as if in
desperation: "Well, I must do _something_, for this can't last. Who
knows--perhaps this is my chance; perhaps he has been sent."

There are times when momentous decisions are influenced by the most
trivial circumstances; times when affairs of the greatest importance
are made or marred by the lift of an eyebrow or the tone of a voice;
times when life-long associations are severed and new ties contracted
purely upon intuition, and this woman felt instinctively that such an
hour had now struck for her. It was late before she finally came to
peace with the conflict in her mind and lay herself down to rest.

On the following morning she told Constantine to hitch up her team and
have it waiting when breakfast was finished. Then she turned to
Emerson, who came into the room, and said, quietly:

"I have something to show you if you will take a short ride with me."

The young man, impressed by the gravity of her manner, readily
consented. Half an hour later he wrapped her up in the sledge-robe and
took station at the rear, whip in hand. Constantine freed the leader,
and they went off at a mad run, whisking out from the buildings and
swooping down the steep bank to the main-travelled trail. When they had
gained the level and the dogs were straightened into their gait, they
skimmed over the snow with the flight of a bird.

"That's a wonderful team you have," Boyd observed, as he glanced over
the double row of undulating gray backs and waving plume-like tails.

"The best in the country," she smiled back at him. "They are good for a
hundred miles a day."

The young man gave himself up to the unique and rather delightful
experience of being transported through an unknown country to an
unknown destination by a charming girl of whom he also knew nothing. He
watched her in silence; but when he forebore to question her, she
turned, exposing a rounded, ravishing cheek, glowing against the white
fur of her hood.

"Have you no curiosity, sir?"

"None! Nothing but satisfaction," he observed.

It was his first attempt at gallantry, and she flashed him a bright,
approving glance. Then, as if suddenly checked by second thought, she
frowned slightly and turned away. She had mapped out a course of action
during the night in which it was her purpose to use this man if he
proved amenable, but the success of her plan would depend largely on a
continuance of their present friendly relations. In order, therefore,
to forestall any possible change of base, she began to unfold her
scheme in a business-like tone:

"Yesterday you seemed to be taken by the fishing business."

"I certainly was until you told me there were no cannery sites left."

"There is one. When I came here a year ago the whole river was open, so
on an outside chance I located a site, the best one available. When
Willis Marsh learned of it, he took up all of the remaining places,
and, although at the time I had no idea what I was going to do with my
property, I have hung on to it."

"Is that where we are going?"

"Yes. You seemed eager yesterday to get in on a new chance, so I am
taking you out to look over the ground."

"What's the use? I can't buy your site."

"Nobody asked you to," she smiled. "I wouldn't sell it to you if you
had the money; but if you will build a cannery on it, I'll turn in the
ground for an interest."

Emerson meditated a moment, then replied: "I can't say yes or no. It's
a pretty big proposition--two hundred thousand dollars, you said?"

"Yes. It's a big opportunity. You can clean up a hundred per cent. in a
year. Do you think you could raise the money to build a plant?"

"I might. I have some wealthy friends," he said, cautiously. "But I am
not sure."

"At least you can try? That's all anybody can do."

"But I don't know anything about the business. I couldn't make it
succeed."

"I've thought of all that, and there's a way to make success certain. I
believe you have executive ability and can handle men."

"Oh yes; I've done that sort of thing." His broad shoulders went up as
he drew a long breath. "What's your plan?"

"There's a man down the coast, George Balt, who knows more about the
business than any four people in Kalvik. He's been a fisherman all his
life. He discovered the Kalvik River, built the first cannery here, and
was its foreman until he quarrelled with Marsh, who proceeded to
discipline him. Balt isn't the kind of man to be disciplined; so, not
having enough money to build a cannery, he took his scanty capital and
started a saltery on his own account. That suited Marsh exactly; he
broke George in a year, absolutely ruined him, utterly wiped him out,
just as he intends to wipe out insignificant me! Thinking to bide his
time and recoup his fallen fortunes George came back into camp; but he
owns a valuable trap site which Marsh and his colleagues want; and
before they would give him work, they tried to make him assign it to
them, and contract never to go in business on his own account.
Naturally George refused, so they disciplined him some more. He's been
starving now for two years. Marsh and his companions rule this region
just as the Hudson's Bay Company used to govern its concessions: by
controlling the natives and preventing independent white men from
gaining a foothold.

"No man dares to furnish food to George Balt; no man dares to give him
a bed, no cannery will let him work. He has to take a dory to Dutch
Harbor to get food. He doesn't dare leave the country and abandon the
meagre thousands he has invested in buildings, so he has stayed on
living off the country like a Siwash. He's a simple, big-hearted sort
of fellow, but his life is centred in this business; it's all he knows.
He considers himself the father of this section; and when he sees
others rounding up the task that he began, it breaks his poor heart.
Why, every summer when the run starts he comes across the marshes and
slinks about the Kalvik thickets like a wraith, watching from afar just
in order to be near it all. He stands alone and forsaken, harking to
the clank of the machinery, every bolt of which he placed; watching his
enemies enrich themselves from that gleaming silver army, which he
considers his very own. He is shunned like a leper. No man is allowed
to speak to him or render him any sort of fellowship, and it has made
the man half mad, it has turned him into a vengeful, hate-filled
fanatic, living only for retaliation. Some time I believe he will kill
Marsh."

"Hm-m! One seems to be forever crossing the trail of this Marsh," said
Boyd, who had listened intently.

"Yes. His aim is to gain control of this whole region, and if you
decide to go into the enterprise you must expect to find him the most
unscrupulous and vindictive enemy ever man had; make no mistake about
that. It's only fair to warn you that this will be no child's play;
but, on the other hand, the man who beats Marsh will have done
something." She paused as if weighing her next words, then said,
deliberately: "And I believe you are the one to do it."

But Emerson was not concerned about his destiny just then, nor for the
dangerous enmity of Marsh. He was following another train of thought.

"And so Balt knows this business from the inside out?" he said.

"Thoroughly; every dip, angle, and spur of it, so to speak. He's
practical and he's honest, in addition to which his trap-site is the
key to the whole situation. You see, the salmon run in regular definite
courses, year after year, just as if they were following a beaten
track. At certain places these courses come close to the shore where
conditions make it possible to drive piling and build traps which
intercept them by the million. One trap will do the work of an army of
fishermen with nets in deep water. It is to get this property for
himself that Marsh has persecuted George so unflaggingly."

"Would he join us in such an enterprise, with five chances to one
against success?"

"Would he!" Cherry laughed. "Wait and see."

They had reached their destination--the mouth of a deep creek, up which
Cherry turned her dogs. Emerson leaped from the sled, and, running
forward, seized the leader, guiding it into a clump of spruce, among
the boles of which he tangled the harness, for this team was like a
pack of wolves, ravenous for travel and intolerant of the leash.

Together they ascended the bank and surveyed the surroundings, Cherry
expatiating upon every feature with the fervor of a land agent bent on
weaving his spell about a prospective buyer. And in truth she had
chosen well, for the conditions seemed ideal.

"It all sounds wonderfully attractive and feasible," said Boyd, at
last; "but we must weigh the overwhelming odds against success. First,
of course, is the question of capital. I have a little property of my
own which I can convert. But two hundred thousand dollars! That's a
tremendous sum to raise, even for a fellow with a circle of wealthy
friends. Second, there's the question of time. It's now early December,
and I'd have to be back here by the first of May. Third, could I run
the plant and make it succeed? It must be a wonderfully technical
business, and I am utterly ignorant of every phase of it. Then, too,
there are a thousand other difficulties, such as getting machinery out
here in time, hiring Chinese labor, chartering a ship, placing the
output--"

"George Balt has done all that many times, and knows everything about
it," Cherry interrupted, with decision. "Every difficulty can be met
when the time comes. What other people have done, you ought to be able
to do."

But he was not to be won by flattery. Youth that he was, he already
knew the vanity of human hopes, and it was his nature to look at all
sides of a question before answering it finally.

"The slightest error of judgment would mean failure and ruin," he
reflected, "for this country isn't like any other. It is cut off from
the rest of the world, and there's no time to go back and pick up."

"The odds are great, of course," she acquiesced, "but the winnings are
in proportion. It isn't casino, by any means. This is worth while.
Every man who has done anything in this world believes in a goddess of
luck, and it's the element of chance that makes life worth living."

"That's all right in theory," he answered her, somewhat cynically, "but
in practice you'll find that luck is largely the result of previous
judgment. For every obstacle I have mentioned, a thousand unsuspected
difficulties will arise, any one of which--" The girl interrupted him
sharply for a second time, looking him squarely in the eyes, her own
flushed face alight with determination.

"There's only one person in the whole world who can defeat you, and
that person is yourself; and no man can finish a task before he begins
it. We'll grant there's a chance for failure--a million chances; but
don't try to count them. Count the chances for success. Don't be
faint-hearted, for there's no such thing as fear. It doesn't exist.
It's merely an absence of courage, just as indecision is merely a lack
of decision. I never saw anything yet of which I was afraid--and you're
a _man_. The deity of success is a woman, and she insists on being won,
not courted. You've got to seize her and bear her off, instead of
standing under her window with a mandolin. You need to be rough and
masterful with her. Nobody ever reasoned himself out of a street fight.
He had to act. If a man thinks over a proposition long enough it will
whip him, no matter how simple it is. It's the lightning flash that
guides a man. You must lay your course in the blue dazzle, then follow
it in the dark; and when you come to the end, it always lightens again.
Don't stand still, staring through the gloom, and then try to walk
while the lightning lasts, because you won't get anywhere."

Her words were charged with an electric force that communicated itself
to the young man and galvanized him into action. He would have spoken,
but she stayed him, and went on:

"Wait; I'm not through yet. I've watched you, and I know you are down
on your luck for some reason. You've been miscast somehow and you've
had the heart taken out of you; but I'm sure it's in you to succeed,
for you're young and intelligent, cool and determined. I am giving you
this chance to play the biggest game of your life, and erase in eight
short months every trace of failure. I'm not doing it altogether
unselfishly, for I believe you've been sent to Kalvik to work out your
own salvation and mine, and that of poor George Balt, whom you've never
seen. You're going to do this thing, and you're going to make it win."

Emerson reached out impulsively and caught her tiny, mittened hand. His
eyes were shining, his face had lost the settled look of dejection, and
was all aglow with a new dawn of hope. Even his shoulders were lifted
and thrown back as if from some sudden access of vigor that lightened
his burden.

"You're right!" he said, firmly. "We'll send for Balt to-night."





CHAPTER V

IN WHICH A COMPACT IS FORMED


Now that he had committed himself to action, Boyd Emerson became a
different being. He was no longer the dispirited cynic of yesterday,
but an eager, voluble optimist athirst for knowledge and afire with
impatience. On the homeward drive he had bombarded Cherry with a
running fusillade of questions, so that by the time they had arrived at
her house she was mentally and physically fatigued. He seemed
insatiable, drawing from her every atom of information she possessed,
and although he was still hard, incisive, and aloof, it was in quite a
different way. The intensity of his concentration had gathered all
feeling into one definite passion, and had sucked him dry of ordinary
emotions.

In the days that followed she was at his elbow constantly, aiding him
at every turn in his zeal to acquire a knowledge of the cannery system.
The odd conviction grew upon her that he was working against time, that
there was a limit to his period of action, for he seemed obsessed by an
ever-growing passion to accomplish some end within a given time, and
had no thought for anything beyond the engrossing issue into which he
had plunged. She was dumfounded by his sudden transformation, and
delighted at first, but later, when she saw that he regarded her only
as a means to an end, his cool assumption of leadership piqued her and
she felt hurt.

Constantine had been sent for Balt, with instructions to keep on until
he found the fisherman, even if the quest carried him over the range.
During the days of impatient waiting they occupied their time largely
in reconnoitring the nearest cannery, permission to go over which
Cherry had secured from the watchman, who was indebted to her. The man
was timid at first, but Emerson won him over, then proceeded to pump
him dry of information, as he had done with his hostess. He covered the
plant like a ferret; he showed such powers of adaptability and
assimilation as to excite the girl's wonder; his grasp of detail was
instant; his retentive faculty tenacious; he never seemed to rest.

"Why, you already know more about a cannery than a superintendent
does," she remarked, after nearly a week of this. "I believe you could
build one yourself."

He smiled. "I'm an engineer by education, and this is really in my
line. It's the other part that has me guessing."

"Balt can handle that."

"But why doesn't he come?" he questioned, crossly. A score of times he
had voiced his impatience, and Cherry was hard pushed to soothe him.

Nor was she the only one to note the change in him; Fraser followed him
about and looked on in bewilderment.

"What have you done to 'Frozen Annie'?" he asked Cherry on one
occasion. "You must have fed him a speed-ball, for I never saw a guy
gear up so fast. Why, he was the darndest crape-hanger I ever met till
you got him gingered up; he didn't have no more spirit than a sick
kitten. Of course, he ain't what you'd call genial and expansive yet,
but he's developed a remarkable burst of speed, and seems downright
hopeful at times."

"Hopeful of what?"

"Ah! that's where I wander; he's a puzzle to me. Hopeful of making
money, I suppose."

"That isn't it. I can see he doesn't care for the money itself," the
girl declared, emphatically. She would have liked to ask Fraser if he
knew anything about the mysterious beauty of the magazine, but
refrained.

"I don't think so, either," said the man. "He acts more like somebody
was going to ring the gong on him if this fish thing don't let him out.
It seems to be a case bet with him."

"It's a case bet with me, too," said the girl. "My men are ready to
quit, and--well, Willis Marsh will see that I am financially ruined!"

"Oho! So this is your only 'out,'" grinned "Fingerless" Fraser. "Now, I
had a different idea as to why you got Emerson started." He was
observing her shrewdly.

"What idea, pray?"

"Well, talking straight and side-stepping subterfuge, this is a lonely
place for a woman like you, and our mutual friend ain't altogether
unattractive."

Cherry's cheeks flamed, but her tone was icy. "This is entirely a
business matter."

"Hm--m--! I ain't never heard you touted none as a business woman,"
said the adventurer.

"Have you ever heard me"--the color faded from the girl's face, and it
was a trifle drawn--"discussed in _any_ way?"

"You know, Emerson makes me uncomfortable sometimes, he is so damn
moral," Fraser replied, indirectly. "He won't stand for anything off
color. He's a real square guy, he is, the kind you read about."

"You didn't answer my question," insisted Cherry.

Again Fraser evaded the issue. "Now, if this Marsh is going after you
in earnest this summer, why don't you let me stick around here till
spring and look-out your game? I'll drop a monkey-wrench in his
gear-case or put a spider in his dumpling; and it's more than an even
shot that if him and I got to know each other right well, I'd own his
cannery before fall."

"Thank you, I can take care of myself!" said the girl, in a tone that
closed the conversation.

Late one stormy night--Constantine had been gone a week--the two men
whom they were expecting blew in through the blinding smother, half
frozen and well-nigh exhausted, with the marks of hard travel showing
in their sunken cheeks and in the bleeding pads of their dog-team. But
although a hundred miles of impassable trails lay behind them, Balt
refused rest or nourishment until he had learned why Cherry had sent
for him.

"What's wrong?" he demanded of her, staring with suspicious eyes at the
strangers.

As briefly as possible she outlined the situation the while Boyd
Emerson took his measure, for no person quite like this fisherman had
ever crossed the miner's path. He saw a huge, barrel-chested creature
whose tremendous muscles bulged beneath his nondescript garments, whose
red, upstanding bristle of hair topped a leather countenance from which
gleamed a pair of the most violent eyes Emerson had ever beheld, the
dominant expression of which was rage. His jaw was long, and the seams
from nostril and lip, half hidden behind a stiff stubble, gave it the
set of granite. His hands were gnarled and cracked from an age-long
immersion in brine, his voice was hoarse with the echo of drumming
ratlines. He might have lived forty, sixty years, but every year had
been given to the sea, for its breath was in his lungs, its foaming
violence was in his blood.

As the significance of Cherry's words sank into his mind, the signs of
an unholy joy overspread the fisherman's visage; his thick lips writhed
into an evil grin, and his hairy paws continued to open and close
hungrily.

"Do you mean business?" he bellowed at Emerson.

"I do."

"Can you fight?"

"Yes."

"Will you do what I tell you, or have you got a lot of sick notions?"

"No," the young man declared, stoutly, "I have no scruples; but I won't
do what you or anybody else tells me. I'll do what I please. I intend
to run this enterprise absolutely, and run it my way."

"This gang won't stop at anything," warned Balt.

"Neither will I," affirmed the other, with a scowl and a dangerous
down-drawing of his lip corners. "I've _got_ to win, so don't waste
time wondering how far I'll go. What I want to know is if you will join
my enterprise."

The giant uttered a mirthless chuckle. "I'll give my life to it."

"I knew you would," flashed Cherry, her eyes beaming.

"And if we don't beat Willis Marsh, by God, I'll kill him!" Balt
shouted, fully capable of carrying out his threat, for his bloodshot
eyes were lit with bitter hatred and the memory of his wrongs was like
gall in his mouth. Turning to the girl, he said:

"Now give me something to eat. I've been living on dog fish till my
belly is full of bones."

He ripped the ragged parka from his back and flung it in a sodden heap
beside the stove; then strode after her, with the others following.

She seated him at her table and spread food before him--great
quantities of food, which he devoured ravenously, humped over in his
seat like a bear, his jaw hanging close to his plate. His appetite was
as ungoverned as his temper; he did not taste his meal nor note its
character, but demolished whatever fell first to his hand, staring
curiously up from under his thatched brows at Emerson, now and then
grunting some interruption to the other's rapid talk. Of Cherry and of
"Fingerless" Fraser, who regarded him with awe, he took not the
slightest heed. He gorged himself with sufficient provender for four
people; then observing that the board was empty, swept the crumbs and
remnants from his lips, and rose, saying:

"Now, let's go out by the stove. I've been cold for three days."

Cherry left the two of them there, and long after she had gone to bed
she heard the murmur of their voices.

"It's all arranged," they advised her at the breakfast-table. "We leave
to-morrow."

"To-morrow?" she echoed, blankly.

"To-morrow?" likewise questioned Fraser, in alarm. "Oh, say! You can't
do that. My feet are too sore to travel. I've certainly got a bad pair
of 'dogs.'"

"We start in the morning. We have no time to waste."

Cherry turned to the fisherman. "You can't get ready so soon, George."

"I'm ready now," answered the big fellow.

She felt a sudden dread at her heart. What if they failed and did not
return? What if some untoward peril should overtake them on the outward
trip? It was a hazardous journey, and George Balt was the most reckless
man on the Behring coast. She cast a frightened glance at Emerson, but
none of the men noticed it. Even if they had observed the light that
had come into those clear eyes, they would not have known it for the
dawn of a new love any more than she herself realized what her
reasonless fears betokened. She had little time to ponder, however, for
Emerson's next words added to her alarm:

"We'll catch the mail-boat at Katmai."

"Katmai!" she broke in, sharply. "You said you were going by the
Iliamna route."

"The other is shorter."

She turned on Balt, angrily. "You know better than to suggest such a
thing."

"I didn't suggest it," said Balt. "It's Mr. Emerson's own idea; he
insists."

"I'm for the long, safe proposition every time," Fraser announced, as
if settling the matter definitely, languidly filling his pipe.

Boyd's voice broke in curtly upon his revery. "You're not going with
us."

"The hell I ain't!" exploded the other. "Why not?"

"There won't be room. You understand--it's hard travelling with three."

"Oh, see here, now, pal! You promised to take me to the States," the
adventurer demurred. "You wouldn't slough me at this gravel-pit, after
you _promised?"_ He was visibly alarmed.

"Very well," said Emerson, resignedly, "If you feel that way about it,
come along; but I won't take you east of Seattle."

"Seattle ain't so bad," Fraser replied. "I guess I can pick up a pinch
of change there, all right. But Kalvik--Wow!"

"Why do you have to go so soon?" Cherry asked Emerson, when the two
others had left them.

"Because every day counts."

"But why the Katmai route? It's the stormy season, and you may have to
wait two weeks for the mail-boat after you reach the coast."

"Yes; but, on the other hand, if we should miss it by one day, it would
mean a month's delay. She ought to be due in about ten days, so we
can't take any chances."

"I shall be dreadfully worried until I know you are safely over," said
the girl, a new note of wistful tenderness in her voice.

"Nonsense! We've all taken bigger risks before."

"Do you know," she began, hesitatingly, "I've been thinking that
perhaps you'd better not take up this enterprise, after all."

"Why not?" he asked, with an incredulous stare. "I thought you were
enthusiastic on the subject."

"I am--I--believe in the proposition thoroughly," Cherry limped on,
"but--well, I was entirely selfish in getting you started, for it
possibly means my own salvation, but--"

"It's my last chance also," Boyd broke in. "That's only another reason
for you to continue, however. Why have you suddenly weakened?"

"Because I see you don't realize what you are going into," she said,
desperately. "Because you don't appreciate the character of the men you
will clash with. There is actual physical peril attached to this
undertaking, and Marsh won't hesitate to--to do anything under the sun
to balk you. It isn't worth while risking your life for a few dollars."

"Oh, isn't it!" Emerson laughed a trifle harshly. "My dear girl, you
don't know what I am willing to risk for those 'few dollars'; you don't
know what success means to me. Why, if I don't make this thing win,
I'll be perfectly willing to let Marsh wreak his vengeance upon me--I
might even help him."

"Oh no!"

"You may rest assured of one thing: if he is unscrupulous, so shall I
be. If he undertakes to check me, I'll--well, I'll fight fire with
fire."

His face was not pleasant to look at now, and the girl felt an access
of that vague alarm which had been troubling her of late. She saw again
that old light of sullen desperation in the man's eye, and marked with
it a new, dogged, dangerous gleam as of one possessed, which proclaimed
his extreme necessity.

"But what has occurred to make you change your mind?" he asked, causing
the faintest flush to rise in her cheeks.

"A few days ago you were a stranger, now you are a friend," she
replied, steadily. "One's likes and dislikes grow rapidly when they are
not choked by convention. I like you too well to see you do this. You
are too good a man to become the prey of those people. Remember George
Balt."

"Balt hasn't started yet. For the first time he is a real menace to
Willis Marsh."

"Won't you take my advice and reconsider?" urged the girl.

"Listen!" said the young man. "I came to this country with a definite
purpose in mind, and I had three years in which to work it out. I
needed money--God, how I needed money! They may talk about the
emptiness of riches, and tell you that men labor not for the 'kill' but
for the pursuit, not for the score but for the contest. Maybe some of
them do; but with me it was gold I needed, gold I had to have, and I
didn't care much how I got it, so long as I got it honestly. I didn't
crave the pleasure of earning it nor the thrill of finding it; I just
wanted the thing itself, and came up here because I thought the
opportunities were greater here than elsewhere. I'd have gone to the
Sahara or into Thibet just as willingly. I left behind a good many
things to which I had been raised, and forsook opportunities which to
most fellows of my age would seem golden; but I did it eagerly, because
I had only three years of grace and knew I must win in that time. Well,
I went at it. No chance was too desperate, no peril was too great, no
hardship too intense for me. I bent every effort to my task, until mind
and body became sleepless, unresting implements for the working out of
my purpose. I lost all sensibility to effort, to fatigue, to physical
suffering; I forgot all things in the world except my one idea. I
focussed every power upon my desire, but a curse was on me. A curse!
Nothing less.

"At first I took misfortune philosophically; but when it came and slept
with me, I began to rage at it. Month after month, year by year, it
rose with me at dawn and lay down by me at night. Misfortune
beleaguered me and dogged my heels, until it became a thing of
amusement to every one except myself. To me it was terrifying, because
my time was shortening, and the last day of grace was rushing toward me.

"Just to show you what luck I played in:--at Dawson I found a prospect
that would have made most men rich, and although such a thing had never
happened in that particular locality before, it pinched out. I tried
again and again and again, and finally found another mine, only to be
robbed of it by the Canadian laws in such a manner that there wasn't
the faintest hope of my recovering the property. Men told me about
opportunities they couldn't avail themselves of, and, although I did
what they themselves would have done, these chances proved to be
ghastly jokes. I finally shifted from mining to other ventures, and the
town burned. I awoke in a midnight blizzard to see my chance for a
fortune licked up by flames, while the hiss of the water from the
firemen's hose seemed directed at me and the voice of the crowd sounded
like jeers.

"I was among the first at Nome and staked alongside the discoverers,
who undertook to put me in right for once; but although the fellows
around me made fortunes in a day, my ground was barren and my bed-rock
swept clean by that unseen hand which I always felt but could never
avoid. I leased proven properties, only to find that the pay ceased
without reason. I did this so frequently that owners began to refuse me
and came to consider me a thing of evil omen. Once a broken snow-shoe
in a race to the recorder's office lost me a fortune; at another time a
corrupt judge plunged me from certainty to despair, and all the while
my time was growing shorter and I was growing poorer.

"Two hours after the Topkuk strike was made I drove past the shaft, but
the one partner known to me had gone to the cabin to build a fire, and
the other one lied to me, thinking I was a stranger. I heard afterward
that just as I drove away my friend came to the door and called after
me, but the day was bitter, and my ears were muffled with fur, while
the dry snow beneath the runners shrieked so that it drowned his cries.
Me chased me for half a mile to make me rich, but the hand of fate
lashed my dogs faster and faster, while that hellish screeching
outdinned his voice. Six hours later Topkuk was history. You've seen
stampedes--you understand.

"My name became a by-word and caused people to laugh, though they
shrank from me, for miners and sailors are equally superstitious. No
man ever had more opportunities than I, and no man was ever so
miserably unfortunate in missing them. In time I became whipped,
utterly without hope. Yet almost from habit I fought on and on, with my
ears deaf to the voices that mocked me.

"Three years isn't very long as you measure time, but the death-watch
drags, and the priest's prayers are an eternity when the hangman waits
outside. But the time came and passed at length, and I saw my beautiful
breathing dream become a rotting corpse. Still, I struggled along,
until one day something snapped and I gave up--for all time. I
realized, as you said, that I was 'miscast,' that I had never been of
this land, so I was headed for home. Home!" Emerson smiled bitterly.
"The word doesn't mean anything to me now, but anyhow I was headed for
God's country, an utter failure, in a worse plight than when I came
here, when you put this last chance in front of me. It may be another
_ignis fatuus_, such as the others I have pursued, for I have been
chasing rainbows now for three years, and I suppose I shall go on
chasing them; but as long as there is a chance left, I can't quit--I
_can't_. And something tells me that I have left that ill-omened thing
behind at last, and I am going to win!"

Cherry had listened eagerly to this bitter tirade, and was deeply
touched by the pathos of the youth's sense of failure. His poignant
pessimism, however, only seemed to throw into relief the stubborn
fixedness of his dominant purpose. The moving cause of it all, whatever
it was--and it could only be a woman--aroused a burning curiosity in
her, and she said:

"But you're too late. You say your time was up some time ago."

"Perhaps," he returned, staring into the distances. "That's what I was
going out to ascertain. I thought I might have a few days of grace
allowed me." He turned his eyes directly upon her, and concluded, in a
matter-of-fact tone: "That's why I can't quit, now that you've set me
in motion again, now that you've given me another chance. That's why we
leave to-morrow and go by way of the Katmai Pass."





CHAPTER VI

WHEREIN BOREAS TAKES A HAND


All that day the men busied themselves in preparation for the start.
Balt was ferociously exultant, Emerson was boiling with impatience,
while Fraser, whose calm nothing disturbed, slept most of the time,
observing that this was his last good bed for a while, and therefore he
wished to make it work.

Beneath her quiet cheerfulness, Cherry nursed a forlorn heart; for when
these men were gone she would be left alone and friendless again,
buried in the heart of an inaccessible wilderness, given over to her
fears and the intrigues of her enemies. She had eyes mainly for
Emerson, and although in her glance there was good-fellowship, in her
heart was hot resentment--first at him because he had awakened in her
the warm interest she felt for him, and, second, at herself for
harboring any such interest. Why should this self-centred youth,
wrapped up in his own affairs to her own utter exclusion, give her
cause to worry? Why should she allow him to step into her quiet life
and upset her well-ordered existence?

"How do you like him?" she asked Balt, once.

"He's my style, all right," said the big man. "He's desp'rate, and
he'll fight; that's what I want--somebody that won't blench at anything
when the time comes." He ground his teeth, and his red eyes flamed,
reflecting the sense of injury that seared his brain. "What he don't
know about the business, I do, and we'll make it win. But, say, ain't
he awful at asking questions? My head aches and my back is lame from
answering him. Seems like he remembers it all, too."

Goaded by the wrong he had suffered, and almost maniacal in his
eagerness for the coming struggle, the giant's frenzy told Cherry that
the fight would be an unrelenting one, and again a vague tremor of
regret at having drawn this youth into the affair crept over her and
sharpened the growing pain at her heart.

During the evening Emerson left the two other men in the store, and,
seeking her out in the little parlor, asked her to play for him. She
consented gladly, and, as on their first evening together, he sang with
her. Again the blending of their voices brought them closer, his
aloofness wore off, and he became an agreeable, accomplished companion
whose merry wit and boyish sympathy stirred emotions in the girl that
threatened her peace of mind. This had been the only companionship with
her own kind she had enjoyed for months, and with his melting mood came
a softening of her own nature, in which she appeared before him
gracious and irresistible. Banteringly, and rising out of his elation,
he tried to please her, and, in the same spirit that calls the bird to
its mate, she responded. It was their last hour together before
embarking on his perilous journey in search of the Golden Fleece, and
his starved affections clamored for sympathy, while the iron in his
blood felt the magnetic propinquity of sex. When he said good-night it
was with a wholly new conception of his hostess, and of her power to
charm as well as manage men and affairs; but he could well have
dispensed with an uncomfortable feeling that came over him as he
reviewed the events of the evening over a last pipe, that he had been
playing with fire. For her part, she lay awake far into the morning
hours, now blissfully floating on the current of half-formed desires,
now vaguely fearing some dread that clutched her.

The good-byes were brief and commonplace; there was time for nothing
more, for the dogs were straining to be off and the December air bit
fiercely. But Cherry called Emerson aside, and in a rather tremulous
voice begged him again to consider well this enterprise before finally
committing himself to it. "If this were any other country, if there
were any law up here or any certainty of getting a square deal, I'd
never say a word, I'd urge you to go the limit. But--"

He was about to laugh off her fears as he had done before, when the
plaintive wrinkle between her brows and the forlorn droop of her lips
stayed him. Without thought of consequences, and prompted largely by
his leaping spirits, he stooped and, before she could divine his
purpose, kissed her.

"Good-bye!" he laughed, with dancing eyes. "That's my answer!" and the
next second was at the sled. The dogs leaped at his shout, and the
cavalcade was in motion.

The others had not observed his leave-taking, and now cried a final
farewell; but the girl stood without sound or gesture, bareheaded under
the wintry sky, a startled, wondering light in her eyes which did not
fade until the men were lost to view far up the river trail. Then she
breathed deeply and turned into the house, oblivious to Constantine and
the young squaw, who held the sick baby up for her inspection.

The hazards of winter travel in the North are manifold at best, but the
country which Emerson and his companions had to traverse was
particularly perilous, owing to the fact that their course led them
over the backbone of the great Alaskan Range, that desolate,
skyscraping rampart which interposes itself between the hate of the
Arctic seas and the tossing wilderness of the North Pacific. This range
forms a giant, ice-armored tusk thrust out to the westward and curved
like the horn of an African rhino, its tip pointed eight hundred miles
toward the Asiatic coast, its soaring peaks veiled in perpetual mist
and volcanic fumes, its slopes agleam with lonely ice-fields. It is a
saw-toothed ridge, for the most part narrow, unbroken, and cruel, and
the rival winter gales roar over it in a never-ceasing war. On the
north lies the Forgotten Land, to the south are the tempered reaches of
the Pacific. In summer the stern sweep of rock and tundra is soaked
with weeping rains, and given over to the herding caribou or the great
grass-eating bear; but when from the polar regions the white hand of
winter stretches forth, the grieving seas lift themselves, the rain
turns to bitter, hail-burdened hurricanes that charge and retreat in a
death-dealing conflict, sheathing the barrier anew, and confounding the
hearts of men on land and sea. The coast is unlighted and badly mapped,
hence the shore is a graveyard for ships, while through the guts, which
at intervals penetrate the range, the blizzards screech until
travellers burrow into drifts to avoid their fury or lie out in stiff
sleeping-bags exposed to their anger. It is a region of sudden storms,
a battle-ground of the elements, which have swept it naked of cover in
ages past, and it is peopled scantily by handfuls of coughing natives,
whose igloos are hidden in hollows or chained to the ground with cables
and ship's gear.

It was thither the travellers were bound, headed toward Katmai Pass,
which is no more than a gap between peaks, through which the hibernal
gales suck and swirl. This pass is even balder than the surrounding
barrens, for it forms a funnel at each end, confining the winds and
affording them freer course. Notwithstanding the fact that it had an
appalling death-list and was religiously shunned, Emerson would hearken
to no argument for a safer route, insisting that they could spare no
time for detours. Nothing dampened his spirits, no hardship daunted
him; he was tireless, ferocious in his haste.

A week of hard travel found them camped in the last fringe of
cottonwood that fronted the glacial slopes, their number augmented now
by a native from a Russian village with an unpronounceable name, who,
at the price of an extortionate bribe, had agreed to pilot them
through. For three days they lay idle, the taut walls of their tent
thrumming to an incessant fusillade of ice particles that whirled down
ahead of the blast, while Emerson fumed to be gone.

The fourth morning broke still and quiet; but, after a careful scrutiny
of the peaks, the Indian shook his head and spoke to Balt, who nodded
in agreement.

"What's the matter?" growled Emerson. "Why don't we get under way?" But
the other replied:

"Not to-day. Them tips are smoking, see!" He indicated certain gauzy
streamers that floated like vapor from the highest pinnacles. "That's
snow, dry snow, and it shows that the wind is blowing up there. We
dassent tackle it."

"Do you mean we must lie here waiting for an absolutely calm day?"

"Exactly."

"Why, it may be a week!"

"It may be two of them; then, again, it may be all right to-morrow."

"Nonsense! That breeze won't hurt anybody."

"Breeze!" Balt laughed. "It's more like a tornado up yonder. No, we've
just got to take it easy till the right moment comes, and then make a
dash. It's thirty miles to the nearest stick of timber; and once you
get into the Pass, you can't stop till you're through."

Still unconvinced, and surly at the delay, Emerson resigned himself,
while Balt saw to their sled, tended the dogs, and made final
preparations. "Fingerless" Fraser lay flat on his back and nursed a
pair of swollen tendons that had been galled by his snowshoe thongs,
reviling at the fortune that had cast him into such inhospitable
surroundings, heaping anathemas upon the head of him who had invented
snowshoes, complaining of everything in general, from the indigestible
quality of baking-powder bread to the odor of the guide who crouched
stolidly beside the stove, feeding it with green willows and twisted
withes.

The next dawn showed the mountain peaks limned like clean-cut ivory
against the steel-blue sky, and as they crept up through the defiles
the air was so motionless that the smoke of their pipes hung about
their heads, while the creak of their soles upon the dry surface of the
snow roused echoes from the walls on either side. At first their
progress was rapid, but in time the drifts grew deeper, and they came
to bluffs where they were forced to notch footholds, unpack their load
and relay it to the top, then free the dogs, and haul the sled up with
a rope, hand over hand. These labors, besides being intensely
fatiguing, delayed them considerably, added to which the higher
altitudes were covered with a soft eider-down that reached nearly to
their knees and shoved ahead of the sled in great masses. Thus they
dragged their burden through instead of over it.

By mid-day they had gained the summit, and found themselves in the
heart of a huge desolation, hedged in by a chaos of peaks and
pinnacles, the snows unbroken by twig or bush, untracked by living
sign. Here and there the dark face of some white-cowled rock or cliff
scowled at them, and although they were drenched with sweat and parched
from thirst, nowhere was there the faintest tinkle of running water,
while the dry powder under foot scratched their throats like iron
filings when they turned to it for relief. All were jaded and silent,
save Emerson, who urged them on incessantly.

It was early in the afternoon when the Indian stopped and began testing
the air; Balt also seemed suddenly to scent a change in the atmospheric
conditions.

"What's wrong now?" Emerson asked, gruffly.

"Feels like wind," answered the big man, with a shake of his head. The
native began to chatter excitedly, and as they stood there a chill
draught fanned their cheeks. Glancing upward at the hillsides, they saw
that the air was now thickened as if by smoke, and, dropping their
eyes, they saw the fluff beneath their feet stir lazily. Little wisps
of snow-vapor began to dance upon the ridges, whisking out of sight as
suddenly as they appeared. They became conscious of a sudden fall in
the temperature, and they knew that the cold of interstellar space
dwelt in that ghostly breath which smote them. Before they were well
aware of the ominous significance of these signs the storm was upon
them, sweeping through the chute wherein they stood with rapidly
increasing violence. The terrible, unseen hand of the Frozen North had
unleashed its brood of furies, and the air rang with their hideous
cries. It was Dante's third circle of hell let loose--Cerberus baying
through his wide, threefold throat, and the voices of tormented souls
shrilling through the infernal shades. It came from behind them,
lifting the fur on the backs of the wolf-dogs and filling it with
powder, pelting their hides with sharp particles until they refused to
stand before it, and turned and crouched with flattened ears in the
shelter of the sled. In an instant the wet faces of the men were dried
and their steaming garments hardened to shells, while their blood began
to move more sluggishly.

Fraser shouted something, but Emerson's whipping garments drowned the
words, and without waiting to ascertain what the adventurer had said
the young man ran forward and cut the dogs loose, while Balt and the
guide fell to unlashing the sled, the tails of their parkas meanwhile
snapping like boat sails, their cap strings streaming. As they freed
the last knot the hurricane ripped the edge of the tarpaulin from their
clumsy fingers, and, seizing a loosely folded blanket belonging to the
native, snatched it away. The fellow clutched wildly at it, but the
cloth sailed ahead of the blast as if on wings, then, dropping to the
surface of the snow, opened out, whereupon some twisting current bore
it aloft again, and it swooped down the hill like a great bat, followed
by a wail of despair from the owner. Other loose articles on the top of
the load were picked up like chaff--coffee pot, frying pan, and
dishes--then hurtled away like charges of canister, rolling, leaping,
skipping down into the swale ahead, then up over the next ridge and out
of sight. But the men were too fiercely beset by the confusion to
notice their loss. There was no question of facing the wind, for it was
more cruel than the fierce breath of an open furnace, searing the naked
flesh like a flame.

All the morning the air had hung in perfect poise, but some change of
temperature away out over one of the rival oceans had upset the
aerostatic balance, and the wind tore through this gap like the torrent
below a broken reservoir.

The contour of the surrounding hills altered, the whole country took on
a different aspect, due to the rapid charging of the atmosphere, the
limits of vision grew shorter and strangely distorted. Although as yet
the snows were barely beginning to move, the men knew they would
shortly be forced to grope their way through dense clouds that would
blot out every landmark, and the touch of which would be like the
stroke of a red-hot rasp.

Balt came close to Emerson, and bellowed into his ear:

"What shall we do? Roll up in the bedding or run for it?"

"How far is it to timber?"

"Twelve or fifteen miles."

"Let's run for it! We're out of grub, anyhow, and this may last for
days."

There was no use of trying to secure additional clothing from the
supply in the sled, so they abandoned their outfit and allowed
themselves to be driven ahead of the storm, trusting to the native's
sense of direction and keeping close together. The dogs were already
well drifted over, and refused to stir.

Once they were gone a stone's throw from the sled there was no turning
back, and although the wind was behind them progress was difficult, for
they came upon chasms which they had to avoid; they crossed slippery
slopes, where the storm had bared the hard crust and which their feet
refused to grip. In such places they had to creep on hands and knees,
calling to one another for guidance. They were numbed, blinded, choked
by the rage of the blizzard; their faces grew stiff, and their lungs
froze. At times they fell, and were skidded along ahead of the blasts.
This forced them to crawl back again, for they dared not lose their
course. At one place they followed a hog-back, where the rocks came to
a sharp ridge like the summit of a roof, this they bestrode, inching
along a foot at a time, wearing through the palms of their mittens and
chafing their garments. No cloth could withstand the roughened
surfaces, and in time the bare flesh of their hands became exposed, but
there was little sensation, and no time for rest or means of relief.
Soon they began to leave blood stains behind them.

All four men were old in the ways of the North, and, knowing their
present extremity, they steeled themselves to suffering, but their
tortures were intense, not the least of which was thirst. Exhaustion
comes quickly under such conditions.

Much has been written concerning the red man's physical powers of
endurance, but as a rule no Indian is the equal of his white brother,
due as much perhaps to lack of mental force as to generations of
insufficient clothing and inanition, so it was not surprising that as
the long afternoon dragged to a close the Aleut guide began to weaken.
He paused with more frequency, and it required more effort to start
him; he fell oftener and rose with more difficulty, but the others were
dependent upon his knowledge of the trail, and could not take the lead.

Darkness found them staggering on, supporting him wherever possible. At
length he became unable to guide them farther, and Balt, who had once
made the trip, took his place, while the others dragged the poor
creature along at the cost of their precious strength.

At one time he begged them to leave him, and both Balt and "Fingerless"
Fraser agreed, but Emerson would have none of it.

"He'll die, anyhow," argued the fisherman.

"He's as good as dead now," supplemented Fraser, "and we may be ten
miles from timber."

"I made him come, and I'll take him through," said Emerson, stubbornly;
and so they crawled their weary way, sore beset with their dragging
burden. Slow at best, their advance now became snail-like, for darkness
had fallen, and threatened to blot them out. It betrayed them down
declivities, up and out of which they had to dig their way. In such
descents they were forced to let go the helpless man, whose body rolled
ahead of them like a boneless sack; but these very mishaps helped to
keep the spark of life in him, for at every disheartening pause the
others rubbed and pounded him, though they knew that their efforts were
hopeless, and would have been better spent upon themselves.

Fraser, never a strong man, gave out in time, and it looked as if he
might overtax the powers of the other two, but Balt's strength was that
of a bull, while Emerson subsisted on his nerve, fairly consuming his
soul.

They grew faint and sick, and knew themselves to be badly frozen; but
their leader spurred them on, draining himself in the effort. For the
first time Emerson realized that the adventurer had been a drag on him
ever since their meeting.

They had long since lost all track of time and place, trusting blindly
to a downward course. The hurricane still harried them with unabated
fury, when all at once they came to another bluff where the ground fell
away abruptly. Without waiting to investigate whether the slope
terminated in a drift or a precipice, they flung themselves over. Down
they floundered, the two half-insensible men tangled together as if in
a race for total oblivion, only to plunge through a thicket of willow
tops that whipped and stung them. On they went, now vastly heartened,
over another ridge, down another declivity, and then into a grove of
spruce timber, where the air suddenly stilled, and only the tree-tops
told of the rushing wind above.

It was well-nigh an hour before Balt and Emerson succeeded in starting
a fire, for it was desperate work groping for dry branches, and they
themselves were on the verge of collapse before the timid blaze finally
showed the two more unfortunate ones huddled together.

Cherry had given Emerson a flask of liquor before starting, and this he
now divided between Fraser and the guide, having wisely refused it to
them until shelter was secured. Then he melted snow in Balt's tin cup
and poured pints of hot water into the pair until the adventurer began
to rally; but the Aleut was too far gone, and an hour before the
laggard dawn came he died.

They walked Fraser around the fire all night, threshing his tortured
body and fighting off their own deadly weariness, meanwhile absorbing
the insufficient heat of the flames.

When daylight came they tried hard to lash the corpse into a
spruce-top, but their strength was unequal to the task, and they were
forced to leave the body to the mercy of the wolves as they turned
their faces expectantly down the valley toward the village.

The day was well spent when they struggled into Katmai and plodded up
to a half-rotted log store, the roof of which was protected from the
winter gales by two anchor chains passed over the ridge and made fast
to posts well buried in the ground. A globular, quarter-breed Russian
trader, with eyes so crossed that he could distinguish nothing at a
yard's distance, took them in and administered to their most crying
needs, then dispatched an outfit for the guide's body.

The initial stage of the journey, Emerson realized with thanksgiving,
was over. As soon as he was able to talk he inquired straightway
concerning the mail-boat.

"She called here three days ago, bound west," said the trader.

"That's all right. She'll be back in about a week, eh?"

"No; she won't stop here coming back. Her contract don't call for it."

"What!" Emerson felt himself sickening.

"No, she won't call here till next month; and then if it's storming
she'll go on to the westward, and land on her way back."

"How long will that be?"

"Maybe seven or eight weeks."

In his weakened condition the young man groped for the counter to
support himself. So the storm's delay at the foot of the Pass had
undone him! Fate, in the guise of Winter, had unfurled those floating
snow-banners from the mountain peaks to thwart him once more! Instead
of losing the accursed thing that had hung over him these past three
years, it had merely redoubled its hold; that mocking power had held
the bait of Tantalus before his eyes, only to hurl him back into
hopeless despair; for, figuring with the utmost nicety, he had reckoned
that there was just time to execute his mission, and even a month's
delay would mean certain failure. He turned hopelessly toward his two
companions, but Fraser had relapsed into a state of coma, while Big
George was asleep beside the stove.

For a long time he stood silent and musing, while the fat storekeeper
regarded him stupidly; then he fumbled with clumsy fingers at his
breast, and produced the folded page of a magazine. He held it for a
time without opening it; then crushed it slowly in his fist, and flung
the crumpled ball into the open coals.

He sighed heavily, and turned upon the trader a frost-blackened
countenance, out of which all the light had gone.

"Give us beds," he said; "we want to sleep."





CHAPTER VII

AND NEPTUNE TAKES ANOTHER


Out of consideration for his companions, Emerson did not acquaint them
with the evil tidings until the next morning; moreover, he was
swallowed up in black despair, and had no heart left in him for any
further exertion. He had allowed the Russian to show him to a bed, upon
which he flung himself, half dressed, while the others followed suit.
But he was too tired to sleep. His nerves had been filed to such a fine
edge that slumber became a process which required long hours of
coaxing, during which he tossed restlessly, a prey to those hideous
nightmares that lurk on the border-land of dreams. His distorted
imagination flung him again and again into the agonizing maelstrom of
the last thirty-six hours, and in his waking moments the gaunt spectre
of failure haunted him. This was no new apparition, but never before
had it appeared so horrible as now. He was too worn out to rave, his
strength was spent, and his mind wandered hither and thither like a
rudderless ship. So he lay staring into the dark with dull, tragic
eyes, utterly inert, his body racked by a thousand pains.

Nor did "Fingerless" Fraser meet with better fortune. He found little
rest or sleep, and burdened the night with his groanings. His condition
called for the frequent attendance of the trader, who ministered to his
needs with the ease and certainty of long practice, rousing him now and
then to give him nourishment, and redressing his frozen members when
necessary. As for Balt, he slept like an Eskimo dog, wrapped in the
senseless trance of complete physical relaxation. Being a creature of
no imagination, he had taxed nothing beyond his body, which was capable
of tremendous resistance, wherefore he escaped the nerve-racking
torment and mental distress of the others.

As warmth and repose gradually adjusted the balance between mind and
body, Emerson fell into a deep sleep, and it was late in the day when
he awoke, every muscle aching, every joint stiff, every step attended
with pain. He found his companions up and already breakfasted, Big
George none the worse for his ordeal, while Fraser, bandaged and
smarting, was his old shrewd self. Emerson's first inquiry was for the
body of the guide.

"They brought him in this morning," answered the fisherman. "He's in
cold storage at the church. When the priest comes over next month
they'll bury him."

"He was a right nice feller," said Fraser, "but I'm glad I ain't in his
mukluks. If you two hadn't stuck to me--well, him and me would have
done a brother act at this church festival."

"How are your frost-bites?" Emerson asked, seating himself with painful
care.

"Fine--all but the bum hook." He held up his crippled hand, which was
well bandaged. "However, I guess I can save my gun-finger, so all is
not lost."

"Have you heard about the mail-boat?"

"No."

"We've missed her."

"What d'you mean?" demanded Big George, blankly.

"I mean that the storm delayed us just long enough to ruin us."

"Why--er--let's wait till the next trip," offered the fisherman.

Emerson shook his head. "She may not be back here for eight weeks. No!
We're done for."

Balt was like a big boy in distress. His face wrinkled as if he were
about to burst into loud lamentations; then a thought seized him.

"I'll tell you what we'll do!" he cried, with a heavy attempt at
meeting the problem. "We'll put off the scheme for a year. We'll take
plenty of time, and open up a year from next spring."

"No," said Emerson, with a dejected shake of the head. "If I can't put
it through on the flash, I can't do it at all. My time is up. I'm down
and out. All our pretty plans have gone to smash. You'd better go back
to Kalvik, George."

At this suggestion, Balt rose ponderously and began to rave. To see his
vengeance slip from his grasp enraged him. He cursed shockingly,
clinching his great fists above his head, and grinding forth
imprecations which caused Fraser to quail and cry out aghast:

"Hey, you! Quit that! D'you want to hang a Jonah onto us?"

But the fisherman only goaded himself into a greater passion, during
which Petellin, the storekeeper, entered, and forthwith began to cross
himself devoutly. Observing this fervent pantomime, Balt turned upon
the trader and directed his outburst at him:

"Where in hell is this steamer?"

"Out to the westward somewhere."

"Well, she's a mail-boat, ain't she? Then why don't she stop here
coming back? Answer me!"

The rotund man shrugged his fat shoulders. "She's got to call at Uyak
Bay going east."

Emerson looked up quickly, "Where is Uyak Bay?"

"Over on Kodiak Island," Big George answered; then turned again to vent
his spleen on the trader.

"What right have them steamboat people got to cut out this place for an
empty cannery? Why, there ain't nobody at Uyak. It's more of that
damned Company business. They own this whole country, and run it to
suit themselves."

"She ain't my boat," said Petellin. "You'd ought to have got here a few
days sooner."

"My God! I'm sorry we waited at the Pass," said Emerson. "The weather
couldn't have been any worse that first day than it was when we came
across."

Detecting in this remark a criticism of his caution, Big George turned
about and faced the speaker; but as he met Emerson's eye he checked the
explosion, and, seizing his cap, bolted out into the cold to walk off
his mad rage.

"When is the boat due at Uyak?" Emerson asked.

"'Most any time inside of a week."

"How far is that from here?"

"It ain't so far--only about fifty miles." Then, catching the light
that flamed into the miner's eyes, Petellin hastened to observe: "But
you can't get there. It's across the Straits--Shelikof Straits."

"What of that! We can hire a sail-boat, and--"

"I ain't got any sail-boat. I lost my sloop last year hunting
sea-otter."

"We can hire a small boat of _some_ sort, can't we, and get the natives
to put us across? There must be plenty of boats here."

"Nothing but skin boats, kyaks, and bidarkas--you know. Anyhow, you
couldn't cross at this time of year--it's too stormy; these Straits is
the worst piece of water on the coast. No, you'll have to wait."

Emerson sank back into his chair, and stared hopelessly at the fire.

"Better have some breakfast," the trader continued; but the other only
shook his head. And after a farewell squint of curiosity, the fat man
rolled out again in pursuit of his duties.

"I've heard tell of these Shelikof Straits," Fraser remarked. "I bunked
with a bear-hunter from Kodiak once, and he said they was certainly
some hell in winter." When Emerson made no reply, the fellow's
colorless eyes settled upon him with a trace of solicitude, and he
resumed: "I'm doggone sorry you lost out, pal, but mebbe something'll
turn up yet." Then, seeing that the young man was deaf to his
condolence, he muttered: "So, you've got 'em again, eh? Um!" As usual
on such occasions, he fell into his old habit of reading aloud, as it
were, an imaginary scene to himself:

"'Yes, I've got 'em again,' says Mr. Emerson, always eager to give
entertainment with the English language. 'I am indeed blue this
afternoon. Won't you talk to me? I feel that the sound of a dear
friend's voice will drive dull care away.'

"'Gladly,' says I; 'I am a silent man by birth and training, and my
thoughts is jewels, but for you, I'll scatter them at large, and you
can take your pick. Now, this salmon business ain't what it's cracked
up to be, after all. It's a smelly proposition, no matter how you take
it, and a fisherman ain't much better than a Reub; ask any wise guy.
I'd rather see you in some profesh that don't stink so, like selling
scented soap. There was a feller at Dyea who done well at it. What
think you?'

"'It's a dark night without,' says Mr. Emerson, 'and I fear some
mischief is afoot!'

"'But what of yonder beauteous--'"

Unheeding this chatter, the disheartened man got up at this juncture,
as if a sudden thought impelled him, and followed Balt out into the
cold. He turned down the bank to the creek, however, and made a careful
examination of all the canoes that went with the village. Fifteen
minutes later he had searched out the disgruntled fisherman, and cried,
excitedly:

"I've got it! We'll catch that boat yet!"

"How?" growled the big man, sourly.

"There's a large open skin-boat, an oomiak, down on the beach. We'll
hire a crew of Indians to put us across to Uyak."

"Can't be done," said Big George, still gruffly. "It's the wrong
season. You know the Shelikof Straits is a bad place even for
steamships at this time of year. They're like that Pass up yonder, only
worse."

"But it's only fifty miles across."

"Fifty miles of that kind of water in an open canoe may be just as bad
as five hundred--unless you're lucky. And I ain't noticed anything so
damned lucky about us."

"Well, it's that or nothing. It's our only chance. Are you game?"

"Come on," cried Big George, "let's find Petellin!"

When that worthy heard their desire, he uttered a shriek of denial.

"In summer, yes, but now--you can't do it. It has been tried too often.
The Straits is always rough, and the weather is too cold to sit all day
in an oomiak, you'd freeze."

"We'll chance it."

"No, _no_, NO! If it comes on to storm, you'll go to sea. The tides are
strong; you can't see your course, and--"

"We'll use a compass. Now, you get me enough men to handle that oomiak,
that's a good fellow. I'll attend to the rest."

"But they won't go," declared the little fat man. "They know what it
means. Why--"

"Call them in. I'll do the talking." And accordingly the storekeeper
went in search of the village chief, shaking his head and muttering at
the madness of these people.

"Fingerless" Fraser, noticing the change in Balt and Emerson when they
re-entered the store, questioned them as to what had happened; and in
reply to his inquiry, Big George said:

"We're going to tackle the Straits in a small boat."

"What! Not on your life! Why, that's the craziest stunt I ever heard
of. Don't you know--"

"Yes, we know," Emerson shut him up, brusquely. "You don't have to go
with us."

"Well, I should say not. Hunh! Do I look like I'd do a thing like that?
If I do, it's because I'm sick. I just got this far by a gnat's
eyelash, and hereinafter I take the best of it every time."

"You can wait for the mail-boat."

"I certainly can, and, what's more, I will. And I'll register myself,
too. There ain't goin' to be any accidents to me whatever."

Although the two men were pleased at the remote chance of catching the
steamer, their ardor received a serious set-back when the trader came
in with the head man of the village and a handful of hunters, for
Emerson found that money was quite powerless to tempt them. Using the
Russian as interpreter, he coaxed and wheedled, increasing his offer
out of all proportion to the exigencies of the occasion; and still
finding them obdurate, in despair he piled every coin he owned upon the
counter. But the men only shook their heads and palavered among
themselves.

"They say it's too cold," translated Petellin. "They will freeze, and
money is no good to dead men." Another native spoke: "'It is very
stormy this month,' they say. 'The waves would sink an open boat.'"

"Then they can put us across in bidarkas," insisted Emerson, who had
noted the presence of several of these smaller crafts, which are
nothing more than long walrus-hide canoes completely decked over, save
for tiny cockpits wherein the paddlers sit. "They don't have to come
back that way; they can wait at Uyak for the next trip of the steamer.
Why, I'm offering them more pay than they can make in ten years."

"Better get them to do it," urged Big George. "You'll get the coin all
back from them; they'll have to trade here." But Petellin's arguments
were as ineffective as Emerson's, and after an hour's futile haggling
the natives were about to leave when Emerson said:

"Ask them what they'll take to sell me a bidarka."

"One hundred dollars," Petellin told him, after an instant's parley.

Emerson turned to George. "Will you tackle it alone with me?"

The fisherman hesitated. "Two of us couldn't make it. Get a third man,
and I'll go you." Accordingly Emerson resumed the subject with the
Indians, but now their answer was short and decisive. Not one of them
would venture forth unless accompanied by one of his own kind, in whose
endurance and skill with a paddle he had confidence. It seemed as if
fate had laid one final insurmountable obstacle in the path of the two
white men, when "Fingerless" Fraser, who had been a silent witness of
the whole scene, spoke up, in his voice a bitter complaint:

"Well, that puts it up to me, I suppose. I'm always the fall guy, damn
it!"

"_You!_ You go!" cried Emerson, astounded beyond measure at this offer,
and still doubting. The fellow had so consistently shirked every
hardship, and so systematically refused every hazard, no matter how
slight!

"Well, I don't _want_ to," Fraser flared up, "you can just lay a bet on
that. But these Siwashes won't stand the gaff, they're too wise; so
I've _got_ to, ain't I?" He glared belligerently from one to the other.

"Can you handle a boat?" demanded Big George.

"Can I handle a--Hunh!" sniffed the fellow. "Say, just because you've
got corns on your palms as big as pancakes, you needn't think you're
the only human that ever pulled an oar. I was the first man through
Miles Canon. During the big rush in '98 I ran the rapids for a living.
I got fifty dollars a trip, and it only took me three minutes by the
watch. That was the only easy money I ever picked up. Why, them
tenderfeet used to cry like babies when they got a peek at them rapids.
Can I handle a b----Yes, and I wish I was back there right now instead
of hitched up with a pair of yaps that don't know when they're well
off."

"But, look here, Fraser," Emerson spoke up, "I don't think you are
strong enough for this trip. It may take us forty-eight hours of
constant paddling against wind and tide to make Uyak. George and I are
fit enough, but you know you aren't--"

"Fingerless" Fraser turned violently upon the speaker.

"Now, for Heaven's sake, cut that out, will you? Just because you
happened to give me a little lift on this cussed Katmai Pass, I s'pose
you'll never get done throwing it up to me. My feet were sore; that's
why I petered out. If it hadn't been for my bum 'dogs' I'd have walked
both of you down; but they were sore. Can't you understand? _My feet
were sore._"

He was whining now, and this unexpected angle of the man's disposition
completely confused the others and left them rather at a loss what to
say. But before they could make any comment, he rose stiffly and blazed
forth:

"But I won't start to-day. I hurt too much, and my mits is froze. If
you want to wait till I'm healed up so I can die in comfort, why, go
ahead and buy that fool-killer boat, and we'll all commit suicide
together." He stumped indignantly out of the room, his friends too
greatly dumfounded even to smile.

For the next two days the men rested, replenishing their strength; but
Fraser developed a wolfish temper which turned him into a veritable
chestnut burr. There was no handling him. His scars were not deep nor
his hurts serious, however, so by the afternoon of the second day he
announced, with surly distemper, that he would be ready to leave on the
following morning, and the others accordingly made preparation for an
early start. They selected the most seaworthy canoe, which at best was
a treacherous craft, and stocked it well with water, cooked food, and
stimulants.

Since their arrival at Katmai the weather had continued calm; and
although the view they had through the frowning headlands showed the
Straits black and angry, they prayed that the wind would hold off for
another twenty-four hours. Again Petellin importuned them to forego
this journey, and again they turned deaf ears to his entreaties and
retired early, to awaken with the rickety log store straining at its
cables under the force of a blizzard that had blotted out the mountains
and was rousing the sea to fury. Fraser openly rejoiced, and Balt's
heavy brows, which had carried a weight of trouble, cleared; but
Emerson was plunged into as black a mood as that of the storm which had
swallowed up the landscape. For three days the tempest held them
prisoners, then died as suddenly as it had arisen; but the surf
continued to thunder upon the beach for many hours, while Emerson
looked on with hopeless, sullen eyes. When at last they did set out--a
week, to a day, from their arrival at Katmai--it was to find such a
heavy sea running outside the capes that they had hard shift to make it
back to the village, drenched, dispirited, and well-nigh dead from the
cold and fatigue. Although Fraser had fully recovered from his
collapse, he nevertheless complained upon every occasion, and whined
loudly at every ache. He voiced his tortures eloquently, and bewailed
the fate that had brought his fortunes to such an ebb, burdening the
air so heavily with his complaints that Big George broke out, in
exasperation:

"Shut up! You don't have to go with us! I'd rather tackle it alone than
listen to you!"

"That's right," agreed Emerson, whose patience was also worn out by the
rogue's unceasing jeremiad. "We'll try it without him to-morrow."

"Oh, you will, will you?" snorted Fraser, indignantly. "So, after me
getting well on purpose to make this trip, you want to dump me here
with this fat man. I'll stand as much as anybody, but I won't stand for
no deal like that. No, sir! You said I could go, and I'm going. Why,
I'd rather drown than stick in this burgh with that greasy Russian
porpoise. Gee! this is a shine village."

"Then take your medicine like a man, and quit kicking."

"If you prefer to swallow your groans, you do it. I like to make a fuss
when I suffer. I enjoy it more that way."

Again Petellin called them at daylight, and they were off; this time
with better success, for the waves had abated sufficiently for them to
venture beyond the partial shelter of the bay. All three knew the
desperate chance they were taking, and they spoke little as they made
their way out into the Straits. Their craft was strange to them, and
the positions they were forced to occupy soon brought on cramped
muscles. The bidarka is a frail, narrow framework over which is
stretched walrus skin, and it is so fashioned that the crew sits, one
behind the other, in circular openings with legs straight out in front.
To keep themselves dry each man had donned a native water garment--a
loose, hooded shirt manufactured from the bladders of seals. These
shirts--or kamlikas, as they are called--are provided with draw-strings
at wrists, face, and bottom, so that when the skirt is stretched over
the rim of the cockpit and corded tight, it renders the canoe well-nigh
waterproof, even though the decks are awash.

The whole contrivance is peculiarly aboriginal and unsuited to the uses
of white men; and, while unusually seaworthy, the bidarka requires more
skill in the handling than does a Canadian birch bark, hence the wits
of the three travellers were taxed to the utmost.

Out across the lonesome waste they journeyed, steadily creeping farther
from the village, which of a sudden seemed a very safe and desirable
place, with its snug store, its blazing fires, and its warm beds. The
sea tossed them like a cork, coating their paddles and the decks of the
canoe with ice, which they were at great pains to break off. It wet
them in spite of their precautions, and its salt breath searched out
their marrow, regardless of their unceasing labors; and these labors
were in truth unceasing, for fifty miles of open water lay before them;
fifty miles, which meant twelve hours of steady paddling. Gradually,
imperceptibly, the mountain shores behind them shrank down upon the
gray horizon. It seemed that for once the weather was going to be kind
to them, and their spirits rose in consequence. They ate frequently,
food being the great fuel of the North, and midday found them well out
upon the heaving bosom of the Straits with the Kodiak shores plainly
visible. Then, as if tired of toying with them, the wind rose. It did
not blow up a gale--merely a frigid breath that cut them like steel and
halted their progress. Had it sprung from the north it would have
wafted them on their way, but it drew in from the Pacific, straight
into their teeth, forcing them to redouble their exertions. It was not
of sufficient violence to overcome their efforts, but it held them back
and stirred up a nasty cross sea into which the canoe plunged and
wallowed. In the hope that it would die down with the darkness, the
boatmen held on their course, and night closed over them still paddling
silently.

It was nearly noon on the following day when the watchman at the Uyak
cannery beheld a native canoe creeping slowly up the bay, and was
astonished to find it manned by three white men in the last stages of
exhaustion--so stiff and cramped and numb that he was forced to help
them from their places when at last they effected a landing. One of
them, in fact, was unconscious and had to be carried to the house,
which did not surprise the watchman when he learned whence they had
come. He did marvel, however, that another of the travellers should
begin to cry weakly when told that the mail boat had sailed for Kodiak
the previous evening. He gave them stimulants, then prepared hot food
for them, for both Balt and Emerson were like sleep-walkers; and
Fraser, when he was restored to consciousness, was too weak to stand.

"Too bad you didn't get in last night," said the care-taker,
sympathetically. "She won't be back now for a month or more."

"How long will she lie in Kodiak?" Big George asked.

"The captain told me he was going to spend Christmas there. Lefs
see--to-day is the 22nd--she'll pull out for Juneau on the morning of
the 26th; that's three days."

"We must catch her," cried Emerson, quickly. "If you'll land us in
Kodiak on time I'll pay you anything you ask."

"I'd like to, but I can't," the man replied. "You see, I'm here all
alone, except for Johnson. He's the watchman for the other plant."

"Then for God's sake get us some natives. I don't care what it costs."


"There ain't any natives here. This ain't no village. There's nothing
here but these two plants, and Johnson or me dassent leave."

Emerson turned his eyes upon the haggard man who sprawled weakly in a
chair; and Fraser, noting the appeal, answered, gamely, with a forced
smile on his lips, though they were drawn and bloodless:

"Sure! I'll be ready to leave in the morning, pal!"

The old Russian village of Kodiak lies on the opposite side of the
island from the canneries, a bleak, wind-swept relic of the country's
first occupation, and although peopled largely by natives and breeds,
there is also a considerable white population, to whom Christmas is a
season of thanksgiving and celebration. Hence it was that the crew of
the Dora were well content to pass the Yuletide there, where the girls
are pretty and a hearty welcome is accorded to every one. There were
drinking and dancing and music behind the square-hewn log walls, and
the big red stoves made havoc with the salt wind. The town was well
filled and the merrymaking vigorous, and inasmuch as winter is a time
of rest, during which none but the most foolhardy trust themselves to
the perils of the sea, it caused much comment when late on Christmas
afternoon an ice-burdened canoe, bearing three strange white men,
landed on the beach beside the dock--or were they white men, after all?
Their faces were so blackened and split from the frost they seemed to
be raw bleeding masks, their hands were cracked and stiff beneath their
mittens. They were hollow-eyed and gaunt, their cheeks sunken away as
if from a wasting illness, and they could not walk, but crept across
the snow-covered shingle on hands and knees, then reaching the street
hobbled painfully, while their limbs gave way as if paralyzed. One of
them lacked strength even to leave the canoe, and when two sailors ran
down and lifted him out, he gabbled strangely in the jargon of the
mining camp and the gambling table. Of the other two, one, a great
awkward shambling giant of a creature, stumbled out along the dock
toward the ship, his head hung low and swinging from side to side, his
shoulders drooping, his arms loose-hinged, his knees bending.

[Illustration: OUT ACROSS THE LONESOME WASTE THEY JOURNEYED]

But the third voyager, who had with difficulty won his way up to the
level of the street, presented the strangest appearance. There was
something uncanny about him. As he gained the street, he waved back all
proffered assistance, then paused, with his swaying body propped upon
widespread legs, staring malignantly into the north. From their deep
sockets his eyes glittered like live coals, while his blackened,
swollen lips split in a grimace that bared his teeth. He raised his
arms slowly and shook his clenched fists defiantly at the Polar skies,
muttering unintelligible things, then staggered after his companions.





CHAPTER VIII

WHEREIN BOYD ADMITS HIS FAILURE


A week later Boyd and George were watching the lights of Port Townsend
blink out in the gloom astern. A quick change of boats at Juneau had
raised their spirits, enabling them to complete the second stage of
their journey in less than the expected time, and the southward run,
out from the breath of the Arctics into a balmier climate, had removed
nearly the last trace of their suffering from the frost.

A sort of meditative silence which had fallen upon the two men was
broken at last by George, who for some time had been showing signs of
uneasiness.

"How long are we going to stay in Seattle?" he inquired.

"Only long enough," Boyd replied, "for me to arrange a connection with
some bank. That will require a day, perhaps."

"I suppose a feller has got to dress pretty swell back there in
Chicago," George ventured.

"Some people do."

"Full-dress suits of clothes, eh?"

"Yes."

"Did you ever wear one?"

"Certainly."

"Well, I'll be--" The fisherman checked himself and gazed at his
companion as if he saw him suddenly in a new light; in fact, he had
discovered many strange phases of this young man's character during the
past fortnight. "Right along?" he questioned, incredulously.

"Why, yes. Pretty steadily."

"All day, at a time?"

Boyd laughed. "I haven't worn one in the daytime since I left college.
They are used only at night."

George pondered this for some time, while Emerson stared out into the
velvet darkness, to be roused again a moment later.

"A feller told me a funny thing once. He said them rich men back East
had women come around and clean their finger-nails, and shine 'em up.
Is that right?"

"Quite right!"

Another pause, then Balt cleared his throat and said, with an
assumption of carelessness:

"Well, I don't suppose--you ever had 'em--shine your finger-nails, did
you?"

"Yes."

The big man opened his mouth to speak; then, evidently changing his
mind, observed, "Seems to me I'd better stay here on the coast and wait
for you."

"No, indeed!" the other answered, quickly. "I will need you in raising
that money. You know the practical side of the fishing business, and I
don't."

"All right, I'll go. If you can stand for me, I'll stand for the
full-dress suits of clothes and the finger-nail women. Anyhow, it won't
last long."

"When were you outside last?"

"Four years ago."

"Ever been East?"

"Sure! I've got a sister in Spokane Falls. But I don't like it back
there."

"You will have a good time in Chicago." Boyd smiled.

"Fingerless" Fraser came to them from the lighted regions amidship,
greeting them cheerfully.

"Well, we're pretty near there, ain't we? I'm glad of it; I've about
cleaned up this ship."

The adventurer had left his companions alone much of the time during
the trip--greatly to Boyd's relief, for the fellow was an
unconscionable bore--and had thus allowed them time to perfect their
plans and thresh out numberless details.

"I grabbed another farmer's son at supper--just got through with him.
He was good for three-fifty."

"Three hundred and fifty _dollars?_" questioned Balt.

"Yep! I opened a little stud game for him. Beats all how these suckers
fall for the old stuff."

"Where did you get money to gamble with?" inquired Boyd.

"Oh! I won a pinch of change last night in a bridge game with that
Dawson Bunch."

"But it must have required a bank-roll to sit in a game with them. They
seem to be heavy spenders. How did you manage that?"

"I sold some mining property the day before. I got the captain of the
ship." Fraser chuckled.

"Did you swindle that old fellow?" Emerson cried, angrily. "See here! I
won't allow--"

"Swindle! Who said I 'swindled' anybody? I wouldn't trim my worst
enemy."

"You have no mining claims."

"What makes you think I haven't? Alaska is a big country."

"You told me so."

"Well, I didn't have any claims at that time, but since we came aboard
of this wagon at Juneau I have improved each shining hour. While you
and George was building canneries I was rustling. And I did pretty
well, if I do say it as shouldn't."

Emerson shrugged his broad shoulders. "You will get into trouble! If
you do, I won't come to your rescue. I have helped you all I can."

"Not me!" denied the self-satisfied Fraser. "There ain't a chance. Why?
Because I'm on the level, I am. That's why. But say, getting money from
these Reubs is a joke. It's like kicking a lamb in the face." He
clinked some gold coins in his pocket and began to whistle noiselessly.
"When do we pull out for Chi?" he next inquired.

"We?" said Emerson. "I told you I would take you as far as Seattle. I
can't stand for your 'work.' I think you had better stop here, don't
you?"

"Perhaps it _is_ for the best," Fraser observed, carelessly. "Time
alone can tell." He bade them good-night and disappeared to snatch a
few hours' sleep, but upon their arrival at the dock on the following
morning, without waiting for an invitation he bundled himself into
their carriage and rode to the hotel, registering immediately beneath
them. They soon lost sight of him, however, for their next move was in
the direction of a clothier's, where they were outfitted from sole to
crown. The garments they stood up in showed whence they had come; yet
the strangeness of their apparel excited little comment, for Seattle is
the gateway to the great North Country, and hither the Northmen
foregather, going and coming. But to them the city was very strange and
exciting. The noises deafened them, the odors of civilization now
tantalized, now offended their nostrils; the crowding streams of
humanity confused them, fresh from their long sojourn in the silences
and solitudes. Every clatter and crash, every brazen clang of gong,
caused George to start; he watched his chance and took street-crossings
as if pursued.

"If one of them bells rings behind me," he declared, "I'll jump through
a plate-glass window." When his roving eyes first lighted upon a fruit
stand he bolted for it and filled his pockets with tomatoes.

"I've dreamed about these things for four years," he declared, "and I
can't stand it any longer." He bit into one voraciously, and thereafter
followed his companion about munching tomatoes at every step, refilling
his pockets as his supply diminished. To show his willingness for any
sacrifice, he volunteered to wear a dress suit if Emerson would buy it
for him, and it required considerable argument to convince him that the
garb was unnecessary.

"You better train me up before we get East," he warned, "or I'll make
your swell friends sore and spoil the deal. I could wear it on the cars
and get easy in it."

"My dear fellow, it takes more than a week to 'get easy' in a dress
suit." Boyd smiled, amused at his earnestness, for the big fellow was
merely a boy out on a wonderful vacation.

"Well, if there is a Down-East manicure woman in Seattle, show her to
me and I'll practice on her," he insisted. "She can halter-break me, at
least."

"Yes, it might not hurt to get that off your hands," Emerson
acknowledged, at which the clothier's clerk, who had noted the
condition of the fisherman's huge paws, snickered audibly.

It was a labor of several hours to fit Big George's bulky frame, and
when the two returned to the hotel Emerson found the representative of
an afternoon newspaper anxiously awaiting him at the desk.

"We noticed your arrival from the North," began the reporter, "and Mr.
Athens sent me down to get a story."

"Athens! Billy Athens?"

"Yes! He is the editor. I believe you two were college mates. He wanted
to know if you are the Boyd Emerson of the Michigan football team."

"Well, well!" Boyd mused. "Billy Athens was a good tackle."

"He thought you might have something interesting to tell about Alaska,"
the newspaper man went on. "However, I won't need to take much of your
time, for your partner has been telling me all about you and your trip
and your great success."

"My partner?"

"Yes. Mr. Frobisher. He heard me inquire about you and volunteered to
give me an interview in your name."

"Frobisher!" said Emerson, now thoroughly mystified.

"Sure, that's him, over yonder." The reporter indicated "Fingerless"
Fraser, who, having watched the interview from a distance, now solemnly
closed one eye and stuck his tongue into his cheek.

"Oh, yes, yes! _Frobisher!_" Boyd stammered. "Certainly!"

"He is a character, isn't he? He told me how you rescued that girl when
she broke through the ice at Kalvik."

"He did?"

"Quite a romance, wasn't it? It is a good newspaper story and I'll play
it up. He is going to let me in on that hydraulic proposition of yours,
too. Of course I haven't much money, but it sounds great, and--"

"How far along did you get with your negotiations about this hydraulic
proposition?" Boyd asked, curiously.

"Just far enough so I'm all on edge for it. I'll make up a little pool
among the boys at the office and have the money down here before you
leave to-night."

"I am sorry, but Mr. Frobisher and I will have to talk it over first,"
said Emerson, grimly. "I think we will keep that 'hydraulic
proposition' in the family, so to speak."

"Then you won't let me in?"

"Not just at present."

"I'm sorry! I should like to take a chance with somebody who is really
successful at mining. When a fellow drones along on a salary month
after month it makes him envious to see you Klondikers hit town with
satchels full of coin. Perhaps you will give me a chance later on?"

"Perhaps," acceded Boyd; but when the young man had gone he strode
quickly over to Fraser, who was lolling back comfortably, smoking a
ridiculously long cigar with an elaborate gold band.

"Look here, Mr. 'Frobisher,'" he said, in a low tone, "what do you mean
by mixing me up in your petty-larceny frauds?"

Fraser grinned. "'Frobisher' is hot monaker, ain't it? It sounds like
the money. I believe I'll stick to 'Frobisher.'"

"I spiked your miserable little scheme, and if you try anything more
like that, I'll have to cut you out altogether."

"Pshaw!" said the adventurer, mildly. "Did you say that hydraulic mine
was no good? Too bad! That reporter agreed to take some stock right
away, and promised to get his editor in on it, too."

"His editor!" Emerson cried, aghast. "Why, his editor happens to be a
friend of mine, whose assistance I may need very badly when I get back
from Chicago."

"Oh, well! That's different, of course."

"Now see here, Fraser, I want you to leave me out of your machinations,
absolutely. You've been very decent to me in many ways, but if I hear
of anything more like this I shall hand you over to the police."

"Don't be a sucker all your life," admonished the rogue. "You stick to
me, and I'll make you a lot of money. I like you--"

Emerson, now seriously angry, wheeled and left him, realizing that the
fellow was morally atrophied. He could not forget, however, that except
for this impossible creature he himself would be lying at Petellin's
store at Katmai with no faintest hope of completing his mission,
wherefore he did his best to swallow his indignation.

"Hey! What time do we leave?" Fraser called after him, but the young
man would not answer, proceeding instead to his room, there to renew
his touch with the world through strange clean garments, the feel of
which awakened memories and spurred him on to feverish haste. When he
had dressed he hurried to a telegraph office and dispatched two
messages to Chicago, one addressed to his own tailor, the other to a
number on Lake Shore Drive. Over the latter he pondered long, tearing
up several drafts which did not suit him, finally giving one to the
operator with an odd mingling of timidity and defiance. This done, he
hastened to one of the leading banks, and two hours later returned to
the hotel, jubilant.

He found Big George in the lobby staring with fascinated eyes at his
finger-nails, which were strangely purified and glossy.

"Look at 'em!" the fisherman broke out, admiringly. "They're as clean
as a hound's tooth. They shine so I dassent take hold of anything."

"I have made my deal with the bank," Boyd exulted. "All I need to raise
now is one hundred thousand dollars. The bank will advance the rest."

"That's great," said Balt, without interrupting the contemplation of
his digits. "That's certainly immense. Say! Don't they glisten?"

"They look very nice--"

"Stylish! I think."

"That one hundred thousand dollars makes all the difference in the
world. The task is easy, now. We will make it go, sure. These bankers
know what that salmon business is. Why, I had no trouble at all. They
say we can't lose if we have a good site on the Kalvik River."

"They're wise, all right. I guess that girl took me for a Klondiker,"
George observed. "She charged me double. But she was a nice girl,
though. I was kind of rattled when I walked in and sat down, and I
couldn't think of nothing to talk about. I never opened my head all the
time, but she didn't notice it. When I left she asked me to come back
again and have another nice long visit. She's an _awful_ fine girl."

"Look out!" laughed his companion. "Every Alaskan falls in love with a
manicurist at some time or other. It seems to be in the blood. We are
going to have no matrimony, mind you."

"Lord! She wouldn't look at me," said the fisherman, suddenly, assuming
a lobster pink.

That evening they dined as befits men just out from a long
incarceration in the North, first having tried unsuccessfully to locate
Fraser; for the rogue was bound to them by the intangible ties of
hardship and trail life, and they could not bear to part from him
without some expression of gratitude for the sacrifices he had made.
But he was nowhere to be found, not even at train time.

"That seems hardly decent," Boyd remarked. "He might at least have said
good-bye and wished us well."

"When he's around he makes me sore, and when he's away I miss him,"
said George. "He's probably out organizing something--or somebody."

At the station they waited until the last warning had sounded, vainly
hoping that Fraser would put in an appearance, then sought their
Pullman more piqued than they cared to admit. When the train pulled
out, they went forward to the smoking compartment, still meditating
upon this unexpected defection; but as they lighted their cigars, a
familiar voice greeted them:

"Hello, you!"--and there was Fraser grinning at their astonishment.

"What are you doing here?" they cried, together.

"Me? Oh, I'm on my way East."

"Whereabouts East?"

"Chicago, ain't it? I thought that was what you said." He seated
himself and lighted another long cigar.

"Are you going to Chicago?" George asked.

"Sure! We've got to put this cannery deal over." The crook sighed
luxuriously and began to blow smoke rings. "Pretty nice train, ain't
it?"

"Yes," ejaculated Emerson, undecided whether to be pleased or angered
at the fellow's presence. "Which is your car?"

"This one--same as yours. I've got the drawing-room."

"What are you going to do in Chicago?"

"Oh, I ain't fully decided yet, but I might do a little promoting.
Seattle is too full of Alaskan snares."

Emerson reflected for a moment before remarking: "I dare say you will
tangle me up in some new enterprise that will land us both in jail, so
for my own protection I'll tell you what I'll do. I have noticed that
you are a good salesman, and if you will take up something legitimate--"

"Legitimate!" Fraser interrupted, with indignation. "Why, all my
schemes are legitimate. Anybody can examine them. If he don't like
them, he needn't go in. If he weakens on one proposition, I'll get
something that suits him better. You've got me wrong."

"If you want to handle something honest, I'll let you place some of
this cannery stock on a commission."

"I don't see nothing attractive in that when I can sell stock of my own
and keep _all_ the money. Maybe I'll organize a cannery company of my
own in Chicago--"

"If you do--" Boyd exploded.

"Very well! Don't get sore. I only just suggested the possibility. If
that is your graft, I'll think up something better."

The younger man shook his head. "You are impossible," said he, "and yet
I can't help liking you."

Late into the night they talked, Emerson oscillating between extreme
volubility and deep abstraction. At one moment he was as gay as a
prospective bridegroom, at the next he was more dejected than a man
under sentence. And instead of growing calmer his spirits became more
and more variable with the near approach of the journey's end.

In Chicago, as in Seattle, Fraser accompanied his fellow-travellers to
their hotel, and would have registered himself under some high-sounding
alias except for a whispered threat from Boyd. That young gentleman,
after seeing his companions comfortably ensconced, left them to their
own devices while he drove to the tailor to whom he had telegraphed,
returning in a short time garbed in new clothes. He found Fraser
sipping a solitary cocktail and visiting with the bartender on the
closest terms of intimacy.

"George?" said that one, in answer to his inquiry. "Oh, George has gone
on a still-hunt for a manicure parlor. Ain't that a rave? He's gone
finger-mad. He'd ought to have them front feet shod. He don't need a
manicurist; what he wants is a blacksmith."

"He is rather out of his latitude, so I wish you would keep an eye on
him," Boyd said.

"All right! I'll take him out in the park on a leash, but if he tries
to bite anybody I'll have to muzzle him. He ain't safe in the heart of
a great city; he's a menace to the life and limb of every manicure
woman who crosses his path. You gave him an awful push on the downward
path when you laid him against this finger stuff."

Promptly at four o'clock Emerson called a cab and was driven toward the
North Side. As the vehicle rolled up Lake Shore Drive the excitement
under which he had been laboring for days increased until he tapped his
feet nervously, clenched his gloved fingers, and patted the cushions as
if to accelerate the horse's footfalls. Would he never arrive! The
animal appeared to crawl more slowly every moment, the rubber-rimmed
wheels to turn more sluggishly with each revolution. He called to the
driver to hurry, then found himself of a sudden gripped by an
overpowering hesitation, and grew frightened at his own haste. The
close atmosphere of the cab seemed to stifle him: he jerked the window
open, flung back the lapels of his great coat, and inhaled the sharp
Lake air in deep breaths. Why did that driver lash a willing steed?
They were nearly there, and he was not ready yet. He leaned out to
check their speed, then closed his lips and settled back in his seat,
staring at the houses slipping past. How well he remembered every one
of them!

The dark stone frowned at him, the leaded windows stared at him through
a blind film of unrecognition, the carven gargoyles grinned mockingly
at him.

It all oppressed him heavily and crushed whatever hope had lain at his
heart when he left the hotel. Never before had his goal seemed so
unattainable; never before had he felt so bitterly the cruelty of
riches, the hopelessness of poverty.

The vehicle drew up at last before one of the most pretentious
residences, a massive pile of stone and brick fronting the Lake with
what seemed to him a singularly proud and chilling aspect. His hand
shook as he paid the driver, and it was a very pale though very erect
young man who mounted the stone steps to the bell. Despite the
stiffness with which he held himself, he felt the muscles at his knees
trembling weakly, while his lungs did not seem to fill, even when he
inhaled deeply. During the moments that he waited he found his body
pulsating to the slow, heavy thumping of his heart; then a familiar
face greeted him.

"How do you do, Hawkins," he heard himself saying, as a liveried old
man ushered him in and took his coat. "Don't you remember me?"

"Yes, sir! Mr. Emerson. You have been away for a long time, sir."

"Is Miss Wayland in?"

"Yes, sir; she is expecting you. This way, please."

Boyd followed, thankful for the subdued light which might conceal his
agitation. He knew where they were going: she had always awaited him in
the library, so it seemed. And how well he remembered that wonderful
book walled room! It was like her to welcome him on the spot where she
had bade him good-bye three years ago.

Hawkins held the portieres aside and Boyd heard their velvet swish at
his back, yet for the briefest instant he did not see her, so
motionless did she stand. Then he cried, softly:

"My Lady!" and strode forward.

"Boyd! Boyd!" she answered and came to meet him, yielding herself to
his arms. She felt his heart pounding against hers like the heart of a
runner who has spent himself at the tape, felt his arms quivering as if
from great fatigue. For a long time neither spoke.





CHAPTER IX

AND IS GRANTED A YEAR OF GRACE


"And so all your privations and hardships went for nothing," said
Mildred Wayland, when Boyd had recounted the history of his pilgrimage
into the North.

"Yes," he replied; "as a miner, I am a very wretched failure."

She shrugged her shoulders in disapproval.

"Don't use that term!" she cried. "There is no word so hateful to me as
'failure'--I suppose, because father has never failed in anything. Let
us say that your success has been delayed."

"Very well. That suits me better, also, but you see I've forgotten how
to choose nice words."

They were seated in the library, where for two hours they had remained
undisturbed, Emerson talking rapidly, almost incoherently, as if this
were a sort of confessional, the girl hanging eagerly upon his every
word, following his narrative with breathless interest. The story had
been substantially the same as that which, once before, he had related
to Cherry Malotte; but now the facts were deeply, intimately colored
with all the young man's natural enthusiasm and inmost personal
feeling. To his listener it was like some wonderful, far-off romance,
having to do with strange people whose motives she could scarcely grasp
and pitched amid wild scenes that she could not fully picture.

"And you did all that for me," she mused, after a time.

"It was the only way."

"I wonder if any other man I know would take those risks just for--me."

"Of course. Why, the risk, I mean the physical peril and hardship and
discomfort, don't amount to--that." He snapped his fingers. "It was
only the unending desolation that hurt; it was the separation from you
that punished me--the thought that some luckier fellow might--"

"Nonsense!" Mildred was really indignant. "I told you to fix your own
time and I promised to wait. Even if I had not--cared for you, I would
have kept my word. That is a Wayland principle. As it is, it
was--comparatively easy."

"Then you do love me, my Lady?" He leaned eagerly toward her.

"Do you need to ask?" she whispered from the shelter of his arms. "It
is the same old fascination of our girl and boy days. Do you remember
how completely I lost my head about you?" She laughed softly. "I used
to think you wore a football suit better than anybody in the world!
Sometimes I suspect that it is merely that same girlish hero-worship
and can't last. But it _has_ lasted--so far. Three years is a long time
for a girl like me to wait, isn't it?"

"I know! I know!" he returned, jealously. "But I have lived that time
with nothing but a memory, while you have had other things to occupy
you. You are flattered and courted by men, scores of men--"

"Oh!"

"Legions of men! Oh, I know. Haven't I devoured society columns by the
yard? The papers were six months old, to be sure, when I got them, but
every mention of you was like a knife stab to me. Jealousy drove me to
memorize the name of every man with whom you were seen in public, and I
called down all sorts of curses upon their heads. I used to torture my
lonely soul with hideous pictures of you--"

"Hideous pictures of me?" The girl perked her head to one side and
glanced at him bewitchingly, "You're very flattering!"

"Yes, pictures of you with a caravan of suitors at your heels."

"You foolish boy! Suitors don't come in caravans they come in cabs."

"Well, my simile isn't far wrong in other respects," he replied, with a
flash of her spirit. "But anyhow I pictured you surrounded by all the
beautiful things of your life here, forever in the scent of flowers, in
the lights of drawing-rooms, in the soft music of hidden instruments.
God! how I tortured myself! You were never out of mind for an hour. My
days were given to you, and I used to pray that my dreams might hold
nothing but you. You have been my fetish from the first day I met you,
and my worship has grown blinder every hour, Mildred. You were always
out of my reach, but I have kept my eyes raised toward you just the
same, and I have never looked aside, never faltered." He paused to
feast his eyes upon her, and then in a half-whisper finished, "Oh, my
Lady, how beautiful you are!"

And indeed she was; for her face, ordinarily so imperious, was now
softly alight; her eyes, which other men found cold, were kindled with
a rare warmth of understanding; her smile was almost wistfully sweet.
To her lover she seemed to bend beneath the burden of her brown hair,
yet her slim figure had the strength and poise which come of fine
physical inheritance and high spirit. Every gesture, every unstudied
attitude, revealed the grace of the well born woman.

It was this "air" of hers, in fact, which had originally attracted him.
He recalled how excited he had been in that far-away time when he had
first learned her identity--for the name of Wayland was spoken
soundingly in the middle West. In the early stages of their
acquaintance he had looked upon her aloofness as an affectation, but a
close intimacy had compelled a recognition of it as something wholly
natural; he found her as truly a patrician as Wayne Wayland, her
father, could wish. The old man's domain was greater than that of many
princes, and his power more absolute. His only daughter he spoiled as
thoroughly as he ruled his part of the financial world, and wilful
Mildred, once she had taken an interest in the young college man so
evidently ready to be numbered among her lovers, did not pause half
way, but made her preference patent to all, and opened to him a realm
of dazzling possibilities. He well remembered the perplexities of those
first delirious days when her regard was beginning to make itself
apparent. She was so different, so wonderfully far removed from all he
knew, that he doubted his own senses.

His friends, indeed, lost no opportunity of informing him that he was a
tremendously favored young man, but this phase of the affair had caused
him little thought, simply because the girl herself had come so swiftly
to overshadow, in his regard, every other consideration--even her own
wealth and position. At the same time he could not but be aware that
his standing in his little world was subtly altered as soon as he
became known as the favored suitor of Wayne Wayland's daughter. He
began to receive favors from comparative strangers; unexpected social
privileges were granted him; his way was made easier in a hundred
particulars. From every quarter delicately gratifying distinctions came
to him. Without his volition he found that he had risen to an entirely
different position from that which he had formerly occupied; the mere
coupling of his name with Mildred Wayland's had lifted him into a
calcium glare. It affected him not at all, he only knew that he was
truly enslaved to the girl, that he idolized her, that he regarded her
as something priceless, sacred. She, in turn, frankly capitulated to
him, in proud disregard of what her world might say, as complete in her
surrender to this new lover as she had been inaccessible in her reserve
toward all the rest.

And when he had graduated, how proud of her he had been! How little he
had realized the gulf that separated them, and how quick had been his
awakening!

It was Wayne Wayland who had shown him his folly. He had talked to the
young engineer kindly, if firmly, being too shrewd an old diplomat to
fan the flame of a headstrong love with vigorous opposition.

"Mildred is a rich girl," the old financier had told Boyd, "a very rich
girl; one of the richest girls in this part of the world; while you, my
boy--what have you to offer?"

"Nothing! But you were not always what you are now," Emerson had
replied. "Every man has to make a start. When you married, you were as
poor as I am."

"Granted! But I married a poor girl, from my own station in life.
Fortunately she had the latent power to develop with me as I grew; so
that we kept even and I never outdistanced her. But Mildred is spoiled
to begin with. I spoiled her purposely, to prevent just this sort of
thing. She is bred to luxury, her friends are rich, and she doesn't
know any other kind of life. Her tastes and habits and inclinations are
extravagant, to put it plainly--yes, worse than extravagant; they are
positively scandalous. She is about the richest girl in the country,
and by virtue of wealth as well as breeding she is one of the American
aristocracy. Oh! people may say what they please, but we have an
aristocracy all the same which is just as well marked and just as
exclusive as if it rested upon birth instead of bank accounts."

"You wouldn't object to our marriage if I were rich and Mildred were
poor," Emerson had said, rather cynically.

"Perhaps not. A poor girl can marry a rich man and get along all right
if she has brains; but a very rich girl can't marry a very poor man and
be happy unless she is peculiarly constituted. I happen to know that my
girl isn't so constituted. She is utterly impossible as a poor man's
wife. She can't _do_ anything: she can't economize, she can't amuse
herself, she can't be happy without the things she is accustomed to; it
is in her blood and training and disposition. She would try, bless you!
she would try all right--for a while--but I know her better than she
knows herself. You see, I have the advantage of knowing myself and of
having known her mother before her. She is a hothouse flower, and
adversity would wither her. Mind you, I don't say that her husband must
be a millionaire, but he will need a running start on the road to make
her happy, and--well, the fellow who gets my girl will make her happy
or I'll make him damned miserable!" The old fellow had squared his jaws
belligerently at this statement.

"You have nothing against me--personally, I mean?"

"Nothing."

"She loves me."

"She seems to. But both of you are young and may get over it before you
reach the last hurdle."

"Then you forbid it?" Boyd had queried, his own glance challenging that
of her father.

"By no means. I neither forbid nor consent. I merely ask you to stand
still and use your eyes for a little while. You have intelligence.
Don't be hasty. I am going to tell her just what I have told you, and I
think she is sensible enough to realize the truth of my remarks. No!
instead of forbidding you Mildred's society, I am going to give you all
you want of it. I am going to make you free at our house. I am going to
see that you meet her friends and go where she goes. I want you to do
the things that she does and see how she lives. The more you see of us,
the better it will suit me. I have been studying you for some time, Mr.
Emerson, and I think I have read you correctly. After you have spent a
few months with us, come to me again and we will talk it over. I may
say yes by that time, or you may not wish me to. Perhaps Mildred will
decide for both of us."

"That is satisfactory to me."

"Very well! We dine at seven to-night; and we shall expect you."

That Mr. Wayland had made no mistake in his judgment, Emerson had soon
been forced to admit; for the more he saw of Mildred's life, the more
plainly he perceived the barriers that lay between them. Those months
had been an education to him. He had become an integral part of
Chicago's richer social world. The younger set had accepted him readily
enough on the score of his natural good parts, while the name of Wayne
Wayland had acted like magic upon the elders. Yet it had been a cruel
time of probation for the young lover, who continually felt the
searching eyes of the old man reading him; and despite the fact that
Mildred took no pains to conceal her preference for him, there had been
no lack of other suitors, all of whom Boyd hated with a perfect hate.

They had never discussed the matter, yet both the lovers had been
conscious that the old man's words were pregnant with truth, and after
a few months, during which Emerson had made little progress in his
profession, Mildred had gone to her father and frankly begged his aid.
But he had remained like adamant.

"I have been pretty lenient so far. He will have to make his own way
without my help. You know he isn't my candidate."

Recognizing the despair which was possessing her lover, and jealous for
her own happiness, Mildred had arranged that both of them, together,
should have a talk with her father. The result had been the same. Mr.
Wayland listened grimly, then said:

"This request for assistance shows that both of you are beginning to
realize the wisdom of my remarks of a year ago."

"I'm not asking aid from you," Emerson had blazed forth. "I can take
care of myself and of Mildred."

"Permit me to show you that you can't. Your life and training have not
fitted you for the position of Mildred's husband. Have you any idea how
many millions she is going to own?"

"No, and I don't care to know."

"I don't care to tell you either, but the Wayland fortune will carry
such a tremendous responsibility with it that my successor will have to
be a stronger man than I am to hold it together. I merely gathered it;
he must keep it. You haven't qualified in either respect yet."

Mildred had interrupted petulantly. "Oh, this endless chatter of money!
It is disgusting. I only wish we were poor. Instead of a blessing, our
wealth is an unmitigated curse--a terrible, exhausting burden. I hear
of nothing else from morning till night. It gives us no pleasure,
nothing but care and worry and--wrinkles. I can do without horses and
motors and maids, and all that. I want to live, really to _live_." She
had arisen and gone over to Boyd, laying her hand upon his shoulder. "I
will give it all up. Let us try to be happy without it."

It had been a tense moment for both men. Their eyes had met defiantly,
but, reading in the father's face the contempt that waited upon an
unmanly decision, Boyd's pride stood up stiffly.

"No," he replied, "I can't let you do that. Not yet, anyhow. Mr.
Wayland is right, in a way. If he had not been so decent I would have
married you anyhow, but I am indebted to him. He has shown me a lot
more of your life than I knew before, and he has made his word good. I
am going to ask you to wait, however; for quite a while, it may be. I
am going to take a gambler's chance."

"What is it?"

"A gold strike has been made in Alaska--"

"Alaska!"

"Yes! The Klondike. You have read of it? I am told that the chances
there are like those in the days of '49, and I am going."

So it was that he had made his choice, fixing his own time for
returning, and so it was that Mildred Wayland had awaited him.

If to-day, after three years of deprivation, she seemed to him more
beautiful than ever--the interval having served merely to enhance her
charm and strengthen the yearning of his heart--she seemed in the same
view still further removed from his sphere. More reserved, more
dignified, in the reserve of developed womanhood, her cession was the
more gracious and wonderful.

His story finished, Boyd went on to tell her vaguely of his future
plans, and at the last he asked her, with something less than an
accepted lover's confidence:

"Will you wait another year?"

She laughed lightly. "You dear boy, I am not up for auction. This is
not the 'third and last call.' I am not sure I could induce anybody to
take me, even if I desired."

"I read the rumor of your engagement in a back number of a San
Francisco paper. Is your retinue as large as ever?"

She smiled indifferently. "It alters with the season, but I believe the
general average is about the same. You know most of them." She
mentioned a number of names, counting them off on her finger-tips.
"Then, of course, there are the old standbys, Mr. Macklin, Tommy
Turner, the Lawton boys--"

"And Alton Clyde!"

"To be sure; little Alton, like the brook, runs on forever. He still
worships you, Boyd, by the way."

"And there are others?"

"A few."

"Who?"

"Nobody you know."

"Any one in particular?" Boyd demanded, with a lover's insistence.

Miss Wayland's hesitation was so brief as almost to escape his notice.
"Nobody who counts. Of course, father has his predilections and insists
upon engineering my affairs in the same way he would float a railroad
enterprise, but you can imagine how romantic the result is."

"Who is the favored party?" the young man asked, darkly. But she arose
to push back the heavy draperies and gaze for a moment out into the
deepening twilight. When she answered, it was in a tone of ordinary
indifference.

"Really it isn't worth discussing. I shall not marry until I am ready,
and the subject bores me." An instant later she turned to regard him
with direct eyes.

"Do you remember when I offered to give it all up and go with you,
Boyd?"

"I have never forgotten for an instant,"

"You refused to allow it."

"Certainly! I had seen too much of your life, and my pride figured a
bit, also."

"Do you still feel the same way?" Her eyes searched his face rather
anxiously.

"I do! It is even more impossible now than then. I am utterly out of
touch with this environment. My work will take me back where you could
not go--into a land you would dislike, among a people you could not
understand. No; we did quite the sensible thing."

She sighed gratefully and settled upon the window-seat, her back to the
light. "I am glad you feel that way. I--I--think I am growing more
sensible too. I have begun to understand how practical father was, and
how ridiculous I was. Perhaps I am not so impulsive--you see, I am
years older now--perhaps I am more selfish. I don't know which it is
and--I can't express my feelings, but I have had sufficient time since
you went away to think and to look into my own soul. Really I have
become quite introspective. Of course, my feeling for you is just the
same as it was, dear, but I--I can't--" She waved a graceful hand to
indicate her surroundings. "Well, this is my world, and I am a part of
it. You understand, don't you? The thought of giving it up makes me
really afraid. I don't like rough things." She shook herself and gave
voice to a delicious, bubbling little laugh. "I am frightfully
spoiled." Emerson drew her to him tenderly.

"My darling, I understand perfectly, and I love you too well to take
you away from it all; but you will wait for me, won't you?"

"Of course," she replied, quickly. "As long as you wish."

"But I am going to have you!" he cried, insistently. "You are going to
be my wife," He repeated the words softly, reverently: "My wife."

She gazed up at him with a puzzled little frown. "What bothers me is
that you understand me and my life so well, while I scarcely understand
you or yours at all. That seems to tell me that I am unsuited to you in
some way. Why, when you told me that story of your hardships and all
that, I listened as if it were a play or a book, but really it didn't
_mean_ anything to me or stir me as it should. I can't understand my
own failure to understand. That awful country, those barbarous people,
the suffering, the cold, the snow, the angry sea; I don't grasp what
they mean. I was never cold, or hungry, or exhausted. I--well, it is
fascinating to hear about, because you went through it, but _why_ you
did it, how you _felt_"--she made a gesture as if at a loss for words.
"Do you see what I am trying to convey?"

"Perfectly," he answered, releasing her with a little unadmitted sense
of disappointment at his heart. "I suppose it is only natural."

"I do hope you succeed this time," she continued. "I am growing deadly
tired of things. Not tired of waiting for you, but I am getting to be
old; I am, indeed. Why, at times I actually have an inclination to do
fancy-work--the unfailing symptom. Do you realize that I am
_twenty-five years old!_"

"Age of decrepitude! And more glorious than any woman in the world!" he
cried.

There was a click outside the library door, and the room, which
unnoticed by them had become nearly dark, was suddenly flooded with
light. The portieres parted, and Wayne Wayland stood in the opening.

"Ah, here you are, my boy! Hawkins told me you had returned."

He advanced to shake the young man's hand, his demeanor gracious and
hearty. "Welcome home. You have been having quite a vacation, haven't
you? Let's see, it's two years, isn't it?"

"Three years!" Emerson replied.

"Impossible! Dear, dear, how time flies when one is busy."

"Boyd has been telling me of his adventures," said Mildred. "He is
going to dine with us."

"Indeed." Mr. Wayland displayed no great degree of enthusiasm. "And
have you returned, like Pizarro, laden with all the gold of the Incas?
Or did Pizarro return? It seems to me that he settled somewhere on the
Coast." The old man laughed at his own conceit.

"I judge Pizarro was a better miner than I," Boyd smiled. "There were
plenty of Esquimau princes whom I might have held for ransom, but if I
had done so, all the rest of the tribe would have come to board with
them."

"Have you come home to stay?"

"No, sir; I shall return in a few weeks."

Mr. Wayland's cordiality seemed to increase in some subtle manner.

"Well, I am sorry you didn't make a fortune, my boy. But, rich or poor,
your friends are delighted to see you, and we shall certainly keep you
for dinner. I am interested in that Northwestern country myself, and I
want to ask some questions about it."





CHAPTER X

IN WHICH BIG GEORGE MEETS HIS ENEMY


It was well on toward midnight when Emerson reached his hotel, and
being too full of his visit with Mildred to sleep, he strolled through
the lobby and into the Pompeian Room. The theatre crowds had not
dispersed, and the place was a-glitter; for it was the grand-opera
season. The room was so well filled that he had difficulty in finding a
seat, and he made his way slowly, meditating gloomily upon the fact
that out of all this concourse in which he had once figured not a
single familiar face greeted him. Finding no unoccupied table, he was
about to retreat when he heard his name spoken and felt a vigorous slap
upon the back.

"Boyd Emerson! By Jove, I'm glad to see you!" He turned to face an
anaemic youth whose colorless, gas-bleached face was wrinkled into an
expansive grin.

"Hello, Alton!"

They shook hands like old friends, while Alton Clyde continued to
express his delight.

"So you've been roughing it out in Nebraska, eh?"

"Alaska."

"So it was. I always get those places mixed. Come over and have a
drink. I want to talk to you. Funny thing, I just met a Klondiker
myself this evening. Great chap, too! I want you to know him: he's
immense. Only watch out he don't get you full. He's an awful spender.
I'm half kippered myself. His name is Froelich, but he isn't a
Dutchman. Ever meet him up there?"

"I think not."

"Come on, you'll like him."

Clyde led his companion toward a table, chattering as they went. "Y'
know, I'm democratic myself, and I'm fond of these rough fellows. I'd
like to go out to Nebraska--"

"Alaska."

"--and punch cows and shoot a pistol and yell. I'm really tremendously
rough. Here he is! Mr. Froelich, my old friend Mr. Emerson. We played
football together--or, at least, he played; I was too light."

Mr. Froelich shoved back his chair and turned, exposing the face of
"Fingerless" Fraser, quite expressionless save for the left eyelid,
which drooped meaningly.

"'Froelich'!" said Boyd, angrily; "good heavens, Fraser, have you
picked another? I thought you were going to stick to 'Frobisher.'"
Turning to Clyde, he observed: "This man's name is Fraser. One of his
peculiarities is a dislike of proper names. He has never found one that
suited him."

"I like 'Froelich' pretty well," observed the imperturbable Fraser. "It
sounds distanguay, and--"

"Don't believe anything he tells you," Boyd broke in, seating himself.
"He is the most circumstantial liar in the Northwest, and if you don't
watch him every minute he will sell you a hydraulic mine, or a rubber
p

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