Title: The Winds of Chance
Author: Beach, Rex, 1877-1949
Language: English
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THE WINDS OF CHANCE

By REX BEACH

Author of "THE SILVER HORDE" "THE SPOILERS" "THE IRON TRAIL" Etc.



CHAPTER I


With an ostentatious flourish Mr. "Lucky" Broad placed a crisp
ten-dollar bill in an eager palm outstretched across his folding-table.

"The gentleman wins and the gambler loses!" Mr. Broad proclaimed to the
world. "The eye is quicker than the hand, and the dealer's moans is
music to the stranger's ear." With practised touch he rearranged the
three worn walnut-shells which constituted his stock in trade. Beneath
one of them he deftly concealed a pellet about the size of a five-grain
allopathic pill. It was the erratic behavior of this tiny ball, its
mysterious comings and goings, that had summoned Mr. Broad's audience
and now held its observant interest. This audience, composed of roughly
dressed men, listened attentively to the seductive monologue which
accompanied the dealer's deft manipulations, and was greatly
entertained thereby. "Three tiny tepees in a row and a little black
medicine-man inside." The speaker's voice was high-pitched and it
carried like a "thirtythirty." "You see him walk in, you open the door,
and--you double your money. Awfully simple! Simpully awful! What? As I
live! The gentleman wins ten more--ten silver-tongued song-birds, ten
messengers of mirth--the price of a hard day's toil. Take it, sir, and
may it make a better and a stronger man of you. Times are good and I
spend my money free. I made it packin' grub to Linderman, four bits a
pound, but--easy come, easy go. Now then, who's next? You've seen me
work. I couldn't baffle a sore-eyed Siwash with snow-glasses."

Lucky Broad's three-legged table stood among some stumps beside the
muddy roadway which did service as the main street of Dyea and along
which flowed an irregular stream of pedestrians; incidental to his
practised manipulation of the polished walnut-shells he maintained an
unceasing chatter of the sort above set down. Now his voice was loud
and challenging, now it was apologetic, always it stimulated curiosity.
One moment he was jubilant and gay, again he was contrite and
querulous. Occasionally he burst forth into plaintive
self-denunciations.

Fixing a hypnotic gaze upon a bland, blue-eyed bystander who had just
joined the charmed circle, he murmured, invitingly: "Better try your
luck, Olaf. It's Danish dice--three chances to win and one to lose."

The object of his address shook his head. "Aye ant Danish, Aye ban
Norvegen," said he.

"Danish dice or Norwegian poker, they're both the same. I'll deal you a
free hand and it won't cost you a cent. Fix your baby blues on the
little ball and watch me close. Don't let me deceive you. Now then,
which hut hides the grain?"

Noting a half-dozen pairs of eyes upon him, the Norseman became
conscious that he was a center of interest. He grinned half-heartedly
and, after a brief hesitation, thrust forth a clumsy paw, lifted a
shell, and exposed the object of general curiosity.

"You guessed it!" There was commendation, there was pleased surprise,
in Mr. Broad's tone. "You can't fool a foreigner, can you, boys? My,
my! Ain't it lucky for me that we played for fun? But you got to give
me another chance, Lars; I'll fool you yet. In walks the little pill
once more, I make the magic pass, and you follow me attentively,
knowing in your heart of hearts that I'm a slick un. Now then, shoot,
Kid; you can't miss me!"

The onlookers stirred with interest; with eager fingers the artless
Norwegian fumbled in his pocket. At the last moment, however, he
thought better of his impulse, grunted once, then turned his back to
the table and walked away.

"Missed him!" murmured the dealer, with no display of feeling; then to
the group around him he announced, shamelessly: "You got to lead those
birds; they fly fast."

One of Mr. Broad's boosters, he who had twice won for the Norseman's
benefit, carelessly returned his winnings. "Sure!" he agreed. "They got
a head like a turtle, them Swedes."

Mr. Broad carefully smoothed out the two bills and reverently laid them
to rest in his bank-roll. "Yes, and they got bony mouths. You got to
set your hook or it won't hold."

"Slow pickin's," yawned an honest miner with a pack upon his back.
Attracted by the group at the table, he had dropped out of the
procession in the street and had paused long enough to win a bet or
two. Now he straightened himself and stretched his arms. "These Michael
Strogoffs is hep to the old stuff, Lucky. I'm thinking of joining the
big rush. They say this Klondike is some rich."

Inasmuch as there were no strangers in sight at the moment, the
proprietor of the deadfall gave up barking; he daintily folded and tore
in half a cigarette paper, out of which he fashioned a thin smoke for
himself. It was that well-earned moment of repose, that welcome recess
from the day's toil. Mr. Broad inhaled deeply, then he turned his eyes
upon the former speaker.

"You've been thinking again, have you?" He frowned darkly. With a note
of warning in his voice he declared: "You ain't strong enough for such
heavy work, Kid. That's why I've got you packing hay."

The object of this sarcasm hitched his shoulders and the movement
showed that his burden was indeed no more than a cunning counterfeit, a
bundle of hay rolled inside a tarpaulin.

"Oh, I got a head and I've been doing some heavy thinking with it," the
Kid retorted. "This here Dawson is going to be a good town. I'm getting
readied up to join the parade."

"Are you, now?" the shell-man mocked. "I s'pose you got it all framed
with the Canucks to let you through? I s'pose the chief of police knows
you and likes you, eh? You and him is cousins, or something?"

"Coppers is all alike; there's always a way to square 'em--"

"Lay off that 'squaring' stuff," cautioned a renegade crook, disguised
by a suit of mackinaws and a week's growth of beard into the likeness
of a stampeder. "A thousand bucks and a ton of grub, that's what the
sign says, and that's what it means. They wouldn't let you over the
Line with nine hundred and ninety-nine fifty."

"Right!" agreed a third capper. "It's a closed season on broken stiffs.
You can't monkey with the Mounted Police. When they put over an edict
it lays there till it freezes. They'll make you show your 'openers' at
the Boundary. Gee! If I had 'em I wouldn't bother to go 'inside.'
What's a guy want with more than a thousand dollars and a ton of grub,
anyhow?"

"All the same, I'm about set to hit the trail," stubbornly maintained
the man with the alfalfa pack. "I ain't broke. When you boys get to
Dawson, just ask for Kid Bridges' saloon and I'll open wine. These
woollys can have their mines; me for a hootch-mill on Main Street."

Lucky addressed his bevy of boosters. "Have I nursed a serpent in my
breast, or has the Kid met a banker's son? Gimme room, boys. I'm going
to shuffle the shells for him and let him double his money. Keep your
eye on the magic pea, Mr. Bridges. Three tiny tepees in a row--" There
was a general laugh as Broad began to shift the walnut-shells, but Kid
Bridges retorted, contemptuously:

"That's the trouble with all you wiseacres. You get a dollar ahead and
you fall for another man's game. I never knew a faro-dealer that
wouldn't shoot craps. No, I haven't met no banker's son and I ain't
likely to in this place. These pilgrims have sewed their money in their
underclothes, and they sleep with their eyes open. Seems like they'd go
blind, but they don't. These ain't Rubes, Lucky; they're city folks.
They've seen three-ringed circuses and three-shell games, and all that
farmer stuff. They've been 'gypped,' and it's an old story to 'em."

"You're dead right," Broad acknowledged. "That's why it's good. D'you
know the best town in America for the shells? Little old New York. If
the cops would let me set up at the corner of Broad and Wall, I'd own
the Stock Exchange in a week. Madison and State is another good stand;
so's Market and Kearney, or Pioneer Square, down by the totem pole. New
York, Chicago, 'Frisco, Seattle, they're all hick towns. For every city
guy that's been stung by a bee there's a hundred that still thinks
honey comes from a fruit. This rush is just starting, and the bigger it
grows the better we'll do. Say, Kid, if you mush over to Tagish with
that load of timothy on your spine, the police will put you on the
wood-pile for the winter."

While Mr. Lucky Broad and his business associates were thus busied in
discussing the latest decree of the Northwest Mounted Police, other
townsmen of theirs were similarly engaged. Details of this
proclamation--the most arbitrary of any, hitherto--had just arrived
from the International Boundary, and had caused a halt, an eddy, in the
stream of gold-seekers which flowed inland toward the Chilkoot Pass. A
human tide was setting northward from the States, a tide which swelled
and quickened daily as the news of George Carmack's discovery spread
across the world, but at Healy & Wilson's log-store, where the notice
above referred to had been posted, the stream slowed. A crowd of
new-comers from the barges and steamers in the roadstead had assembled
there, and now gave voice to hoarse indignation and bitter resentment.
Late arrivals from Skagway, farther down the coast, brought word of
similar scenes at that point and a similar feeling of dismay; they
reported a similar increase in the general excitement, too. There, as
here, a tent city was springing up, the wooded hills were awakening to
echoes of unaccustomed life, a thrill and a stir were running through
the wilderness and the odor of spruce fires was growing heavier with
every ship that came.

Pierce Phillips emerged from the trading-post and, drawn by the force
of gravitation, joined the largest and the most excited group of
Argonauts. He was still somewhat dazed by his perusal of that Police
edict; the blow to his hopes was still too stunning, his disappointment
was still too keen, to permit of clear thought.

"A ton of provisions and a thousand dollars!" he repeated, blankly.
Why, that was absurd, out of all possible reason! It would bar the way
to fully half this rushing army; it would turn men back at the very
threshold of the golden North. Nevertheless, there stood the notice in
black and white, a clear and unequivocal warning from the Canadian
authorities, evidently designed to forestall famine on the foodless
Yukon. From the loud arguments round about him Phillips gathered that
opinion on the justice of the measure was about evenly divided; those
fortunate men who had come well provided commended it heartily, those
less fortunate fellows who were sailing close-hauled were equally noisy
in their denunciation of it. The latter could see in this precautionary
ruling nothing except the exercise of a tyrannical power aimed at their
ruin, and in consequence they voiced threats, and promises of violence
the which Phillips put down as mere resentful mouthings of no actual
significance. As for himself, he had never possessed anything like a
thousand dollars at one time, therefore the problem of acquiring such a
prodigious sum in the immediate future presented appalling
difficulties. He had come north to get rich, only to find that it was
necessary to be rich in order to get north. A fine situation, truly! A
ton of provisions would cost at least five hundred dollars and the
expense of transporting it across summer swamps and tundras, then up
and over that mysterious and forbidding Chilkoot of which he had heard
so much, would bring the total capital required up to impossible
proportions. The prospect was indeed dismaying. Phillips had been
ashore less than an hour, but already he had gained some faint idea of
the country that lay ahead of him; already he had noted the almost
absolute lack of transportation; already he had learned the price of
packers, and as a result he found himself at an impasse.

One thousand dollars and two hundred pounds! It was enough to dash high
hopes. And yet, strangely enough, Phillips was not discouraged. He was
rather surprised at his own rebound after the first shock; his
reasonless optimism vaguely amazed him, until, in contemplating the
matter, he discovered that his thoughts were running somewhat after
this fashion:

"They told me I couldn't make it; they said something was sure to
happen. Well, it has. I'm up against it--hard. Most fellows would quit
and go home, but I sha'n't. I'm going to win out, somehow, for this is
the real thing. This is Life, Adventure. It will be wonderful to look
back and say: 'I did it. Nothing stopped me. I landed at Dyea with one
hundred and thirty-five dollars, but look at me now!'"

Thoughts such as these were in his mind, and their resolute nature must
have been reflected in his face, for a voice aroused him from his
meditations.

"It don't seem to faze you much, partner. I s'pose you came heeled?"
Phillips looked up and into a sullen, angry face.

"It nearly kills me," he smiled. "I'm the worst-heeled man in the
crowd."

"Well, it's a darned outrage. A ton of grub? Why, have you seen the
trail? Take a look; it's a man-killer, and the rate is forty cents a
pound to Linderman. It'll go to fifty now--maybe a dollar--and there
aren't enough packers to handle half the stuff."

"Things are worse at Skagway," another man volunteered. "I came up
yesterday, and they're losing a hundred head of horses a day--bogging
'em down and breaking their legs. You can walk on dead carcasses from
the Porcupine to the Summit."

A third stranger, evidently one of the well-provided few, laughed
carelessly. "If you boys can't stand the strain you'd better stay where
you are," said he. "Grub's sky-high in Dawson, and mighty short. I knew
what I was up against, so I came prepared. Better go home and try it
next summer."

The first speaker, he of the sullen visage, turned his back, muttering,
resentfully: "Another wise guy! They make me sick! I've a notion to go
through anyhow."

"Don't try that," cautioned the man from Skagway. "If you got past the
Police they'd follow you to hell but what they'd bring you back. They
ain't like our police."

Still meditating his plight, Pierce Phillips edged out of the crowd and
walked slowly down the street. It was not a street at all, except by
courtesy, for it was no more than an open waterfront faced by a few log
buildings and a meandering line of new white tents. Tents were going up
everywhere and all of them bore painful evidence of their newness. So
did the clothes of their owners for that matter--men's garments still
bore their price-tags. The beach was crowded with piles of merchandise
over which there was much wrangling, barges plying regularly back and
forth from the anchored ships added hourly to the confusion. As outfits
were dumped upon the sand their owners assembled them and bore them
away to their temporary camp sites. In this occupation every man faced
his own responsibilities single-handed, for there were neither drays
nor carts nor vehicles of any sort.

As Phillips looked on at the disorder along the water's edge, as he
stared up the fir-flanked Dyea valley, whither a steady stream of
traffic flowed, he began to feel a fretful eagerness to join in it, to
be up and going. 'Way yonder through those hills towered the Chilkoot,
and beyond that was the mighty river rushing toward Dawson City, toward
Life and Adventure, for that was what the gold-fields signified to
Phillips. Yes, Life! Adventure! He had set out to seek them, to taste
the flavor of the world, and there it lay--his world, at least--just
out of reach. A fierce impatience, a hot resentment at that senseless
restriction which chained him in his tracks, ran through the boy. What
right had any one to stop him here at the very door, when just inside
great things were happening? Past that white-and-purple barrier which
he could see against the sky a new land lay, a radiant land of promise,
of mystery, and of fascination; Pierce vowed that he would not, could
not, wait. Fortunes would reward the first arrivals; how, then, could
he permit these other men to precede him? The world was a good
place--it would not let a person starve.

To the young and the foot-free Adventure lurks just over the hill; Life
opens from the crest of the very next divide. It matters not that we
never quite come up with either, that we never quite attain the summit
whence our promises are realized; the ever-present expectation, the
eager straining forward, is the breath of youth. It was that breath
which Phillips now felt in his nostrils. It was pungent, salty.

He noted a group of people gathered about some center of attraction
whence issued a high-pitched intonation.

"Oh, look at the cute little pea! Klondike croquet, the packer's
pastime. Who'll risk a dollar to win a dollar? It's a healthy sport.
It's good for young and old--a cheeild can understand it. Three Eskimo
igloos and an educated pill!"

"A shell-game!" Pierce Phillips halted in his tracks and stared
incredulously, then he smiled. "A shell-game, running wide open on the
main street of the town!" This WAS the frontier, the very edge of
things. With an odd sense of unreality he felt the world turn back ten
years. He had seen shell-games at circuses and fairgrounds when he was
much younger, but he supposed they had long since been abandoned in
favor of more ingenious and less discreditable methods of robbery.
Evidently, however, there were some gulls left, for this device
appeared to be well patronized. Still doubting the evidence of his
ears, he joined the group.

"The gentleman wins and the gambler loses!" droned the dealer as he
paid a bet. "Now then, we're off for another journey. Who'll ride with
me this time?"

Phillips was amazed that any one could be so simple-minded as to
squander his money upon such a notoriously unprofitable form of
entertainment. Nevertheless, men were playing, and they did not seem to
suspect that the persons whom the dealer occasionally paid were his
confederates.

The operator maintained an incessant monologue. At the moment of
Pierce's arrival he was directing it at an ox-eyed individual,
evidently selected to be the next victim. The fellow was stupid,
nevertheless he exercised some caution at first. He won a few dollars,
then he lost a few, but, alas! the gambling fever mounted in him and
greed finally overcame his hesitation. With an eager gesture he chose a
shell and Phillips felt a glow of satisfaction at the realization that
the man had once more guessed aright. Drawing forth a wallet, the
fellow laid it on the table.

"I'll bet the lump," he cried.

The dealer hesitated. "How much you got in that alligator valise?"

"Two hundred dollars."

"Two hundred berries on one bush!" The proprietor of the game was
incredulous. "Boys, he aims to leave me cleaner than a snow-bird."
Seizing the walnut-shell between his thumb and forefinger, he turned it
over, but instead of exposing the elusive pellet he managed, by an
almost imperceptible forward movement, to roll it out from under its
hiding-place and to conceal it between his third and fourth fingers.
The stranger was surprised, dumfounded, at sight of the empty shell. He
looked on open-mouthed while his wallet was looted of its contents.

"Every now and then I win a little one," the gambler announced as he
politely returned the bill-case to its owner. He lifted another shell,
and by some sleight-of-hand managed to replace the pellet upon the
table, then gravely flipped a five-dollar gold piece to one of his
boosters.

Phillips's eyes were quick; from where he stood he had detected the
maneuver and it left him hot with indignation. He felt impelled to tell
the victim how he had been robbed, but thought better of the impulse
and assured himself that this was none of his affair. For perhaps ten
minutes he looked on while the sheep-shearing proceeded.

After a time there came a lull and the dealer raised his voice to
entice new patrons. Meanwhile, he paused to roll a cigarette the size
of a wheat straw. While thus engaged there sounded the hoarse blast of
a steamer's whistle in the offing and he turned his head. Profiting by
this instant of inattention a hand reached across the table and lifted
one of the walnut-shells. There was nothing under it.

"Five bucks on this one!" A soiled bill was placed beside one of the
two remaining shells, the empty one.

Thus far Phillips had followed the pea unerringly, therefore he was
amazed at the new better's mistake.

The dealer turned back to his layout and winked at the bystanders,
saying, "Brother, I'll bet you ten more that you've made a bad bet."
His offer was accepted. Simultaneously Phillips was seized with an
intense desire to beat this sharper at his own game; impulsively he
laid a protecting palm over the shell beneath which he knew the little
sphere to lie.

"I'll pick this one," he heard himself say.

"Better let me deal you a new hand," the gambler suggested.

"Nothing of the sort," a man at Phillips' shoulder broke in. "Hang on
to that shell, kid. You're right and I'm going down for the size of his
bankroll." The speaker was evidently a miner, for he carried a bulky
pack upon his shoulders. He placed a heavy palm over the back of
Phillips' hand, then extracted from the depths of his overalls a fat
roll of paper money.

The size of this wager, together with the determination of its owner,
appeared briefly to nonplus the dealer. He voiced a protest, but the
miner forcibly overbore it:

"Say, I eat up this shell stuff!" he declared. "It's my meat, and I've
trimmed every tinhorn that ever came to my town. There's three hundred
dollars; you cover it, and you cover this boy's bet, too." The fellow
winked reassuringly at Phillips. "You heard him say the sky was his
limit, didn't you? Well, let's see how high the sky is in these parts!"

There was a movement in the crowd, whereupon the speaker cried,
warningly: "Boosters, stand back! Don't try to give us the elbow, or
I'll close up this game!" To Pierce he murmured, confidentially: "We've
got him right. Don't let anybody edge you out." He put more weight upon
Phillips' hand and forced the young man closer to the table.

Pierce had no intention of surrendering his place, and now the
satisfaction of triumphing over these crooks excited him. He continued
to cover the walnut-shell while with his free hand he drew his own
money from his pocket. He saw that the owner of the game was suffering
extreme discomfort at this checkmate, and he enjoyed the situation.

"I watched you trim that farmer a few minutes ago," Phillips' companion
chuckled. "Now I'm going to make you put up or shut up. There's my
three hundred. I can use it when it grows to six."

"How much are you betting?" the dealer inquired of Phillips.

Pierce had intended merely to risk a dollar or two, but now there came
to him a thrilling thought. That notice at Healy & Wilson's store
flashed into his mind. "One thousand dollars and a ton of food," the
sign had read. Well, why not bet and bet heavy? he asked himself. Here
was a chance to double his scanty capital at the expense of a rogue. To
beat a barefaced chater at his own game surely could not be considered
cheating; in this instance it was mere retribution.

He had no time to analyze the right or the wrong of his reasoning--at
best the question would bear debate. Granting that it wasn't exactly
honest, what did such nice considerations weigh when balanced against
the stern necessities of this hour? A stranger endeavored to shove him
away from the table and this clinched his decision. He'd make them play
fair. With a sweep of his free arm. Phillips sent the fellow staggering
back and then placed his entire roll of bills on the table in front of
the dealer.

"There's mine," he said, shortly. "One hundred and thirty-five dollars.
I don't have to count it, for I know it by heart."

"Business appears to be picking up," murmured the proprietor of the
game.

Phillips' neighbor continued to hold the boy's hand in a vicelike grip.
Now he leaned forward, saying:

"Look here! Are you going to cover our coin or am I going to smoke you
up?"

"The groans of the gambler is sweet music in their ears!" The dealer
shrugged reluctantly and counted out four hundred and thirty-five
dollars, which he separated into two piles.

A certain shame at his action swept over Phillips when he felt his
companion's grasp relax and heard him say, "Turn her over, kid."

This was diamond cut diamond, of course; nevertheless, it was a
low-down trick and--

Pierce Phillips started, he examined the interior of the walnut-shell
in bewilderment, for he had lifted it only to find it quite empty.

"Every now and then I win a little one," the dealer intoned, gravely
pocketing his winnings. "It only goes to show you that the hand--"

"Damnation!" exploded the man at Phillips' side. "Trimmed for three
hundred, or I'm a goat!"

As Pierce walked away some one fell into step with him; it was the
sullen, black-browed individual he had seen at the trading-post.

"So they took you for a hundred and thirty-five, eh? You must be
rolling in coin," the man observed.

Even yet Pierce was more than a little dazed. "Do you know," said he,
"I was sure I had the right shell."

"Why, of course you had the right one." The stranger laughed shortly.
"They laid it up for you on purpose, then Kid Bridges worked a shift
when he held your hand. You can't beat 'em."

Pierce halted. "Was he--was THAT fellow with the pack a booster?"

"Certainly. They're all boosters. The Kid carries enough hay on his
back to feed a team. It's his bed. I've been here a week and I know
'em." The speaker stared in surprise at Phillips, who had broken into a
hearty laugh. "Look here! A little hundred and thirty-five must be
chicken feed to you. If you've got any more to toss away, toss it in my
direction."

"That's what makes it so funny. You see, I haven't any more. That was
my last dollar. Well, it serves me right. Now I can start from scratch
and win on my own speed."

The dark-browed man studied Phillips curiously. "You're certain'y
game," he announced. "I s'pose now you'll be wanting to sell some of
your outfit. That's why I've been hanging around that game. I've picked
up quite a bit of stuff that way, but I'm still short a few things and
I'll buy--"

"I haven't a pound of grub. I came up second-class."

"Huh! Then you'll go back steerage."

"Oh no, I won't! I'm going on to Dawson." There was a momentary
silence. "You say you've been here a week? Put me up for the
night--until I get a job. Will you?"

The black-eyed man hesitated, then he grinned. "You've got your nerve,
but--I'm blamed if I don't like it," said he. "My brother Jim is
cooking supper now. Suppose we go over to the tent and ask him."



CHAPTER II


The headwaters of the Dyea River spring from a giant's punch-bowl.
Three miles above timber-line the valley bottom widens out into a
flinty field strewn with boulders which in ages past have lost their
footing on the steep hills forming the sides of the cup. Between these
boulders a thin carpet of moss is spread, but the slopes themselves are
quite naked; they are seamed and cracked and weather-beaten, their
surfaces are split and shattered from the play of the elements. High up
toward the crest of one of them rides a glacier--a pallid, weeping
sentinel which stands guard for the great ice-caps beyond. Winter
snows, summer fogs and rains have washed the hillsides clean; they are
leached out and they present a lifeless, forbidding front to travelers.
In many places the granite fragments which still encumber them lie
piled one above another in such titanic chaos as to discourage man's
puny efforts to climb over them. Nevertheless, men have done so, and by
the thousands, by the tens of thousands. On this particular morning an
unending procession of human beings was straining up and over and
through the confusion. They lifted themselves by foot and by hand;
where the slope was steepest they crept on all-fours. They formed an
unbroken, threadlike stream extending from timberline to crest, each
individual being dwarfed to microscopic proportions by the size of his
surroundings. They flowed across the floor of the valley, then slowly,
very slowly, they flowed up its almost perpendicular wall. Now they
were lost to sight; again they reappeared clambering over glacier scars
or toiling up steep, rocky slides; finally they emerged away up under
the arch of the sky.

Looking down from the roof of the pass itself, the scene was doubly
impressive, for the wooded valley lay outstretched clear to the sea,
and out of it came that long, wavering line of ants. They did, indeed,
appear to be ants, those men, as they dragged themselves across the
meadow and up the ascent; they resembled nothing more than a file of
those industrious insects creeping across the bottom and up the sides
of a bath-tub, and the likeness was borne out by the fact that all
carried burdens. That was in truth the marvel of the scene, for every
man on the Chilkoot was bent beneath a back-breaking load.

Three miles down the gulch, where the upward march of the forests had
been halted, there, among scattered outposts of scrubby spruce and
wind-twisted willow, stood a village, a sprawling, formless aggregation
of flimsy tents and green logs known as Sheep Camp. Although it was a
temporary, makeshift town, already it bulked big in the minds of men
from Maine to California, from the Great Lakes to the Gulf, for it was
the last outpost of civilization, and beyond it lay a land of mystery.
Sheep Camp had become famous by reason of the fact that it was linked
with the name of that Via Dolorosa, that summit of despair, the
Chilkoot. Already it had come to stand for the weak man's ultimate
mile-post, the end of many journeys.

The approach from the sea was easy, if twelve miles of boulder and bog,
of swamp and nigger-head, of root and stump, can be called easy under
the best of circumstances; but easy it was as compared with what lay
beyond and above it. Nevertheless, many Argonauts had never penetrated
even thus far, and of those who had, a considerable proportion had
turned back at the giant pit three miles above. One look at the
towering barrier had been enough for them. The Chilkoot was more than a
mountain, more than an obstacle of nature; it was a Presence, a
tremendous and a terrifying Personality which overshadowed the minds of
men and could neither be ignored at the time nor forgotten later. No
wonder, then, that Sheep Camp, which was a part of the Chilkoot,
represented, a sort of acid test; no wonder that those who had moved
their outfits thus far were of the breed the Northland loves--the stout
of heart and of body.

Provisions were cached at frequent intervals all the way up from the
sea, but in the open meadow beneath the thousand-foot wall an immense
supply depot had sprung up. This pocket in the hills had become an
open-air commissary, stocked with every sort of provender and gear.
There were acres of sacks and bundles, of boxes and bales, of lumber
and hardware and perishable stuffs, and all day long men came and went
in relays. One relay staggered up and out of the canon and dropped its
packs, another picked up the bundles and ascended skyward. Pound by
pound, ton by ton, this vast equipment of supplies went forward, but
slowly, oh, so slowly! And at such effort! It was indeed fit work for
ants, for it arrived nowhere and it never ended. Antlike, these
burden-bearers possessed but one idea--to fetch and to carry; they
traveled back and forth along the trail until they wore it into a
bottomless bog, until every rock, every tree, every landmark along it
became hatefully familiar and their eyes grew sick from seeing them.

The character of then--labor and its monotony, even in this short time,
had changed the men's characters--they had become pack-animals and they
deported themselves as such. All labor-saving devices, all mechanical
aids, all short cuts to comfort and to accomplishment, had been left
behind; here was the wilderness, primitive, hostile, merciless. Every
foot they moved, every ounce they carried, was at the cost of muscular
exertion. It was only natural that they should take on the color of
their surroundings.

Money lost its value a mile above Sheep Camp said became a thing of
weight, a thing to carry. The standard of value was the pound, and men
thought in hundredweights or in tons. Yet there was no relief, no
respite, for famine stalked in the Yukon and the Northwest Mounted were
on guard, hence these unfortunates were chained to their grub-piles as
galley-slaves are shackled to their benches.

Toe to heel, like peons rising from the bowels of a mine, they bent
their backs and strained up that riven rock wall. Blasphemy and pain,
high hopes and black despair, hearts overtaxed and eyes blind with
fatigue, that was what the Chilkoot stood for. Permeating the entire
atmosphere of the place, so that even the dullest could feel it, was a
feverish haste, an apprehensive demand for speed, more speed, to keep
ahead of the pressing thousands coming on behind.

Pierce Phillips breasted the last rise to the Summit, slipped his
pack-straps, and flung himself full length upon the ground. His lungs
felt as if they were bursting, the blood surged through his veins until
he rocked, his body streamed with sweat, and his legs were as heavy as
if molded from solid iron. He was pumped out, winded; nevertheless, he
felt his strength return with magic swiftness, for he possessed that
marvelous recuperative power of youth, and, like some fabled warrior,
new strength flowed into him from the earth. Round about him other men
were sprawled; some lay like corpses, others were propped against their
packs, a few stirred and sighed like the sorely wounded after a charge.
Those who had lain longest rose, took up their burdens, and went
groaning over the sky-line and out of sight. Every moment new faces,
purple with effort or white with exhaustion, rose out of the
depths--all were bitten deep with lines of physical suffering. On
buckled knees their owners lurched forward to find resting-places; in
their eyes burned a sullen rage; in their mouths were foul curses at
this Devil's Stairway. There were striplings and graybeards in the
crowd, strong men and weak men, but here at the Summit all were alike
in one particular--they lacked breath for anything except oaths.

Here, too, as in the valley beneath, was another great depot of
provision piles. Near where Phillips had thrown himself down there was
one man whose bearing was in marked contrast to that of the others. He
sat astride a bulging canvas bag in a leather harness, and in spite of
the fact that the mark of a tump-line showed beneath his cap he
betrayed no signs of fatigue. He was not at all exhausted, and from the
interest he displayed it seemed that he had chosen this spot as a
vantage-point from which to study the upcoming file rather than as a
place in which to rest. This he did with a quick, appreciative eye and
with a genial smile. In face, in dress, in manner, he was different.
For one thing, he was of foreign birth, and yet he appeared to be more
a piece of the country than any man Pierce had seen. His clothes were
of a pattern common among the native packers, but he wore them with a
free, unconscious grace all his own. From the peak of his Canadian
toque there depended a tassel which bobbed when he talked; his boots
were of Indian make, and they were soft and light and waterproof; a
sash of several colors was knotted about his waist. But it was not
alone his dress which challenged the eye--there was something in this
fellow's easy, open bearing which arrested attention. His dark skin had
been deepened by windburn, his well-set, well-shaped head bore a
countenance both eager and intelligent, a countenance that fairly
glowed with confidence and good humor.

Oddly enough, he sang as he sat upon his pack. High up on this
hillside, amid blasphemous complaints, he hummed a gay little song:

       "Chante, rossignol, chante!
        Toi qui a le coeur gai!
        Tu as le coeur a rire
        Mai j'l'ai-t-a pleurer,"

ran his chanson.

Phillips had seen the fellow several times, and the circumstances of
their first encounter had been sufficiently unusual to impress
themselves upon his mind. Pierce had been resting here, at this very
spot, when the Canuck had come up into sight, bearing a hundred-pound
pack without apparent effort. Two flour-sacks upon a man's back was a
rare sight on the roof of the Chilkoot. There were not many who could
master that slope with more than one, but this fellow had borne his
burden without apparent effort; and what was even more remarkable, what
had caused Pierce Phillips to open his eyes in genuine astonishment,
was the fact that the man climbed with a pipe in his teeth and smoked
it with relish. On that occasion the Frenchman had not stopped at the
crest to breathe, but had merely paused long enough to admire the scene
outspread beneath him; then he had swung onward. Of all the sights
young Phillips had beheld in this new land, the vision of that huge,
unhurried Canadian, smoking, had impressed him deepest. It had awakened
his keen envy, too, for Pierce was beginning to glory in his own
strength. A few days later they had rested near each other on the Long
Lake portage. That is, Phillips had rested; the Canadian, it seemed,
had a habit of pausing when and where the fancy struck him. His reason
for stopping there had been the antics of a peculiarly fearless and
impertinent "camp-robber." With a crust of bread he had tolled the bird
almost within his reach and was accepting its scolding with intense
amusement. Having both teased and made friends with the creature, he
finally gave it the crust and resumed his journey.

This was a land where brawn was glorified; the tales told oftenest
around the stoves at Sheep Camp had to do with feats of strength or
endurance, they were stories of mighty men and mighty packs, of long
marches and of grim staying powers. Already the names of certain
"old-timers" like Dinsmore and McDonald and Peterson and Stick Jim had
become famous because of some conspicuous exploit. Dinsmore, according
to the legend, had once lugged a hundred and sixty pounds to the
Summit; McDonald had bent a horseshoe in his hands; Peterson had lifted
the stem-piece out of a poling-boat lodged on the rocks below White
Horse; Stick Jim had run down a moose and killed it with his knife.

From what Phillips had seen of this French Canadian it was plain that
he, too, was an "old-timer," one of that Jovian band of supermen who
had dared the dark interior and robbed the bars of Forty Mile in the
hard days before the El Dorado discovery. Since this was their first
opportunity of exchanging speech, Phillips ventured to address the man.

"I thought I had a load this morning, but I'd hate to swap packs with
you," he said.

The Frenchman flashed him a smile which exposed a row of teeth
snow-white against his tan. "Ho! You're stronger as me. I see you
plenty tams biffore."

This was indeed agreeable praise, and Pierce showed his pleasure. "Oh
no!" he modestly protested. "I'm just getting broken in."

"Look out you don' broke your back," warned the other. "Dis Chilkoot
she's bad bizness. She's keel a lot of dese sof' fellers. Dey get seeck
in de back. You hear 'bout it?"

"Spinal meningitis. It's partly from exposure."

"Dat's him! Don' never carry too moch; don' be in soch hurry."

Phillips laughed at this caution. "Why, we have to hurry," said he.
"New people are coming all the time and they'll beat us in if we don't
look out."

His comrade shrugged. "Mebbe so; but s'posin' dey do. Wat's de hodds?
She's beeg countree; dere's plenty claims."

"Are there, really?" Phillips' eyes brightened. "You're an old-timer;
you've been 'inside.' Do you mean there's plenty of gold for all of us?"

"Dere ain't 'nuff gold in all de worl' for some people."

"I mean is Dawson as rich as they say it is?"

"Um--m! I don' know."

"Didn't you get in on the strike?"

"I hear 'bout 'im, but I'm t'inkin' 'bout oder t'ings."

Phillips regarded the speaker curiously. "That's funny. What business
are you in?"

"My bizness? Jus' livin'." The Canadian's eyes twinkled. "You don'
savvy, eh--? Wal, dat's biccause you're lak dese oder feller--you're in
beeg hurry to be reech. Me--?" He shrugged his brawny shoulders and
smiled cheerily. "I got plenty tam. I'm loafer. I enjoy myse'f--"

"So do I. For that matter, I'm enjoying myself now. I think this is all
perfectly corking, and I'm having the time of my young life. Why, just
think, over there"--Pierce waved his hand toward the northward panorama
of white peaks and purple valleys--"everything is unknown!" His face
lit up with some restless desire which the Frenchman appeared to
understand, for he nodded seriously. "Sometimes it scares me a little."

"Wat you scare' 'bout, you?"

"Myself, I suppose. Sometimes I'm afraid I haven't the stuff in me to
last."

"Dat's good sign." The speaker slipped his arms into his pack-harness
and adjusted the tumpline to his forehead preparatory to rising. "You
goin' mak' good 'sourdough' lak me. You goin' love de woods and de
hills wen you know 'em. I can tell. Wal, I see you bimeby at Wite
'Orse."

"White Horse? Is that where you're going?"

"Yes. I'm batteau man; I'm goin' be pilot."

"Isn't that pretty dangerous work? They say those rapids are awful."

"Sure! Everybody scare' to try 'im. W'en I came up dey pay me fifty
dollar for tak' one boat t'rough. By gosh! I never mak' so moch
money--tree hondred dollar a day. I'm reech man now. You lak get reech
queeck? I teach you be pilot. Swif' water, beeg noise! Plenty fun in
dat!" The Canadian threw back his head and laughed loudly. "W'at you
say?"

"I wouldn't mind trying it," Pierce confessed, "but I have no outfit.
I'm packing for wages. I'll be along when I get my grub-stake together."

"Good! I go purty queeck now. W'en you come, I tak' you t'rough de
canyon free. In one day I teach you be good pilot. You ask for 'Poleon
Doret. Remember?"

"I say!" Phillips halted the cheerful giant as he was about to rise.
"Do you know, you're the first man who has offered to do me a favor;
you're the only one who hasn't tried to hold me back and climb over me.
You're the first man I've seen with--with a smile on his face."

The speaker nodded. "I know! It's peety, too. Dese poor feller is
scare', lak' you. Dey don' onderstan'. But bimeby, dey get wise; dey
learn to he'p de oder feller, dey learn dat a smile will carry a pack
or row a boat. You remember dat. A smile and a song, she'll shorten de
miles and mak' fren's wid everybody. Don' forget w'at I tell you."

"Thank you, I won't," said Pierce, with a flicker of amusement at the
man's brief sermon. This Doret was evidently a sort of backwoods
preacher.

"Adieu!" With another flashing smile and a wave of his hand the fellow
joined the procession and went on over the crest.

It had been pleasant to exchange even these few friendly words, for of
late the habit of silence had been forced upon Pierce Phillips. For
weeks now he had toiled among reticent men who regarded him with
hostility, who made way for him with reluctance. Haste, labor, strain
had numbed and brutalized them; fatigue had rendered them irritable,
and the strangeness of their environment had made them both fearful and
suspicious. There was no good-fellowship, no consideration on the
Chilkoot. This was a race against time, and the stakes went to him who
was most ruthless. Phillips had not exaggerated. Until this morning, he
had received no faintest word of encouragement, no slightest offer of
help. Not once had a hand been outstretched to him, and every inch he
had gained had been won at the cost of his own efforts and by reason of
his own determination.

He was yet warm with a wordless gratitude at the Frenchman's cheer when
a figure came lurching toward him and fell into the space Doret had
vacated. This man was quite the opposite of the one who had just left;
he was old and he was far from robust. He fell face downward and lay
motionless. Impulsively Phillips rose and removed the new-comer's pack.

"That last lift takes it out of you, doesn't it?" he inquired,
sympathetically.

After a moment the stranger lifted a thin, colorless face overgrown
with a bushy gray beard and began to curse in a gasping voice.

The youth warned him. "You're only tiring yourself, my friend. It's all
down-hill from here."

The sufferer regarded Phillips from a pair of hard, smoky-blue eyes in
which there lurked both curiosity and surprise.

"I say!" he panted. "You're the first white man I've met in two weeks."

Pierce laughed. "It's the result of a good example. A fellow was decent
to me just now."

"This is the kind of work that gives a man dead babies," groaned the
stranger. "And these darned trail-hogs!" He ground his teeth
vindictively. "'Get out of the way!' 'Hurry up, old man!' 'Step lively,
grandpa!' That's what they say. They snap at your heels like coyotes.
Hurry? You can't force your luck!" The speaker struggled into a sitting
posture and in an apologetic tone explained: "I dassent lay down or
I'll get rheumatism. Tough guys--frontiersmen--Pah!" He spat out the
exclamation with disgust, then closed his eyes again and sank back
against his burden. "Coyotes! That's what they are! They'd rob a
carcass, they'd gnaw each other's bones to get through ahead of the
ice."

Up out of the chasm below came a slow-moving file of Indian packers.
Their eyes were bent upon the ground, and they stepped noiselessly into
one another's tracks. The only sound they made came from their creaking
pack-leathers. They paused briefly to breathe and to take in their
surroundings, then they went on and out of sight.

When they had disappeared the stranger spoke in a changed tone. "Poor
devils! I wonder what they've done. And you?" he turned to Phillips.
"What sins have you committed?"

"Oh, just the ordinary ones. But I don't look at it that way. This is a
sort of a lark for me, and I'm having a great time. It's pretty fierce,
I'll admit, but--I wouldn't miss it for anything. Would you?"

"WOULD I? In a minute! You're young, I'm old. I've got rheumatism
and--a partner. He can't pack enough grub for his own lunch, and I have
to do it all. He's a Jonah, too--born on Friday, or something. Last
night somebody stole a sack of our bacon. Sixty pounds, and every pound
had cost me sweat!" Again the speaker ground his teeth vindictively.
"Lord! I'd like to catch the fellow that did it! I'd take a drop of
blood for every drop of sweat that bacon cost. Have you lost anything?"

"I haven't anything to lose. I'm packing for wages to earn money enough
to buy an outfit."

After a brief survey of Phillips' burden, the stranger said, enviously:
"Looks like you wouldn't have to make more than a trip or two. I wish I
could pack like you do, but I'm stove up. At that, I'm better than my
partner! He couldn't carry a tune." There was a pause. "He eats good,
though; eats like a hired man and he snores so I can't sleep. I just
lie awake nights and groan at the joints and listen to him grow old. He
can't even guard our grub-pile."

"The Vigilantes will put a stop to this stealing," Pierce ventured.

"Think so? Who's going to keep an eye on them? Who's going to strangle
the Stranglers? Chances are they're the very ones that are lifting our
grub. I know these citizens' committees." Whatever the physical
limitations of the rheumatic Argonaut, it was plain that his temper was
active and his resentment strong.

Phillips had cooled off by this time; in fact, the chill breath of the
snow-fields had begun to penetrate his sodden clothing, therefore he
prepared to take up his march.

"Going through to Linderman?" queried the other man. "So am I. If
you'll wait a second I'll join you. Maybe we can give each other a
hand."

The speaker's motive was patent; nevertheless, Phillips obligingly
acceded to his request, and a short time later assisted him into his
harness, whereupon they set out one behind the other. Pierce's pack was
at least double the weight of his companion's, and it gave him a
pleasurable thrill to realize that he was one of the strong, one of the
elect; he wondered pityingly how long this feeble, middle-aged man
could last.

Before they had tramped far, however, he saw that the object of his
pity possessed a quality which was lacking in many of the younger,
stronger stampeders--namely, a grim determination, a dogged
perseverance--no poor substitute, indeed, for youth and brawn. Once the
man was in motion he made no complaint, and he managed to maintain a
very good pace.

Leaving the crest of Chilkoot behind them, the travelers bore to the
right across the snowcap, then followed the ridge above Crater Lake.
Every mile or two they rested briefly to relieve their chafed and
aching shoulders. They exchanged few words while they were in motion,
for one soon learns to conserve his forces on the trail, but when they
lay propped against their packs they talked.

Phillips' abundant vigor continued to evoke the elder man's frank
admiration; he eyed the boy approvingly and plied him with questions.
Before they had traveled many miles he had learned what there was to
learn, for Pierce answered his questions frankly and told him about the
sacrifice his family had made in order to send him North, about the
trip itself, about his landing at Dyea, and all the rest. When he came
to the account of that shell-game the grizzled stranger smiled.

"I've lived in wide-open countries all my life," said the latter, "but
this beats anything I ever saw. Why, the crooks outnumber the honest
men and they're running things to suit themselves. One of 'em tried to
lay me. ME!" He chuckled as if the mere idea was fantastically
humorous. "Have you heard about this Soapy Smith? He's the boss, the
bell-cow, and he's made himself mayor of Skagway. Can you beat it? I'll
bet some of his men are on our Citizens' Committee at Sheep Camp. They
need a lot of killing, they do, and they'll get it. What did you do
after you lost your money?"

"I fell in with two brothers and went to packing."

"Went partners with them?'

"No, they--" Phillips' face clouded, he hesitated briefly. "I merely
lived with them and helped them with their outfit from time to time.
We're at Sheep Camp now, and I share their tent whenever I'm there. I'm
about ready to pull out and go it alone."

"Right! And don't hook up with anybody." The old man spoke with
feeling. "Look at me. I'm nesting with a dodo--darned gray-whiskered
milliner! He's so ornery I have to hide the ax every time I see him. I
just yearn to put him out of his misery, but I dassent. Of course he
has his points--everybody has; he's a game old rooster and he loves me.
That's all that saves him."

Phillips was greatly interested to learn that two men so unfitted for
this life, this country, should have essayed the hardships of the
Chilkoot trail. It amazed him to learn that already most of their
outfit was at Linderman.

"Do you mean to say that you have done all the packing for yourself and
your partner?" he inquired.

"N--no. Old Jerry totters across with a package of soda-crackers once
in a while. You must have heard him; he creaks like a gate. Of course
he eats up all the crackers before he gets to Linderman and then gorges
himself on the heavy grub that I've lugged over, but in spite of that
we've managed to make pretty good time." After a moment of meditation
he continued: "Say! You ought to see that old buzzard eat! It's
disgusting, but it's interesting. It ain't so much the expense that I
care about as the work. Old Jerry ought to be in an institution--some
place where they've got wheel-chairs and a big market-garden. But he's
plumb helpless, so I can't cut him loose and let him bleach his bones
in a strange land. I haven't got the heart."

They were resting at the Long Lake outlet, some time later, when the
old man inquired:

"I presume you've got a camp at Linderman, eh?"

"No. I have some blankets cached there and I sleep out whenever I can't
make the round trip."

"Round trip? Round trip in one day? Why, that's thirty miles!"

"Real miles, too. This country makes a man of a fellow. I wouldn't mind
sleeping out if I were sure of a hot meal once in a while, but money is
no good this side of the Summit, and these people won't even let a
stranger use their stoves."

"You can't last long at that, my boy."

Phillips smiled cheerfully. "I don't have to last much longer. I sent a
thousand dollars to Dyea this morning by Jim McCaskey, one of the
fellows I live with. He's going to put it in Healy he's altogether
different to us tenderfeet. He made me rather ashamed of myself."

The elderly man nodded. "Most pioneers are big-calibered. I'm a sort of
pioneer myself, but that infernal partner of mine has about ruined my
disposition. Take it by and large, though, it pays a man to be
accommodating."



CHAPTER III


Having crossed the high barrens, Phillips and his companion dropped
down to timber-line and soon arrived at Linderman, their journey's end.
This was perhaps the most feverishly busy camp on the entire
thirty-mile Dyea trail, but, unlike the coast towns, there was no
merrymaking, no gaiety, no gambling here. Linderman's fever came from
overwork, not from overplay. A tent village had sprung up at the head
of the lake, and from dawn until dark it echoed to the unceasing sound
of ax and hammer, of plane and saw. The air was redolent with the odor
of fresh-cut spruce and of boiling tar, for this was the shipyard where
an army of Jasons hewed and joined and fitted, each upon a bark of his
own making. Half-way down the lake was the Boundary, and a few miles
below that again was the customs station with its hateful red-jacketed
police. Beyond were uncharted waters, quite as perilous, because quite
as unknown, as those traversed by that first band of Argonauts. Deep
lakes, dark canons, roaring rapids lay between Linderman and the land
of the Golden Fleece, but the nearer these men approached those dangers
the more eagerly they pressed on.

Already the weeding-out process had gone far and the citizens of
Linderman were those who had survived it. The weak and the irresolute
had disappeared long since; these fellows who labored so mightily to
forestall the coming winter were the strong and the fit and the
enduring--the kind the North takes to herself.

In spite of his light pack, Phillips' elderly trailmate was all but
spent. He dragged his feet, he stumbled without reason, the lines in
his face were deeply set, and his bearded lips had retreated from his
teeth in a grin of exhaustion.

"Yonder's the tent," he said, finally, and his tone was eloquent of
relief.

In and out among canvas walls and taut guy-ropes the travelers wound
their way, emerging at length upon a gravelly beach where vast supplies
of provisions were cached. All about, in various stages of
construction, were skeletons of skiffs, of scows, and of barges; the
ground was spread with a carpet of shavings and sawdust.

Pierce's companion paused; then, after an incredulous stare, he said:
"Look! Is that smoke coming from my stovepipe?"

"Why, yes!"

There could be no mistake about it; from the tent in question arose the
plain evidence that a lively fire was burning inside.

"Well, I'll be darned!" breathed the elder man. "Somebody's jumped the
cache."

"Perhaps your partner--"

"He's in Sheep Camp." The speaker laboriously loosened his pack and let
it fall, then with stiff, clumsy fingers he undid the top buttons of
his vest and, to Pierce's amazement, produced a large-calibered
revolver, which he mechanically cocked and uncocked several times, the
while his eyes remained hypnotically fixed upon the telltale streamer
of smoke. Not only did his action appear to be totally uncalled for,
but he himself had undergone a startling transformation and Phillips
was impelled to remonstrate.

"Here! What the deuce--?" he began.

"Listen to me!" The old man spoke in a queer, suppressed tone, and his
eyes, when he turned them upon his fellow-packer, were even smokier
than usual. "Somebody's up to a little thievin', most likely, and it
looks like I had 'em red-handed. I've been layin' for this!"

Pierce divested himself of his pack-harness, then said, simply, "If
that's the case, I'll give you a hand."

"Better stand back," the other cautioned him. "I don't need any
help--this is my line." The man's fatigue had fallen from him; of a
sudden he had become surprisingly alert and forceful. He stole forward,
making as little noise as possible, and Phillips followed at his back.
They came to a pause within arm's-length of the tent flaps, which they
noted were securely tied.

"Hello inside!" The owner spoke suddenly and with his free hand he
jerked at one of the knots.

There came an answering exclamation, a movement; then the flaps were
seized and firmly held.

"You can't come in!" cried a voice.

"Let go! Quick!" The old man's voice was harsh.

"You'll have to wait a minute. I'm undressed."

Phillips retreated a step, as did the other man; they stared at each
other.

"A woman!" Pierce breathed.

"Lord!" The owner of the premises slowly, reluctantly sheathed his
weapon under his left arm.

"I invited myself in," the voice explained--it was a deep-pitched
contralto voice. "I was wet and nobody offered to let me dry out, so I
took possession of the first empty tent I came to. Is it yours?"

"It is--half of it. I'm mighty tired and I ain't particular how you
look, so hurry up." As the two men returned for their loads the speaker
went on, irritably. "She's got her nerve! I s'pose she's one of these
actresses. There's a bunch of 'em on the trail. Actresses!" He snorted
derisively. "I bet she smells of cologne, and, gosh! how I hate it!"

When he and Pierce returned they were admitted promptly enough, and any
lingering suspicions of the trespasser's intent were instantly
dissipated. The woman was clad in a short, damp underskirt which fell
about to her knees; she had drawn on the only dry article of apparel in
sight, a man's sweater jacket; she had thrust her bare feet into a pair
of beaded moccasins; on a line attached to the ridgepole over her head
sundry outer garments were steaming. Phillips' first thought was that
this woman possessed the fairest, the whitest, skin he had ever seen;
it was like milk. But his first impressions were confused, for
embarrassment followed quickly upon his entrance and he felt an impulse
to withdraw. The trespasser was not at all the sort of person he had
expected to find, and her complete self-possession at the intrusion,
her dignified greeting, left him not a little chagrined at his
rudeness. She eyed both men coolly from a pair of ice-blue eyes--eyes
that bespoke her nationality quite as plainly as did her features, her
dazzling complexion, and her head of fine, straight flaxen hair. She
was Scandinavian, she was a Norsewoman; that much was instantly
apparent. She appeared to derive a certain malicious pleasure now from
the consternation her appearance evoked; there was a hint of contempt,
of defiance, in her smile. In a voice so low-pitched that its quality
alone saved it from masculinity, she said:

"Pray don't be distressed; you merely startled me, that's all. My
Indians managed to get hold of some hootch at Tagish and upset our
canoe just below here. It was windy and of course they couldn't
swim--none of them can, you know--so I had hard work to save them. I've
already explained how I happened to select this particular refuge. Your
neighbors--" her lip curled disdainfully, then she shrugged. "Well, I
never got such a reception as they gave me, but I suppose they're
cheechakos. I'll be off for Dyea early in the morning. If you can put
me up for the night I'll pay you well."

During this speech, delivered in a matter-of-fact, business-like tone,
the owner of the tent had managed to overcome his first surprise; he
removed his hat now and began with an effort:

"I'm a bad hand at begging pardons, miss, but you see I've been
suffering the pangs of bereavement lately over some dear, departed
grub. I thought you were a thief and I looked forward to the pleasure
of seeing you dance. I apologize. Would you mind telling me where you
came from?"

"From Dawson." There was a silence the while the flaxen-haired woman
eyed her interrogator less disdainfully. "Yes, by poling-boat and
birch-bark. I'm not fleeing the law; I'm not a cache-robber."

"You're--all alone?"

The woman nodded. "Can you stow me away for the night? You may name
your own price."

"The price won't cripple you. I'm sorry there ain't some more women
here at Linderman, but--there ain't. We had one--a doctor's wife, but
she's gone."

"I met her at Lake Marsh."

"We've a lot more coming, but they're not here. My name is Linton. The
more-or-less Christian prefix thereto is Tom. I've got a partner named
Jerry. Put the two together, and drink hearty. This young man is Mr.--"
The speaker turned questioningly upon Phillips, who made himself known.
"I'm a family man. Mr. Phillips is a--well, he's a good packer. That's
all I know about him. I'm safe and sane, but he's about the right age
to propose marriage to you as soon as he gets his breath. A pretty
woman in this country has to expect that, as you probably know."

The woman smiled and shook hands with both men, exchanging a grip as
firm and as strong as theirs. "I am the Countess Courteau," said she.

"The--which?" Mr. Linton queried, with a start.

The Countess laughed frankly. "It is French, but I'm a Dane. I think my
husband bought the title--they're cheap in his country. He was a poor
sort of count, and I'm a poor sort of countess. But I'm a good cook--a
very good cook indeed--and if you'll excuse my looks and permit me to
wear your sweater I'll prepare supper."

Linton's eyes twinkled as he said, "I've never et with the nobility and
I don't know as I'd like their diet, for a steady thing, but--the
baking-powder is in that box and we fry with bacon grease."

Wood and water were handy, the Countess Courteau had a quick and
capable way, therefore supper was not long delayed. The tent was not
equipped for housekeeping, hence the diners held their plates in their
laps and either harpooned their food from the frying-pan or ladled it
from tin cans, but even so it had a flavor to-night so unaccustomed, so
different, that both men grasped the poignant fact that the culinary
art is mysteriously wedded to female hands. Mr. Linton voiced this
thought in his own manner.

"If a countess cooks like this," he observed, "I'd sure love to board
with a duke." Later, while the dishes were being washed and when his
visitor had shown no intention of explaining her presence in further
detail, he said, whimsically: "See here, ma'am, our young friend has
been watching you like he was afraid you'd disappear before he gets an
eyeful, and it's plain to be seen that he's devoured by curiosity. As
for me, I'm totally lacking in that miserable trait, and I abhor it in
others; but all the same, if you don't see fit to tell us pretty quick
how you came to pole up from Dawson and what in Heaven's name a woman
like you is doing here, a lone and without benefit of chaperon, I shall
pass away in dreadful agony."

"It's very simple," the Countess told him. "I have important business
'outside.' I couldn't go down the river, for the Yukon is low, the
steamers are aground on the flats, and connections at St. Michael's are
uncertain at best. Naturally I came up against the stream. I've been
working 'up-stream' all my life." She flashed him a smile at this
latter statement. "As for a chaperon--I've never felt the need of one.
Do you think they're necessary in this country?"

"Does your husband, Count--"

"My husband doesn't count. That's the trouble." The speaker laughed
again and without the faintest trace of embarrassment. "He has been out
of the picture for years." She turned to Phillips and inquired,
abruptly, "What is the packing price to Sheep Camp?"

"Fifty cents a pound, coming this way. Going back it is nothing," he
told her, gallantly.

"I haven't much to carry, but if you'll take it I'll pay you the
regular price. I'd like to leave at daylight."

"You seem to be in a rush," Mr. Linton hazarded, mildly.

"I am. Now, then, if you don't mind I'll turn in, for I must be in Dyea
to-morrow night."

Pierce Phillips had said little during the meal or thereafter, to be
sure, nevertheless, he had thought much. He had indeed used his eyes to
good purpose, and now he regretted exceedingly that the evening
promised to be so short. The more he saw of this unconventional
countess the more she intrigued his interest. She was the most unusual
woman he had ever met and he was eager to learn all about her. His
knowledge of women was peculiarly elemental; his acquaintance with the
sex was extremely limited. Those he had known in his home town were one
kind, a familiar kind; those he had encountered since leaving home
were, for the most part, of a totally different class and of a type
that awoke his disapproval. To a youth of his training and of his
worldly experience the genus woman is divided into two species--old
women and young women. The former are interesting only in a motherly
way, and demand nothing more than abstract courtesy. They do not
matter. The latter, on the contrary, separate themselves again into two
families or suborders--viz., good women and bad women. The demarcation
between the two branches of the suborder is distinct; there is nothing
common to the two. Good women are good through and through--bad ones
are likewise thoroughly bad. There are no intermediate types, no
troublesome variations, no hybrids nor crosses.

The Countess Courteau, it seemed to him, was a unique specimen and
extremely hard to classify, in that she was neither old nor young--or,
what was even more puzzling, in that she was both. In years she was not
far advanced--little older than he, in fact--but in experience, in
wisdom, in self-reliance she was vastly his superior; and experience,
he believed, is what makes women old. As to the family, the suborder to
which she belonged, he was at an utter loss to decide. For instance,
she accepted her present situation with a sang-froid equaling that of a
camp harpy, a few of whom Pierce had seen; then, too, she was, or had
been, married to a no-account foreigner to whom she referred with a
calloused and most unwifely flippancy; moreover, she bore herself with
a freedom, a boldness, quite irreconcilable to the modesty of so-called
"good women." Those facts were enough to classify her definitely, and
yet despite them she was anything but common, and it would have taken
rare courage indeed to transgress that indefinable barrier of decorum
with which she managed to surround herself. There was something about
her as cold and as pure as blue ice, and she gave the same impression
of crystal clarity. All in all, hers was a baffling personality and
Phillips fell asleep with the riddle of it unanswered. He awoke in the
morning with it still upon his mind.

The Countess Courteau had been first to arise; she was fully dressed
and the sheet-iron stove was glowing when her companions roused
themselves. By the time they had returned from the lake she had
breakfast ready.

"Old Jerry is going to be awful sore at missing this court function,"
Mr. Linton told her during the meal. "He's a great ladies' man, Old
Jerry is."

"Perhaps I shall meet him."

"You wouldn't like him if you did; nobody likes him, except me, and I
hate him." Linton sighed. "He's a handicap to a young man like me."

"Why don't you send him home?"

"Home? Old Jerry would die before he'd turn back. He'd lift his muzzle
and bay at the very idea until some stranger terminated him. Well, he's
my cross; I s'pose I've got to bear him."

"Who is Mr. Linton?" the Countess inquired, as she and Pierce left the
village behind them.

"Just an ordinary stampeder, like the rest of us. I think."

"He's more than that. He's the kind who'll go through and make good. I
dare say his partner is just like him."

Phillips approved of the Countess Courteau this morning even more
thoroughly than he had on the evening previous, and they had not walked
far before he realized that as a traveler she was the equal of him or
of any man. She was lithe and strong and light of foot; the way she
covered ground awoke his sincere admiration. She did not trouble to
talk much and she dispensed with small talk in others; she appeared to
be absorbed in her own affairs, and only when they rested did she
engage in conversation. The more Phillips studied her and the better
acquainted he became with her the larger proportions did she assume.
Not only was she completely mistress of herself, but she had a
forceful, compelling way with others; there was a natural air of
authority about her, and she managed in some subtle manner to invest
herself and her words with importance. She was quite remarkable.

Now, the trail breeds its own peculiar intimacy; although the two
talked little, they nevertheless got to know each other quite well, and
when they reached the Summit, about midday, Phillips felt a keen regret
that their journey was so near its end.

A mist was drifting up from the sea; it obscured the valley below and
clung to the peaks like ragged garments. Up and out of this fog came
the interminable procession of burden-bearers. The Countess paused to
observe them and to survey the accumulation of stores which crowned the
watershed.

"I didn't dream so many were coming," said she.

"It's getting worse daily," Pierce told her. "Dyea is jammed, and so is
Skagway. The trails are alive with men."

"How many do you think will come?"

"There's no telling. Twenty, thirty, fifty thousand, perhaps. About
half of them turn back when they see the Chilkoot."

"And the rest will wish they had. It's a hard country; not one in a
hundred will prosper."

They picked their way down the drunken descent to the Scales, then
breasted the sluggish human current to Sheep Camp.

A group of men were reading a notice newly posted upon the wall of the
log building which served as restaurant and hotel, and after scanning
it Pierce explained:

"It's another call for a miners' meeting. We're having quite a time
with cache-robbers. If we catch them we'll hang them."

The Countess nodded. "Right! They deserve it. You know we don't have
any stealing on the 'inside.' Now, then, I'll say good-by." She paid
Pierce and extended her hand to him. "Thank you for helping me across.
I'll be in Dyea by dark."

"I hope we'll meet again," he said, with a slight flush.

The woman favored him with one of her generous, friendly smiles. "I
hope so, too. You're a nice boy. I like you." Then she stepped into the
building and was gone.

"A nice boy!" Phillips was pained. A boy! And he the sturdiest packer
on the pass, with perhaps one exception! That was hardly just to him.
If they did meet again--and he vowed they would--he'd show her he was
more than a boy. He experienced a keen desire to appear well in her
eyes, to appear mature and forceful. He asked himself what kind of man
Count Courteau could be; he wondered if he, Pierce Phillips, could fall
in love with such a woman as this, an older woman, a woman who had been
married. It would be queer to marry a countess, he reflected.

As he walked toward his temporary home he beheld quite a gathering of
citizens, and paused long enough to note that they were being harangued
by the confidence-man who had first initiated him into the subtleties
of the three-shell game. Mr. Broad had climbed upon a raised tent
platform and was presenting an earnest argument against capital
punishment. Two strangers upon the fringe of the crowd were talking,
and Pierce heard one of them say:

"Of course he wants the law to take its course, inasmuch as there isn't
any law. He's one of the gang."

"The surest way to flush a covey of crooks is to whistle for old Judge
Lynch," the other man agreed. "Listen to him!"

"Have they caught the cache-robbers?" Phillips made bold to inquire.

"No, and they won't catch them, with fellows like that on the
committee. The crooks hang together and we don't. If I had my way
that's just what they'd do--hang together. I'd start in by bending a
limb over that rascal."

Phillips had attended several of these indignation meetings and,
remembering that all of them bad proved purposeless, he went on toward
the McCaskey brothers' tent. He and the McCaskeys were not the closest
of friends, in spite of the fact that they had done him a favor--a
favor, by the way, for which he had paid many times over--nevertheless,
they were his most intimate acquaintances and he felt an urgent desire
to tell them about his unusual experience. His desire to talk about the
Countess Courteau was irresistible.

But when he entered the tent his greeting fell flat, for Joe, the elder
McCaskey, addressed him sharply, almost accusingly:

"Say, it's about time you showed up!"

"What's the matter?" Pierce saw that the other brother was stretched
out in his blankets and that his head was bandaged. "Hello!" he cried.
"What ails Jim? Is he sick?"

"Sick? Worse than sick," Joe grumbled. "That money of yours is to blame
for it. It's a wonder he isn't dead."

"My money? How?" Phillips was both mystified and alarmed.

Jim raised himself in his blankets and said, irritably: "After this you
can run your own pay-car, kid. I'm through, d'you hear?"

"Speak out. What's wrong?"

"Jim was stuck up, that's what's wrong. That's enough, isn't it? They
bent a six-gun over his head and grabbed your coin. He's got a dent in
his crust the size of a saucer!"

Phillips' face whitened slowly. "My money! Robbed!" he gasped. "JIM!
Who did it? How could you let them?"

The younger McCaskey fell back weakly; he waved a feeble gesture at his
brother. "Joe'll tell you. I'm dizzy; my head ain't right yet."

"A stranger stopped him--asked him something or other--and another guy
flattened him from behind. That's all he remembers. When he came to he
found he'd been frisked. He was still dippy when he got home, so I put
him to bed. He got up and moved around a bit this morning, but he's
wrong in his head."

Phillips seated himself upon a candle-box. "Robbed!" he exclaimed,
weakly. "Broke--again! Gee! That was hard money! It was the first I
ever earned!"

Joe McCaskey's dark face was doubly unpleasant as he frowned down upon
the youth. "Thinking about nothing except your coin, eh? Why don't you
think about Jim? He did you a favor and 'most lost his life."

"Oh, I'm sorry--of course!" Phillips rose heavily and crossed to the
bed. "I didn't mean to appear selfish. I don't blame you, Jim. I'll get
a doctor for you, then you must describe the hold-ups. Give me a hint
who they are and I'll go after them."

The younger brother rolled his head in negation and mumbled, sullenly:
"I'm all right. I don't want a doctor."

Joe explained for him: "He never saw the fellows before and he don't
seem to remember much about them. That's natural enough. Your money's
gone clean, kid, and a yelp won't get you anything. The crooks are
organized and if you set up a holler they'll get all of us. They'll
alibi anybody you accuse--it's no trick to alibi a pal--"

"Isn't it?" The question was uttered unexpectedly; it came from the
front of the tent and startled the occupants thereof, who turned to
behold a stranger just entering their premises. He was an elderly man;
he possessed a quick, shrewd eye; he had poked the tent flap aside with
the barrel of a Colt's revolver. Through the door-opening could be seen
other faces and the bodies of other men who had likewise stolen up
unheard. During the moment of amazement following his first words these
other men crowded in behind him.

"Maybe it 'll be more of a trick than you figure on." The stranger's
gray mustache lifted in a grin that was not at all friendly.

"What the blazes--?" Joe McCaskey exploded.

"Go easy!" the intruder cautioned him. "We've been laying around,
waiting for your pal to get back." With a movement of the revolver
muzzle he indicated Phillips. "Now then, stretch! On your toes and
reach high. You there, get up!" He addressed himself to Jim, who rose
from his bed and thrust his hands over his bandaged head. "That's
nice!" the stranger nodded approvingly. "Now don't startle me; don't
make any quick moves or I may tremble this gun off--she's easy on the
trigger." To his friends he called, "Come in, gentlemen; they're
gentle."

There were four of the latter; they appeared to be substantial men, men
of determination. All were armed.

Pierce Phillips' amazement gave way to indignation. "What is this, an
arrest or a hold-up?" he inquired.

"It's right smart of both," the leader of the posse drawled, in a voice
which betrayed the fact that he hailed from somewhere in the far
Southwest. "We're in quest of a bag of rice--a bag with a rip in it and
'W. K.' on the side. While I slap your pockets, just to see if you're
ironed, these gentlemen are goin' to look over your outfit."

"This is an outrage!" Jim McCaskey complained. "I'm just getting over
one stick-up. I'm a sick man."

"Sure!" his brother exclaimed, furiously. "You're a pack of fools! What
d'you want, anyhow?"

"We want you to shut up! See that you do." The old man's eyes snapped.
"If you've got to say something, tell us how there happens to be a
trail of rice from this man's cache"--he indicated one of his
companions--"right up to your tent."

The McCaskeys exchanged glances. Phillips turned a startled face upon
them.

"It isn't much of a trail, but it's enough to follow."

For a few moments nothing was said, and meanwhile the search of the
tent went on. When Pierce could no longer remain silent he broke out:

"There's some mistake. These boys packed this grub from Dyea and I
helped with some of it."

"Aren't you partners?" some one inquired.

Joe McCaskey answered this question. "No. He landed broke. We felt
sorry for him and took him in."

Joe was interrupted by an exclamation from one of the searchers. "Here
it is!" said the man. He had unearthed a bulging canvas sack which he
flung down for inspection. "There's my mark, 'W. K.,' and there's the
rip. I knew we had 'em right!"

After a brief examination the leader of the posse turned to his
prisoners, whose hands were still held high, saying:

"Anything you can think of in the way of explanations you'd better save
for the miners' meeting. It's waitin' to welcome you. We'll put a guard
over this plunder till the rest of it is identified. Now, then, fall in
line and don't crowd. After you, gentlemen."

Pierce Phillips realized that it was useless to argue, for his words
would not be listened to, therefore he followed the McCaskeys out into
the open air. The odium of this accusation was hard to bear; he
bitterly resented his situation and something told him he would have to
fight to clear himself; nevertheless, he was not seriously concerned
over the outcome. Public feeling was high, to be sure; the men of Sheep
Camp were in a dangerous frame of mind and their actions were liable to
be hasty, ill-considered--their verdict was apt to be fantastic--but,
secure in the knowledge of his innocence, Pierce felt no apprehension.
Rather he experienced a thrill of excitement at the contretemps and at
the ordeal which he knew was forthcoming.

The Countess Courteau had called him a boy. This wasn't a boy's
business; this was a real man-sized adventure.

"Gee! What a day this has been!" he said to himself.



CHAPTER IV


The story of the first trial at Sheep Camp is an old one, but it
differs with every telling. In the hectic hurry of that gold-rush many
incidents were soon forgotten and such salient facts as did survive
were deeply colored, for those were colorful days. That trial marked an
epoch in early Yukon history, for, although its true significance was
unsensed at the time, it really signalized the dawn of common honesty
on the Chilkoot and the Chilkat trails, and it was the first move taken
toward the disruption of organized outlawry--a bitter fight, by the
way, which ended only in the tragic death of Soapy Smith and the flight
of his notorious henchmen. Although the circumstances of the Sheep Camp
demonstration now seem shocking, they did not seem so at the time, and
they served a larger purpose than was at first apparent; not only did
theft become an unprofitable and an uninteresting occupation
thereafter, but also the men who shaped a code and drew first blood in
defense of it experienced a beneficial reaction and learned to fit the
punishment to the crime--no easy lesson to learn where life runs hot
and where might is right.

The meeting was in session and it had been harangued into a dangerous
frame of mind when Pierce Phillips and the two McCaskeys were led
before it. A statement by the leader of the posse, corroborated by the
owner of the missing sack of rice, roused the audience to a fury. Even
while these stories were being told there came other men who had
identified property of theirs among the provision piles inside the
McCaskey tent, and when they, too, had made their reports the crowd
began to mill; there were demands for a speedy trial and a swift
vengeance.

These demands found loudest echo among the outlaw element for which
Lucky Broad had acted as mouthpiece. Although the members of that band
were unknown--as a matter of fact, no man knew his
neighbor--nevertheless it was plain that there was an organization of
crooks and that a strong bond of understanding existed between them.
Now, inasmuch as the eye of suspicion had been turned away from them,
now that a herring had been dragged across the trail, their obstructive
tactics ended and they, too, became noisy in their clamor that justice
be done.

The meeting was quickly organized along formal lines and a committee of
three was appointed to conduct the hearing. The chairman of this
committee-he constituted himself chairman by virtue of the fact that he
was first nominated--made a ringing speech in which he praised his
honesty, his fairness, and his knowledge of the law. He complimented
the miners for their acumen in selecting for such a position of
responsibility a man of his distinguished qualifications. It was plain
that he believed they had chosen wisely. Then, having inquired the
names of his two committeemen, he likewise commended them in glowing
terms, although of course he could not praise them quite as unstintedly
as he had praised himself. Still, he spoke well of them and concluded
by stating that so long as affairs were left in his hands justice would
be safeguarded and the rights of this miserable, cringing trio of
thieves would be protected, albeit killing, in his judgment, was too
mild a punishment for people of their caliber.

"Hear! Hear!" yelled the mob.

Pierce Phillips listened to this speech with a keenly personal and yet
a peculiarly detached interest. The situation struck him as unreal,
grotesque, and the whole procedure as futile. Under other circumstances
it would have been grimly amusing; now he was uncomfortably aware that
it was anything but that. There was no law whatever in the land save
the will of these men; in their hands lay life or death, exoneration or
infamy. He searched the faces round about him, but could find signs
neither of friendship nor of sympathy. This done, he looked everywhere
for a glimpse of a woman's straw-colored hair and was relieved to
discover that the Countess Courteau was not in the audience. Doubtless
she had left for Dyea and was already some distance down the trail. He
breathed easier, for he did not wish her to witness his humiliation,
and her presence would have merely added to his embarrassment.

The prosecution's case was quickly made, and it was a strong one. Even
yet the damning trickle of rice grains could be traced through the moss
and mire directly to the door of the prisoners' tent, and the original
package, identified positively by its owner, was put in evidence. This
in itself was enough; testimony from the other men who had likewise
recovered merchandise they had missed and mourned merely strengthened
the case and further inflamed the minds of the citizens.

From the first there had never been a doubt in Phillips' mind that the
McCaskeys were guilty. The facts offered in evidence served only to
explain certain things which had puzzled him at various times;
nevertheless, his indignation and his contempt for them were tempered
with regrets, for he could not but remember that they had befriended
him. It was of course imperative that he establish his own innocence,
but he determined that in so doing he would prejudice their case as
little as possible. That was no more than the merest loyalty.

When it came tune to hear the defense, the McCaskeys stared at Pierce
coolly; therefore he climbed to the tent platform and faced his
accusers.

He made known his name, his birthplace, the ship which had borne him
north. He told how he had landed at Dyea, how he had lost his last
dollar at the gambling-table, how he had appealed to the McCaskey boys,
and how they had given him shelter. That chance association, he took
pains to explain, had continued, but had never ripened into anything
more, anything closer; it was in no wise a partnership; he had nothing
to do with them and they had nothing to do with him. Inasmuch as the
rice had been stolen during the previous night, he argued that he could
have had no hand in the theft, for he had spent the night in Linderman,
which fact he offered to prove by two witnesses.

"Produce them," ordered the chairman.

"One of them is still at Linderman, the other was here in Sheep Camp an
hour ago. She has probably started for Dyea by this time."

"A woman?"

"Yes, sir. I brought her across."

"What is her name?"

Phillips hesitated. "The Countess Courteau," said he. There was a
murmur of interest; the members of the committee conferred with one an
other.

"Do you mean to tell us that you've got a titled witness?" the
self-appointed spokesman inquired. His face wore a smile of disbelief;
when the prisoner flushed and nodded he called out over the heads of
the crowd:

"Countess Courteau!" There was no answer. "Do any of you gentlemen know
the Countess Courteau?" he inquired.

His question was greeted by a general laugh.

"Don't let him kid you," cried a derisive voice.

"Never heard of her, but I met four kings last night," yelled another.

"Call the Marquis of Queensberry," shouted still a third.

"Countess Courteau!" repeated the chairman, using his hands for a
megaphone.

The cry was taken up by other throats. "Countess Courteau! Countess
Courteau!" they mocked. "Come, Countess! Nice Countess! Pretty
Countess!" There was a ribald note to this mockery which caused
Phillips' eyes to glow.

"She and the count have just left the palace. Let's get along with the
hangin'," one shrill voice demanded.

"You won't hang me!" Phillips retorted, angrily.

"Be not so sure," taunted the acting judge. "Inasmuch as your countess
appears to be constituted of that thin fabric of which dreams are made;
inasmuch as there is no such animal--"

"Hol' up!" came a peremptory challenge. "M'sieu Jodge!" It was the big
French Canadian whom Pierce had met on the crest of the divide; he came
forward now, pushing his resistless way through the audience. "Wat for
you say dere ain't nobody by dat name, eh?" He turned his back to the
committee and addressed the meeting. "Wat for you hack lak dis, anyhow?
By gosh! I heard 'bout dis lady! She's ol'-timer lak me."

"Well, trot her out! Where is she?"

"She's on her way to Dyea," Pierce insisted. "She can't be far--"

'Poleon Doret was angry. "I don' listen to no woman be joke 'bout, you
hear? Dis boy spik true. He was in Linderman las' night, for I seen him
on top of Chilkoot yesterday myse'f, wit' pack on his back so beeg as a
barn."

"Do you know the accused?" queried the spokesman.

'Poleon turned with a shrug. "Non! No! But--yes, I know him li'l bit.
Anybody can tell he's hones' boy. By Gar! She's strong feller,
too--pack lak hell!"

Pierce Phillips was grateful for this evidence of faith, inconclusive
as it was in point of law. He was sorry, therefore, to see the
Frenchman, after replying shortly, impatiently, to several senseless
cross-questions, force his way out of the crowd and disappear, shaking
his head and muttering in manifest disgust at the temper of his
townsmen.

But although one friend had gone, another took his place--a champion,
by the way, whom Pierce would never have suspected of being such.
Profiting by the break in the proceedings, Lucky Broad spoke up.

"Frenchy was right--this kid's on the square," he declared. "I'm the
gentleman who gathered his wheat at Dyea--he fairly fed it to me, like
he said--so I guess I'm acquainted with him. We're all assembled up to
mete out justice, and justice is going to be met, but, say! a sucker
like this boy wouldn't KNOW enough to steal!"

It was doubtful if this witness, well-intentioned as he was, carried
conviction, for, although his followers took their cue from him and
applauded loudly, their very manifestations of faith aroused suspicion
among the honest men present.

One of the latter, a red-faced, square-shouldered person, thrust a
determined countenance close to Broad's and cried, angrily: "Is that
so? Well, I'm for hangin' anybody you boost!"

This sentiment met with such instantaneous second that the
confidence-man withdrew precipitately. "Have it your own way," he gave
in, with an airy gesture. "But take it from me you're a bunch of boobs.
Hangin' ain't a nice game, and the guy that hollers loudest for it is
usually the one that needs it worst."

It took some effort on the part of the chairman to bring the meeting to
order so that the hearing could be resumed.

Phillips went on with his story and told of spending the night with Tom
Linton, then of his return to Sheep Camp to learn that he had been
robbed of all his savings. Corroboration of this misfortune he left to
the oral testimony of the two brothers McCaskey and to the
circumstantial evidence of Jim's bandaged head.

While it seemed to him that he had given a simple, straightforward
account of himself which would establish his innocence, so far, at
least, as it applied to the theft of the sack of rice, he was
uncomfortably aware that evidence of systematic pilfering had been
introduced and that evidence he had not met except indirectly. His
proof seemed good so far as it went, but it did not go far, and he
believed it all too likely that his hearers still considered him an
accomplice, at the best.

Jim McCaskey was next called and Pierce made way for him. The younger
brother made a poor start, but he warmed up to his own defense, gaining
confidence and ease as he talked.

In the first place, both he and Joe were innocent of this outrageous
charge--as innocent as unborn babes--and this air of suspicion was like
to smother them. This Jim declared upon his honor. The evidence was
strong, he admitted, but it was purely circumstantial, and he proposed
to explain it away. He proposed to tell the truth, the whole truth, and
nothing but the truth; letting the blame fall where it would and
leaving the verdict entirely up to his hearers. Joe would substantiate
his every statement.

It was quite true that he and his brother had been Good Samaritans;
they had opened their doors and had taken in this young man when he was
hungry and homeless, but that was their habit. They had fed him, they
had shared their blankets with him, they had helped him in a thousand
ways, not without serious inconvenience to themselves. Why, only on the
day before the speaker himself had volunteered to take the young man's
earnings to Dyea for safekeeping, thereby letting himself in for an
unmerciful mauling, and suffering a semi-fractured skull, the marks of
which would doubtless stay with him for a long time.

Phillips had left camp early the previous morning, to be sure, and he
had not come home until an hour or two ago, but where he had gone, how
he had occupied himself during his absence, where he had spent the
night, of course the speaker had no way of knowing. Phillips was often
absent at night; he came and he went at all hours, and neither Joe nor
the witness ever questioned him, believing his statements that he was
packing for hire. Neither his brother nor he had ever seen that sack of
rice antil it was uncovered by the posse, and as for the other plunder,
it was all part and parcel of an outfit which their guest had been
assembling for some time. They supposed, of course, that he had bought
it, bit by bit, with his earnings.

Pierce Phillips listened in speechless amazement, scarcely believing
his own ears, the while Jim McCaskey struck the fetters from his own
and his brother's limbs and placed them upon his. It seemed impossible
that such a story could carry weight, but from all indications it did.
When Joe McCaskey took the center of the stage and glibly corroborated
his brother's statements Pierce interrupted him savagely, only to be
warned that he'd better be silent.

"That's all we've got to say," concluded the elder of the precious pair
when he had finished. "You can judge for yourselves who did the
stealing. Jim and I've got all the grub we want; this fellow hasn't
any."

"Have you anything to say for yourself?" The chairman addressed himself
to Phillips.

"I have." Pierce again took the stand. "You're making a great mistake,"
he said, earnestly. "These men have lied; they're trying to save
themselves at my expense. I've told you everything, now I demand that
you wait to hear the Countess Courteau or Mr. Linton. They'll prove
where I spent last night, at least."

"Mr. Chairman!" A stranger claimed general attention. "I've listened to
the evidence and it's strong enough for me. The grub didn't get up and
walk away by itself; somebody took it. Grub is more than grub in this
country; it's more than money; it's a man's life, that's what it is.
Now, then, the McCaskeys had an outfit when they landed; they didn't
need to steal; but this fellow, this dirty ingrate, he hadn't a pound.
I don't swallow his countess story and I don't care a hoot where he was
last night. Let's decide first what punishment a thief gets, then let's
give it to him."

"Hear! Hear!" came the cry.

"Hanging is good enough for thieves!" shouted the choleric individual
who had so pointedly made known his distrust of Lucky Broad. "I say
stretch 'em."

"Right! Let's make an example!"

"Hang him!" There rose a hoarse chorus of assent to this suggestion,
whereupon the chairman stepped forward.

"All those in favor of hanging--" he began. But again he was
interrupted by 'Poleon Doret, who once more bored his way into the
crowd, crying:

"Wait! I got somet'ing to say." He was breathing heavily, as if from a
considerable exertion; perspiration stood upon his face; his eyes were
flashing. He vaulted lightly to the platform, then flung out his long
arms, crying: "You hack lak crazee mans. Wat talk is dis 'bout hangin'?
You ain't wild hanimals!"

The red-faced advocate of the noose who had spoken a moment before
answered him in a loud voice:

"I paid hard money for my grub and I've packed every pound of it on my
back. You can take a mark's life by stealing his matches the same as by
shooting him. I want to see thieves on the end of a rope."

Doret bent down to him. "All right, m'sieu! You want blood; we give it
to you. Bring on dat rope. I'll put it on dis boy's neck if you'll do
de pullin'. For me, I ain't care 'bout killin' no-body, but you--you're
brave man. You hang on tight w'ile dis boy he keeck, an' strangle, an'
grow black in de face. It's goin' mak you feel good all over!"

"Rats! _I_ won't do the trick, but--"

"Somebody mus' do de pullin'." 'Poleon grinned. "He ain't goin' hang
himse'f. Mebbe you got pardner w'at lak give you hand, eh?" He raised
his head and laughed at the crowd. "Messieurs, you see how 'tis. It
tak' brave man to hang a feller lak dis. Some day policeman's goin'
come along an' say: 'By Gar, I been lookin' for you long tarn. De new
jodge at Dyea he tell me you murder a boy at Sheep Camp. S'pose you
come wit' me an' do little hangin' yourse'f.' No, messieurs! We ain't
Hinjuns; we're good sensible peoples, eh?"

A member of the committee, one who had hitherto acted a passive part,
now stepped forward.

"Frenchy has put it right," he acknowledged. "We'll have courts in this
country some day, and we'll have to answer to them. Miners' law is all
right, so far as it goes, but I won't be a party to a murder. That's
what this would be, murder. If you're going to talk hanging, you can
take me off of your committee."

Lucky Broad uttered a yelp of encouragement. "Hangin' sounds better 'n
it feels," he declared. "Think it over, you family men. When you make
your stakes and go home, little Johnny's going to climb onto your knee
and say, 'Papa, tell me why you hung that man at Sheep Camp,' and
you'll say, 'Why, son, we hung him because he stole a sack of rice.'
Like hell you will!"

'Poleon Doret regained public attention by saying, "Messieurs, I got
s'prise for you." He lifted himself to his toes and called loudly over
the heads of the assembled citizens, "Dis way, madame." From the
direction he was looking there came a swiftly moving figure, the figure
of a tall woman with straw-gold hair. Men gave way before her. She
hurried straight to the tent platform, where 'Poleon leaned down, took
her beneath her arms, and swung her lightly up beside him. "Madame de
Countess Courteau," he announced; then with a flourish he swept off his
knitted cap and bowed to the new-comer. To those beneath him he cried,
sharply, "Tak' off dose hat or I knock dem off."

The Countess, too, had evidently made haste, for she was breathing
deeply. She flashed a smile at Pierce Phillips, then said, so that all
could hear:

"I understand you accuse this young man of stealing something last
night. Well, he was in Linderman. He brought me over to-day."

"We don't care so much about the rice; this stealing has been going on
for a long time," a bystander explained.

"True. But the rice was stolen last night, wasn't it? The man who stole
it probably stole the other stuff."

"They're two to one," Pierce told her. "They're trying to saw it off on
me."

The Countess turned and stared at the McCaskey brothers, who met her
look defiantly. "Ban!" she exclaimed. "I haven't heard the evidence,
for I was on my way to Dyea when Mr.--" She glanced inquiringly at
'Poleon.

He bowed again. "Doret," said he. "Napoleon Doret."

"--when Mr. Doret overtook me, but I'm willing to wager my life that
this boy isn't a thief." Again she smiled at Phillips, and he
experienced a tumult of conflicting emotions. Never had he seen a woman
like this one, who radiated such strength, such confidence, such power.
She stood there like a goddess, a splendid creature fashioned of snow
and gold; she dominated the assembly. He was embarrassed that she
should find him in this predicament, shamed that she should be forced
to come to his assistance; nevertheless, he was thrilled at her ready
response.

It was the elder McCaskey who next claimed attention. "We've made our
spiel," he began; then he launched into a repetition of his former
statement of facts.

The Countess stepped to Pierce's side, inquiring, quickly, "What is
this, a joke?"

"I thought so at first, but it looks as if I'll be cutting figure
eights on the end of a tent-rope."

"What makes them think you did the stealing?"

"The McCaskeys swear I did. You see, I had no outfit of my own--"

"Are you broke?"

"N--no! I wasn't yesterday. I am now." In a few sentences Pierce made
known the facts of his recent loss, and pointed to Jim McCaskey's
bandaged head.

When the elder brother had concluded, the Countess again addressed the
meeting. "You men take it for granted that Phillips did the stealing
because he needed grub," said she. "As a matter of fact he wasn't
broke, he had a thousand dollars, and--"

"Say! Who hired you to argue this case?" It was Jim McCaskey speaking.
He had edged his way forward and was scowling darkly at the woman.
"What's the idea, anyhow? Are you stuck on this kid?"

The Countess Courteau eyed her interrogator coolly, her cheeks
maintained their even coloring, her eyes were as icy blue as ever. It
was plain that she was in no wise embarrassed by his insinuation.

Very quietly she said: "I'll tell you whether I am if you'll tell me
who got his thousand dollars. Was it your brother?" Jim McCaskey
recoiled; his face whitened. "Who hit you over the head?" the woman
persisted. "Did he?"

"That's none of your business," Jim shouted. "I want to know what
you're doing in this case. You say the kid was in Linderman last night.
Well, I say--you're a--! How d'you know he was there? How d'you know he
didn't steal that rice before he left, for that matter?"

"I know he was in Linderman because I was with him."

"With him? All night?" The speaker grinned insultingly.

"Yes, all night. I slept in the same tent with him and--"

"Now I've got your number," the younger McCaskey cried, in triumph.

"Bah!" The Countess shrugged unconcernedly. "As for the rice being
stolen before he--"

"'Countess.' Ha!" Jim burst forth again. "Swell countess you are! The
Dyea dance-halls are full of 'countesses' like you--counting percentage
checks. Boys, who are you going to believe? She slept all night--"

McCaskey got no further, for with a cry of rage Pierce Phillips set his
muscles and landed upon him. It was a mighty blow and it found lodgment
upon the side of its victim's face.

Jim McCaskey went down and his assailant, maddened completely by the
feel of his enemy's flesh, lunged forward to stamp him beneath his
heels. But stout arms seized him, bodies intervened, and he was hurled
backward. A shout arose; there was a general scramble for the raised
platform. There were yells of:

"Shame!"

"Hang on to him!"

"Stretch him up!"

"Dirty ingrate!"

Phillips fought with desperation; his struggles caused the structure to
creak and to strain; men piled over it and joined in the fight. He was
whining and sobbing in his fury.

Meanwhile ready hands had rescued Jim from the trampling feet and now
held his limp body erect.

It was the clarion call of the Countess Courteau which first made
itself heard above the din. She had climbed to the railing and was
poised there with one arm outflung, a quivering finger leveled at Jim
McCaskey's head.

"Look!" she cried. "Look, men--AT HIS HEAD! There's proof that he's
been lying!" The victim of the assault had lost his cap in the scuffle,
and with it had gone the bandage. His head was bare now, and, oddly
enough, it showed no matted hair, no cut, no bruise, no swelling. It
was, in fact, a perfectly normal, healthy, well-preserved cranium.

Phillips ceased his struggles; he passed a shaking hand over his eyes
to clear his vision; his captors released him and crowded closer to Jim
McCaskey, who was now showing the first signs of returning
consciousness.

"He told you he was held up--that his skull was cracked, didn't he?"
The Countess threw back her head and laughed unrestrainedly. "My! But
you men are fools! Now, then, who do you suppose got young Phillips'
money? Use your wits, men."

There was a great craning of necks, a momentary hush, the while Jim
McCaskey rolled his head loosely, opened his eyes, and stared wildly
about.

The Countess bent down toward him, and now her cheeks had grown white,
her blue eyes were flaming.

"Well, my man," she cried, in a shaking voice, "now you know what kind
of a woman I am. 'Counting percentage checks,' eh?" She seemed upon the
point of reaching out and throttling Jim with her long strong fingers.
"Let's see you and your precious brother do a little counting. Count
out a thousand dollars for this boy. Quick!"

It was 'Poleon Doret who searched the palsied victim. While other hands
restrained the older brother he went through the younger one and,
having done so, handed Pierce Phillips a bulky envelope addressed in
the latter's handwriting.

"She's yours, eh?" 'Poleon inquired.

Phillips made a hasty examination, then nodded.

The Countess turned once more to the crowd. "I move that you apologize
to Mr. Phillips. Are you game?" Her question met with a yell of
approval. "Now, then, there's a new case on the docket, and the charge
is highway robbery. Are you ready to vote a verdict?" Her face was set,
her eyes still flashed.

"Guilty!" came with a roar.

"Very well. Hang the ruffians if you feel like it!"

She leaped down from her vantage-point, and without a word, without a
glance behind her set out along the Dyea trail.



CHAPTER V


"Looked kind of salty for a spell, didn't it?" The grizzled leader of
the posse, he who had effected the capture of the thieves, was speaking
to Pierce. "Well, I'm due for a private apology. I hope you cherish no
hard feelings. Eh?"

"None whatever, sir. I'm only too glad to get out whole and get my
money back. It was quite an experience." Already Phillips' mind had
ranged the events of the last crowded hour into some sort of order; his
fancy had tinged them with a glamour already turning rosy with romance,
and he told himself that his thrills had been worth their price.

"Lucky that woman showed up. Who is she?" Phillips shook his head. In
his turn he inquired, "What are you going to do with the McCaskeys?"

The elder man's face hardened. "I don't know. This talk about hangin'
makes me weary. I'd hang 'em; I'd kick a bar'l out from under either of
'em. I've done such things and I never had any bad dreams."

But it was plain that the sentiment favoring such extreme punishment
had changed, for a suggestion was made to flog the thieves and send
them out of the country. This met with instant response. A motion was
put to administer forty lashes and it was carried with a whoop.

Preparations to execute the sentence were immediately instituted. A
scourge was prepared by wiring nine heavy leather thongs to a
whip-handle, the platform was cleared, and a call was issued for a man
to administer the punishment. Some delay ensued at this point, but
finally a burly fellow volunteered, climbed to the stage, and removed
his canvas coat.

Since the younger McCaskey appeared to be still somewhat dazed from the
rough handling he had suffered, his brother was thrust forward. The
latter was stripped to the waist, his wrists were firmly bound, then
trussed up to one of the stout end-poles of the tent-frame which,
skeleton-like, stood over the platform. This done, the committee fell
back, and the wielder of the whip stepped forward.

The crowd had watched these grim proceedings intently; it became quite
silent now. The hour was growing late, the day had been overcast, and a
damp chill that searched the marrow was settling as the short afternoon
drew to a close. The prisoner's naked body showed very white beneath
his shock of coal-black hair; his flesh seemed tender and the onlookers
stared at it in fascination.

Joe McCaskey was a man of nerve; he held himself erect; there was
defiance in the gaze which he leveled at the faces below him. But his
brother Jim was not made of such stern, stuff--he was the meaner, the
more cowardly of the pair--and these methodical preparations, the
certainty of his own forthcoming ordeal, bred in him a desperate panic.
The sight of his brother's flesh bared to the bite of the lash brought
home to him the horrifying significance of a flogging, and then, as if
to emphasize that significance, the executioner gave his
cat-o'-nine-tails a practice swing. As the lashes hissed through the
air the victim at the post stiffened rigidly, but his brother, outside
the inclosure, writhed in his tracks and uttered a faint moan.
Profiting by the inattention of his captors, Jim McCaskey summoned his
strength and with an effort born of desperation wrenched himself free.
Hands grasped at him as he bolted, bodies barred his way, but he bore
them down; before the meaning of the commotion had dawned upon the
crowd at large he had fought his way out and was speeding down the
street. But fleet-footed men were at his heels, a roar of rage burst
from the mob, and in a body it took up the chase. Down the stumpy,
muddy trail went the pursuit, and every command to halt spurred the
fleeing man to swifter flight. Cabin doors opened; people came running
from their tents; some tried to fling themselves in the way of the
escaping criminal; packers toiling up the trail heard the approaching
clamor, shook off their burdens and endeavored to seize the figure that
came bounding ahead of it. But Jim dodged them all. Failing in their
attempt to intercept him, these newcomers joined the chase, and the
fugitive, once the first frenzy of excitement had died in him, heard
their footsteps gaining on him. He was stark mad by now; black terror
throttled him. Then some one fired a shot; that shot was followed by
others; there came a scattered fusillade, and with a mighty leap Jim
McCaskey fell. He collapsed in midair; he was dead when his pursuers
reached him.

Mob spirit is a peculiar thing; its vagaries are difficult to explain
or to analyze. Some trivial occurrence may completely destroy its
temper, or again merely serve to harden it and give it edge. In this
instance the escape, the flight, the short, swift pursuit and its
tragic ending, had the effect, not of sobering the assembled citizens
of Sheep Camp, not of satisfying their long-slumbering rage, but of
inflaming it, of intoxicating them to a state of insane triumph. Like
the Paris mobs that followed shouting, in the wake of the tumbrels
bound for the guillotine, these men came trooping back to the scene of
execution, and as they came they bellowed hoarsely and they waved their
arms.

Men react powerfully to environment; they put on rough ways with rough
clothes. Smooth pavements, soap and hot water, safety-razors, are
strong civilizing agents, but a man begins to revert in the time it
takes his beard to grow. These fellows had left the world they knew
behind them; they were in a world they knew not. Old standards had
fallen, new standards had been reared, new values had attached to
crime, therefore they demanded that the business in hand go on. Such
was the spirit of the Chilkoot trail.

At the first stroke of the descending whip a howl went up--a merciless
howl, a howl of fierce exultation. Joe McCaskey rocked forward upon the
balls of his feet; his frame was racked by a spasm of agony; he
strained at his thongs until his shoulder muscles swelled. The flesh of
his back knotted and writhed; livid streaks leaped out upon it, then
turned crimson and began to trickle blood.

"ONE!" roared the mob.

The wielder of the scourge swung his weapon again; again the leather
strips wrapped around the victim's ribs and laid open their defenseless
covering.

"TWO!"

McCaskey lunged forward, then strained, backward; the tent-frame
creaked as he pulled at it. His head was drawn far back between his
shoulders, his face was convulsed, and his gums were bared in a skyward
grin. If he uttered any sound it was lost in the uproar.

"THREE!"

It was a frightful punishment. The man's flesh was being stripped from
his bones.

"FOUR!"

"FIVE!"

The count went on monotonously, for the fellow with the whip swung
slowly, putting his whole strength behind every blow. When it had
climbed to eight the prisoner's body was dripping with blood, his
trousers-band was sodden with it. When it had reached ten he hung
suspended by his wrists and only a fierce involuntary muscular reaction
answered the caress of the nine lashes.

Forty stripes had been voted as the penalty, but 'Poleon Doret vaulted
to the platform, seized the upraised whip, and tore it from the
executioner's hand. He turned upon the crowd a countenance white with
fury and disgust.

"Enough!" he shouted. "By Gar! You keel him next! If you mus' w'ip
somebody, w'ip me; dis feller is mos' dead." He strode to the post and
with a slash of his hunting-knife cut McCaskey down. This action was
greeted by an angry yell of protest; there was a rush toward the
platform, but 'Poleon was joined by the leader of the posse, who
scrambled through the press and ranged himself in opposition to the
audience. The old man was likewise satiated with this torture; his face
was wet with sweat; beneath his drooping gray mustache his teeth were
set.

"Back up, you hyenas!" he cried, shrilly. "The show's over. The man
took his medicine and he took it like a man. He's had enough."

"Gimme the whip. I'll finish the job," some one shouted.

The former speaker bent forward abristle with defiance.

"You try it!" he spat out. "You touch that whip, and by God, I'll kill
you!" He lent point to this threat by drawing and cocking his
six-shooter. "If you men ain't had enough blood for one day, I'll let a
little more for you." His words ended in a torrent of profanity. "Climb
aboard!" he shrilled. "Who's got the guts to try?"

Doret spoke to him shortly, "Dese men ain't goin' mak' no trouble,
m'sieu'." With that he turned his back and, heedless of the clamor,
began to minister to the bleeding man. He had provided himself with a
bottle of lotion, doubtless some antiseptic snatched from the canvas
drugstore down the street, and with this he wet a handkerchief; then he
washed McCaskey's lacerated back. A member of the committee joined him
in this work of mercy; soon others came to their assistance, and
gradually the crowd began breaking up. Some one handed the sufferer a
drink of whisky, which revived him considerably, and by the time he was
ready to receive his upper garments he was to some extent master of
himself.

Joe McCaskey accepted these attentions without a word of thanks,
without a sign of gratitude. He appeared to be numbed, paralyzed, by
the nervous shock he had undergone, and yet he was not paralyzed, for
his eyes were intensely alive. They were wild, baleful; his roving
glance was like poison to the men it fell upon.

"You're due to leave camp," he was told, "and you're going to take the
first boat from Dyea. Is there anything you want to say, anything you
want to do, before you go?"

"I--want something to--eat," Joe answered, hoarsely. "I'm hungry."
These were the first words he had uttered; they met with astonishment;
nevertheless he was led to the nearest restaurant. Surrounded by a
silent, curious group, he crouched over the board counter and wolfed a
ravenous meal. When he had finished he rose, turned, and stared
questioningly at the circle of hostile faces; his eyes still glittered
with that basilisk glare of hatred and defiance. There was something
huge, disconcerting, about the man. Not once had he appealed for mercy,
not once had he complained, not once had he asked about his brother; he
showed neither curiosity nor concern over Jim's fate, and now he
betrayed the utmost indifference to his own. He merely shifted that
venomous stare from one face to another as if indelibly to photograph
each and every one of them upon his mind.

But the citizens of Sheep Camp were not done with him yet. His hands
were again bound, this time behind him; a blanket roll was roped upon
his shoulders, upon his breast was hung a staring placard which read:

"I am a thief! Spit on me and send me along."

Thus decorated, he met his crowning indignity. Extending from the steps
of the restaurant far down the street twin rows of men had formed, and
this gauntlet Joe McCaskey was forced to run. He bore this ordeal as he
had borne the other. Men jeered at him, they flung handfuls of wet moss
and mud at him, they spat upon him, some even struck him, bound as he
was.

Sickened at the sight, Pierce Phillips witnessed the final chapter of
this tragedy into which the winds of chance had blown him. For one
instant only did his eyes meet those of his former tentmate, but during
that brief glance the latter made plain his undying hatred. McCaskey's
gaze intensified, his upper lip drew back in a grimace similar to that
which he had lifted to the sky when agony ran through his veins like
fire; he seemed to concentrate the last ounce of his soul's energy in
the sending of some wordless message. Hellish fury, a threat too
baneful, too ominous, for expression dwelt in that stare; then a
splatter of mire struck him in the face and blotted it out.

When the last jeer had died away, when the figure of Joe McCaskey had
disappeared into the misty twilight, Phillips drew a deep breath. What
a day this had been, what a tumult he had lived through, what an
experience he had undergone! This was an adventure! He had lived, he
had made an enemy. Life had come his way, and the consciousness of that
fact caused him to tingle. This would be something to talk about; what
would the folks back home say to this? And the Countess--that wonderful
woman of ice and fire! That superwoman who could sway the minds of men,
whose wit was quicker than light. Well, she had saved him, saved his
good name, if not his neck, and his life was hers. Who was she? What
mission brought her here? What hurry crowded on her heels? What idle
chance had flung them into each other's arms? Or was it idle chance?
Was there such a thing as chance, after all? Were not men's random
fortunes all laid out in conformity with some obscure purpose to form a
part of some intricate design? Dust he was, dust blown upon the breath
of the North, as were these other human atoms which had been borne
thither from the farthest quarters of the earth; but when that dust had
settled would it not arrange itself into patterns mapped out at the
hour of birth or long before? Somehow he believed that such would be
the case.

As for the Countess, his way was hers, her way was his; he could not
bear to think of losing her. She was big, she was great, she drew him
by the spell of some strange magic.

The peppery old man who, with Doret's help, had defied the miners'
meeting approached him to inquire:

"Say, why didn't old Tom come back with you from Linderman?"

"Old Tom?"

"Sure! Old Tom Linton. We're pardners. I'm Jerry Quirk."

"He was tired out."

"Tired!" Mr. Quirk snorted derisively. "What tired him? He can't tote
enough grub to satisfy his own hunger. Me, I'm
double-trippin'--relayin' our stuff to the Summit and breakin' my back
at it. I can't make him understand we'd ought to keep the outfit
together; he's got it scattered like a mad woman's hair. But old Tom's
in the sere and yellow leaf: he's onnery, like all old men. I try to
humor him, but--here's a limit." The speaker looked Pierce over
shrewdly. "You said you was packin' for wages. Well, old Tom ain't any
help to me. You look strong. Mebbe I could hire you."

Phillips shook his head. "I don't want work just now," said he. "I'm
going to Dyea in the morning."

Jim McCaskey was buried where he had fallen, and there beside the
trail, so that all who passed might read and ponder, the men of Sheep
Camp raised a board with this inscription:

"Here lies the body of a thief."



CHAPTER VI


A certain romantic glamour attaches to all new countries, but not every
man is responsive to it. To the person who finds enjoyment,
preoccupation, in studying a ruin or in contemplating glories,
triumphs, dramas long dead and gone, old buildings, old cities, and old
worlds sound a resistless call. The past is peopled with impressive
figures, to be sure; it is a tapestry into which are woven scenes of
tremendous significance and events of the greatest moment, and it is
quite natural, therefore, that the majority of people should experience
greater fascination in studying it than in painting new scenes upon a
naked canvas with colors of their own imagining. To them new countries
are crude, uninteresting. But there is another type of mind which finds
a more absorbing spell in the contemplation of things to come than of
things long past; another temperament to which the proven and the tried
possess a flat and tasteless flavor. They are restless, anticipative
people; they are the ones who blaze trails. To them great cities,
established order, the intricate structure of well-settled life, are
both monotonous and oppressive; they do not thrive well thereunder. But
put them out on the fringe of things, transplant them to wild soil, and
the sap runs, they flower rankly.

To Pierce Phillips the new surroundings into which he had been
projected were intensely stimulating; they excited him as he had never
been excited, and each day he awoke to the sense of new adventures.
Life, as he had known it, had always been good--and full, too, for that
matter--and he had hugely enjoyed it; nevertheless, it had impressed
upon him a sense of his own insignificance. He had been lost,
submerged, in it. Here, on the threshold of a new world, he had begun
to find himself, and the experience was delightful. By some magic he
had been lifted to a common level with every other man, and no one had
advantage over him. The momentous future was as much his as theirs and
the God of Luck was in charge of things.

There was a fever in the very air he breathed, the food he ate, the
water he drank. Life ran at a furious pace and it inspired in him
supreme exhilaration to be swept along by it. Over all this new land
was a purple haze of mystery--a sense of the Unknown right at hand. The
Beyond was beckoning; it was as if great curtains had parted and he
beheld vistas of tremendous promise. Keenest of all, perhaps, was his
joy at discovering himself.

Appreciation of this miraculous rebirth was fullest when, at rare
intervals, he came off the trail and back to Dyea, for then he renewed
his touch with that other world, and the contrast became more evident.

Dyea throbbed nowadays beneath a mighty head of steam; it had grown
surprisingly and it was intensely alive. Phillips never came back to it
without an emotional thrill and a realization of great issues, great
undertakings, in process of working out. The knowledge that he had a
part in them aroused in him an intoxicating pleasure.

Dyea had become a metropolis of boards and canvas, of logs and
corrugated iron. Stores had risen, there were hotels and
lodging-houses, busy restaurants and busier saloons whence came the
sounds of revelry by night and by day. It was a healthy revelry, by the
way, like the boisterous hilarity of a robust boy. Dyea was just
that--an overgrown, hilarious boy. There was nothing querulous or
sickly about this child; it was strong, it was sturdy, it was rough; it
romped with everybody and it grew out of its clothes overnight. Every
house, every tent, in the town was crowded; supply never quite overtook
demand.

Pack-animals were being imported, bridges were being built, the swamps
were being hastily corduroyed; there was talk of a tramway up the side
of the Chilkoot, but the gold rush increased daily, and, despite better
means of transportation, the call for packers went unanswered and the
price per pound stayed up. New tribes of Indians from down the coast
had moved thither, babies and baggage, and they were growing rich. The
stampede itself resembled the spring run of the silver salmon--it was
equally mad, equally resistless. It was equally wasteful, too, for
birds and beasts of prey fattened upon it and the outsetting current
bore a burden of derelicts.

Values were extravagant; money ran like water; the town was wide open
and it took toll from every new-comer. The ferment was kept active by a
trickle of outgoing Klondikers, a considerable number of whom passed
through on their way back to the States. These men had been educated to
the liberal ways of the "inside" country and were prodigal spenders.
The scent of the salt sea, the sight of new faces, the proximity of the
open world, were like strong drink to them, hence they untied their
mooseskin "pokes" and scattered the contents like sawdust. Their tales
of the new El Dorado stimulated a similar recklessness among their
hearers.

To a boy like Pierce Phillips, in whom the spirit of youth was a
flaming torch, all this spelled glorious abandon, a supreme riot of
Olympic emotions.

Precisely what reason he had for coming to town this morning he did not
know; nevertheless, he was drawn seaward as by a mighty magnet. He told
himself that ordinary gratitude demanded that he thank the Countess
Courteau for her service to him, but as a matter of fact he was less
interested in voicing his gratitude than in merely seeing her again. He
was not sure but that she would resent his thanks; nevertheless, it was
necessary to seek her out, for already her image was nebulous, and he
could not piece together a satisfactory picture of her. She obsessed
his thoughts, but his intense desire to fix her indelibly therein had
defeated its purpose and had blurred the photograph. Who was she? What
was she? Where was she going? What did she think of him? The
possibility that she might leave Dyea before answering those questions
spurred him into a gait that devoured the miles.

But when he turned into the main street of the town his haste vanished
and a sudden embarrassment overtook him. What would he say to her, now
that he was here? How would he excuse or explain his obvious pursuit?
Would she see through him? If so, what light would kindle in those
ice-blue eyes? The Countess was an unusual woman. She knew men, she
read them clearly, and she knew how to freeze them in their tracks.
Pierce felt quite sure that she would guess his motives, therefore he
made up his mind to dissemble cunningly. He decided to assume a casual
air and to let chance arrange their actual meeting. When he did
encounter her, a quick smile of pleased surprise on his part, a few
simple words of thanks, a manly statement that he was glad she had not
left before his duties permitted him to look her up, and she would be
completely deceived. Thereafter fate would decree how well or how badly
they got acquainted. Yes, that was the way to go about it.

Having laid out this admirable program, he immediately defied it by
making a bee-line for the main hotel, a big board structure still in
process of erection. His feet carried him thither in spite of himself.
Like a homing-pigeon he went, and instinct guided him unerringly, for
he found the Countess Courteau in the office.

She was dressed as on the day before, but by some magic she had managed
to freshen and to brighten herself. In her hand she held her
traveling-bag; she was speaking to the proprietor as Pierce stepped up
behind her.

"Fifteen thousand dollars as it stands," he heard her say. "That's my
price. I'll make you a present of the lumber. The Queen leaves in
twenty minutes."

The proprietor began to argue, but she cut him short: "That's my last
word. Three hundred per cent, on your money."

"But--"

"Think it over!" Her tone was cool, her words were crisp. "I take the
lighter in ten minutes." She turned to find Phillips at her shoulder.

"Good morning!" Her face lit up with a smile; she extended her hand,
and he seized it as a fish swallows a bait. He blushed redly.

"I'm late," he stammered. "I mean I--I hurried right in to tell you--"

"So they didn't hang you?"

"No! You were wonderful! I couldn't rest until I had told you how
deeply grateful--"

"Nonsense!" The Countess shrugged her shoulders. "I'm glad you came
before I left."

"You're not--going away?" he queried, with frank apprehension.

"In ten minutes."

"See here!" It was the hotel proprietor who addressed the woman. "You
can't possibly make it before snow flies, and the boats are overloaded
coming north; they can't handle the freight they've got."

"I'll be back in three weeks," the Countess asserted, positively. "I'll
bring my own pack-train. If something should delay me, I'll open up
here and put you out of business. This town will be good for a year or
two."

"You can't threaten me," the fellow blustered. "Twenty thousand is my
price."

"Good-by!" The Countess turned once more to Pierce.

"Are you leaving for good?" he inquired, despondently, unable to
dissemble.

"Bless you, no! I'll probably die in this country. I'm going out on
business, but I'll be back in Dawson ahead of the ice. You'll be going
across soon, I dare say. Come, walk down to the beach with me."

Together they left the building and found their way to the
landing-place, where a lighter was taking on passengers for the
steamship Queen.

"I suppose you know how sorry I am for what happened yesterday," Pierce
began.

The Countess looked up from her abstracted contemplation of the scene;
there was a faint inquiry in her face.

"Sorry? I should think you'd be about the happiest boy in Dyea."

"I mean what Jim McCaskey said. I'd have--killed him if I could. I
tried to!"

"Oh!" The woman nodded; her teeth gleamed in a smile that was not at
all pleasant. "I heard about the shooting this morning; I meant to ask
you about it, but I was thinking of other things." She measured the
burly frame of the young man at her side and the vindictiveness died
out of her expression. Phillips was good to look at; he stood a full
six feet in height, his close-cropped hair displayed a shapely head,
and his features were well molded. He was a handsome, open lad, the
Countess acknowledged. Aloud she said: "I dare say every woman loves to
have a man fight for her. I do my own fighting, usually, but it's nice
to have a champion." Her gaze wandered back to the hotel, then up the
pine-flanked valley toward the Chilkoot; her abstraction returned; she
appeared to weigh some intricate mathematical calculation.

With his hands in his pockets the hotel-keeper came idling down to the
water's edge and, approaching his departing guest, said, carelessly:

"I've been thinking it over, ma'am. There isn't room for two of us
here. I might make it seventeen thousand five hundred, if--"

"Fifteen! No more."

There came a signal from the steamer in the offing; the Countess
extended her hand to Pierce.

"Good-by! If you're still here three weeks from now you may be able to
help me." Then she joined the procession up the gang-plank.

But the hotel-keeper halted her. "Fifteen is a go!" he said, angrily.

The Countess Courteau stepped back out of the line. "Very well. Make
out the bill of sale. I'll meet you at Healy & Wilson's in ten minutes."

A moment later she smiled at Pierce and heaved a sigh of relief.

"Well, I brought him to time, didn't I? I'd never have gone aboard. I'd
have paid him twenty-five thousand dollars, as a matter of fact, but he
hadn't sense enough to see it. I knew I had him when he followed me
down here."

"What have you bought?"

"That hotel yonder--all but the lumber."

"All BUT the lumber! Why, there isn't much else!" Pierce was more than
a little astonished.

"Oh yes, there is! Dishes, hardware, glass, beds, bedding, windows,
fixtures--everything inside the building, that's what I bought. That's
all I wanted. I'll have the place wrecked and the stuff packed up and
on men's backs in two days. It cost--I don't know what it cost, and I
don't care. The fellow was perfectly right, though; I haven't time to
get to Seattle and back again. Know any men who want work?"

"I want it."

"Know any others?" Pierce shook his head. "Find some--the more the
better. Carpenters first, if there are any." The speaker was all
business now. "You're working for me from this minute, understand?
Treat me right and I'll treat you right. I'll take you through to
Dawson. I want carpenters, packers, boatmen; they must work fast. Long
hours, long chances, big pay, that's what it will mean. That outfit
must be in Dawson ahead of the ice. Such a thing has never been done;
it can't be done! But I'll do it! Do you want to tackle the job?"

Phillips' eyes were dancing. "I'll eat it up!" he cried, breathlessly.

"Good! I think you'll do. Wait for me at the hotel." With a brisk nod
she was off, leaving him in a perfect whirl of emotions.

Her man! She had called him that. "Fast work, long hours, long
chances"; an impossible task! What happy impulse had sped him to town
this morning? Ten minutes was the narrow margin by which he had won his
opportunity, and now the door to the North had opened at a woman's
touch. Inside lay--everything! She thought he'd do? Why, she must KNOW
he'd do. She must know he'd give up his life for her!

He pinched himself to ascertain if he were dreaming.

The Northern Hotel was less than three-quarters built, but within an
hour after it had changed ownership it was in process of demolition.
The Countess Courteau was indeed a "lightning striker"; while Phillips
went through the streets offering double wages to men who could wield
hammer and saw, and the possibility of transportation clear to Dawson
for those who could handle an oar, she called off the building crew and
set them to new tasks, then she cleared the house of its guests. Rooms
were invaded with peremptory orders to vacate; the steady help was put
to undoing what they had already done, and soon the premises were in
tumult. Such rooms as had been completed were dismantled even while the
protesting occupants were yet gathering their belongings together, Beds
were knocked down, bedding was moved out; windows, door-knobs, hinges,
fixtures were removed; dishes, lamps, mirrors, glassware were assembled
for packing.

Through all this din and clatter the Countess Courteau passed, spurring
the wreckers on to speed. Yielding to Phillips' knowledge of
transportation problems and limitations, she put him in general charge,
and before he realized it he found that he was in reality her first
lieutenant.

Toward evening a ship arrived and began to belch forth freight and
passengers, whereupon there ensued a rush to find shelter.

Pierce was engaged in dismantling the office fixtures when a stranger
entered and accosted him with the inquiry:

"Got any rooms?"

"No, sir. We're moving this hotel bodily to Dawson."

The new-comer surveyed the littered premises with some curiosity. He
was a tall, gray-haired man, with a long, impassive face of peculiar
ashen color. He had lost his left hand somewhere above the wrist and in
place of it wore a metal hook. With this he gestured stiffly in the
direction of a girl who had followed him into the building.

"She's got to have a bed," he declared. "I can get along somehow till
my stuff is landed to-morrow."

"I'm sorry," Pierce told him, "but the beds are all down and the
windows are out. I'm afraid nobody could get much sleep here, for we'll
be at work all night."

"Any other hotels?"

"Some bunk-houses. But they're pretty full."

"Money no object, I suppose?" the one-armed man ventured.

"Oh, none."

The stranger turned to his companion. "Looks like we'd have to sit up
till our tents come off. I hope they've got chairs in this town."

"We can stay aboard the ship." The girl had a pleasant voice--she was,
in fact, a pleasant sight to look upon, for her face was quiet and
dignified, her eyes were level and gray, she wore a head of wavy
chestnut hair combed neatly back beneath a trim hat.

Alaska, during the first rush, was a land of pretty women, owing to the
fact that a large proportion of those who came North did so for the
avowed purpose of trading upon that capital, but even in such company
this girl was noticeable and Pierce Phillips regarded her with distinct
approval.

"You can have my part of that," the man told her, with a slight
grimace. "This racket is music, to the bellow of those steers. And it
smells better here. If I go aboard again I'll be hog-tied. Why, I'd
rather sit up all night and deal casino to a mad Chinaman!"

"We'll manage somehow, dad." The girl turned to the door and her father
followed her. He paused for a moment while he ran his eye up and down
the busy street.

"Looks like old times, doesn't it, Letty?" Then he stepped out of sight.

When darkness came the wrecking crew worked on by the light of lamps,
lanterns, and candles, for the inducement of double pay was potent.

Along about midnight Mr. Lucky Broad, the shell-man, picked his way
through the bales and bundles and, recognizing Phillips, greeted him
familiarly:

"Hello, kid! Where's her nibs, the corn-tassel Countess?"

"Gone to supper."

"Well, she sprung you, didn't she? Some gal! I knew you was all right,
but them boys was certainly roily."

Pierce addressed the fellow frankly: "I'm obliged to you for taking my
part. I hardly expected it."

"Why not? I got nothing against you. I got a sort of tenderness for
guys like you--I hate to see 'em destroyed." Mr. Broad grinned widely
and his former victim responded in like manner.

"I don't blame you," said the latter. "I was an awful knot-head, but
you taught me a lesson."

"Pshaw!" The confidence-man shrugged his shoulders carelessly. "The
best of 'em fall for the shells. I was up against it and had to get
some rough money, but--it's a hard way to make a living. These pilgrims
squawk so loud it isn't safe--you'd think their coin was soldered onto
'em. That's why I'm here. I understand her Grace is hiring men to go to
Dawson."

"Yes."

"Well, take a flash at me." Mr. Broad stiffened his back, arched his
chest, and revolved slowly upon his heels. "Pretty nifty, eh? What kind
of men does she want?"

"Packers, boatmen--principally boatmen--fellows who can run white
water."

The new applicant was undoubtedly in a happy and confident mood, for he
rolled his eyes upward, exclaiming, devoutly: "I'm a gift from heaven!
Born in a batteau and cradled on the waves--that's me!"

The Countess herself appeared out of the night at this moment and
Pierce somewhat reluctantly introduced the sharper to her. "Here's an
able seaman in search of a job," said he.

"Able seaman?" The woman raised her brows inquiringly.

"He said it." Mr. Broad nodded affirmatively. "I'm a jolly tar, a
bo'sun's mate, a salt-horse wrangler. I just jumped a full-rigged
ship--thimble-rigged!" He winked at Phillips and thrust his tongue into
his cheek. "Here's my papers." From his shirt pocket he took a book of
brown rice-papers and a sack of tobacco, then deftly fashioned a tiny
cigarette.

"Roll one for me," said the Countess.

"Why, sure!" Mr. Broad obliged instantly and with a flourish.

"Are you really a boatman?" the woman inquired. "Don't stall, for I'll
find you out." Pierce undertook to get her eye, but she was regarding
Broad intently and did not see his signal.

"I'm all of that," the latter said, seriously.

"I'm going to move this outfit in small boats, two men to a boat,
double crews through the canon and in swift water. Can you get a good
man to help you?"

"He's yours for the askin'--Kid Bridges. Ain't his name enough? He's a
good packer, too; been packin' hay for two months. Pierce knows him."
Again Mr. Broad winked meaningly at Phillips.

"Come and see me to-morrow," said the Countess.

Lucky nodded agreement to this arrangement. "Why don't you load the
whole works on a scow?" he asked. "You'd save men and we could all be
together--happy family stuff. That's what Kirby's going to do."

"Kirby?"

"Sam Kirby. 'One-armed' Kirby--you know. He got in to-day with a big
liquor outfit. Him and his gal are down at the Ophir now, playing faro."

"No scow for mine," the Countess said, positively. "I know what I'm
doing."

After the visitor had gone Pierce spoke his mind, albeit with some
hesitancy. "That fellow is a gambler," said he, "and Kid Bridges is
another. Bridges held my hand for a minute, the day I landed, and his
little display of tenderness cost me one hundred and thirty-five
dollars. Do you think you want to hire them?"

"Why not?" the Countess inquired. Then, with a smile, "They won't hold
my hand, and they may be very good boatmen indeed." She dropped her
cigarette, stepped upon it, then resumed her labors.

Phillips eyed the burnt-offering with disfavor. Until just now he had
not known that his employer used tobacco, and the discovery came as a
shock. He had been reared in a close home-circle, therefore he did not
approve of women smoking; in particular he disapproved of the Countess,
his Countess, smoking. After a moment of consideration, however, he
asked himself what good reason there could be for his feeling. It was
her own affair; why shouldn't a woman smoke if she felt like it? He was
surprised at the unexpected liberality of his attitude. This country
was indeed working a change in him; he was broadening rapidly. As a
matter of fact, he assured himself, the Countess Courteau was an
exceptional woman; she was quite different from the other members of
her sex and the rules of decorum which obtained for them did not obtain
for her. She was one in ten thousand, one in a million. Yes, and he was
"her man."

While he was snatching a bit of midnight supper Pierce again heard the
name of Kirby mentioned, and a reference to the big game in progress at
the Ophir. Recalling Lucky Broad's words, he wondered if it were
possible that Kirby and his girl were indeed the father and daughter
who had applied at the Northern for shelter. It seemed incredible that
a young woman of such apparent refinement could be a gambler's
daughter, but if it were true she was not only the daughter of a
"sporting man," but a very notorious one, judging from general comment.
Prompted by curiosity, Pierce dropped in at the Ophir on his way back
to work. He found the place crowded, as usual, but especially so at the
rear, where the games were running. When he had edged his way close
enough to command a view of the faro-table he discovered that Sam Kirby
was, for a fact, the one-armed man he had met during the afternoon. He
was seated, and close at his back was the gray-eyed, brown-haired girl
with the pleasant voice. She was taking no active part in the game
itself except to watch the wagers and the cases carefully. Now and then
her father addressed a low-spoken word to her and she answered with a
nod, a smile, or a shake of her head. She was quite at ease, quite at
home; she was utterly oblivious to the close-packed ring of spectators
encircling the table.

The sight amazed Phillips. He was shocked; he was mildly angered and
mildly amused at the false impression this young woman had given. It
seemed that his judgment of female types was exceedingly poor.

"Who is Mr. Kirby?" he inquired of his nearest neighbor.

"Big sport. He's rich--or he was; I heard he just lost a string of
race-horses. He makes a fortune and he spends it overnight. He's on his
way 'inside' now with a big saloon outfit. That's Letty, his girl."

Another man laughed under his breath, saying: "Old Sam won't bet a
nickel unless she's with him. He's superstitious."

"I guess he has reason to be. She's his rudder," the first speaker
explained.

Mr. Kirby rapped sharply upon the table with the steel hook that served
as his left hand, then, when a waiter cleared a passageway through the
crowd, he mutely invited the house employees to drink. The dealer
declined, the lookout and the case-keeper ordered whisky, and Kirby
signified by a nod that the same would do for him. But his daughter
laid a hand upon his arm. He argued with her briefly, then he shrugged
and changed his order.

"Make it a cigar," he said, with a smile. "Boss's orders."

There was a ripple of laughter.

"Sam's a bad actor when he's drinking," one of Pierce's informants told
him. "Letty keeps him pretty straight, but once in a while he gets
away. When he does--oh, BOY!"

Long after he had returned to his tasks the memory of that still-faced
girl in the foul, tobacco-laden atmosphere of the gambling-hall
remained to bother Pierce Phillips; he could not get over his amazement
and his annoyance at mistaking her for a--well, for a good girl.

Early in the morning, when he wearily went forth in quest of breakfast
and a bed, he learned that the game at the Ophir was still going on.

"I want you to hire enough packers to take this stuff over in one
trip--two at the most. Engage all you can. Offer any price." The
Countess was speaking. She had snatched a few hours' sleep and was now
back at the hotel as fresh as ever.

"You must take more rest," Pierce told her. "You'll wear yourself out
at this rate."

She smiled brightly and shook her head, but he persisted. "Go back to
sleep and let me attend to the work. I'm strong; nothing tires me."

"Nor me. I'll rest when we get to Dawson. Have those packers here day
after to-morrow morning."

There were numerous freighters in Dyea, outfits with animals, too, some
of them, but inquiry developed the fact that none were free to accept a
contract of this size at such short notice, therefore Pierce went to
the Indian village and asked for the chief. Failing to discover the old
man, he began a tent-to-tent search, and while so engaged he stumbled
upon Joe McCaskey.

The outcast was lying on a bed of boughs; his face was flushed and his
eyes were bright with fever. Evidently, in avoiding the town he had
sought shelter here and the natives had taken him in without question.

Overcoming his first impulse to quietly withdraw, Pierce bent down to
the fellow and said, with genuine pity: "I'm sorry for you, Joe. Is
there anything I can do?"

McCaskey stared up at him wildly; then a light of recognition kindled
in his black eyes. It changed to that baleful gleam of hatred. His hair
lay low upon his forehead and through it he glared. His face was
covered with a smut of beard which made him even more repellent.

"I thought you were Jim," he croaked. "But Jim's--dead."

"You're sick. Can I help you? Do you want money or--"

"Jim's dead," the man repeated. "You killed him!"

"I? Nonsense. Don't talk--"

"You killed him. YOU!" McCaskey's unblinking stare became positively
venomous; he showed his teeth in a frightful grin. "You killed him. But
there's more of us. Plenty more. We'll get you." He appeared to derive
a ferocious enjoyment from this threat, for he dwelt upon it. He began
to curse his visitor so foully that Pierce backed out of the tent and
let the flap fall. It had been an unwelcome encounter; it left an
unpleasant taste in his mouth.

As he went on in search of the village shaman he heard Joe muttering:
"Jim's dead! Dead! Jim's dead!"



CHAPTER VII


Sam Kirby's outfit was one of the largest, one of the costliest, and
one of the most complete that had ever been landed on the Dyea beach,
for Kirby was a man who did things in a large way. He was a plunger; he
had long since become case-hardened to risks and he knew how to weigh
probabilities; hence the fact that he had staked his all upon one throw
did not in the least disturb him. Many a time he had done the same and
the dice had never failed to come out for him. Possessing a wide
practical knowledge of new countries, he had shrewdly estimated the
Klondike discovery at its true worth and had realized that the
opportunity for a crowning triumph, a final clean-up, had come his way.
This accounted for the energetic manner in which he had set about
improving it.

Most men are successful in direct proportion to their ability to select
and retain capable assistants. Fortune had favored Sam Kirby by
presenting him with a daughter whose caution and good sense admirably
supplemented his own best qualities, and he was doubly blessed in
possessing the intense, nay, the ferocious, loyalty of one Danny Royal,
a dependable retainer who had graduated from various minor positions
into a sort of castellan, an Admirable Crichton, a good left hand to
replace that missing member which Kirby had lost during the white-hot
climax of a certain celebrated feud--a feud, by the way, which had
added a notch to the ivory handle of Sam's famous six-shooter. This
Danny Royal was all things. He could take any shift in a
gambling-house, he was an accomplished fixer, he had been a jockey and
had handled the Kirby string of horses. He was a miner of sorts, too,
having superintended the Rouletta Mine during its brief and prosperous
history; as a trainer he was without a peer. He had made book on many
tracks; he it was who had brought out the filly Rouletta, Sam Kirby's
best-known thoroughbred, and "mopped up" with her. Both mine and mare
Danny had named after Kirby's girl, and under Danny's management both
had been quick producers. All in all, Royal was considered by those who
knew him best as a master of many trades and a Jack of none. He was an
irreligious man, but he possessed a code which he lived up to strictly;
epitomized it ran as follows, "Sam Kirby's will be done!" He believed
in but one god, and that Rouletta Kirby was his profit.

Equipped with the allegiance of such a man as Royal, together with
several tons of high-proof spirits, a stock of case-goods and cigars,
some gambling paraphernalia, and a moderate bank roll with which to
furnish the same, old Sam felt safe in setting out for any country
where gold was mined and where the trails were new.

Of course he took his daughter with him. Sooner than leave her behind
he would have severed his remaining hand. Rouletta and Agnes, they
constituted the foundation upon which the Kirby fortunes rested, they
were the rocks to which Sam clung, they were his assets and his
liabilities, his adjuncts and his adornments. Agnes was his gun.

Having seen his freight safely ashore, Kirby left Royal in charge of
it, first impressing upon him certain comprehensive and explicit
instructions; then he and Rouletta and Agnes went up the trail and over
the Chilkoot. Somehow, between the three of them, they intended to have
a scow built and ready when Danny landed the last pound of merchandise
at Linderman.

Mr. Royal was an energetic little person. He began an immediate hunt
for packers, only to discover that another outfit was ahead of his and
that no men were immediately available. He was resourceful, he was in
the habit of meeting and overcoming obstacles, hence this one did not
greatly trouble him, once he became acquainted with the situation.

Two days and nights enabled the Countess Courteau to strip the Northern
Hotel, to assemble the movable appurtenances thereto, and to pack them
into boxes, bales, and bundles, none of which weighed more than one
hundred pounds. This lapse of time likewise enabled the Indians whom
Pierce had hired to finish their contracts and return to the coast. In
spite of the appalling amount of freight, Pierce believed he had enough
men to move it in two trips, and when the hour came to start the
Countess complimented him upon his thorough preparations. As swiftly as
might be he formed his packers in line, weighed their burdens, and sent
them on their journey. These preparations occasioned much confusion and
a considerable crowd assembled. Among the onlookers was a bright-eyed,
weazened little man who attached himself to the chief and engaged him
in conversation.

When the last burden-bearer had departed the Countess directed Lucky
Broad and Kid Bridges to stay in the hotel and stand guard over the
remainder of her goods.

"Take six-hour shifts," she told them. "I'll hold you responsible for
what's here."

"It's as safe as wheat," Broad assured her.

"I'll camp at the Scales with the stuff that has gone forward, and
Pierce will bring the Indians back."

"D'you think you can ride herd on it?" Bridges inquired. "I understand
there's a lawless element at large."

The Countess smiled. "I'm sort of a lawless element myself when I
start," she said. Her eyes twinkled as she measured Mr. Bridges' burly
proportions. "You're going to miss your alfalfa bed before I get you to
Linderman."

The Kid nodded seriously. "I know," said he. "Serves me right for
quittin' a profession for a trade, but I got to look over this Dawson
place. They say it's soft pickin'. Lucky is taking his stock in trade
along, all three of 'em, so maybe we'll tear off a penny or two on the
way."

Pierce's pack consisted of a tent for the Countess, some bedding, and
food; with this on his back he and his employer set out to overtake
their train. This they accomplished a short distance below the first
crossing of the river. Already the white packers, of whom there were
perhaps a score, had drawn together; the Indians were following them in
a long file. Having seen his companion safely across the stream, Pierce
asked her, somewhat doubtfully:

"Do you think Broad and his partner are altogether trustworthy?"

"Nobody is that," she told him. "But they're at least intelligent. In
this kind of a country I prefer an intelligent crook to an honest fool.
Most people are honest or dishonest when and as they think it is to
their advantage to be so. Those men want to get to Dawson, and they
know the Police would never let them across the Line. I'm their only
chance. They'll stand assay."

It was mid-forenoon when the Countess halted Pierce, who was a short
distance ahead of her, saying: "Wait! Didn't you hear somebody calling
us?"

They listened. They were about to move onward when there came a faint
hallo, and far down the trail behind them they saw a figure
approaching. After a moment of scrutiny Pierce declared:

"Why, it's Broad!"

"Something has happened!" The Countess stepped upon a fallen log and
through her cupped palms sent forth an answering call. Mr. Broad waved
his hat and broke into a run. He was wet with sweat, he was muddy and
out of breath, when he finally overtook them.

"Whew!" he panted. "Thought I'd never run you down ... Well, set
yourselves."

"What's wrong?" demanded the woman.

"Plenty. You've been double-crossed, whip-sawed. Your noble red men
have quit you; they dumped your stuff at the river and made a deal at
double rates to move Sam Kirby's freight. They're back in Dyea now, the
whole works."

The Countess Courteau exploded with a man's oath. Her face was purple;
her eyes were blazing.

"Danny Royal, Kirby's man, done it. Sam's gone on to Linderman to build
a boat. I saw Danny curled up on the chief's ear while you were
loading. After you'd gone him and the old pirate followed. Me 'n'
Bridges never thought anything about it until by and by back came the
whole party, empty. Danny trooped 'em down to the beach and begun
packin' 'em. I know him, so I asked him what the devil. 'Hands off!'
says he. 'Sam Kirby's got a rush order in ahead of yours, and these
refreshments is going through by express. I've raised your ante. Money
no object, understand? I'll boost the price again if I have to, and
keep on boosting it.' Then he warned me not to start anything or he'd
tack two letters onto the front of my name. He'd do it, too. I took it
on the run, and here I am."

"Sam Kirby, eh?" The Countess' flaming rage had given place to a cool,
calculating anger.

Pierce protested violently. "I hired those Indians. We agreed on a
price and everything was settled."

"Well, Danny unsettled it. They're workin' for him and he intends to
keep 'em."

"What about our white packers?" the woman inquired of Broad.

"They must have crossed before Danny caught up, or he'd have had them,
too. 'Money no object,' he said. I'm danged if I'd turn a trick like
that."

"Where's our stuff?"

"At the Crossing."

The Countess turned back down the trail and Pierce followed her. "I'll
settle this Royal," he declared, furiously.

"Danny's a bad boy," Lucky Broad warned, falling into step. "If old Sam
told him to hold a buzz-saw in his lap he'd do it. Maybe there wouldn't
be much left of Danny, but he'd of hugged it some while he lasted."

Little more was said during the swift return to the river. It was not a
pleasant journey, for the trail was miserable, the mud was deep, and
there was a steady upward flow of traffic which it was necessary to
stem. There were occasional interruptions to this stream, for here and
there horses were down and a blockade had resulted. Behind it men lay
propped against logs or tree-trunks, resting their tired frames and
listening apathetically to the profanity of the horse-owners. Rarely
did any one offer to lend a helping hand, for each man's task was equal
to his strength. In one place a line of steers stood belly deep in the
mire, waiting the command to plow forward.

Broken carts, abandoned vehicles of various patterns, lined the way;
there were many swollen carcasses underfoot, and not infrequently
pedestrians crossed mud-holes by stepping from one to another, holding
their breaths and battling through swarms of flies. Much costly
impedimenta strewed the roadside--each article a milestone of despair,
a monument to failure. There were stoves, camp furniture, lumber,
hardware, boat fittings. The wreckage and the wastage of the stampede
were enormous, and every ounce, every dollar's worth of it, spoke
mutely of blasted hopes. Now and then one saw piles of provisions, some
of which had been entirely abandoned. The rains had ruined most of them.

When the Countess came to her freight she paused. "You said Royal was
loading his men when you left?" She faced Broad inquiringly.

"Right!"

"Then he'll soon be along. We'll wait here." Of Phillips she asked, "Do
you carry a gun?"

Pierce shook his head. "What are you going to do?" He could see that
she was boiling inwardly, and although his own anger had increased at
every moment during the return journey, her question caused him genuine
apprehension.

Avoiding a direct answer, the woman said: "If Royal is with the
Indians, you keep your eye on him. I want to talk to them."

"Don't inaugurate any violent measures," Mr. Broad cautioned,
nervously. "Danny's a sudden sort of a murderer. Of course, if worse
comes to worst, I'll stick, but--my rating in the community ain't A 1.
There's a lot of narrow-minded church members would like to baptize me
at high tide. As if that would get their money back!"

A suggestion of a smile crept to the Countess' lips and she said, "I
knew you'd stick when I hired you." Then she seated herself upon a box.

Danny Royal did accompany his packers. He did so as a precaution
against precisely such a coup as he himself had engineered, and in
order to be doubly secure he brought the head Indian with him. The old
tribesman had rebelled mildly, but Royal had been firm, and in
consequence they were the first two to appear when the procession came
out of the woods.

The chief halted at sight of Phillips, the man who had hired him and
his people, but at a word from Royal he resumed his march. He averted
his eyes, however, and he held his head low, showing that this
encounter was not at all to his liking. Royal, on the contrary, carried
off the meeting easily. He grinned at Lucky Broad and was about to pass
on when the Countess Courteau rose to her feet and stepped into the
trail.

"Just a minute!" she said. Of Royal's companion she sternly demanded,
"What do you mean by this trick?"

The old redskin shot her a swift glance; then his face became
expressionless and he gazed stolidly at the river.

"What do you mean?" the woman repeated, in a voice quivering with fury.

"Him people--" the chief began, but Royal spoke for him. Removing his
hat, he made a stiff little bow, then said, courteously enough:

"I'm sorry to hold you up, ma'am, but--"

"You're not holding me up; I'm holding you up," the woman broke in.
"What do you take me for, anyhow?" She stared at the white man so
coldly, there was such authority and such fixity of purpose in her tone
and her expression, that his manner changed.

"I'm on orders," said he. "There's no use to argue. I'd talk plainer to
you if you was a man."

But she had turned her eyes to the chief again. "You lying scoundrel!"
she cried, accusingly. "I made a straight deal with you and your people
and I agreed to your price. I'm not going to let you throw me down!"

The wooden-faced object of her attack became inexplicably stupid; he
strove for words. "Me no speak good," he muttered. "Me no savvy--"

"Perhaps you'll savvy this." As the Countess spoke she took from her
pocket a short-barreled revolver, which she cocked and presented in a
capable and determined manner so close to the old native's face that he
staggered backward, fending off the attack. The woman followed him.

"Look here!" Danny Royal exploded. He made a movement with his right
hand, but Pierce Phillips and Lucky Broad stepped close to him. The
former said, shortly:

"If you make a move I'll brain you!"

"That's me," seconded Mr. Broad. "Lift a finger, Danny, and we go to
the mat."

Royal regarded the two men searchingly. "D'you think I'll let you
people stick me up?" he queried.

"You're stuck up!" the Countess declared, shortly. "Make sure of
this--I'm not bluffing. I'll shoot. Here--you!" she called to one of
the packers at the rear of the line who had turned and was making off.
"Get back where you were and stay there." She emphasized this command
with a wave of her weapon and the Indian obeyed with alacrity. "Now
then, Mr. Royal, not one pound of Sam Kirby's freight will these people
carry until mine is over the pass. I don't recognize you in this deal
in any way. I made a bargain with the chief and I'll settle it with
him. You keep out. If you don't, my men will attend to you."

It was surprising what a potent effect a firearm had upon the aged
shaman. His mask fell off and his knowledge of the English language was
magically refreshed. He began a perfectly intelligible protest against
the promiscuous display of loaded weapons, particularly in crowded
localities. He was a peaceful man, the head of a peaceful people, and
violence of any sort was contrary to his and their code. "This was no
way in which to settle a dispute--"

"You think not, eh? Well, it's my way," stormed the Countess. "I'll
drop the first man who tries to pass. If you think I won't, try me. Go
ahead, try me!" Mr. Royal undertook to say something more, but without
turning her head the woman told Phillips, "Knock him down if he opens
his mouth."

"WILL I?" Pierce edged closer to his man, and in his face there was a
hunger for combat which did not look promising to the object of his
attentions.

Lucky Broad likewise discouraged the ex-jockey by saying, "If you call
her hand, Danny, I'll bust you where you're biggest."

The Countess still held the muzzle of her revolver close to the chief's
body. Now she said, peremptorily: "You're going to end this joke right
now. Order their packs off, QUICK!"

This colloquy had been short, but, brief as the delay had been, it had
afforded time for newcomers to arrive. Amazed at the sight of a raging
woman holding an army of red men at bay, several "mushers" dropped
their burdens and came running forward to learn the meaning of it. The
Countess explained rapidly, whereupon one exclaimed:

"Go to it, sister!"

Another agreed heartily. "When you shoot, shoot low. We'll see you
through."

"I don't need any assistance," she told them. "They'll keep their
agreement or they'll lose their head man. Give the word, Chief."

The old redskin raised his voice in expostulation, but one of the
late-comers broke in upon him:

"Aw, shut up, you robber! You're gettin' what you need."

"I'm going to count three," the woman said, inflexibly. Her face had
grown very white; her eyes were shining dangerously. "At four I shoot.
One! Two--!"

The wrinkled Indian gave a sign; his tribesmen began to divest
themselves of their loads.

"Pile it all up beside the trail. Now get under my stuff and don't
let's have any more nonsense. The old price goes and I sha'n't raise it
a penny." Turning to Danny Royal, she told him: "You could have put
this over on a man, but women haven't any sense. I haven't a bit. Every
cent I own is tied up in this freight and it's going through on time. I
think a lot of it, and if you try to delay it again I'm just foolish
enough to blow a hole in this savage--and you, too. Yes, and a miners'
meeting would cheer me for doing it."

There was a silence; then Mr. Royal inquired: "Are you waiting for me
to speak? Well, all I've got to say is if the James boys had had a
sister they'd of been at work yet. I don't know how to tackle a woman."

"Are you going to keep hands off?"

"Sure! I'm licked. You went about it in the right way. You got me tied."

"I don't know whether you're lying or not. But just to make sure I'm
going to have Lucky walk back to town with you to see that you don't
get turned around."

Danny removed his hat and made a sweeping bow; then he departed in
company with his escort. The Indians took up those burdens which they
had originally shouldered, and the march to the Chilkoot was resumed.
Now, however, the Countess Courteau brought up the rear of the
procession and immediately in advance of her walked the head man of the
Dyea tribe.



CHAPTER VIII


It was a still, clear morning, but autumn was in the air and a pale sun
lacked the necessary heat to melt a skin of ice which, during the
night, had covered stagnant pools. The damp moss which carpets northern
forests was hoary with frost and it crackled underfoot. Winter was near
and its unmistakable approach could be plainly felt.

A saw-pit had been rigged upon a sloping hillside--it consisted of four
posts about six feet long upon which had been laid four stringers, like
the sills of a house; up to this scaffold led a pair of inclined skids.
Resting upon the stringers was a sizable spruce log which had been
squared and marked with parallel chalk-lines and into which a whip-saw
had eaten for several feet. Balanced upon this log was Tom Linton; in
the sawdust directly under him stood Jerry Quirk. Mr. Linton glared
downward, Mr. Quirk squinted fiercely upward. Mr. Linton showed his
teeth in an ugly grin and his voice was hoarse with fury; Mr. Quirk's
gray mustache bristled with rage, and anger had raised his
conversational tone to a high pitch. Both men were perspiring, both
were shaken to the core.

"DON'T SHOVE!" Mr. Quirk exclaimed, in shrill irritation. "How many
times d'you want me to tell you not to shove? You bend the infernal
thing."

"I never shoved," Linton said, thickly. "Maybe we'd do better if you'd
quit hanging your weight on those handles every time I lift. If you've
got to chin yourself, take a limb--or I'll build you a trapeze. You
pull down, then lemme lift--"

Mr. Quirk danced with fury. "Chin myself? Shucks! You're petered out,
that's what ails you. You 'ain't got the grit and you've throwed up
your tail. Lift her clean--don't try to saw goin' up, the teeth ain't
set that way. Lift, take a bite, then leggo. Lift, bite, leggo. Lift,
bite--"

"Don't say that again!" shouted Linton. "I'm a patient man, but--" He
swallowed hard, then with difficulty voiced a solemn, vibrant warning,
"Don't say it again, that's all!"

Defiance instantly flamed in Jerry's watery eyes. "I'll say it if I
want to!" he yelled. "I'll say anything I feel like sayin'! Some folks
can't understand English; some folks have got lignumvity heads and you
have to tell 'em--"

"You couldn't tell me anything!"

"Sure! That's just the trouble with you--NOBODY can tell you anything!"

"I whip-sawed before you was born!"

Astonishment momentarily robbed Mr. Quirk of speech, then he broke out
more indignantly than ever. "Why, you lyin' horse-thief, you never
heard of a whip-saw till we bought our outfit. You was for tying one
end to a limb and the other end to a root and then rubbin' the log up
and down it."

"I never meant that. I was fooling and you know it. That's just like
you, to--"

"Say, if you'd ever had holt of a whip-saw in all your useless life,
the man on the other end of it would have belted you with the handle
and buried you in the sawdust. I'd ought to, but I 'ain't got the
heart!" The speaker spat on his hands and in a calmer, more
business-like tone said: "Well, come on. Let's go. This is our last
board."

Tom Linton checked an insulting remark that had just occurred to him.
It had nothing whatever to do with the subject under dispute, but it
would have goaded Jerry to insanity, therefore it clamored for
expression and the temptation to hurl it forth was almost irresistible.
Linton, however, prided himself upon his self-restraint, and
accordingly he swallowed his words. He clicked his teeth, he gritted
them--he would have enjoyed sinking them into his partner's throat, as
a matter of fact--then he growled, "Let her whiz!"

In unison the men resumed their interrupted labors; slowly,
rhythmically, their arms moved up and down, monotonously their aching
backs bent and straightened, inch by inch the saw blade ate along the
penciled line. It was killing work, for it called into play unused,
under-developed muscles, yes, muscles which did not and never would or
could exist. Each time Linton lifted the saw it grew heavier by the
fraction of a pound. Whenever Quirk looked up to note progress his eyes
were filled with stinging particles of sawdust. His was a tearful job:
sawdust was in his hair, his beard, it had sifted down inside his
neckband and it itched his moist body. It had worked into his
underclothes and he could not escape it even at night in his bed. He
had of late acquired the habit of repeating over and over, with a
pertinacity intensely irritating to his partner, that he could taste
sawdust in his food--a statement manifestly false and well calculated
to offend a camp cook.

After they had sawed for a while Jerry cried: "Hey! She's runnin' out
again." He accompanied this remark by an abrupt cessation of effort. As
a result the saw stopped in its downward course and Tom's chin came
into violent contact with the upper handle.

The man above uttered a cry of pain and fury; he clapped a hand to his
face as if to catch and save his teeth.

Jerry giggled with a shameless lack of feeling. "Spit 'em out," he
cackled. "They ain't no more good to you than a mouthful of popcorn."
He was not really amused at his partner's mishap; on the contrary, he
was more than a little concerned by it, but fatigue had rendered him
absurdly hysterical, and the constant friction of mental, spiritual,
and physical contact with Tom had fretted his soul as that sawdust
inside his clothes had fretted his body. "He, he! Ho, ho!" he chortled.
"You don't shove. Oh no! All the same, whenever I stop pullin' you butt
your brains out."

"I didn't shove!" The ferocity of this denial was modified and muffled
by reason of the fact that a greater part of the speaker's hand was
inside his mouth and his fingers were taking stock of its contents.

"All right, you didn't shove. Have it your own way. I said she was
runnin' out again. We ain't cuttin' wedges, we're cuttin' boat-seats."

"Well, why don't you pull straight? I can't follow a line with you
skinning the cat on your end."

"My fault again, eh?" Mr. Quirk showed the whites of his eyes and his
face grew purple. "Lemme tell you something, Tom. I've studied you,
careful, as man and boy, for a matter of thirty years, but I never seen
you in all your hideousness till this trip. I got you now, though; I
got you all added up and subtracted and I'll tell you the answer. It's
my opinion, backed by figgers, that you're a dam'--" He hesitated, then
with a herculean effort he managed to gulp the remainder of his
sentence. In a changed voice he said: "Oh, what's the use? I s'pose
you've got feelin's. Come on, let's get through."

Linton peered down over the edge of the log. "It's your opinion I'm a
what?" he inquired, with vicious calmness.

"Nothing. It's no use to tell you. Now then, lift, bite, leg--Why don't
you lift?"

"I AM lifting. Leggo your end!" Mr. Linton tugged violently, but the
saw came up slowly. It rose and fell several times, but with the same
feeling of dead weight attached to it. Tom wiped the sweat out of his
eyes and once again in a stormy voice he addressed his partner: "If you
don't get off them handles I'll take a stick and knock you off. What
you grinnin' at?"

"Why, she's stuck, that's all. Drive your wedge--" Jerry's words ended
in an agonized yelp; he began to paw blindly. "You did that a-purpose."

"Did what?"

"Kicked sawdust in my eyes. I saw you!"

Mr. Linton's voice when he spoke held that same sinister note of
restrained ferocity which had characterized it heretofore. "When I
start kicking I won't kick sawdust into your eyes! I'll kick your eyes
into that sawdust. That's what I'll do. I'll stomp 'em out like a pair
of grapes."

"You try it! You try anything with me," Jerry chattered, in a simian
frenzy. "You've got a bad reputation at home; you're a malo hombre--a
side-winder, you are, and your bite is certain death. That's what they
say. Well, ever see a Mexican hog eat a rattler? That's me--wild hog!"

"'Wild hog.' What's wild about you?" sneered the other. "You picked the
right animal but the wrong variety. Any kind of a hog makes a bad
partner."

For a time the work proceeded in silence, then the latter speaker
resumed: "You said I was a dam' something or other. What was it?" The
object of this inquiry maintained an offensive, nay an insulting,
silence. "A what?" Linton persisted.

Quirk looked up through his mask of sawdust. "If you're gettin' tired
again why don't you say so? I'll wait while you rest." He opened his
eyes in apparent astonishment, then he cried: "Hello! Why, it's
rainin'."

"It ain't raining," Tom declared.

"Must be--your face is wet." Once more the speaker cackled shrilly in a
manner intended to be mirthful, but which was in reality insulting
beyond human endurance. "I never saw moisture on your brow, Tom, except
when it rained or when you set too close to a fire."

"What was it you wanted to call me and was scared to?" Mr. Linton
urged, venomously. "A dam' what?"

"Oh, I forget the precise epithet I had in mind. But a new one rises to
my lips 'most every minute. I think I aimed to call you a dam' old
fool. Something like that."

Slowly, carefully, Mr. Linton descended from the scaffold, leaving the
whip-saw in its place. He was shaking with rage, with weakness, and
with fatigue.

"'Old'? ME old? I'm a fool, I admit, or I wouldn't have lugged your
loads and done your work the way I have. But, you see, I'm strong and
vigorous and I felt sorry for a tottering wreck like you--"

"'Lugged MY loads'?" snorted the smaller man. "ME a wreck? My Gawd!"

"--I did your packing and your washing and your cooking, and mine, too,
just because you was feeble and because I've got consideration for my
seniors. I was raised that way. I honored your age, Jerry. I knew you
was about all in, but I never CALLED you old. I wouldn't hurt your
feelings. What did you do? You set around on your bony hips and
criticized and picked at me. But you've picked my last feather off and
I'm plumb raw. Right here we split!"

Jerry Quirk staggered slightly and leaned against a post for support.
His knees were wobbly; he, too, ached in every bone and muscle; he,
too, had been goaded into an insane temper, but that which maddened him
beyond expression was this unwarranted charge of incompetency.

"Split it is," he agreed. "That'll take a load off my shoulders."

"We'll cut our grub fifty-fifty, then I'll hit you a clout with the
traces and turn you a-loose."

Jerry was still dazed, for his world had come to an end, but he
pretended to an extravagant joy and managed to chirp: "Good news--the
first I've had since we went pardners. I'll sure kick up my heels.
What'll we do with the boat?"

"Cut her in two."

"Right. We'll toss up for ends. We'll divide everything the same way,
down to the skillet."

"Every blame' thing," Linton agreed.

Side by side they set off heavily through the woods.

Quarrels similar to this were of daily occurrence on the trail, but
especially common were they here at Linderman, for of all the devices
of the devil the one most trying to human patience is a whip-saw. It is
a saying in the North that to know a man one must eat a sack of flour
with him; it is also generally recognized that a partnership which
survives the vexations of a saw-pit is time and weather proof--a
predestined union more sacred and more perfect even than that of
matrimony. Few indeed have stood the test.

It was in this loosening of sentimental ties, in the breach of
friendships and the birth of bitter enmities, where lay the deepest
tragedy of the Chilkoot and the Chilkat trails. Under ordinary, normal
circumstances men of opposite temperaments may live with each other in
harmony and die in mutual accord, but circumstances here were
extraordinary, abnormal. Hardship, monotony, fatigue score the very
soul; constant close association renders men absurdly petulant and
childishly quarrelsome. Many are the heartaches charged against those
early days and those early trails.

Of course there was much less internal friction in outfits like Kirby's
or the Countess Courteau's, where the men worked under orders, but even
there relations were often strained. Both Danny Royal and Pierce
Phillips had had their troubles, their problems--nobody could escape
them--but I on the whole they had held their men together pretty well
and had made fast progress, all things considered. Royal had experience
to draw upon, while Phillips had none; nevertheless, the Countess was a
good counselor and this brief training in authority was of extreme
value to the younger man, who developed some of the qualities of
leadership. As a result of their frequent conferences a frank, free
intimacy had sprung up between Pierce and his employer, an intimacy
both gratifying and disappointing to him. Just how it affected the
woman he could not tell. As a matter of fact he made little effort to
learn, being for the moment too deeply concerned in the great change
that had come over him.

Pierce Phillips made no effort to deceive himself: he was in love, yes,
desperately in love, and his infatuation grew with every hour. It was
his first serious affair and quite naturally its newness took his
breath. He had heard of puppy love and he scorned it, but this was not
that kind, he told himself; his was an epic adoration, a full-grown,
deathless man's affection such as comes to none but the favored of the
gods and then but once in a lifetime. The reason was patent--it lay in
the fact that the object of his soul-consuming worship was not an
ordinary woman. No, the Countess was cast in heroic mold and she
inspired love of a character to match her individuality; she was one of
those rare, flaming creatures the like of whom illuminate the pages of
history. She was another Cleopatra, a regal, matchless creature.

To be sure, she was not at all the sort of woman he had expected to
love, therefore he loved her the more; nor was she the sort he had
chosen as his ideal. But it is this abandonment of old ideals and
acceptance of new ones which marks development, which signalizes
youth's evolution into maturity. She was a never-ending surprise to
Pierce, and the fact that she remained a well of mystery, an unsounded
deep that defied his attempts at exploration, excited his imagination
and led him to clothe her with every admirable trait, in no few of
which she was, of course, entirely lacking.

He was very boyish about this love of his. Lacking confidence to make
known his feelings, he undertook to conceal them and believed he had
succeeded. No doubt he had, so far as the men in his party were
concerned--they were far too busy to give thought to affairs other than
their own--but the woman had marked his very first surrender and now
read him like an open page, from day to day. His blind, unreasoning
loyalty, his complete acquiescence to her desires, his extravagant joy
in doing her will, would have told her the truth even without the aid
of those numerous little things which every woman understands. Now,
oddly enough, the effect upon her was only a little less disturbing
than upon him, for this first boy-love was a thing which no good woman
could have treated lightly: its simplicity, its purity, its
unselfishness were different to anything she had known--so different,
for instance, to that affection which Count Courteau had bestowed upon
her as to seem almost sacred--therefore she watched its growth with
gratification not unmixed with apprehension. It was flattering and yet
it gave her cause for some uneasiness.

As a matter of fact, Phillips was boyish only in this one regard; in
other things he was very much of a man--more of a man than any one the
Countess had met in a long time--and she derived unusual satisfaction
from the mere privilege of depending upon him. This pleasure was so
keen at times that she allowed her thoughts to take strange shape, and
was stirred by yearnings, by impulses, by foolish fancies that reminded
her of her girlhood days.

The boat-building had proceeded with such despatch thanks largely to
Phillips, that the time for departure was close at hand, and inasmuch
as there still remained a reasonable margin of safety the Countess
began to feel the first certainty of success. While she was not
disposed to quarrel with such a happy state of affairs, nevertheless
one thing continued to bother her: she could not understand why
interference had failed to come from the Kirby crowd. She had expected
it, for Sam Kirby had the name of being a hard, conscienceless man, and
Danny Royal had given proof that he was not above resorting to
desperate means to gain time. Why, therefore, they had made no effort
to hire her men away from her, especially as men were almost
unobtainable here at Linderman, was something that baffled her. She had
learned by bitter experience to put trust in no man, and this, coupled
perhaps with the natural suspicion of her sex, combined to excite her
liveliest curiosity and her deepest concern; she could not overcome the
fear that this unspoken truce concealed some sinister design.

Feeling, this afternoon, a strong desire to see with her own eyes just
what progress her rivals were making, she called Pierce away from his
work and took him with her around the shore of the lake.

"Our last boat will be in the water to-morrow," he told her. "Kirby
can't hold us up now, if he tries."

"I don't know," she said, doubtfully. "He is as short-handed as we are.
I can't understand why he has left us alone so long."

Phillips laughed. "He probably knows it isn't safe to trifle with you."

The Countess shook her head. "I couldn't bluff him. He wouldn't care
whether I'm a woman or not."

"Were you bluffing when you held up Royal? I didn't think so."

"I don't think so, either. There's no telling what I might have done--I
have a furious temper."

"That's nothing to apologize for," the young man declared, warmly.
"It's a sign of character, force. I hope I never have reason to feel
it."

"You? How absurd! You've been perfectly dear. You couldn't be
otherwise."

"Do you think so, really? I'm awfully glad."

The Countess was impelled to answer this boy's eagerness by telling him
frankly just how well she thought of him, just how grateful she was for
all that he had done, but she restrained herself.

"All the fellows have been splendid, especially those two gamblers,"
she said, coolly. After a moment she continued: "Don't stop when we get
to Kirby's camp. I don't want him to think we're curious."

Neither father nor daughter was in evidence when the visitors arrived
at their destination, but Danny Royal was superintending the final work
upon a stout scow the seams of which were being calked and daubed with
tar. Mast and sweeps were being rigged; Royal himself was painting a
name on the stern.

At sight of the Countess the ex-horseman dropped his brush and thrust
his hands aloft, exclaiming, "Don't shoot, ma'am!" His grin was
friendly; there was no rancor in his voice. "How you gettin' along down
at your house?" he inquired.

"Very well," the Countess told him.

"We'll get loaded to-morrow," said Pierce.

"Same here," Royal advised. "Better come to the launching. Ain't she a
bear?" He gazed fondly at the bluff-bowed, ungainly barge. "I'm goin'
to bust a bottle of wine on her nose when she wets her feet. First
rainy-weather hack we ever had in the family. Her name's Rouletta."

"I hope she has a safe voyage."

Royal eyed the speaker meditatively. "This trip has got my goat," he
acknowledged. "Water's all right when it's cracked up and put in a
glass, but--it ain't meant to build roads with. I've heard a lot about
this canon and them White Horse Rapids. Are they bad?" When the
Countess nodded, his weazened face darkened visibly. "Gimme a horse and
I'm all right, but water scares me. Well, the Rouletta's good and
strong and I'm goin' to christen her with a bottle of real champagne.
If there's anything in good liquor and a good name she'll be a lucky
ship."

When they were out of hearing the Countess Courteau repeated: "I don't
understand it. They could have gained a week."

"We could, too, if we'd built one scow instead of those small boats,"
Pierce declared.

"Kirby is used to taking chances; he can risk all his eggs in one
basket if he wants to, but--not I." A moment later the speaker paused
to stare at a curious sight. On the beach ahead of her stood a
brand-new rowboat ready for launching. Near it was assembled an outfit
of gear and provisions, divided into two equal piles. Two old men,
armed each with a hand-saw, were silently at work upon the skiff. They
were sawing it in two, exactly in the middle, and they did not look up
until the Countess greeted them.

"Hello! Changing the model of your boat?" she inquired.

The partners straightened themselves stiffly and removed their caps.

"Yep!" said Quirk, avoiding his partner's eyes.

"Changing her model," Mr. Linton agreed, with a hangdog expression.

"But--why? What for?"

"We've split," Mr. Quirk explained. Then he heaved a sigh. "It's made a
new man of me a'ready."

"My end will look all right when I get her boarded up," Linton
vouchsafed, "but Old Jerry drew the hind quarters." His shoulders
heaved in silent amusement.

"'Old' Jerry!" snapped the smaller man. "Where'd you get the 'old' at?
I've acted like a feeble-minded idiot, I'll admit--bein' imposed on so
regular--but that's over and I'm breathin' free. Wait till you shove
off in that front end; it 'ain't got the beam and you'll upset. Ha!" He
uttered a malicious bark. "You'll drownd!" Mr. Quirk turned indignant
eyes upon the visitors. "The idea of HIM callin' ME 'old.' Can you beat
that?"

"Maybe I will drown," Linton agreed, "but drowning ain't so bad. It's
better than being picked and pecked to death by a blunt-billed buzzard.
I'd look on it as a kind of relief. Anyhow, you won't be there to see
it; you'll be dead of rheumatism. I've got the tent."

"Huh! The stove's mine. I'll make out."

"Have you men quarreled after all these years?" the Countess made bold
to inquire.

Jerry answered, and it was plain that all sentiment had been consumed
in the fires of his present wrath. "I don't quarrel with a dam' old
fool; I give him his way."

Linton's smoky eyes were blazing when he cried, furiously: "Cut that
'old' out, or I'll show you something. Your mind's gone--senile decay,
they call it--but I'll--"

Quirk flung down his saw and advanced belligerently around the hull of
the boat. He was bristling with the desire for combat.

"What'll you show me?" he shrilly challenged. "You're bigger than me,
but I'll cut you down: I'll--"

The Countess stepped between the two men, crying, impatiently:

"Don't be silly. You're worn out and irritable, both of you, and you're
acting like perfect idiots. You'll have everybody laughing at you."

Jerry diverted his fury to this intermediary. "Is that so?" he mocked.
"Well, let 'em laugh; it'll do 'em good. You're a nice woman, but this
ain't ladies' day at our club and we don't need no outside advice on
how to run our party."

"Oh, very well!" The Countess shrugged and turned away, motioning
Pierce to follow her. "Fight it out to suit yourselves."

Quirk muttered something about the insolence of strangers; then he
picked up his saw. In silence the work was resumed, and later, when the
boat had been divided, each man set about boarding up and calking the
open end of his respective half. Neither of them was expert in the use
of carpenter's tools, therefore it was supper-time before they
finished, and the result of their labor was nothing to be proud of.
Each now possessed a craft that would float, no doubt, but which in few
other respects resembled a boat; Linton's was a slim, square-ended
wedge, while Quirk's was a blunt barge, fashioned on the lines of a
watering-trough. They eyed the freaks with some dismay, but neither
voiced the slightest regret nor acknowledged anything but supreme
satisfaction.

Without a word they gathered up their tools and separated to prepare
their evening meals. Linton entered his tent, now empty, cold, and
cheerless; Quirk set up his stove in the open and rigged a clumsy
shelter out of a small tarpaulin. Under this he spread his share of the
bedding. Engaged in this, he realized that his two blankets promised to
be woefully inadequate to the weather and he cocked an apprehensive eye
heavenward. What he saw did not reassure him, for the evening sky was
overcast and a cold, fitful wind blew from off the lake. There was no
doubt about it, it looked like rain--or snow--perhaps a combination of
both. Mr. Quirk felt a shiver of dread run through him, and his heart
sank at the prospect of many nights like this to come. He derived some
scanty comfort from the sight of old Tom puttering wearily around a
camp-fire, the smoke from which followed him persistently, bringing
tears to his smarting eyes and strangling complaints from his lungs.

"He's tryin' to burn green wood," Jerry said, aloud, "the old fool!"

A similar epithet was upon his former partner's tongue. Linton was
saying to himself, "Old Jerry's enjoying life now, but wait till his
fire goes out and it starts to rain."

He chuckled maliciously and then rehearsed a speech of curt refusal for
use when Quirk came to the tent and begged shelter from the weather.
There would be nothing doing, Tom made up his mind to that; he tried
several insults under his breath, then he offered up a vindictive
prayer for rain, hail, sleet, and snow. A howling Dakota blizzard, he
decided, would exactly suit him. He was a bit rusty on prayers, but
whatever his appeal may have lacked in polish it made up in
earnestness, for never did petition carry aloft a greater weight of
yearning than did his.

Tom fried his bacon in a stewpan, for the skillet had been divided with
a cold chisel and neither half was of the slightest use to anybody.
After he had eaten his pilot-bread, after he had drunk his cup of
bitter tea and crept into bed, he was prompted to amend his prayer, for
he discovered that two blankers were not going to be enough for him.
Even the satisfaction of knowing that Jerry must feel the want even
more keenly than did he failed to warm him sufficiently for thorough
comfort. Tom was tired enough to swoon, but he refused to close his
eyes before the rain came--what purpose was served by retributive
justice unless a fellow stayed on the job to enjoy it?

Truth to say, this self-denial cost him little, for the night had
brought a chill with it and the tent was damp. Linton became aware, ere
long, that he couldn't go to sleep, no matter how he tried, so he rose
and put on extra clothes. But even then he shivered, and thereafter, of
course, his blankets served no purpose whatever. He and Old Jerry were
accustomed to sleeping spoon fashion, and not only did Tom miss those
other blankets, but also his ex-partner's bodily heat. He would have
risen and rekindled his camp-fire had it not been for his reluctance to
afford Quirk the gratification of knowing that he was uncomfortable.
Some people were just malicious enough to enjoy a man's sufferings.

Well, if he were cold here in this snug shelter, Jerry must be about
frozen under his flapping fly. Probably the old fool was too stubborn
to whimper; no doubt he'd pretend to be enjoying himself, and would die
sooner than acknowledge himself in the wrong. Jerry had courage, that
way, but--this would serve him right, this would cure him. Linton was
not a little disappointed when the rain continued to hold off.



CHAPTER IX


The change in the weather had not escaped Pierce Phillips' notice, and
before going to bed he stepped out of his tent to study the sky. It was
threatening. Recalling extravagant stories of the violence attained by
storms in this mountain-lake country, he decided to make sure that his
boats and cargo were out of reach of any possible danger, and so walked
down to the shore.

A boisterous wind had roused Lake Linderman, and out of the inky
blackness came the sound of its anger. As Pierce groped his way up to
the nearest skiff he was startled by receiving a sharp challenge in the
Countess Courteau's voice.

"Who is that?" she cried.

"It's I, Pierce," he answered, quickly. He discovered the woman
finally, and, approaching closer, he saw that she was sitting on a pile
of freight, her heels drawn up beneath her and her arms clasped around
her knees. "I came down to make sure everything was snug. But what are
you doing here?"

She looked down into his upturned face and her white teeth showed in a
smile. "I came for the same purpose. Now I'm waiting for the storm to
break. You can make out the clouds when your eyes grow accustomed--"

"It's too windy. You'll catch cold," he declared.

"Oh, I'm warm, and I love storms!" She stared out into the night, then
added, "I'm a stormy creature."

Again he urged her to return to her tent, and in his voice was such
genuine concern that she laid her hand upon his shoulder. It was a
warm, impulsive gesture and it betrayed a grateful appreciation of his
solicitude; it was the first familiarity she had ever permitted herself
to indulge in, and when she spoke it was in an unusually intimate tone:

"You're a good friend, Pierce. I don't know what I'd do without you."

Phillips' surprise robbed him momentarily of speech. This woman
possessed a hundred moods; a few hours before she had treated him with
a cool indifference that was almost studied; now, without apparent
reason, she had turned almost affectionate. Perhaps it was the night,
or the solitude, that drew them together; whatever the reason, those
first few words, that one impulsive gesture, assured Pierce that they
were very close to each other, for the moment at least.

"I'm--glad," he said, finally. "I wish I were more--I wish--"

"What?" she queried, when he hesitated.

"I wish you COULDN'T do without me." It was out; he realized in a panic
that his whole secret was hers. With no faintest intention of speaking,
even of hinting at the truth, he had blurted forth a full confession.
She had caught him off guard, and, like a perfect ass, he had betrayed
himself. What would she think? How would she take his audacity, his
presumption? He was surprised to feel her fingers tighten briefly
before her hand was withdrawn.

The Countess Courteau was not offended. Had it not been for that
pressure upon his shoulder Phillips would have believed that his words
had gone unheard, for she entirely ignored them.

"Night! Wind! Storm!" she said, in a queer, meditative tone. "They stir
the blood, don't they? Not yours, perhaps, but mine. I was always
restless. You see, I was born on the ocean--on the way over here. My
father was a sailor; he was a stormy-weather man. At a time like this
everything in me quickens, I'm aware of impulses I never feel at other
times--desires I daren't yield to. It was on a stormy night that the
Count proposed to me." She laughed shortly, bitterly. "I believed him.
I'd believe anything--I'd do, I'd dare anything--when the winds are
reckless." She turned abruptly to her listener and it seemed to him
that her eyes were strangely luminous. "Have you ever felt that way?"

He shook his head.

"Lucky for you; it would be a man's undoing. Tell me, what am I? What
do you make of me?" While the young man felt for an answer she ran on:
"I'd like to know. What sort of woman do you consider me? How have I
impressed you? Speak plainly--no sentiment. You're a clean-minded,
unsophisticated boy. I'm curious to hear--"

"I can't speak like a boy," he said, gravely, but with more than a hint
of resentment in his tone, "for--I'm not a boy. Not any longer."

"Oh yes, you are! You're fresh and wholesome and honorable and-- Well,
only boys are that. What do I seem, to you?"

"You're a chameleon. There's nobody in the world quite like you. Why,
at this minute you're different even to yourself. You--take my breath--"

"Do you consider me harsh, masculine--?"

"Oh no!"

"I'm glad of that. I'm not, really. I've had a hard experience and my
eyes were opened early. I know poverty, disappointment, misery,
everything unpleasant, but I'm smart and I know how to get ahead. I've
never stood still. I've learned how to fight, too, for I've had to make
my own way. Why, Pierce, you're the one man who ever did me an
unselfish favor or a real, disinterested courtesy. Do you wonder that I
want to know what kind of a creature you consider me?"

"Perhaps I'm not altogether unselfish," he told her, sullenly.

The Countess did not heed this remark; she did not seem to read the
least significance into it. Her chin was upon her knees, her face was
turned again to the darkness whence came the rising voice of stormy
waters. The wind whipped a strand of her hair into Phillips' face.

"It is hard work fighting men--and women, too--and I'm awfully tired.
Tired inside, you understand. One gets tired fighting alone--always
alone. One has dreams of--well, dreams. It's a pity they never come
true."

"What are some of them?" he inquired.

The woman, still under the spell of her hour, made as if to answer;
then she stirred and raised her head. "This isn't a safe night to talk
about them. I think I shall go to bed." She extended her hand to
Phillips, but instead of taking it he reached forth and lifted her
bodily down out of the wind. She gasped as she felt his strong hands
under her arms; for a moment her face brushed his and her fragrant
breath was warm against his cheek. Philips lowered her gently, slowly,
until her feet were on the ground, but even then his grasp lingered and
he held her close to him.

They stood breast to breast for a moment and Pierce saw that in this
woman's expression was neither fear nor resentment, but some strange
emotion new-born of the night--an emotion which his act had started
into life and which as yet she did not fully understand. Her eyes were
wide and wondering; they remained fixed upon his, and that very fixity
suggested a meaning so surprising, so significant, that he felt the
world spin dizzily under him. She was astonished, yet expectant; she
was stunned but ready. He experienced a fierce desire to hold her
closer, closer, to crush her in his arms, and although she resisted
faintly, unconsciously she yielded; her inner being answered his
without reserve. She did not turn her face away when his came closer,
even when his lips covered hers.

After a long moment she surrendered wholly, she snuggled closer and
bowed her head upon his shoulder. Her cheek against his was very cold
from the wind and Pierce discovered that it was wet with tears.

"It has been a long fight," she sighed, in a voice that he could
scarcely hear. "I didn't know how tired I was."

Phillips groped for words, but he could find nothing to say, his
ordered thoughts having fled before this sudden gust of ardor as leaves
are whirled away before a tempest. All he knew was that in his arms lay
a woman he had knelt to, a worshipful goddess of snow and gold before
whom he had abased himself, but who had turned to flesh at his first
touch.

He kissed her again and again, warmly, tenderly, and yet with a
ruthless fervor that grew after each caress, and she submitted
passively, the while those tears stole down her cheeks. In reality she
was neither passive nor passionless, for her body quivered and Phillips
knew that his touch had set her afire; but rather she seemed to be
exhausted and at the same time enthralled as by some dream from which
she was loath to rouse herself.

After a while her hand rose to his face and stroked it softly, then she
drew herself away from him and with a wan smile upon her lips said:

"The wind has made a fool of me."

"No, no!" he cried, forcefully. "You asked me what I think of
you--Well, now you know."

Still smiling, she shook her head slowly, then she told him, "Come! I
hear the rain."

"But I want to talk to you. I have so much to say--"

"What is there to talk about to-night? Hark!" They could feel, rather
than hear, the first warnings of the coming downpour, so hand in hand
they walked up the gravelly beach and into the fringe of the forest
where glowed the dull illumination from lamplit canvas walls. When they
paused before the Countess' tent Pierce once more enfolded her in his
arms and sheltered her from the boisterous breath of the night. His
emotions were in a similar tumult, but as yet he could not voice them,
he could merely stammer:

"You have never told me your name."

"Hilda."

"May I--call you that?"

She nodded. "Yes--when we are alone. Hilda Halberg, that was my name."

"Hilda! Hilda--Phillips." Pierce tried the sound curiously. The
Countess drew back abruptly, with a shiver; then, in answer to his
quick concern, said:

"I--I think I'm cold."

He undertook to clasp her closer, but she held him off, murmuring:

"Let it be Hilda Halberg for to-night. Let's not think of--Let's not
think at all. Hilda--bride of the storm. There's a tempest in my blood,
and who can think with a tempest raging?"

She raised her face and kissed him upon the lips, then, disengaging
herself once more from his hungry arms, she stepped inside her shelter.
The last he saw of her was her luminous smile framed against the black
background; then she let the tent-fly fall.

As Phillips turned away big raindrops began to drum upon the near-by
tent roofs, the spruce-tops overhead bent low, limbs threshed as the
gusty night wind beat upon them. But he heard none of it, felt none of
it, for in his ears rang the music of the spheres and on his face
lingered the warmth of a woman's lips, the first love kiss that he had
ever known.

Tom Linton roused himself from a chilly doze to find that the rain had
come at last. It was a roaring night; his tent was bellied in by the
force of the wind, and the raindrops beat upon it with the force of
buckshot. Through the entrance slit, through the open stovepipe hole,
the gale poured, bringing dampness with it and rendering the interior
as draughty as a corn-crib. Rolling himself more tightly in his
blankets, Linton addressed the darkness through chattering teeth.

"Darned old fool! This'll teach him!" He strained his ears for sounds
of Jerry, but could hear nothing above the slatting of wet canvas, the
tattoo of drops, and the roar of wind in the tree-tops. After the first
violence of the squall had passed he fancied he could hear his former
partner stirring, so he arose and peered out into the night. At first
he could see nothing, but in time he dimly made out Jerry struggling
with his tarpaulin. Evidently the fly had blown down, or up, and its
owner was restretching it. Linton grinned. That would drench the old
dodo to the skin and he'd soon be around, begging shelter.

"But I won't let him in, not if he drowns," Tom muttered, harshly. He
recalled one of Jerry's gibes at the saw-pit, a particularly unfeeling,
nay, a downright venomous insult which had rankled steadily ever since.
His former friend had seen fit to ridicule honest perspiration and to
pretend to mistake it for raindrops. That remark had been utterly
uncalled for and it had betrayed a wanton malice, a malevolent desire
to wound; well, here was a chance to even the score. When Jerry came
dripping to the tent door, Tom decided he would poke his head out into
the deluge and then cry in evident astonishment: "Why, Jerry, you've
been working, haven't you? You're all sweaty!" Mr. Linton giggled out
loud. That would be a refinement of sarcasm; that would be a get-back
of the finest. If Jerry insisted upon coming in out of the wet he'd
tell him gruffly to get out of there and try the lake for a change.

But Mr. Quirk made no move in the direction of the tent; instead he
built a fire in his stove and crouched over it, endeavoring vainly to
shelter himself from the driving rain. Linton watched him with mingled
impatience and resentment. Would the old fool never get enough? Jerry
was the most unreasonable, the most tantalizing person in the world.

After a time Mr. Linton found that his teeth were chattering and that
his frame had been smitten as by an ague; reluctantly he crept back
into bed. He determined to buy, beg, borrow, or steal some more bedding
on the morrow--early on the morrow in order to forestall Jerry. Jerry
would have to find a tent somewhere, and inasmuch as there were none to
be had here at Linderman, he would probably have to return to Dyea.
That would delay him seriously--enough, perhaps, so that the jaws of
winter would close down upon him. Through the drone of pattering drops
there came the faint sound of a cough. Mr. Linton sat up in bed.
"Pneumonia!" he exclaimed. Well, Jerry was getting exactly what he
deserved. He had called him, Tom, an "old fool," a "dam' old fool," to
be precise. The epithet in itself meant nothing--it was in fact a
fatuous and feeble term of abuse as compared to the opprobrious titles
which he and Jerry were in the habit of exchanging--it was that
abominable adjective which hurt. Jerry and he had called each other
many names at times, they had exchanged numerous gibes and insults, but
nothing like that hateful word "old" had ever passed between them until
this fatal morning. Jerry Quirk himself was old, the oldest man in the
world, perhaps, but Tom had exercised an admirable regard for his
partner's feelings and had never cast it up to him. Thus had his
consideration been repaid. However, the poor fellow's race was about
run, for he couldn't stand cold or exposure. Why, a wet foot sent him
to bed. How, then, could a rickety ruin of his antiquity withstand the
ravages of pneumonia--galloping pneumonia, at that?

Linton reflected that common decency would demand that he wait over a
day or two and help bury the old man--people would expect that much of
him. He'd do it. He'd speak kindly of the departed; he'd even erect a
cross and write an epitaph upon it--a kindly, lying epitaph extolling
the dead man's virtues, and omitting all mention of his faults.

Once more that hacking cough sounded, and the listener stirred
uneasily. Jerry had some virtues--a few of the common, elemental
sort--he was honest and he was brave, but, for that matter, so were
most people. Yes, the old scoundrel had nerve enough. Linton recalled a
certain day, long past, when he and Quirk had been sent out to round up
some cattle-rustlers. Being the youngest deputies in the sheriff's
office, the toughest jobs invariably fell to them. Those were the good,
glad days, Tom reflected. Jerry had made a reputation on that trip and
he had saved his companion's life--Linton flopped nervously in his bed
at the memory. Why think of days dead and gone? Jerry was an altogether
different man in those times. He neither criticized nor permitted
others to criticize his team-mate, and, so far as that particular
obligation went, Linton had repaid it with compound interest. If
anything, the debt now lay on Jerry's side.

Tom tried to close the book of memory and to consider nothing whatever
except the rankling present, but, now that his thoughts had begun to
run backward, he could not head them off. He wished Jerry wouldn't
cough; it was a distressing sound, and it disturbed his rest.
Nevertheless, that hollow, hacking complaint continued and finally the
listener arose, lit a lantern, put on a slicker and untied his tent
flaps.

Jerry's stove was sizzling in the partial shelter of the canvas sheet;
over it the owner crouched in an attitude of cheerless dejection.

"How you making out?" Tom inquired, gruffly. His voice was cold, his
manner was both repellent and hostile.

"Who, me?" Jerry peered up from under his glistening sou'wester. "Oh,
I'm doin' fine!"

Linton remained silent, ill at ease; water drained off his coat; his
lantern flared smokily in the wind. After a time he cleared his throat
and inquired:

"Wet?"

"Naw!"

There was a long pause, then the visitor inquired: "Are you lying?"

"Unh-hunh!"

Again silence claimed both men until Tom broke out, irritably: "Well,
you aim to set here all night?"

"Sure! I ain't sleepy. I don't mind a little mist and I'm plenty warm."
This cheerful assertion was belied by the miserable quaver in which it
was voiced.

"Why don't you-er-run over to my tent?" Linton gasped and swallowed
hard. The invitation was out, the damage was done. "There's lots of
room."

Mr. Quirk spared his caller's further feelings by betraying no triumph
whatever. Rather plaintively he declared: "I got ROOM enough here. It
ain't exactly room I need." Again he coughed.

"Here! Get a move on you, quick," Linton ordered, forcefully. "The idea
of you setting around hatching out a lungful of pneumonia bugs! Git!
I'll bring your bedding."

Mr. Quirk rose with alacrity. "Say! Let's take my stove over to your
tent and warm her up. I bet you're cold?"

"N-no! I'm comfortable enough." The speaker's teeth played an
accompaniment to this mendacious denial. "Of course I'm not sweating
any, but--I s'pose the stove would cheer things up, eh? Rotten night,
ain't it?"

"Worst I ever saw. Rotten country, for that matter."

"You said something," Mr. Linton chattered. He nodded his head with
vigor.

It was wet work moving Jerry's belongings, but the transfer was finally
effected, the stove was set up and a new fire started. This done, Tom
brought forth a bottle of whisky.

"Here," said he, "take a snifter. It'll do you good."

Jerry eyed the bottle with frank astonishment before he exclaimed:
"Why, I didn't know you was a drinkin' man. You been hidin' a secret
vice from me?"

"No. And I'm not a drinking man. I brought it along for--you.
I--er--that cough of yours used to worry me, so--"

"Pshaw! I cough easy. You know that."

"You take a jolt and"--Linton flushed with embarrassment--"and I'll
have one with you. I was lying just now; I'm colder 'n a frog's belly."

"Happy days," said Quirk, as he tipped the bottle.

"A long life and a wicked one!" Linton drank in his turn. "Now then,
get out of those cold compresses. Here's some dry underclothes--thick,
too. We'll double up those henskin blankets--for to-night--and I'll
keep the fire a-going. I'll cure that cough if I sweat you as white as
a washwoman's thumb."

"You'll do nothing of the sort," Jerry declared, as he removed his
sodden garments and hung them up. "You'll crawl right into bed with me
and we'll have a good sleep. You're near dead."

But Linton was by no means reassured; his tone was querulous when he
cried: "Why didn't you come in before you caught cold? S'pose you get
sick on me now? But you won't. I won't let you." In a panic of
apprehension he dug out his half of the contents of the medicine-kit
and began to paw through them. "Who got the cough syrup, Jerry; you or
me?" The speaker's voice broke miserably.

Mr. Quirk laid a trembling hand upon his ex-partner's shoulder; his
voice, too, was shaky when he said, "You're awful good to me, Tom."

The other shook off the grasp and undertook to read the labels on the
bottles, but they had become unaccountably blurred and there was a
painful lump in his throat. It seemed to him that Old Jerry's bare legs
looked pitifully thin and spidery and that his bony knees had a
rheumatic appearance.

"Hell! I treated you mighty mean," said he. "But I'most died when
you--began to cough. I thought sure--" Tom choked and shook his gray
head, then with the heel of his harsh palm he wiped a drop of moisture
from his cheek. "Look at me--cryin'!" He tried to laugh and failed.

Jerry, likewise, struggled with his tears.

"You--you dam' old fool!" he cried, affectionately.

Linton smiled with delight. "Give it to me," he urged. "Lam into me,
Jerry. I deserve it. Gosh! I was lonesome!"

A half-hour later the two friends were lying side by side in their bed
and the stove was glowing comfortably. They had ceased shivering. Old
Jerry had "spooned" up close to old Tom and his bodily heat was
grateful.

Linton eyed the fire with tender yearning. "That's a good stove you
got."

"She's a corker, ain't she?"

"I been thinking about trading you a half interest in my tent for a
half interest in her."

"The trade's made." There was a moment of silence. "What d'you say we
hook up together--sort of go pardners for a while? I got a long outfit
and a short boat. I'll put 'em in against yours. I bet we'd get along
all right. I'm onnery, but I got good points."

Mr. Linton smiled dreamily. "It's a go. I need a good partner."

"I'll buy a new fryin'-pan out of my money. Mine got split, somehow."

Tom chuckled. "You darned old fool!" said he.

Jerry heaved a long sigh and snuggled closer; soon he began to snore.
He snored in a low and confidential tone at first, but gradually the
sound increased in volume and rose in pitch.

Linton listened to it with a thrill, and he assured himself that he had
never heard music of such soul-satisfying sweetness as issued from the
nostrils of his new partner.



CHAPTER X


To the early Klondikers, Chilkoot Pass was a personality, a Presence at
once sinister, cruel, and forbidding. So, too, only in greater measure,
was Miles Canon. The Chilkoot toyed with men, it wore them out, it
stripped them of their strength and their manhood, it wrecked their
courage and it broke their hearts. The canon sucked them in and
swallowed them. This canon is nothing more nor less than a rift in a
great basaltic barrier which lies athwart the river's course, the
entrance to it being much like the door in a wall. Above it the waters
are dammed and into it they pour as into a flume; down it they rage in
swiftly increasing fury, for it is steeply pitched, and, although the
gorge itself is not long, immediately below it are other turbulent
stretches equally treacherous. It seems as if here, within the space of
some four miles, Nature had exhausted her ingenuity in inventing
terrors to frighten invaders, as if here she had combined every
possible peril of river travel. The result of her labors is a series of
cataclysms.

Immediately below Miles Canon itself are the Squaw Rapids, where the
torrent spills itself over a confusion of boulders, bursting into foam
and gyrating in dizzy whirlpools, its surface broken by explosions of
spray or pitted by devouring vortices resembling the oily mouths of
marine monsters. Below this, in turn, is the White Horse, worst of all.
Here the flood somersaults over a tremendous reef, flinging on high a
gleaming curtain of spray. These rapids are well named, for the tossing
waves resemble nothing more than runaway white horses with streaming
manes and tails.

These are by no means all the dangers that confronted the first Yukon
stampeders--there are other troublesome waters below--for instance,
Rink Rapids, where the river boils and bubbles like a kettle over an
open fire, and Five Fingers, so-called by reason of a row of knobby,
knuckled pinnacles that reach up like the stiff digits of a drowning
hand and split the stream into divergent channels--but those three,
Miles Canon, the Squaw, and White Horse, were the worst and together
they constituted a menace that tried the courage of the bravest men.

In the canon, where the waters are most narrowly constricted, they heap
themselves up into a longitudinal ridge or bore, a comb perhaps four
feet higher than the general level. To ride this crest and to avoid the
destroying fangs that lie in wait on either side is a feat that calls
for nerve and skill and endurance on the part of boatmen. The whole
four miles is a place of many voices, a thundering place that numbs the
senses and destroys all hearing. Its tumult is heard afar and it covers
the entire region like a blanket. The weight of that sound is
oppressive.

Winter was at the heels of the Courteau party when it arrived at this
point in its journey; it brought up the very tail of the autumn rush
and the ice was close behind. The Countess and her companions had the
uncomfortable feeling that they were inside the jaws of a trap which
might be sprung at any moment, for already the hills were dusted with
gray and white, creeks and rivulets were steadily dwindling and shelf
ice was forming on the larger streams, the skies were low and overcast
and there was a vicious tingle to the air. Delays had slowed them up,
as, for instance, at Windy Arm, where a gale had held them in camp for
several days; then, too, their boats were built of poorly seasoned
lumber and in consequence were in need of frequent attention.
Eventually, however, they came within hearing of a faint whisper, as of
wind among pine branches, then of a muffled murmur that grew to a
sullen diapason. The current quickened beneath them, the river-banks
closed in, and finally beetling cliffs arose, between which was a cleft
that swallowed the stream.

Just above the opening was a landing-place where boats lay gunwale to
gunwale, and here the Courteau skiffs were grounded. A number of
weather-beaten tents were stretched among the trees. Most of them were
the homes of pilots, but others were occupied by voyagers who preferred
to chance a winter's delay as the price of portaging their goods around
rather than risk their all upon one throw of fortune. The great
majority of the arrivals, however, were restowing their outfits,
lashing them down and covering them preparatory to a dash through the
shouting chasm. There was an atmosphere of excitement and apprehension
about the place; every face was strained and expectant; fear lurked in
many an eye.

On a tree near the landing were two placards. One bore a finger
pointing up the steep trail to the top of the ridge, and it was marked:

"This way--two weeks."

The other pointed down directly into the throat of the roaring gorge.
It read:

"This way--two minutes."

Pierce Phillips smiled as he perused these signs; then he turned up the
trail, for in his soul was a consuming curiosity to see the place of
which he had heard so much.

Near the top of the slope he met a familiar figure coming down--a tall,
upstanding French-Canadian who gazed out at the world through friendly
eyes.

'Poleon Doret recognized the new-comer and burst into a boisterous
greeting.

"Wal, wal!" he cried. "You 'ain't live' to be hung yet, eh? Now you
come lookin' for me, I bet."

"Yes. You're the very man I want to see."

"Good! I tak' you t'rough."

Phillips smiled frankly. "I'm not sure I want to go through. I'm in
charge of a big outfit and I'm looking for a pilot and a professional
crew. I'm a perfect dub at this sort of thing."

'Poleon nodded. "Dere's no use risk it if you 'ain't got to, dat's
fac'. I don' lost no boats yet, but--sometam's I bus' 'em up pretty
bad." He grinned cheerily. "Dese new-comer get scare' easy an' forget
to row, den dey say 'Poleon she's bum pilot. You seen de canon yet?"
When Pierce shook his head the speaker turned back and led the way out
to the rim.

It was an impressive spectacle that Phillips beheld. Perhaps a hundred
feet directly beneath him the river whirled and leaped; cross-currents
boiled out from projecting irregularities in the walls; here and there
the waters tumbled madly and flung wet arms aloft, while up out of the
gorge came a mighty murmur, redoubled by the echoing cliffs. A log came
plunging through and it moved with the speed of a torpedo. Phillips
watched it, fascinated.

"Look! Dere's a boat!" 'Poleon cried. In between the basalt jaws
appeared a skiff with two rowers, and a man in the stern. The latter
was braced on wide-spread legs and he held his weight upon a
steering-sweep. Down the boat came at a galloping gait, threshing over
waves and flinging spray head-high; it bucked and it dove, it buried
its nose and then lifted it, but the oarsman continued to maintain it
on a steady course.

"Bravo!" Doret shouted, waving his cap. To Pierce he said: "Dat's good
pilot an' he knows swif' water. But dere's lot of feller here who ain't
so good. Dey tak' chance for beeg money. Wal, w'at you t'ink of her?
She's dandy, eh?"

"It's an--inferno," Phillips acknowledged. "You earn all the money you
get for running it."

"You don' care for 'im, w'at?"

"I do not. I don't mind taking a chance, but--what chance would a
fellow have in there? Why, he'd never come up."

"Dat's right."

Phillips stared at his companion curiously. "You must need money pretty
badly."

The giant shook his head in vigorous denial. "No! Money? Pouf! She
come, she go. But, you see--plenty people drowned if somebody don' tak'
dem t'rough, so--I stay. Dis winter I build myse'f nice cabin an' do
li'l trappin'. Nex' summer I pilot again."

"Aren't you going to Dawson?" Pierce was incredulous; he could not
understand this fellow.

Doret's expression changed; a fleeting sadness settled in his eyes. "I
been dere," said he. "I ain't care much for seein' beeg city. I'm
lonesome feller." After a moment he exclaimed, more brightly: "Now we
go, I see if I can hire crew to row your boats."

"How does she look to you?" Lucky Broad inquired, when Pierce and his
companion appeared. He and Bridges had not taken the trouble to
acquaint themselves with the canon, but immediately upon landing had
begun to stow away their freight and to lash a tarpaulin over it.

"Better go up and see for yourself," the young man suggested.

Lucky shook his head. "Not me," he declared. "I can hear all I want to.
Listen to it! I got a long life ahead of me and I'm going to nurse it."

Kid Bridges was of like mind, for he said: "Sure! We was a coupla brave
guys in Dyea, but what's the good of runnin' up to an undertaker and
giving him your measurements? He'll get a tape-line on you soon enough."

"Then you don't intend to chance it?" Pierce inquired.

Broad scowled at the questioner. "Say! I wouldn't walk down that place
if it was froze."

"Nor me," the other gambler seconded. "Not for a million dollars would
I tease the embalmer that way. Not for a million. Would you, Lucky?"

Broad appeared to weigh the figures carefully; then he said,
doubtfully: "I'm a cheap guy. I might risk it once--for five hundred
thousand, cash. But that's rock bottom; I wouldn't take a nickel less."

Doret had been listening with some amusement; now he said, "You boys
got wide pay-streak, eh?"

Bridges nodded without shame. "Wider'n, a swamp, and yeller'n butter."

"Wal, I see w'at I can do." The pilot walked up the bank in search of a
crew.

In the course of a half-hour he was back again and with him came the
Countess Courteau. Calling Pierce aside, the woman said, swiftly: "We
can't get a soul to help us; everybody's in a rush. We'll have to use
our own men."

"Broad and Bridges are the best we have," he told her, "but they
refuse."

"You're not afraid, are you?"

Now Pierce was afraid and he longed mightily to admit that he was, but
he lacked the courage to do so. He smiled feebly and shrugged,
whereupon the former speaker misread his apparent indifference and
flashed him a smile.

"Forgive me," she said, in a low voice. "I know you're not." She
hurried down to the water's edge and addressed the two gamblers in a
business-like tone: "We've no time to lose. Which one of you wants to
lead off with Doret and Pierce?"

The men exchanged glances. It was Broad who finally spoke. "We been
figuring it would please us better to walk," he said, mildly.

"Suit yourselves," the Countess told them, coolly. "But it's a long
walk from here to Dawson." She turned back to Pierce and said: "You've
seen the canon. There's nothing so terrible about it, is there?"

Phillips was conscious that 'Poleon Doret's eyes were dancing with
laughter, and anger at his own weakness flared up in him. "Why, no!" he
lied, bravely. "It will be a lot of fun."

Kid Bridges leveled a sour look at the speaker. "Some folks have got
low ideas of entertainment," said he. "Some folks is absolutely
depraved that way. You'd probably enjoy a broken arm--it would feel so
good when it got well."

The Countess Courteau's lip was curled contemptuously when she said:
"Listen! I'm not going to be held up. There's a chance, of course, but
hundreds have gone through. I can pull an oar. Pierce and I will row
the first boat."

Doret opened his lips to protest, but Broad obviated the necessity of
speech by rising from his seat and announcing: "Deal the cards! I came
in on no pair; I don't aim to be raised out ahead of the draw-not by a
woman."

Mr. Bridges was both shocked and aggrieved by his companion's words.
"You going to tackle it?" he asked, incredulously.

Lucky made a grimace of intense abhorrence in Pierce's direction.
"Sure! I don't want to miss all this fun I hear about."

"When you get through, if you do, which you probably won't," Bridges
told him, with a bleak and cheerless expression, "set a gill-net to
catch me. I'll be down on the next trip."

"Good for you!" cried the Countess.

"It ain't good for me," the man exclaimed, angrily. "It's the worst
thing in the world for me. I'm grand-standing and you know it. So's
Lucky, but there wouldn't be any living with him if he pulled it off
and I didn't."

Doret chuckled. To Pierce he said, in a low voice: "Plenty feller mak'
fool of demse'f on dat woman. I know all 'bout it. But she 'ain't mak'
fool of herse'f, you bet."

"How do you mean?" Pierce inquired, quickly.

'Poleon eyed him shrewdly. "Wal, tak' you. You're scare', ain't you?
But you sooner die so long she don't know it. Plenty oder feller jus'
lak' dat." He walked to the nearest skiff, removed his coat, and began
to untie his boots.

Lucky Broad joined the pilot, then looked on uneasily at these
preparations. "What's the idea?" he inquired. "Are you too hot?"

'Poleon grinned at him and nodded. Very reluctantly Broad stripped off
his mackinaw, then seated himself and tugged at his footgear. He
paused, after a moment, and addressed himself to Bridges.

"It's no use, Kid. I squawk!" he said.

"Beginning to weaken, eh?"

"Sure! I got a hole in my sock-look! Somebody 'll find me after I've
been drowned a week or two, and what'll they say?"

"Pshaw! You won't come up till you get to St. Michael's, and you'll be
spoiled by that time." Kid Bridges tried to smile, but the result was a
failure. "You'll be swelled up like a dead horse, and so'll I. They
won't know us apart."

When Pierce had likewise stripped down and taken his place at the oars,
Broad grumbled: "The idea of calling me 'Lucky'! It ain't in the
cards." He spat on his hands and settled himself in his seat, then
cried, "Well, lead your ace!"

As the little craft moved out into the stream, Pierce Phillips noticed
that the Kirby scow, which had run the Courteau boats a close race all
the way from Linderman, was just pulling into the bank. Lines had been
passed ashore and, standing on the top of the cargo, he could make out
the figure of Rouletta Kirby.

In spite of a strong steady stroke the rowboat seemed to move
sluggishly; foam and debris bobbed alongside and progress appeared to
be slow, but when the oarsmen lifted their eyes they discovered that
the shores were running past with amazing swiftness. Even as they
looked, those shores rose abruptly and closed in, there came a mounting
roar, then the skiff was sucked in between high, rugged walls. Unseen
hands reached forth and seized it, unseen forces laid hold of it and
impelled it forward; it began to plunge and to wallow; spray flew and
wave-crests climbed over the gunwales.

Above the tumult 'Poleon was urging his crew to greater efforts. "Pull
hard!" he shouted. "Hi! Hi! Hi!" He swayed in unison to their straining
bodies. "Mak' dose oar crack," he yelled. "By Gar, dat's goin' some!"

The fellow's teeth were gleaming, his face was alight with an exultant
recklessness, he cast defiance at the approaching terrors. He was
alert, watchful; under his hands the stout ash steering-oar bent like a
bow; he flung his whole strength into the battle with the waters. Soon
the roar increased until it drowned his shouts and forced him to
pantomime his orders. The boat was galloping through a wild smother of
ice-cold spray and the reverberating cliffs were streaming past like
the unrolling scenery on a painted canvas panorama.

It was a hellish place; it echoed to a demoniac din and it was a
tremendous sensation to brave it, for the boat did not glide nor slip
down the descent; it went in a succession of jarring leaps; it lurched
and twisted; it rolled and plunged as if in a demented effort to unseat
its passengers and scatter its cargo. To the occupants it seemed as if
its joints were opening, as if the boards themselves were being
wrenched loose from the ribs to which they were nailed. The men were
drenched, of course, for they traveled in a cloud of spume; their feet
were ankle-deep in cold water, and every new deluge caused them to gasp.

How long it lasted Pierce Phillips never knew; the experience was too
terrific to be long lived. It was a nightmare, a hideous phantasmagoria
of frightful sensations, a dissolving stereopticon of bleak, scudding
walls, of hydrophobic boulders frothing madly as the flood crashed over
them, of treacherous whirlpools, and of pursuing breakers that reached
forth licking tongues of destruction. Then the river opened, the cliffs
fell away, and the torrent spewed itself out into an expanse of
whirlpools--a lake of gyrating funnels that warred with one another and
threatened to twist the keel from under the boat.

'Poleon swung close in to the right bank, where an eddy raced up
against the flood; some one flung a rope from the shore and drew the
boat in.

"Wal! I never had no better crew," cried the pilot. "Wat you t'ink of
'im, eh?" He smiled down at the white-lipped oarsmen, who leaned
forward, panting and dripping.

"Is--that all of it?" Lucky Broad inquired, weakly.

"Mais non! Look! Dere's Wite 'Orse."

Doret indicated a wall of foam and spray farther down the river.
Directly across the expanse of whirlpools stood a village named after
the rapids. "You get plenty more bimeby."

"You're wrong. I got plenty right now," Broad declared.

"I'm glad the Countess didn't come," said Phillips.

When the men had wrung out their clothes and put on their boots they
set out along the back trail over the bluffs.

Danny Royal was not an imaginative person. He possessed, to be sure,
the superstitions of the average horseman and gambler, and he believed
strongly in hunches, but he was not fanciful and he put no faith in
dreams and portents. It bothered him exceedingly, therefore, to
discover that he was weighed down by an unaccountable but extremely
oppressive sense of apprehension. How or why it had come to obsess him
he could not imagine, but for some reason Miles Canon and the stormy
waters below it had assumed terrible potentialities and he could not
shake off the conviction that they were destined to prove his undoing.
This feeling he had allowed to grow until now a fatalistic apathy had
settled upon him and his usual cheerfulness was replaced by a senseless
irritability. He suffered explosions of temper quite as surprising to
the Kirbys, father and daughter, as to himself. On the day of his
arrival he was particularly ugly, wherefore Rouletta was impelled to
remonstrate with him.

"What ails you, Danny?" she inquired. "You'll have our men quitting."

"I wish they would," he cried. "Boatmen! They don't know as much about
boats as me and Sam."

"They do whatever they're told."

Royal acknowledged this fact ungraciously. "Trouble is we don't know
what to tell 'em to do. All Sam knows is 'gee' and 'haw,' and I can't
steer anything that don't wear a bridle. Why, if this river wasn't
fenced in with trees we'd have taken the wrong road and been lost, long
ago."

Rouletta nodded thoughtfully. "Father is just as afraid of water as you
are. He won't admit it, but I can tell. It has gotten on his nerves
and--I've had hard work to keep him from drinking."

"Say! Don't let him get started on THAT!" Danny exclaimed, earnestly.
"That WOULD be the last touch."

"Trust me. I--"

But Kirby himself appeared at that moment, having returned from a
voyage of exploration. Said he: "There's a good town below. I had a
chance to sell the outfit."

"Going to do it?" Danny could not conceal his eagerness.

The elder man shook his gray head. "Hardly. I'm no piker."

"I wish you and Danny would take the portage and trust the pilot to run
the rapids," Rouletta said.

Kirby turned his expressionless face upon first one then the other of
his companions. "Nervous?" he inquired of Royal.

The latter silently admitted that he was.

"Go ahead. You and Letty cross afoot--"

"And you?"

"Oh, I'm going to stick!"

"Father--" the girl began, but old Sam shook his head.

"No. This is my case bet, and I'm going to watch it."

Royal's weazened face puckered until it resembled more than ever a
withered apple. "Then I'll stick, too," he declared. "I never laid down
on you yet, Sam."

"How about you, Letty?"

The girl smiled. "Why, I wouldn't trust you boys out of my sight for a
minute. Something would surely happen."

Kirby stooped and kissed his daughter's cheek. "You've always been our
mascot, and you've always brought us luck. I'd go to hell in a paper
suit if you were along. You're a game kid, too, and I want you to be
like that, always. Be a thoroughbred. Don't weaken, no matter how bad
things break for you. This cargo of rum is worth the best claim in
Dawson, and it'll put us on our feet again. All I want is one more
chance. Double and quit--that's us."

This was an extraordinarily long speech for "One-armed" Kirby; it
showed that he was deeply in earnest.

"Double and quit?" breathed the girl. "Do you mean it, dad?"

He nodded: "I'm going to leave you heeled. I don't aim to take my eyes
off this barge again till she's in Dawson."

Rouletta's face was transformed; there was a great gladness in her
eyes--a gladness half obscured by tears. "Double and quit. Oh--I've
dreamed of--quitting--so often! You've made me very happy, dad."

Royal, who knew this girl's dreams as well as he knew his own, felt a
lump in his throat. He was a godless little man, but Rouletta Kirby's
joys were holy things to him, her tears distressed him deeply,
therefore he walked away to avoid the sight of them. Her slightest wish
had been his law ever since she had mastered words enough to voice a
request, and now he, too, was happy to learn that Sam Kirby was at last
ready to mold his future in accordance with her desires. Letty had
never liked their mode of life; she had accepted it under protest, and
with the passing years her unspoken disapproval had assumed the
proportions of a great reproach. She had never put that disapproval
into words--she was far too loyal for that--but Danny had known. He
knew her ambitions and her possibilities, and he had sufficient vision
to realize something of the injustice she suffered at her father's
hands. Sam loved his daughter as few parents love a child, but he was a
strange man and he showed his affection in characteristic ways. It
pleased Royal greatly to learn that the old man had awakened to the
wrong he did, and that this adventure would serve to close the story,
as all good stories close, with a happy ending.

In spite of these cheering thoughts, Danny was unable wholly to shake
off his oppressive forebodings, and as he paused on the river-bank to
stare with gloomy fascination at the jaws of the gorge they returned to
plague him. The sound that issued out of that place was terrifying, the
knowledge that it frightened him enraged the little man.

It was an unpropitious moment for any one to address Royal; therefore,
when he heard himself spoken to, he whirled with a scowl upon his face.
A tall French-Canadian, just back from the portage, was saying:

"M'sieu', I ain't good hand at mix in 'noder feller's bizneses,
but--dat pilot you got she's no good."

Royal looked the stranger over from head to foot. "How d'you know?" he
inquired, sharply.

"Biccause--I'm pilot myse'f."

"Oh, I see! You're one of the GOOD ones." Danny's air was surly, his
tone forbidding.

"Yes."

"Hate yourself, don't you? I s'pose you want his job. Is that it? No
wonder--five hundred seeds for fifteen minutes' work. Soft graft, I
call it." The speaker laughed unpleasantly. "Well, what does a GOOD
pilot charge?"

"Me?" The Canadian shrugged indifferently. "I charge you one t'ousan'
dollar."

Royal's jaw dropped. "The devil you say!" he exclaimed.

"I don't want de job--your scow's no good--but I toss a coin wit' you.
One t'ousan' dollar or--free trip."

"Nothing doing," snapped the ex-horseman.

"Bien! Now I give you li'l AD-vice. Hol' hard to de right in lower end
dis canon. Dere's beeg rock dere. Don't touch 'im or you goin' spin
lak' top an' mebbe you go over W'ite 'Orse sideways. Dat's goin' smash
you, sure."

Royal broke out, peevishly: "Another hot tip, eh? Everybody's got some
feed-box information--especially the ones you don't hire. Well, I ain't
scared--"

"Oh yes, you are!" said the other man. "Everybody is scare' of dis
place."

"Anyhow, I ain't scared a thousand dollars' worth. Takes a lot to scare
me that much. I bet this place is as safe as a chapel and I bet our
scow goes through with her tail up. Let her bump; she'll finish with me
on her back and all her weights. I built her and I named her."

Danny watched the pilot as he swung down to the stony shore and
rejoined Pierce Phillips; then he looked on in fascination while they
removed their outer garments, stepped into a boat with Kid Bridges, and
rowed away into the gorge.

"It's--got my goat!" muttered the little jockey.



CHAPTER XI


Although scows larger than the Rouletta had run Miles Canon and the
rapids below in safety, perhaps none more unwieldy had ever done so.
Royal had built his barge stoutly, to be sure, but of other virtues the
craft had none. When loaded she was so clumsy, so obstinate, so
headstrong that it required unceasing effort to hold her on a course;
as for rowing her, it was almost impossible. She took the first
swooping rush into the canon, strange to say, in very good form, and
thereafter, by dint of herculean efforts, Royal and his three men
managed to hold her head down-stream. Sweeping between the palisades,
she galloped clumsily onward, wallowing like a hippopotamus. Her long
pine sweeps, balanced and bored to receive thick thole-pins, rose and
fell like the stiff legs of some fat, square-bodied spider; she reared
her bluff bow; then she dove, shrouding herself in spray.

It was a journey to terrify experienced rivermen; doubly terrifying was
it to Royal and Kirby, who knew nothing whatever of swift water and to
whom its perils were magnified a thousandfold.

In spite of his apprehension, which by now had quickened into panic,
Danny rose to the occasion with real credit. His face was like paper,
his eyes were wide and strained; nevertheless, he kept his gaze fixed
upon the pilot and strove to obey the latter's directions implicitly.
Now with all his strength he heaved upon his sweep; now he backed water
violently; at no time did he trust himself to look at the cliffs which
were scudding past, nor to contemplate the tortuous turns in the gorge
ahead. That would have been too much for him. Even when his clumsy oar
all but grazed a bastion, or when a jagged promontory seemed about to
smash his craft, he refused to cease his frantic labors or to more than
lift his eyes. He saw that Rouletta Kirby was very pale, and he tried
to shout a word of encouragement to her, but his cry was thin and
feeble, and it failed to pierce the thunder of the waters. Danny hoped
the girl was not as frightened as he, nor as old Sam--the little man
would not have wished such a punishment upon his worst enemy.

Kirby, by reason of his disability, of course, was prevented from
lending any active help with the boat and was forced to play a purely
passive part. That it was not to his liking any one could have seen,
for, once the moorings were slipped, he did not open his lips; he
merely stood beside Rouletta, with the fingers of his right hand sunk
into her shoulder, his gray face grayer than ever. Together they swayed
as the deck beneath them reeled and pitched.

"Look! We're nearly through!" the girl cried in his ear, after what
seemed an interminable time.

Kirby nodded. Ahead he could see the end of the canon and what appeared
to be freer water; out into this open space the torrent flung itself.
The scow was riding the bore, that ridge of water upthrust by reason of
the pressure from above; between it and the exit from the chute was a
rapidly dwindling expanse of tossing waves. Kirby was greatly relieved,
but he could not understand why those rollers at the mouth of the gorge
should rear themselves so high and should foam so savagely.

The bluffs ended, the narrow throat vomited the river out, and the scow
galloped from shadow into pale sunlight.

The owner of the outfit drew a deep breath, his clutching fingers
relaxed their nervous hold. He saw that Danny was trying to make
himself heard and he leaned forward to catch the fellow's words, when
suddenly the impossible happened. The deck beneath his feet was jerked
backward and he was flung to his knees. Simultaneously there came a
crash, the sound of rending, splintering wood, and over the stern of
the barge poured an icy deluge that all but swept father and daughter
away. Rouletta screamed, then she called the name of Royal.

"Danny! Danny!" she cried, for both she and old Sam had seen a terrible
thing.

The blade of Royal's sweep had been submerged at the instant of the
collision and, as a consequence, the force of that rushing current had
borne it forward, catapulting the man on the other end overboard as
cleanly, as easily as a school-boy snaps a paper pellet from the end of
a pencil. Before their very eyes the Kirbys saw their lieutenant, their
lifelong friend and servitor, picked up and hurled into the flood.

"Danny!" shrieked the girl. The voice of the rapids had changed its
tone now, for a cataract was drumming upon the after-deck and there was
a crashing and a smashing as the piles of boxes came tumbling down. The
scow drove higher upon the reef, its bow rose until it stood at a sharp
incline, and meanwhile wave after wave cut like a broach over the
stern, which steadily sank deeper. Then the deck tilted drunkenly and
an avalanche of case-goods was spilled over the side.

Sam Kirby found himself knee-deep in ice water; a roller came curling
down upon him, but with a frantic clutch he laid hold of his daughter.
He sank the steel hook that did service as a left hand into a pile of
freight and hung on, battling to maintain his footing. With a great
jarring and jolting the Rouletta rose from the deluge, hung balanced
for a moment or two, and then, relieved of a portion of her cargo,
righted herself and swung broadside to the stream as if upon a pivot;
finally she was carried free. Onward she swept, turning end for end,
pounding, staggering, as other rocks from below bit into her bottom.

The river was very low at this season, and the Rouletta, riding deep
because half filled, found obstacles she would otherwise have cleared.
She was out of the crooked channel now and it was impossible to manage
her, so in a crazy succession of loops and swoops she gyrated down
toward that tossing mane of spray that marked the White Horse.

With eyes of terror Sam Kirby scanned the boiling expanse through which
the barge was drifting, but nowhere could he catch sight of Danny
Royal. He turned to shout to his pilot, only to discover that he also
was missing and that the steering-sweep was smashed.

"God! HE'S gone!" cried the old man. It was true; that inundation
succeeding the mishap had swept the after-deck clean, and now the scow
was not only rudderless, but it lacked a man of experience to direct
its course.

Rouletta Kirby was tugging at her father's arm. She lifted a white,
horrified face to his and exclaimed: "Danny! I saw him--go!"

Her father's dead face was twitching; he nodded silently. Then he
pointed at the cataract toward which they were being carried. He opened
his lips to say something, but one of the crew came running back,
shouting hoarsely and waving his arms.

"We're going over," the fellow clamored. "We'll all be drowned!"

Kirby felled him with a blow from his artificial hand; then, when the
man scrambled to his feet, his employer ordered:

"Get busy! Do what you can!"

For himself, he took Royal's sweep and struggled with it. But he was
woefully ignorant of how to apply his strength and had only the
faintest idea what he ought to do.

Meanwhile the thunder of the White Horse steadily increased.

 Having brought the last of the Courteau boats through the canon,
'Poleon Doret piloted the little flotilla across to the town of White
Horse and there collected his money, while Pierce Phillips and the
other men pitched camp.

The labor of making things comfortable for the night did not prevent
Lucky Broad from discussing at some length the exciting incidents of
the afternoon.

"I hope her Highness got an eyeful of me shooting the chutes," said he,
"for that's my farewell trip--positively my last appearance in any
water act."

"Mighty decent of you and the Kid to volunteer," Pierce told him.

"It sure was," the other agreed. "Takes a coupla daredevils like him
and me to pull that kind of a bonehead play."

Mr. Bridges, who was within hearing distance, shrugged with an
assumption of careless indifference. "It takes more 'n a little lather
to scare me," he boasted. "I'm a divin' Venus and I ate it up!"

"You--liar!" Lucky cried. "Why, every quill on your head was standing
up and you look five years older 'n you did this morning! You heard the
undertaker shaking out your shroud all the way down--you know you did.
I never seen a man as scared as you was!" When Bridges accepted the
accusation with a grin, the speaker ran on, in a less resentful tone:
"I don't mind saying it hardened my arteries some. It made me think of
all my sins and follies; I remembered all the bets I'd overlooked.
Recollect that pioneer we laid for four hundred at Dyea?"

The Kid nodded. "Sure! I remember him easy. He squawked so loud you
gave him back half of it."

"And all the time he had a thousand sewed in his shirt! Wasted
opportunities like that lay heavy on a man when he hears the angels
tuning up and smells the calla-lilies."

Bridges agreed in all seriousness, and went on to say: "Lucky, if I
gotta get out of this country the way I got into it I'm going to let
you bury me in Dawson. Look at them rapids ahead of us! Why, the guy
that laid out this river was off his nut!"

"You're talking sense. We'll stick till they build a railroad up to us
or else we'll let 'em pin a pair of soft-pine overcoats on the two of
us. The idea of us calling ourselves wiseacres and doing circus stunts
like this! We're suckers! We'll be working in the mines next. I bet
I'll see you poulticed onto a pick-handle before we get out."

"Not me! I've raised my last blister, and if ever I get another callous
it'll be from layin' abed. Safe and sane, that's me. I--"

Bridges' words were cut short by an exclamation from Doret, who had
approached, in company with the Countess Courteau.

"Hallo!" the French Canadian broke in. "Dere comes dat beeg barge."

Out from the lower end of the gorge the Kirby craft had emerged; it was
plunging along with explosions of white foam from beneath its bow and
with its sweeps rising and falling rhythmically. To Doret's companions
it seemed that the scow had come through handily enough and was in
little further danger, but 'Poleon, for some reason or other, had
blazed into excitement. Down the bank he leaped; then he raised his
voice and sent forth a loud cry. It was wasted effort, for it failed to
carry. Nevertheless, the warning note in his voice brought his hearers
running after him.

"What's the matter?" Pierce inquired.

The pilot paid no heed; he began waving his cap in long sweeps, cursing
meanwhile in a patois which the others could not understand.

Even while they stared at the Rouletta she drove head on into an
expanse of tumbling breakers, then--the onlookers could not believe
their eyes--she stopped dead still, as if she had come to the end of a
steel cable or as if she had collided with an invisible wall. Instantly
her entire after part was smothered in white. Slowly her bow rose out
of the chaos until perhaps ten feet of her bottom was exposed, then she
assumed a list.

The Countess uttered a strangled exclamation. "Oh--h! Did you see?
There's a man overboard!"

Her eyes were quick, but others, too, had beheld a dark bundle picked
up by some mysterious agency and flung end over end into the waves.

The Rouletta's deck-load was dissolving; a moment or two and she turned
completely around, then drifted free.

"Why--they brought the GIRL along!" cried the Countess, in growing
dismay. "Sam Kirby should have had better sense. He ought to be hung--"

From the tents and boats along the bank, from the village above, people
were assembling hurriedly, a babel of oaths, of shouts arose.

'Poleon found his recent employer plucking at his sleeve.

"There's a woman out there--Kirby's girl," she was crying. "Can't you
do something?"

"Wait!" He flung off her grasp and watched intently.

Soon the helpless scow was abreast of the encampment, and in spite of
the frantic efforts of her crew to propel her shoreward she drifted
momentarily closer to the cataract below. Manifestly it was impossible
to row out and intercept the derelict before she took the plunge, and
so, helpless in this extremity, the audience began to stream down over
the rounded boulders which formed the margin of the river. On the
opposite bank another crowd was keeping pace with the wreck. As they
ran, these people shouted at one another and gesticulated wildly. Their
faces were white, their words were meaningless, for it was a spectacle
tense with imminent disaster that they beheld; it turned them sick with
apprehension.

Immediately above White Horse the current gathers itself for the final
plunge, and although, at the last moment, the Rouletta seemed about to
straighten herself out and take the rapids head on, some malign
influence checked her swing and she lunged over quarteringly to the
torrent.

A roar issued from the throats of the beholders; the craft reappeared,
and then, a moment later, was half hidden again in the smother. It
could be seen that she was completely awash and that those galloping
white-maned horses were charging over her. She was buffeted about as by
battering-rams; the remainder of her cargo was being rapidly torn from
her deck. Soon another shout arose, for human figures could be seen
still clinging to her.

Onward the scow went, until once again she fetched up on a reef or a
rock which the low stage of the river had brought close to the surface;
there she hung.

'Poleon Doret had gone into action ere this. Having satisfied himself
that some of the Rouletta's crew remained alive, he cast loose the
painter of the nearest skiff and called to Phillips, who was standing
close by:

"Come on! We goin' get dose people!"

Now Pierce had had enough rough water for one day; it seemed to him
that there must be other men in this crowd better qualified by training
than he to undertake this rescue. But no one stepped forward, and so he
obeyed Doret's order. As he slipped out of his coat and kicked off his
boots, he reflected, with a sinking feeling of disappointment, that his
emotions were not by any means such as a really courageous man would
experience. He was completely lacking in enthusiasm for this
enterprise, for it struck him as risky, nay, foolhardy, insane, to take
a boat over that cataract in an attempt to snatch human beings out from
the very midst of those threshing breakers. It seemed more than likely
that all hands would be drowned in the undertaking, and he could not
summon the reckless abandon necessary to face that likelihood with
anything except the frankest apprehension. He was surprised at himself,
for he had imagined that when his moment came, if ever it did, that he,
Phillips, would prove to be a rather exceptional person; instead he
discovered that he was something of a coward. The unexpectedness of
this discovery astonished the young man. Being deeply and thoroughly
frightened, it was nothing less than the abhorrence at allowing that
fright to become known which stiffened his determination. In his own
sight he dwindled to very small proportions; then came the realization
that Doret was having difficulty in securing volunteers to go with
them, and he was considerably heartened at finding he was not greatly
different from the rest of these people.

"Who's goin' he'p us?" the Frenchman was shouting. "Come now, you stout
fellers. Dere's lady on dat scow. 'Ain't nobody got nerve?"

It was a tribute to the manhood of the North that after a brief
hesitation several men offered themselves. At the last moment, however,
Broad and Bridges elbowed the others aside, saying: "Here, you! That's
our boat and we know how she handles."

Into the skiff they piled and hurriedly stripped down; then, in
obedience to Doret's command, they settled themselves at the forward
oars, leaving Pierce to set the stroke.

'Poleon stood braced in the stern, like a gondolier, and when willing
hands had shot the boat out into the current he leaned his weight upon
the after oars; beneath his and Pierce's efforts the ash blades bent.
Out into the hurrying flood the four men sent their craft; then, with a
mighty heave, the pilot swung its bow down-stream and helped to drive
it directly at the throat of the cataract.

There came a breath-taking plunge during which the rescuing skiff and
its crew were hidden from the view of those on shore; out into sight
they lunged again and, in a cloud of spray, went galloping through the
stampeding waves. At risk of capsizing they turned around and, battling
furiously against the current, were swept down, stern first, upon the
stranded barge. Doret's face was turned back over his shoulder, he was
measuring distance, gauging with practised eye the whims and vagaries
of the tumbling torrent; when he flung himself upon the oars Pierce
Phillips felt his own strength completely dwarfed by that of the big
pilot. 'Poleon's hands inclosed his in a viselike grasp; he wielded the
sweeps as if they were reeds, and with them he wielded Phillips.

Two people only were left upon the Rouletta, that sidewise plunge
having carried the crew away. Once again Sam Kirby's artificial hand
had proved its usefulness, and without its aid it is doubtful if either
he or his daughter could have withstood the deluge. For a second time
he had sunk that sharp steel hook into the solid wood and had managed,
by virtue of that advantage, to save himself and his girl. Both of them
were half drowned; they were well-nigh frozen, too; now, however,
finding themselves in temporary security, Kirby had broached one of the
few remaining cases of bottled goods. As the rowboat came close its
occupants saw him press a drink upon his daughter, then gulp one for
himself.

It was impossible either to lay the skiff alongside the wreck with any
degree of care or to hold her there; as a matter of fact, the two hulls
collided with a crash, Kid Bridges' oar snapped off short and the side
of the lighter boat was smashed in. Water poured over the rescuers. For
an instant it seemed that they were doomed, but, clawing fiercely at
whatever they could lay hands upon, they checked their progress long
enough for the castaways to obey Doret's shout of command. The girl
flung herself into Pierce's arms; her father followed, landing in a
heap amidships. Even as they jumped the skiff was torn away and hurried
onward by the flood. Sam Kirby raised himself to his knees and turned
his ashen face to Rouletta.

"Hurt you any, kid?" he inquired.

The girl shook her head. She was very white, her teeth were chattering,
her wet dress clung tightly to her figure.

Staring fixedly at the retreating barge the old man cried: "All gone!
All gone!" Then, bracing himself with his good hand, he brandished his
steel hook at the rapids and heaped curses upon them.

A half-mile below the wreck 'Poleon Doret brought his crippled skiff
into an eddy, and there the crowd, which had kept pace with it down the
river-bank, lent willing assistance in effecting a landing.

As Kirby stepped ashore he shook hands with the men who had jeopardized
their lives for him and his daughter; hi a cheerless, colorless voice
he said, "It looks to me like you boys had a drink coming." From his
coat pocket he drew a bottle of whisky; with a blow of that artificial
hand he struck off its neck and then proffered it to Doret. "Drink
hearty!" said he. "It's all that's left of a good outfit!"



CHAPTER XII


A chilly twilight had fallen by the time the castaways arrived at the
encampment above the rapids. Kirby and his daughter were shaking from
the cold. The Countess Courteau hurried on ahead to start a fire in her
tent, and thither she insisted upon taking Rouletta, while her men
attended to the father's comfort.

On the way up there had been considerable speculation among those who
knew Sam Kirby best, for none of them had ever seen the old fellow in
quite such a frame of mind as now. His misfortune had crushed him; he
appeared to be numbed by the realization of his overwhelming loss; gone
entirely was that gambler's nonchalance for which he was famous. The
winning or the losing of large sums of money had never deeply stirred
the old sporting-man; the turn of a card, the swift tattoo of horses'
hoofs, often had meant far more to him in dollars and cents than the
destruction of that barge-load of liquor; he had seen sizable fortunes
come and go without a sign of emotion, and yet to-night he was utterly
unnerved.

With a man of less physical courage such an ordeal as he had undergone
might well have excused a nervous collapse, but Kirby had no nerves; he
had, times without number, proved himself to be a man of steel, and so
it greatly puzzled his friends to see him shaken and broken.

He referred often to Danny Royal's fate, speaking in a dazed and
disbelieving manner, but through that daze ran lightning-bolts of
blind, ferocious rage--rage at the river, rage at this hostile,
sinister country and at the curse it had put upon him. Over and over,
through blue lips and chattering teeth, he reviled the rapids; more
than once he lifted the broken-necked bottle to his lips. Of
thanksgiving, of gratitude at his own and his daughter's deliverance,
he appeared to have none, at least for the time being.

Rouletta's condition was pitiable enough, but she was concerned less
with it than with her father's extraordinary behavior, and when the
Countess undertook to procure for her dry clothing she protested:

"Please don't trouble. I'll warm up a bit; then I must go back to dad."

"My dear, you're chilled through--you'll die in those wet things," the
older woman told her.

Miss Kirby shook her head and, in a queer, strained, apprehensive
voice, said: "You don't understand. He's had a drink; if he gets
started--" She shivered wretchedly and hid her white face in her hands,
then moaned: "Oh, what a day! Danny's gone! I saw him drown--"

"There, there!" The Countess comforted her as best she could. "You've
had a terrible experience, but you mustn't think of it just yet. Now
let me help you."

Finding that the girl's fingers were stiff and useless, the Countess
removed the wet skirt and jacket, wrung them out, and hung them up.
Then she produced some dry undergarments, but Miss Kirby refused to put
them on.

"You'll need what few things you have," said she, "and--I'll soon warm
up. There's no telling what dad will do. I must keep an eye on him."

"You give yourself too much concern. He's chilled through and it's
natural that he should take a drink. My men will give him something dry
to wear, and meanwhile--"

Rouletta interrupted with a shake of her head, but the Countess gently
persisted:

"Don't take your misfortune too hard. The loss of your outfit means
nothing compared with your safety. It was a great tragedy, of course,
but you and your father were saved. You still have him and he has you."

"Danny knew what was coming," said the girl, and tears welled into her
eyes, then slowly overflowed down her white cheeks. "But he faced it.
He was game. He was a good man at heart. He had his faults, of course,
but he loved dad and he loved me; why, he used to carry me out to see
the horses before I could walk; he was my friend, my playmate, my pal.
He'd have done murder for me!" Through her tears Rouletta looked up.
"It's hard for you to believe that I know, after what he did to you,
but--you know how men are on the trail. Nothing matters. He was angry
when you outwitted him, and so was father, for that matter, but I told
them it served us right and I forbade them to molest you further."

"You did that? Then it's you I have to thank." The Countess smiled
gravely. "I could never understand why I came off so easily."

"I'm glad I made them behave. You've more than repaid--" Rouletta
paused, she strained her ears to catch the sound of voices from the
neighboring tents. "I don't hear father," said she. "I wonder if he
could have gone?"

"Perhaps the men have put him to bed--"

But Miss Kirby would not accept this explanation. "I'm afraid--" Again
she listened apprehensively. "Once he gets a taste of liquor there's no
handling him; he's terrible. Even Danny couldn't do anything with him;
sometimes even I have failed." Hurriedly she took down her sodden skirt
and made as if to draw it on.

"Oh, child, you MUSTN'T! You simply must NOT go out this way. Wait
here. I'll find him for you and make sure he's all right."

The half-clad girl smiled miserably. "Thank you," said she. But when
the Countess had stepped out into the night she finished dressing
herself. Her clothing, of course, was as wet as ever, for the warmth of
the tent in these few moments had not even heated it through;
nevertheless, her apprehension was so keen that she was conscious of
little bodily discomfort.

"You were right," the Countess announced when she returned. "He slipped
into some borrowed clothes and went up-town. He told the boys he
couldn't sit still. But you mustn't follow--at least in that dress-"

"Did he--drink any more?"

"I'm afraid he did."

Heedless of the elder woman's restraining hands, Rouletta Kirby made
for the tent opening. "Please don't stop me," she implored. "There's no
time to lose and--I'll dry out in time."

"Let me go for you."

"No, no!"

"Then may I go along?"

Again the girl shook her head. "I can handle him better alone. He's a
strange man, a terrible man, when he's this way. I--hope I'm not too
late."

Rouletta's wet skirts slatted about her ankles as she ran; it was a
windy, chilly night, and, in spite of the fact that it was a steep
climb to the top of the low bluff, she was chilled to the bone when she
came panting into the sprawling cluster of habitations that formed the
temporary town of White Horse. Tents were scattered over a dim, stumpy
clearing, lights shone through trees that were still standing, a
meandering trail led past a straggling row of canvas-topped structures,
and from one of these issued the wavering, metallic notes of a
phonograph, advertising the place as a house of entertainment.

Sam Kirby was at the bar when his daughter discovered him, and her
first searching look brought dismay to the girl. Pushing her way
through the crowd, she said, quietly:

"Father!"

"Hello!" he exclaimed, in surprise. "What are you doing here?"

"I want to speak to you."

"Now, Letty," he protested, when she had drawn him aside, "haven't you
been through enough for one day? Run back to the Countess' camp where I
left you."

"Don't drink any more," she implored, with an agony of dread in her
face.

Kirby's bleak countenance set itself in stony lines. "I've got to,"
said he. "I'm cold--frozen to the quick. I need something to warm me
up."

Letty could smell the whisky on his breath, she could see a new light
in his eyes and already she sensed rather than observed a subtle change
in his demeanor.

"Oh, dad!" she quavered; then she bowed her head weakly upon his arm
and her shoulders shook.

Kirby laid a gentle hand upon her, then exclaimed, in surprise: "Why,
kid, you're still wet! Got those same clothes on, haven't you?" He
raised his voice to the men he had just left. "Want to see the gamest
girl in the world? Well, here she is. You saw how she took her medicine
to-day? Now listen to this: she's wet through, but she came looking for
her old dad--afraid he'd get into trouble!"

Disregarding the crowd and the appreciative murmur her father's praise
evoked, Rouletta begged, in a low, earnest voice: "Please, dear, come
away. Please--you know why. Come away--won't you--for my sake?"

Kirby stirred uneasily. "I tell you I'm cold," he muttered, but stopped
short, staring. "Yes, and I see Danny. I see him as he went overboard.
Drowned! I'll never get him out of my sight. I can't seem to understand
that he's gone, but--everything's gone, for that matter. Everything!"

"Oh no, dad. Why, you're here and I'm here! We've been broke before."

Kirby smiled again, but cheerlessly. "Oh, we ain't exactly broke; I've
got the bank-roll on me and it 'll pull us through. We've had bad luck
for a year or two, but it's bound to change. You cheer up--and come
over to the stove. What you need is to warm up while I get you a little
drink."

Rouletta gazed up into the gray face above her. "Dad, look at me." She
took his hand. "Haven't we had enough trouble for one day?"

The gambler was irritated at this persistence and he showed it. "Don't
be foolish," he cried, shortly. "I know what I need and I know what I
can stand. These men are friends of mine, and you needn't be uneasy.
Now, kid, you let me find a place for you to spend the night."

"Not until you're ready to go along."

"All right, stick around for a little while. I Won't be long." Old Sam
drew a bench up beside the stove and seated the girl upon it. "I'm all
broke up and I've just got to keep moving," he explained, more
feelingly. Then he returned to the bar.

Realizing that he was completely out of hand and that further argument
was futile, Rouletta Kirby settled herself to wait. In spite of her
misery, it never occurred to her to abandon her father to his own
devices, even for an hour--she knew him too well to run that risk. But
her very bones were frozen and she shivered wretchedly as she held her
shoes up to the stove. Although the fire began slowly to dry her outer
garments, the clothes next to her flesh remained cold and clammy. Even
so, their chill was as nothing to the icy dread that paralyzed the very
core of her being.

Pierce Phillips told himself that this had been a wonderful day--an
epoch-making day--for him. Lately he had been conscious that the North
was working a change in him, but the precise extent of that change,
even the direction it was taking, had not been altogether clear; now,
however, he thought he understood.

He had been quite right, that first hour in Dyea, when he told himself
that Life lay just ahead of him--just over the Chilkoot. Such, indeed,
had proved to be the case. Yes, and it had welcomed him with open arms;
it had ushered him into a new and wondrous world. His hands had fallen
to men's tasks, experience had come to him by leaps and bounds. In a
rush he had emerged from groping boyhood into full maturity;
physically, mentally, morally, he had grown strong and broad and brown.
Having abandoned himself to the tides of circumstance, he had been
swept into a new existence where Adventure had rubbed shoulders with
him, where Love had smiled into his eyes. Danger had tested his mettle,
too, and to-day the final climax had come. What roused his deepest
satisfaction now was the knowledge that he had met that climax with
credit. To-night it seemed to him that he had reached full manhood, and
in the first flush of realization he assured himself that he could no
longer drift with the aimless current of events, but must begin to
shape affairs to his own ends.

More than once of late he had pondered a certain thought, and now,
having arrived at a decision, he determined to act upon it. Ever since
that stormy evening at Linderman his infatuation for Hilda had
increased, but, owing to circumstances, he had been thwarted in
enjoying its full delights. During the daylight hours of their trip, as
matter of fact, the two had never been alone together even for a
quarter of an hour; they had scarcely had a word in confidence, and in
consequence he had been forced to derive what comfort he could from a
chance look, a smile, some inflection of her voice. Even at night,
after camp was pitched, it had been little better, for the thin walls
of her canvas shelter afforded little privacy, and, being mindful of
appearances, he had never permitted himself to be alone with her very
long at a time--only long enough, in fact, to make sure that his
happiness was not all a dream. A vibrant protestation now and then, a
secret kiss or two, a few stolen moments of delirium, that was as far
as his love-affair had progressed. Not yet had he and Hilda arrived at
a definite understanding; never had they thoroughly talked out the
subject that engrossed them both, never had they found either time or
opportunity in which to do more than sigh and whisper and hold hands,
and as a result the woman remained almost as much of a mystery to
Pierce as she had been at the moment of her first surrender.

It was an intolerable situation, and so, under the spell of his buoyant
spirits, he determined to make an end of it once for all.

The Countess recognized his step when he came to her tent and she spoke
to him. Mistaking her greeting for permission to enter, he untied the
strings and stepped inside, only to find her unprepared for his
reception. She had made her shelter snug, a lively fire was burning,
the place was fragrant of pine boughs, and a few deft feminine touches
here and there had transformed it into a boudoir. Hilda had removed her
jacket and waist and was occupied in combing her hair, but at Pierce's
unexpected entrance she hurriedly gathered the golden shower about her
bare shoulders and voiced a protest at his intrusion. He stood smiling
down at her and refused to withdraw.

Never had Phillips seen such an alluring picture. Now that her hair was
undone, its length and its profusion surprised him, for it completely
mantled her, and through it the snowy whiteness of her bare arms,
folded protectingly across her rounded breasts, was dazzling. The sight
put him in a conquering mood; he strode forward, lifted her into his
embrace, then smothered her gasping protest with his lips. For a long
moment they stood thus. Finally the woman freed herself, then chided
him breathlessly, but the fragrance of her hair had gone to his brain;
he continued to hold her tight, meanwhile burying his face in the
golden cascade.

Roughly, masterfully, he rained kisses upon her. He devoured her with
his caresses, and the heat of his ardor melted her resistance until,
finally, she surrendered, abandoning herself wholly to his passion.

When, after a time, she flung back her head and pushed him away, her
face, her neck, her shoulders were suffused with a coral pinkness and
her eyes were misty.

"You must be careful!" she whispered in a tone that was less of a
remonstrance than an invitation. "Remember, we're making shadowgraphs
for our neighbors. That's the worst of a tent at night--one silhouettes
one's very thoughts."

"Then put out the light," he muttered, thickly; but she slipped away,
and her moist lips mocked him in silent laughter.

"The idea! What in the world has come over you? Why, you're the most
impetuous boy--"

"Boy!" Pierce grimaced his dislike of the word. "Don't be motherly;
don't treat me as if I had rompers on. You're positively maddening
to-night. I never saw you like this. Why, your hair"--he ran his hands
through that silken shower once more and pressed it to his face--"it's
glorious!"

The Countess slipped into a combing-jacket; then she seated herself on
the springy couch of pine branches over which her fur robe was spread,
and deftly caught up her long runaway tresses, securing them in place
with a few mysterious twists and expert manipulations.

"Boy, indeed!" he scoffed, flinging himself down beside her. "That's
over with, long ago."

"Oh, I don't feel motherly," she asserted, still suffused with that
telltale flush. "Not in the way you mean. But you'll always be a boy to
me--and to every other woman who learns to care for you."

"Every other woman?" Pierce's eyes opened. "What a queer speech. There
aren't going to be any OTHER women." He looked on while she lighted a
cigarette, then after a moment he inquired, "What do you mean?"

She answered him with another question. "Do you think I'm the only
woman who will love you?"

"Why--I haven't given it any thought! What's the difference, as long as
you're the only one _I_ care for? And I do love you, I worship--"

"But there WILL be others," she persisted, "There are bound to be.
You're that kind."

"Really?"

The Countess nodded her head with emphasis. "I can read men; I can see
the color of their souls. You have the call."

"What call?" Pierce was puzzled.

"The--well, the sex-call, the sex appeal."

"Indeed? Am I supposed to feel flattered at that?"

"By no means; you're not a cad. Men who possess that attraction are
spoiled sooner or later. You don't realize that you have it, and that's
what makes you so nice, but--I felt it from the first, and when you
feel it you'll probably become spoiled, too, like the others." This
amused Phillips, but the woman was in sober earnest. "I mean what I
say. You're the kind who cause women to make fools of themselves--old
or young, married or single. When a girl has it--she's lost."

"I'm not sure I understand. At any rate, you haven't made a fool of
yourself."

"No?" The Countess smiled vaguely, questioningly. She opened her lips
to say more, but changed her mind and in an altered tone declared, "My
dear boy, if you understood fully what I'm driving at you'd be
insufferable." Laying her warm hand over his, she continued: "You
resent what you call my 'motherly way,' but if I were sixteen and you
were forty it would be just the same. Women who are afflicted with that
sex appeal become men's playthings; the man who possesses it always
remains a 'boy' to the woman who loves him--a bad boy, a dangerous boy,
perhaps, but a boy, nevertheless. She may, and probably will, adore him
fiercely, passionately, jealously, but at the same time she will hover
him as a hen hovers her chick. He will be both son and lover to her."

He had listened closely, but now he stirred uneasily. "I don't follow
you," he said. "And it isn't exactly pleasant for a fellow to be told
that he's a baby Don Juan, to be called a male vampire in
knee-pants--especially by the woman he's going to marry." Disregarding
her attempt to speak, he went on: "What you said about other women--the
way you said it--sounded almost as if--well, as if you expected there
would be such, and didn't greatly care. You didn't mean it that way, I
hope. You do care, don't you, dear? You do love me?" The face Phillips
turned upon the Countess Courteau was earnest, worried.

Her fingers tightened over his hand. When she spoke there was a certain
listlessness, a certain fatigue in her tone. "Do you need to ask that
after--what happened just now? Of course I care. I care altogether too
much. That's the whole trouble. You see, the thing has run away with
me, Pierce; it has carried me off my feet, and--that's precisely the
point I'm trying to make."

He slipped an arm about her waist and drew her close. "I knew it wasn't
merely an animal appeal that stirred you. I knew it was something
bigger and more lasting than that."

"Even yet you don't understand," she declared. "The two may go together
and--" But without allowing her to finish he said, vibrantly:

"Whatever it is, you seem to find it an obstacle, an objection. Why
struggle against the inevitable? You ARE struggling--I've seen you
fighting something ever since that first night when truth came to us
out of the storm. But, Hilda dear, I adore you. You're the most
wonderful creature in the world! You're a goddess! I feel unworthy to
touch the hem of your garments, but I know--that you are mine! Nothing
else matters. Think of the miracle, the wonder of it! It's like a
beautiful dream. I've had doubts about myself, and that's why I've let
matters drift. You see, I was a sort of unknown quantity, but now I
know that I've found myself. To-day I went through hell and--I came out
a man. I'm going to play a man's part right along after this." He urged
her eagerly. "We've a hard trip ahead of us before we reach Dawson;
winter may overtake us and delay us. We can't continue in this way. Why
wait any longer?"

"You mean--?" the woman inquired, faintly.

"I mean this--marry me here, to-morrow."

"No, no! Please--" The Countess freed herself from Pierce's embrace.

"Why not? Are you afraid of me?" She shook her head silently.

"Then why not to-morrow instead of next month? Are you afraid of
yourself?"

"No, I'm afraid of-what I must tell you."

Phillips' eyes were dim with desire, he was ablaze with yearning; in a
voice that shook he said: "Don't tell me anything. I won't hear it!"
Then, after a brief struggle with himself, he continued, more evenly:
"That ought to prove to you that I've grown up. I couldn't have said it
three months ago, but I've stepped out of--of the nursery into a world
of big things and big people, and I want you. I dare say you've
lived--a woman like you must have had many experiences, many obstacles
to overcome; but--I might not understand what they were even if you
told me, for I'm pretty green. Anyhow, I'm sure you're good. I wouldn't
believe you if you told me you weren't. It's no credit to me that I
haven't confessions of my own to make, for I'm like other men and it
merely so happens that I've had no chance to-soil myself. The credit is
due to circumstance."

"Everything is due to circumstance," the woman said. "Our lives are
haphazard affairs; we're blown by chance--"

"We'll take a new start to-morrow and bury the past, whatever it is."

"You make it absolutely necessary for me to speak," the Countess told
him. Her tone again had a touch of weariness in it, but Pierce did not
see this. "I knew I'd have to, sooner or later, but it was nice to
drift and to dream--oh, it was pleasant--so I bit down on my tongue and
I listened to nothing but the song in my heart." She favored Pierce
with that shadowy, luminous smile he had come to know. "It was a clean,
sweet song and it meant a great deal to me." When he undertook to
caress her she drew away, then sat forward with her heels tucked close
into the pine boughs, her chin upon her knees. It was her favorite
attitude of meditation; wrapped thus in the embrace of her own arms,
she appeared to gain the strength and the determination necessary to go
on.

"I'm not a weak woman," she began, staring at the naked candle-flame
which gave light to the tent. "It wasn't weakness that impelled me to
marry a man I didn't love; it was the determination to get ahead and
the ambition to make something worth while out of myself--a form of
selfishness, perhaps, but I tell you all women are selfish. Anyhow, he
seemed to promise better things and to open a way whereby I could make
something out of my life. Instead of that he opened my eyes and showed
me the world as it is, not as I had imagined it to be. He was--no good.
You may think I was unhappy over that, but I wasn't. Really, he didn't
mean much to me. What did grieve me, though, was the death of my
illusions. He was mercenary--the fault of his training, I dare say--but
he had that man-call I spoke about. It's really a woman-call. He was
weak, worthless, full of faults, mean in small things, but he had an
attraction and it was impossible to resist mothering him. Other women
felt it and yielded to it, so finally we went our separate ways. I've
seen nothing of him for some time now, but he keeps in touch with me
and--I've sent him a good deal of money. When he learns that I have
prospered in a big way he'll undoubtedly turn up again."

Pierce weighed the significance of these words; then he smiled. "Dear,
it's all the more reason why we should be married at once. I'd dare him
to annoy you then."

"My boy, don't you understand? I can't marry you, being still married
to him."

Phillips recoiled; his face whitened. Dismay, reproach, a shocked
surprise were in the look he turned upon his companion.

"Still married!" he gasped. "Oh--Hilda!"

She nodded and lowered her eyes. "I supposed you knew--until I got to
telling you, and then it was too late."

Pierce rose; his lips now were as colorless as his cheeks. "I'm
surprised, hurt," he managed to say. "How should I know? Why, this is
wretched--rotten! People will say that I've got in a mess with a
married woman. That's what it looks like, too." His voice broke
huskily. "How could you do it, when I meant my love to be clean,
honorable? How could you let me put myself, and you, in such a
position?"

"You see!" The woman continued to avoid his eye. "You haven't grown up.
You haven't the least understanding."

"I understand this much," he cried, hotly, "that you've led me to make
something worse than a cad of myself. Look here! There are certain
things which no decent fellow goes in for--certain things he despises
in other men--and that's one of them." He turned as if to leave, then
he halted at the tent door and battled with himself. After a moment,
during which the Countess Courteau watched him fixedly, he whirled,
crying:

"Well, the damage is done. I love you. I can't go along without you.
Divorce that man. I'll wait."

"I'm not sure I have legal grounds for a divorce. I'm not sure that I
care to put the matter to a test--as yet."

"WHAT?" Pierce gazed at her, trying to understand. "Say that over
again!"

"You think you've found yourself, but--have you? I know men pretty well
and I think I know you. You've changed--yes, tremendously--but what of
a year, two years from now? You've barely tasted life and this is your
first intoxication."

"Do you love me, or do you not?" he demanded.

"I love you as you are now. I may hate you as you will be to-morrow.
I've had my growth; I've been through what you're just beginning--we
can't change together."

"Then will you promise to marry me afterward?"

The Countess shook her head. "It's a promise that would hold only me.
Why ask it?"

"You're thinking of no one but yourself," he protested, furiously.
"Think of me. I've given you all I have, all that's best and finest in
me. I shall never love another woman--"

"Not in quite the way you love me, perhaps, but the peach ripens even
after its bloom has been rubbed off. You HAVE given me what is best and
finest, your first love, and I shall cherish it."

"Will you marry me?" he cried, hoarsely. She made a silent refusal.

"Then I can put but one interpretation upon your actions."

"Don't be too hasty in your judgment. Can't you see? I was weak. I was
tired. Then you came, like a draught of wine, and--I lost my head. But
I've regained it. I dreamed my dream, but it's daylight now and I'm
awake. I know that you believe me a heartless, selfish woman. Maybe I
am, but I've tried to think for you, and to act on that good impulse. I
tell you I would have been quite incapable of it before I knew you. A
day, a month, a year of happiness! Most women of my age and experience
would snatch at it, but I'm looking farther ahead than that. I can't
afford another mistake. Life fits me, but you--why, you're bursting
your seams."

"You've puzzled me with a lot of words," the young man said, with
ever-growing resentment, "but what do they all amount to? You amused
yourself with me and you're ready enough to continue so long as I pour
my devotion at your feet. Well, I won't do it. If you loved me truly
you wouldn't refuse to marry me. Isn't that so? True love isn't afraid,
it doesn't quibble and temporize and split hairs the way you do. No, it
steps out boldly and follows the light. You've had your fun,
you've--broken my heart." Phillips' voice shook and he swallowed hard.
"I'm through; I'm done. I shall never love another woman as I love you,
but if what you said about that sex-call is true, I--I'll play the game
as you played it." He turned blindly and with lowered head plunged out
of the tent into the night.

The Countess listened to the sounds of his departing footsteps; then,
when they had ceased, she rose wearily and flung out her arms. There
was a real and poignant distress in her eyes.

"Boy! Boy!" she whispered. "It was sweet, but--there had to be an end."

For a long time she stood staring at nothing; then she roused herself
with a shiver, refilled the stove, and seated herself again, dropping
her chin upon her knees as she did instinctively when in deep thought.

"If only I were sure," she kept repeating to herself. "But he has the
call and--I'm too old."



CHAPTER XIII


Rouletta Kirby could not manage to get warm. The longer she sat beside
the stove the colder she became. This was not strange, for the room was
draughty, people were constantly coming in and going out, and when the
door was opened the wind caused the canvas walls of the saloon to bulge
and its roof to slap upon the rafters. The patrons were warmly clad in
mackinaw, flannel, and fur. To them the place was comfortable enough,
but to the girl who sat swathed in sodden undergarments it was like a
refrigerator. More than once she regretted her heedless refusal of the
Countess Courteau's offer of a change; several times, in fact, she was
upon the point of returning to claim it, but she shrank from facing
that wintry wind, so low had her vitality fallen. Then, too, she
reasoned that it would be no easy task to find the Countess at this
hour of the night, for the beach was lined with a mile of tents, all
more or less alike. She pictured the search, herself groping her way
from one to another, and mumbling excuses to surprised occupants. No,
it was better to stay here beside the fire until her clothes dried out.

She would have reminded her father of her discomfort and claimed his
assistance only for the certainty that he would send her off to bed,
which was precisely what she sought to prevent. Her presence irritated
him; nevertheless, she knew that his safety lay in her remaining. Sam
Kirby sober was in many ways the best of fathers; he was generous, he
was gentle, he was considerate. Sam Kirby drunk was another man
entirely--a thoughtless, wilful, cruel man, subject to vagaries of
temper that were as mysterious to the girl who knew him so well as they
were dangerous to friend and foe alike. He was drunk now, or in that
peculiar condition that passed with him for drunkenness. Intoxication
in his case was less a condition of body than a frame of mind, and it
required no considerable amount of liquor to work the change. Whisky,
even in small quantities, served to suspend certain of his mental
functions; it paralyzed one lobe of his brain, as it were, while it
aroused other faculties to a preternatural activity and awoke sleeping
devils in him. The more he drank the more violent became his
destructive mood, the more firmly rooted became his tendencies and
proclivities for evil. The girl well knew that this was an hour when he
needed careful watching and when to leave him unguarded, even
temporarily, meant disaster. Rouletta clenched her chattering teeth and
tried to ignore the chills that raced up and down her body.

White Horse, at this time, was purely a make-shift camp, hence it had
no facilities for gambling. The saloons themselves were little more
than liquor caches which had been opened overnight for the purpose of
reaping quick profits; therefore such games of chance as went on were
for the most part between professional gamblers who happened to be
passing through and who chose to amuse themselves in that way.

After perhaps an hour, during which a considerable crowd had come and
gone, Sam Kirby broke away from the group with which he had been
drinking and made for the door. As he passed Rouletta he paused to say:

"I'm going to drift around a bit, kid, and see if I can't stir up a
little game."

"Where are we going to put up for the night?" his daughter inquired.

"I don't know yet; it's early. Want to turn in?"

Rouletta shook her head.

"I'll find a place somewhere. Now you stick here where it's nice and
warm. I'll be back by and by."

With sinking heart the girl watched him go. After a moment she rose and
followed him out into the night. She was surprised to discover that the
mud under foot had frozen and that the north wind bore a burden of
fine, hard snow particles. Keeping well out of sight, she stumbled to
another saloon door, and then, after shivering wretchedly outside for a
while, she stole in and crept up behind the stove.

She was very miserable indeed by this time, and as the evening wore
slowly on her misery increased. After a while her father began shaking
dice with some strangers, and the size of their wagers drew an audience
of interested bystanders.

Rouletta realized that she should not have exposed herself anew to the
cold, for now her sensations had become vaguely alarming. She could not
even begin to get warm, except now and then when a burning fever
replaced her chill; she felt weak and ill inside; the fingers she
pressed to her aching temples were like icicles. Eventually--she had
lost all track of time--her condition became intolerable and she
decided to risk her father's displeasure by interrupting him and
demanding that he secure for both of them a lodging-place at once.

There were several bank-notes of large denomination on the plank
bar-top and Sam Kirby was watching a cast of dice when his daughter
approached; therefore he did not see her. Nor did he turn his head when
she laid a hand upon his arm.

Now women, especially pretty women, were common enough sights in
Alaskan drinking-places. So it was not strange that Rouletta's presence
had occasioned neither comment nor curiosity. More than once during the
last hour or two men had spoken to her with easy familiarity, but they
had taken no offense when she had turned her back. It was quite
natural, therefore, that the fellow with whom Kirby was gambling should
interpret her effort to claim attention as an attempt to interrupt the
game, and that he should misread the meaning of her imploring look.
There being considerable money at stake, he frowned down at her, then
with an impatient gesture he brushed her aside.

"None of that, sister!" he warned her. "You get out of here."

Sam Kirby was in the midst of a discussion with the proprietor, across
the bar, and because there was a deal of noise in the place he did not
hear his daughter's low-spoken protest.

"Oh, I mean it!" The former speaker scowled at Rouletta. "You dolls
make me sick, grabbing at every nickel you see. Beat it, now! There's
plenty of young suckers for you to trim. If you can't respect an old
man with gray hair, why--" The rest of his remark caused the girl's
eyes to widen and the chattering voices to fall silent.

Sam Kirby turned, the dice-box poised in his right hand.

"Eh? What's that?" he queried, vaguely.

"I'm talking to this pink-faced gold-digger--"

"Father!" Rouletta exclaimed.

"I'm just telling her--"

The fellow repeated his remark, whereupon understanding came to Kirby
and his expression slowly altered. Surprise, incredulity, gave place to
rage; his eyes began to blaze.

"You said that to--her?" he gasped, in amazement. "To my kid?" There
was a moment of tense silence during which the speaker appeared to be
numbed by the insult, then, "By God!" Sam placed the dice-box carefully
upon the bar. His movement was deliberate, but he kept his flaming gaze
fixed upon the object of his wrath, and into his lean, ashen
countenance came such demoniac fury as to appal those who saw it.

Rouletta uttered a faint moan and flung herself at her father; with a
strength born of terror she clung to his right wrist. In this she was
successful, despite old Sam's effort to shake her off, but she could
not imprison both his arms. Kirby stepped forward, dragging the girl
with him; he raised that wicked artificial left hand and brought it
sweeping downward, and for a second time that day the steel shaft met
flesh and bone. His victim spun upon his heels, then, with outflung
arms and an expression of shocked amazement still upon his face, he
crashed backward to the floor.

Kirby strode to him; before other hands could come to Rouletta's
assistance and bear him out of reach he twice buried his heavy
hobnailed boot in the prostrate figure. He presented a terrible
exhibition of animal ferocity, for he was growling oaths deep in his
throat and in his eyes was the light of murder. He fought for liberty
with which to finish his task, and those who restrained him found that
somehow he had managed to draw an ivory-handled six-shooter from some
place of concealment. Nor could they wrench the weapon away from him.

"He insulted my kid--my girl Letty!" Kirby muttered, hoarsely.

When the fallen man had been lifted to his feet and hurried out of the
saloon old Sam tried his best to follow, but his captors held him fast.
They pleaded with him, they argued, they pacified him as well as they
could. It was a long time, however, before they dared trust him alone
with Rouletta, and even then they turned watchful eyes in his direction.

"I didn't want anything to happen." The girl spoke listlessly.

Kirby began to rumble again, but she interrupted him. "It wasn't the
man's fault. It was a perfectly natural mistake on his part, and I've
learned to expect such things. I--I'm sick, dad. You must find a place
for me, quick."

Sam agreed readily enough. The biting cold of the wind met them at the
door. Rouletta, summoning what strength she could, trudged along at his
side. It did not take them long to canvass the town and to discover
that there were no lodgings to be had. Rouletta halted finally,
explaining through teeth that chattered:

"I--I'm frozen! Take me back where there's a stove--back to the
saloon--anywhere. Only do it quickly."

"Pshaw! It isn't cold," Kirby protested, mildly.

The nature of this remark showed more plainly than anything he had said
or done during the evening that the speaker was not himself. It
signified such a dreadful change in him, it marked so surely the extent
of his metamorphosis, that Rouletta's tears came.

"Looks like we'd have to make the best of it and stay awake till
morning," the father went on, dully.

"No, no! I'm too sick," the girl sobbed, "and too cold. Leave me where
I can keep warm; then go find the Countess and--ask her to put me up."

Returning to their starting-point, Kirby saw to his daughter's comfort
as best he could, after which he wandered out into the night once more.
His intentions were good, but he was not a little out of patience with
Letty and still very angry with the man who had affronted her; rage at
the insult glowed within his disordered brain and he determined, before
he had gone very far, that his first duty was to right that wrong.
Probably the miscreant was somewhere around, or, if not, he would soon
make his appearance. Sam decided to postpone his errand long enough to
look through the other drinking-places and to settle the score.

No one, on seeing him thus, would have suspected that he was drunk; he
walked straight, his tongue was obedient, and he was master of his
physical powers to a deceptive degree; only in his abnormally alert and
feverish eyes was there a sign that his brain was completely crazed.

Rouletta waited for a long while, and steadily her condition grew
worse. She became light-headed, and frequently lost herself in a sort
of painful doze. She did not really sleep, however, for her eyes were
open and staring; her wits wandered away on nightmare journeys,
returning only when the pains became keener. Her fever was high now;
she was nauseated, listless; her chest ached and her breathing troubled
her when she was conscious enough to think. Her surroundings became
unreal, too, the faces that appeared and disappeared before her were
the faces of dream figures.

Unmindful of his daughter's need, heedless of the passage of time, Sam
Kirby loitered about the saloons and waited patiently for the coming of
a certain man. After a time he bought some chips and sat in a poker
game, but he paid less attention to the spots on his cards than to the
door through which men came and went. These latter he eyed with the
unblinking stare of a serpent.

Pierce Phillips' life was ruined. He was sure of it. Precisely what
constituted a ruined life, just how much such a one differed from a
successful life, he had only the vaguest idea, but his own, at the
moment, was tasteless, spoiled. Dire consequences were bound to follow
such a tragedy as this, so he told himself, and he looked forward with
gloomy satisfaction to their realization; whatever they should prove to
be, however terrible the fate that was to overtake him, the guilt, the
responsibility therefor, lay entirely upon the heartless woman who had
worked the evil, and he earnestly hoped they would be brought home to
her.

Yes, the Countess Courteau was heartless, wicked, cruel. Her
unsuspected selfishness, her lack of genuine sentiment, her cool,
calculating caution, were shocking. Pierce had utterly misread her at
first; that was plain.

That he was really hurt, deeply distressed, sorely aggrieved, was true
enough, for his love--infatuation, if you will--was perfectly genuine
and exceedingly vital. Nothing is more real, more vital, than a normal
boy's first infatuation, unless it be the first infatuation of a girl;
precisely wherein it differs from the riper, less demonstrative
affection that comes with later years and wider experience is not
altogether plain. Certainly it is more spontaneous, more poignant;
certainly it has in it equal possibilities for good or evil. How deep
or how disfiguring the scar it leaves depends entirely upon the healing
process. But, for that matter, the same applies to every heart affair.

Had Phillips been older and wiser he would not have yielded so readily
to despair; experience would have taught him that a woman's "No" is not
a refusal; wisdom would have told him that the absolute does not exist.
But, being neither experienced nor wise, he mistook the downfall of his
castle for the wreck of the universe, and it never occurred to him that
he could salvage something, or, if need be, rebuild upon the same
foundations.

What he could neither forget nor forgive at this moment was the fact
that Hilda had not only led him to sacrifice his honor, or its
appearance, but also that when he had managed to reconcile himself to
that wrong she had lacked the courage to meet him half-way. There were
but two explanations of her action: either she was weak and cowardly or
else she did not love him. Neither afforded much consolation.

In choosing a course of conduct no man is strong enough to divorce
himself entirely from his desires, to follow the light of pure reason,
for memories, impulses, yearnings are bound to bring confusion.
Although Pierce told himself that he must renounce this woman--that he
had renounced her--nevertheless he recalled with a thrill the touch of
her bare arms and the perfume of her streaming golden hair as he had
buried his face in it, and the keenness of those memories caused him to
cry out. The sex-call had been stronger than he had realized;
therefore, to his present grief was added an inescapable, almost
irresistible feeling of physical distress--a frenzy of balked
desire--which caused him to waver irresolutely, confusing the issue
dreadfully.

For a long time he wandered through the night, fighting his animal and
his spiritual longings, battling with irresolution, striving to
reconcile himself to the crash that had overwhelmed him. More than once
he was upon the point of rushing back to the woman and pouring out the
full tide of his passion in a desperate attempt to sweep away her
doubts and her apprehensions. What if she should refuse to respond? He
would merely succeed in making himself ridiculous and in sacrificing
what little appearance of dignity he retained. Thus pride prevented,
uncertainty paralyzed him.

Some women, it seemed to him, not bad in themselves, were born to work
evil, and evidently Hilda was one of them. She had done her task well
in this instance, for she had thoroughly blasted his life! He would
pretend to forget, but nevertheless he would see to it that she was
undeceived, and that the injury she had done him remained an
ever-present reproach to her. That would be his revenge. Real
forgetfulness, of course, was out of the question. How could he assume
such an attitude? As he pondered the question he remembered that there
were artificial aids to oblivion. Ruined men invariably took to drink.
Why shouldn't he attempt to drown his sorrows? After all, might there
not be real and actual relief in liquor? After consideration he decided
to try it.

From a tent saloon near by came the sounds of singing and of laughter,
and thither he turned his steps. When he entered the place a lively
scene greeted him. Somehow or other a small portable organ had been
secured, and at this a bearded fellow in a mackinaw coat was seated. He
was playing a spirited accompaniment for two women, sisters, evidently,
who sang with the loud abandon of professional "coon shouters." Other
women were present, and Phillips recognized them as members of that
theatrical troupe he had seen at Sheep Camp--as those "actresses" to
whom Tom Linton had referred with such elaborate sarcasm. All of them,
it appeared, were out for a good time, and in consequence White Horse
was being treated to a free concert.

The song ended in a burst of laughter and applause, the men at the bar
pounded with their glasses, and there was a general exodus in that
direction. One of the sisters flung herself enthusiastically upon the
volunteer organist and dragged him with her. There was much hilarity
and a general atmosphere of license and unrestraint.

Phillips looked on moodily; he frowned, his lip curled. All the world
was happy, it seemed, while he nursed a broken heart. Well, that was in
accord with the scheme of things--life was a mad, topsy-turvy affair at
best, and there was nothing stable about any part of it. He felt very
grim, very desperate, very much abused and very much outside of all
this merriment.

Men were playing cards at the rear of the saloon, and among the number
was Sam Kirby. The old gambler showed no signs of his trying experience
of the afternoon; in fact, it appeared to have been banished utterly
from his mind. He was drinking, and even while Pierce looked on he
rapped sharply with his iron hand to call the bartender's attention.
Meanwhile he scanned intently the faces of all new-comers.

When the crowd had surged back to the organ Pierce found a place at the
bar and called for a drink of whisky--the first he had ever ordered.
This was the end he told himself.

He poured the glass nearly full, then he gulped the liquor down. It
tasted much as it smelled, hence he derived little enjoyment from the
experience. As he stripped a bill from his sizable roll of bank-notes
the bartender eyed him curiously and seemed upon the point of speaking,
but Pierce turned his shoulder.

After perhaps five minutes the young man acknowledged a vague
disappointment; if this was intoxication there was mighty little
satisfaction in it, he decided, and no forgetfulness whatever. He was
growing dizzy, to be sure, but aside from that and from the fact that
his eyesight was somewhat uncertain he could feel no unusual effect.
Perhaps he expected too much; perhaps, also, he had drunk too
sparingly. Again he called for the bottle, again he filled his glass,
again he carelessly displayed his handful of paper currency.

Engaged thus, he heard a voice close to his ear; it said:

"Hello, man!"

Pierce turned to discover that a girl was leaning with elbows upon the
plank counter at his side and looking at him. Her chin was supported
upon her clasped fingers; she was staring into his face.

She eyed him silently for a moment, during which he returned her
unsmiling gaze. She dropped her eyes to the whisky-glass, then raised
them again to his.

"Can you take a drink like that and not feel it?" she inquired.

"No. I want to feel it; that's why I take it," he said, gruffly.

"What's the idea?"

"Idea? Well, it's my own idea--my own business."

The girl took no offense; she maintained her curious observation of
him; she appeared genuinely interested in acquainting herself with a
man who could master such a phenomenal quantity of liquor. There was
mystification in her tone when she said:

"But--I saw you come in alone. And now you're drinking alone."

"Is that a reproach? I beg your pardon." Pierce swept her a mocking
bow. "What will you have?"

Without removing her chin from its resting-place, the stranger shook
her head shortly, so he downed his beverage as before. The girl watched
him interestedly as he paid for it.

"That's more money than I've seen in a month," said she. "I wouldn't be
so free and easy with it, if I were you."

"No? Why not?"

She merely shrugged, and continued to study him with that same
disconcerting intentness--she reminded him of a frank and curious child.

Pierce noticed now that she was a very pretty girl, and quite
appropriately dressed, under the circumstances. She wore a boy's suit,
with a short skirt over her knickerbockers, and, since she was slim,
the garments added to her appearance of immaturity. Her face was oval
in outline, and it was of a perfectly uniform olive tint; her eyes were
large and black and velvety, their lashes were long, their lids were
faintly smudged with a shadowy under-coloring that magnified their size
and intensified their brilliance. Her hair was almost black,
nevertheless it was of fine texture; a few unruly strands had escaped
from beneath her fur cap and they clouded her brow and temples. At
first sight she appeared to be foreign, and of that smoky type commonly
associated with the Russian idea of beauty, but she was not foreign,
not Russian; nor were her features predominantly racial.

"What's your name?" she asked, suddenly.

Pierce told her. "And yours?" he inquired.

"Laure."

"Laure what?"

"Just Laure--for the present."

"Humph! You're one of this--theatrical company, I presume." He
indicated the singers across the room.

"Yes. Morris Best hired us to work in his place at Dawson."

"I remember your outfit at Sheep Camp. Best was nearly crazy--"

"He's crazier now than ever." Laure smiled for the first time and her
face lit up with mischief. "Poor Morris! We lead him around by his big
nose. He's deathly afraid he'll lose us, and we know it, so we make his
life miserable." She turned serious abruptly, and with a candor quite
startling said, "I like you."

"Indeed!" Pierce was nonplussed.

The girl nodded. "You looked good to me when you came in. Are you going
to Dawson?"

"Of course. Everybody is going to Dawson."

"I suppose you have partners?"

"No!" Pierce's face darkened. "I'm alone--very much alone." He
undertook to speak in a hollow, hopeless tone.

"Big outfit?"

"None at all. But I have enough money for my needs and--I'll probably
hook up with somebody." Now there was a brave but cheerless resignation
in his words.

Laure pondered for a moment; even more carefully than before she
studied her companion. That the result satisfied her she made plain by
saying:

"Morris wants men. I can get him to hire you. Would you like to hook up
with us?"

"I don't know. It doesn't much matter. Will you have something to drink
now?"

"Why should I? They don't give any percentage here. Wait! I'll see
Morris and tell you what he says." Leaving Pierce, the speaker hurried
to a harassed little man of Hebraic countenance who was engaged in the
difficult task of chaperoning this unruly aggregation of talent. To him
she said:

"I've found a man for you, Morris."

"Man?"

"To go to Dawson with us. That tall, good-looking fellow at the bar."

Mr. Best was bewildered. "What ails you?" he queried. "I don't want any
men, and you know it."

"You want this fellow, and you're going to hire him."

"Am I? What makes you think so?"

"Because it's--him or me," Laure said, calmly.

Mr. Best was both surprised and angered at this cool announcement. "You
mean, I s'pose, that you'll quit," he said, belligerently.

"I mean that very thing. The man has money--"

Best's anger disappeared as if by magic; his tone became apologetic.
"Oh! Why didn't you say so? If he'll pay enough, and if you want him,
why, of course--"

Laure interrupted with an unexpected dash of temper. "He isn't going to
pay you anything: you're going to pay him--top wages, too. Understand?"

The unhappy recipient of this ultimatum raised his hands in a gesture
of despair. "Himmel! There's no understanding you girls! There's no
getting along with you, either. What's on your mind, eh? Are you after
him or his coin?"

"I--don't know." Laure was gazing at Phillips with a peculiar
expression. "I'm not sure. Maybe I'm after both. Will you be good and
hire him, or--"

"Oh, you've got me!" Best declared, with frank resentment. "If you want
him, I s'pose I'll have to get him for you, but"--he muttered an oath
under his breath--"you'll ruin me. Oy! Oy! I'll be glad when you're all
in Dawson and at work."

After some further talk the manager approached Phillips and made
himself known. "Laure tells me you want to join our troupe," he began.

"I'll see that he pays you well," the girl urged. "Come on."

Phillips' thoughts were not quite clear, but, even so, the situation
struck him as grotesquely amusing. "I'm no song-and-dance man," he
said, with a smile. "What would you expect me to do? Play a mandolin?"

"I don't know exactly," Best replied. "Maybe you could help me ride
herd on these Bernhardts." He ran a hand through his thin black hair,
thinner now by half than when he left the States. "If you could do
that, why--you could save my reason."

"He wants you to be a Simon Legree," Laure explained.

The manager seconded this statement by a nod of his head. "Sure! Crack
the whip over 'em. Keep 'em in line. Don't let 'em get married. I
thought I was wise to hire good-lookers, but--I was crazy. They smile
and they make eyes and the men fight for 'em. They steal 'em away. I've
had a dozen battles and every time I've been licked. Already four of my
girls are gone. If I lose four more I can't open; I'll be ruined. Oy!
Such a country! Every day a new love-affair; every day more trouble--"

Laure threw back her dark head and laughed in mischievous delight.
"It's a fact," she told Pierce. "The best Best gets is the worst of it.
He's not our manager, he's our slave; we have lots of fun with him."
Stepping closer to the young man, she slipped her arm within his and,
looking up into his face, said, in a low voice: "I knew I could fix it,
for I always have my way. Will you go?" When he hesitated she repeated:
"Will you go with me or--shall I go with you?"

Phillips started. His brain was fogged and he had difficulty in
focusing his gaze upon the eager, upturned face of the girl;
nevertheless, he appreciated the significance of this audacious inquiry
and there came to him the memory of his recent conversation with the
Countess Courteau. "Why do you say that?" he queried, after a moment.
"Why do you want me to go?"

Laure's eyes searched his; there was an odd light in them, and a
peculiar intensity which he dimly felt but scarcely understood. "I
don't know," she confessed. She was no longer smiling, and, although
her gaze remained hypnotically fixed upon his, she seemed to be
searching her own soul. "I don't know," she said again, "but you have
a--call."

In spite of this young woman's charms, and they were numerous enough,
Phillips was not strongly drawn to her; resentment, anger, his rankling
sense of injury, all these left no room for other emotions. That she
was interested in him he still had sense enough to perceive; her
amazing proposal, her unmistakable air of proprietorship, showed that
much, and in consequence a sort of malicious triumph arose within him.
Here, right at hand, was an agency of forgetfulness, more potent by far
than the one to which he had first turned. Dangerous? Yes. But his life
was ruined. What difference, then, whether oblivion came from alcohol
or from the drug of the poppy? Deliberately he shut his ears to inner
warnings; he raised his head defiantly.

"I'll go," said he.

"We leave at daylight," Best told him.



CHAPTER XIV


With 'Poleon Doret to be busy was to be contented, and these were busy
times for him. His daily routine, with trap and gun, had made of him an
early riser and had bred in him a habit of greeting the sun with a
song. It was no hardship for him, therefore, to cook his breakfast by
candle-light, especially now that the days were growing short. On the
morning after his rescue of Sam Kirby and his daughter 'Poleon washed
his dishes and cut his wood; then, finding that there was still an hour
to spare before the light would be sufficient to run Miles Canon, he
lit his pipe and strolled up to the village. The ground was now white,
for considerable snow had fallen during the night; the day promised to
be extremely short and uncomfortable. 'Poleon, however, was impervious
to weather of any sort; his good humor was not dampened in the least.

Even at this hour the saloons were well patronized, for not only was
the camp astir, but also the usual stale crowd of all-night loiterers
was not yet sufficiently intoxicated to go to bed. As 'Poleon neared
the first resort, the door opened and a woman emerged. She was
silhouetted briefly against the illumination from within, and the pilot
was surprised to recognize her as Rouletta Kirby. He was upon the point
of speaking to her when she collided blindly with a man who had
preceded him by a step or two.

The fellow held the girl for an instant and helped her to regain her
equilibrium, exclaiming, with a laugh: "Say! What's the matter with
you, sister? Can't you see where you're going?" When Rouletta made no
response the man continued in an even friendlier tone, "Well, I can
see; my eyesight's good, and it tells me you're about the best-looking
dame I've run into to-night." Still laughing, he bent his head as if to
catch the girl's answer. "Eh? I don't get you. Who d'you say you're
looking for?"

'Poleon was frankly puzzled. He resented this man's tone of easy
familiarity and, about to interfere, he was restrained by Rouletta's
apparent indifference. What ailed the girl? It was too dark to make out
her face, but her voice, oddly changed and unnatural, gave him cause
for wonderment. Could it be--'Poleon's half-formed question was
answered by the stranger who cried, in mock reproach: "Naughty!
Naughty! You've had a little too much, that's what's the matter with
you. Why, you need a guardeen." Taking Rouletta by the shoulders, the
speaker turned her about so that the dim half-light that filtered
through the canvas wall of the tent saloon shone full upon her face.

'Poleon saw now that the girl was indeed not herself; there was a
childish, vacuous expression upon her face; she appeared to be dazed
and to comprehend little of what the man was saying. This was proved by
her blank acceptance of his next insinuating words: "Say, it's lucky I
stumbled on to you. I been up all night and so have you. S'pose we get
better acquainted. What?"

Rouletta offered no objection to this proposal; the fellow slipped an
arm about her and led her away, meanwhile pouring a confidential murmur
into her ear. They had proceeded but a few steps when 'Poleon Doret
strode out of the gloom and laid a heavy hand upon the man.

"My frien'," he demanded, brusquely, "w'ere you takin' dis lady?"

"Eh?" The fellow wheeled sharply. "What's the idea? What is she to you?"

"She ain't not'in' to me. But I seen you plenty tams an'--you ain't no
good."

Rouletta spoke intelligibly for the first time: "I've no place to
go--no place to sleep. I'm very--tired."

"There you've got it," the girl's self-appointed protector grinned.
"Well, I happen to have room for her in my tent." As Doret's fingers
sank deeper into his flesh the man's anger rose; he undertook to shake
off the unwelcome grasp. "You leggo! You mind your own business--"

"Dis goin' be my biznesse," 'Poleon announced. "Dere's somet'ing fonny
'bout dis--"

"Don't get funny with me. I got as much right to her as you have--"
'Poleon jerked the man off his feet, then flung him aside as if he were
unclean. His voice was hoarse with disgust when he cried:

"Get out! Beat it! By Gar! You ain't fit for touch decent gal. You spik
wit' her again, I tear you in two piece!"

Turning to Rouletta he said, "Mam'selle, you lookin' for your papa, eh?"

Miss Kirby was clasping and unclasping her fingers, her face was
strained, her response came in a mutter so low that 'Poleon barely
caught it:

"Danny's gone--gone--Dad, he's--No use fighting it--It's the drink--and
there's nothing I can do."

It was 'Poleon's turn to take the girl by the shoulders and wheel her
about for a better look at her face. A moment later he led her back
into the saloon. She was so oddly obedient, so docile, so
unquestioning, that he realized something was greatly amiss. He laid
his hand against her flushed cheek and found it to be burning hot,
whereupon he hastily consulted the nearest bystanders. They agreed with
him that the girl was indeed ill--more than that, she was half
delirious.

"Sacre! Wat's she doin' roun' a saloon lak dis?" he indignantly
demanded. "How come she's gettin' up biffore daylight, eh?"

It was the bartender who made plain the facts: "She 'ain't been to bed
at all, Frenchy. She's been up all night, ridin' herd on old Sam Kirby.
He's drinkin', understand? He tried to get some place for her to stay,
along about midnight, but there wasn't any. She's been settin' there
alongside of the stove for the last few hours and I been sort of
keepin' an eye on her for Sam's sake."

Doret breathed an oath. "Dat's nice fader she's got! I wish I let 'im
drown."

"Oh, he ain't exactly to blame. He's on a bender--like to of killed a
feller in here. Somebody'd ought to take care of this girl till he
sobers up."

During this conference Rouletta stood quivering, her face a blank,
completely indifferent to her surroundings. 'Poleon made her sit down,
and but for her ceaseless whispering she might have been in a trance.

Doret's indignation mounted as the situation became plain to him.

"Fine t'ing!" he angrily declared. "Wat for you fellers leave dis seeck
gal settin' up, eh? Me, I come jus' in tam for catch a loafer makin'
off wit' her." Again he swore savagely. "Dere's some feller ain't wort'
killin'. Wal, I got good warm camp; I tak' her dere, den I fin' dis
fader."

"Sam won't be no good to you. What she needs is a doctor, and she needs
him quick," the bartender averred.

"Eh bien! I fin' him, too! Mam'selle"--'Poleon turned to the
girl--"you're bad seeck, dat's fac'. You care for stop in my tent?" The
girl stared up at him blankly, uncomprehendingly; then, drawn doubtless
by the genuine concern in his troubled gaze, she raised her hand and
placed it in his. She left it there, the small fingers curling about
his big thumb like those of a child. "Poor li'l bird!" The woodsman's
brow puckered, a moisture gathered in his eyes. "Dis is hell, for sure.
Come, den, ma petite, I fin' a nes' for you." He raised her to her
feet; then, removing his heavy woolen coat, he placed it about her
frail shoulders. When she was snugly buttoned inside of it he led her
out into the dim gray dawn; she went with him obediently.

As they breasted the swirling snowflakes Doret told himself that,
pending Sam Kirby's return to sanity, this sick girl needed a woman's
care quite as much as a doctor's; naturally his thoughts turned to the
Countess Courteau. Of all the women in White Horse, the Countess alone
was qualified to assume charge of an innocent child like this, and he
determined to call upon her as soon as he had summoned medical
assistance.

When, without protest, Rouletta followed him into his snug
living-quarters, Doret thought again of the ruffian from whom he had
rescued her and again he breathed a malediction. The more fully he
became aware of the girl's utter helplessness the angrier he grew, and
the more criminal appeared her father's conduct. White Horse made no
pretense at morality; it was but a relay station, a breathing-point
where the mad rush to the Klondike paused; there was neither law nor
order here; the women who passed through were, for the most part,
shameless creatures; the majority of the men were unruly, unresponsive
to anything except an appeal to their animal appetites. Sympathy,
consideration, chivalry had all but vanished in the heat of the great
stampede. That Sam Kirby should have abandoned his daughter to such as
these was incredible, criminal. Mere intoxication did not excuse it,
and 'Poleon vowed he would give the old man a piece of his mind at the
first opportunity.

His tent was still warm; a few sticks of dry spruce caused the little
stove to grow red; he helped Rouletta to lie down upon his bed, then he
drew his blankets over her.

"You stay here li'l while, eh?" He rested a comforting hand upon her
shoulder. "'Poleon goin' find your papa now. Bimeby you goin' feel
better."

He was not sure that she understood him, for she continued to mutter
under her breath and began to roll her head as if in pain. Then he
summoned all the persuasiveness he could. "Dere now, you're safe in
'Poleon's house; he mak' you well dam' queeck."

A good many people were stirring when the pilot climbed once more to
the stumpy clearing where the village stood, and whomsoever he met he
questioned regarding Sam Kirby; it did not take him long to discover
the latter's whereabouts. But 'Poleon's delay, brief as it had been,
bore tragic consequences. Had he been a moment or two earlier he might
have averted a catastrophe of far-reaching effect, one that had a
bearing upon many lives.

The Gold Belt Saloon had enjoyed a profitable all-night patronage; less
than an hour previously Morris Best had rounded up the last of his gay
song-birds and put an end to their carnival. The poker game, however,
was still in progress at the big round table. Already numerous early
risers were hurrying in to fortify themselves against the raw day just
breaking, and among these last-named, by some evil whim of fate,
chanced to be the man for whom Sam Kirby had so patiently waited. The
fellow had not come seeking trouble--no one who knew the one-armed
gambler's reputation sought trouble with him--but, learning that Kirby
was still awake and in a dangerous mood, he had entered the Gold Belt
determined to protect himself in case of eventualities.

Doret was but a few seconds behind the man, but those few seconds were
fateful. As the pilot stepped into the saloon he beheld a sight that
was enough to freeze him motionless. The big kerosene lamps, swung from
the rafter braces above, shed over the interior a peculiar sickly
radiance, yellowed now by reason of the pale morning light outside.
Beneath one of the lamps a tableau was set. Sam Kirby and the man he
had struck the night before were facing each other in the center of the
room, and Doret heard the gambler cry:

"I've been laying for you!"

Kirby's usually impassive face was a sight; it was fearfully contorted;
it was the countenance of a maniac. His words were loud and uncannily
distinct, and the sound of them had brought a breathless hush over the
place. At the moment of Doret's entrance the occupants of the saloon
seemed petrified; they stood rooted in their tracks as if the anger in
that menacing voice had halted them in mid-action. 'Poleon, too, turned
cold, for it seemed to him that he had opened the door upon a roomful
of wax figures posed in theatric postures. Then in the flash of an eye
the scene dissolved into action, swift and terrifying.

What happened was so unexpected, it came with such a lack of warning,
that few of the witnesses, even though they beheld every move, were
able later to agree fully upon details. Whether Kirby actually fired
the first shot, or whether his attempt to do so spurred his antagonist
to lightning quickness, was long a matter of dispute. In a flash the
room became a place of deafening echoes. Shouts of protest, yells of
fright, the crash of overturning furniture, the stamp of fleeing feet
mingled with the loud explosion of gunshots--pandemonium.

Fortunately the troupe of women who had been here earlier were gone and
the tent was by no means crowded. Even so, there were enough men
present to raise a mighty turmoil. Some of them took shelter behind the
bar, others behind the stove and the tables; some bolted headlong for
the door; still others hurled themselves bodily against the canvas
walls and ripped their way out.

The duel was over almost as quickly as it had begun. Sam Kirby's
opponent reeled backward and fetched up against the bar; above the din
his hoarse voice rose:

"He started it! You saw him! Tried to kill me!"

He waved a smoking pistol-barrel at the gambler, who had sunk to his
knees. Even while he was shouting out his plea for justification Kirby
slid forward upon his face and the fingers of his outstretched hand
slowly unloosed themselves from his gun.

It had been a shocking, a sickening affair; the effect of it had been
intensified by reason of its unexpectedness, and now, although it was
over, excitement gathered fury. Men burst forth from their places of
concealment and made for the open air; the structure vomited its
occupants out into the snow.

'Poleon Doret had been swept aside, then borne backward ahead of that
stampede, and at length found himself wedged into a corner. He heard
the victor repeating: "You saw him. Tried to kill me!" The speaker
turned a blanched face and glaring eyes upon those witnesses who still
remained. "He's Sam Kirby. I had to get him or he'd have got me." He
pressed a hand to his side, then raised it; it was smeared with blood.
In blank stupefaction the man stared at this phenomenon.

Doret was the first to reach that motionless figure sprawled face down
upon the floor; it was he who lifted the gray head and spoke Kirby's
name. A swift examination was enough to make quite sure that the old
man was beyond all help. Outside, curiosity had done its work and the
human tide was setting back into the wrecked saloon. When 'Poleon rose
with the body in his arms he was surrounded by a clamorous crowd.
Through it he bore the limp figure to the cloth-covered card-table, and
there, among the scattered emblems of Sam Kirby's calling, 'Poleon
deposited his burden. By those cards and those celluloid disks the old
gambler had made his living; grim fitness was in the fact that they
should carpet his bier.

When 'Poleon Doret had forced his way by main strength out of the Gold
Belt Saloon, he removed his cap and, turning his face to the wind, he
breathed deeply of the cool, clean air. His brow was moist; he let the
snowflakes fall upon it the while he shut his eyes and strove to think.
Engaged thus, he heard Lucky Broad address him.

With the speaker was Kid Bridges; that they had come thither on the run
was plain, for they were panting.

"What's this about Kirby?" Lucky gasped.

"We heard he's just been croaked!" the Kid exclaimed.

'Poleon nodded. "I seen it all. He had it comin' to him," and with a
gesture he seemed to brush a hideous picture from before his eyes.

"Old Sam! DEAD!"

Broad, it seemed, was incredulous. He undertook to bore his way into
the crowd that was pressing through the saloon door, but Doret seized
him.

"Wait!" cried the latter. "Dat ain't all; dat ain't de worst."

"Say! Where's Letty?" Bridges inquired. "Was she with him when it
happened? Does she know--"

"Dat's w'at I'm goin' tell you." In a few words 'Poleon made known the
girl's condition, how he had happened to encounter her, and how he had
been looking for her father when the tragedy occurred. His listeners
showed their amazement and their concern.

"Gosh! That's tough!" It was Broad speaking. "Me 'n' the Kid had struck
camp and was on our way down to fix up our boat when we heard about the
killin'. We couldn't believe it, for Sam--"

"Seems like it was a waste of effort to save that outfit," Bridges
broke in. "Sam dead and Letty dyin'--all in this length of time! She's
a good kid; she's goin' to feel awful. Who's goin' to break the news to
her?"

"I don' know." 'Poleon frowned in deep perplexity. "Dere's doctor in
dere now," he nodded toward the Gold Belt. "I'm goin' tak' him to her,
but she mus' have woman for tak' care of her. Mebbe Madame la
Comtesse--"

"Why, the Countess is gone! She left at daylight. Me 'n' the Kid are to
follow as soon as we get our skiff fixed."

"Gone?"

"Sure!"

"Sacre! De one decent woman in dis place, Wal!" 'Poleon shrugged. "Dose
dance-hall gal' is got good heart--"

"Hell! They pulled out ahead of our gang Best ran his boats through the
White Horse late yesterday and he was off before it was light. I know,
because Phillips told me. He's joined out with 'em--blew in early and
got his war-bag. He left the Countess flat."

Doret was dumfounded at this news and he showed his dismay.

"But--dere's no more women here!" he stammered. "Dat young lady she's
seeck; she mus' be nurse'. By Gar! Who's goin' do it, eh?"

The three of them were anxiously discussing the matter when they were
joined by the doctor to whom 'Poleon had referred. "I've done all there
is to do here," the physician announced. "Now about Kirby's daughter.
You say she's delirious?" The pilot nodded. He told of Rouletta's
drenching on the afternoon previous and of the state in which he had
just found her. "Jove! Pneumonia, most likely. It sounds serious, and
I'm afraid I can't do much. You see I'm all ready to go, but--of course
I'll do what I can."

"Who's goin' nurse her?" 'Poleon demanded for a second time. "Dere
ain't no women in dis place."

The physician shook his head. "Who indeed? It's a wretched situation!
If she's as ill as you seem to think, why, we'll have to do the best we
can, I suppose. She probably won't last long. Come!" Together he and
the French Canadian hurried away.



CHAPTER XV


It was afternoon when Lucky Broad and Kid Bridges came to 'Poleon
Doret's tent and called its owner outside.

"We're hitched up and ready to say 'gid-dap,' but we came back to see
how Letty's getting along," the former explained.

'Poleon shook his head doubtfully; his face was grave. "She's bad
seeck."

"Does she know about old Sam?"

"She ain't know not'in'. She's crazee altogether. Poor li'l gal, she's
jus' lak baby. I'm scare' as hell."

The confidence-men stared at each other silently; then they stared at
Doret. "What we goin' to do about it?" the Kid inquired, finally.

'Poleon was at a loss for an answer; he made no secret of his anxiety.
"De doctor say she mus' stay right here--"

"HERE?"

"He say if she get cold once more--pouf! She die lak dat! Plenty fire,
plenty blanket, medicine every hour, dat's all. I'm prayin' for come
along some woman--any kin' of woman at all--I don' care if she's squaw."

"There ain't any skirts back of us. Best's outfit was the last to leave
Linderman. There won't be any more till after the freeze-up."

"Eh bien! Den I s'pose I do de bes' I can. She's poor seeck gal in
beeg, cold countree wit' no frien's, no money--"

"No money?" Broad was startled. "Why, Sam was 'fat'! He had a
bank-roll--"

"He lose five t'ousan' dollar' playin' card las' night. Less 'n eighty
dollar' dey lef' him. Eighty dollar' an'--dis." From the pocket of his
mackinaw 'Poleon drew Kirby's revolver, that famous single-action
six-shooter, the elaborate ivory grip of which was notched in several
places. Broad and his partner eyed the weapon with intense interest.

"That's Agnes, all right!" the former declared. "And that's where old
Sam kept his books." He ran his thumb-nail over the significant
file-marks on the handle. "Looks like an alligator had bit it."

Bridges was even more deeply impressed by the announcement of Kirby's
losses than was his partner. "Sam must of been easy pickin', drunk like
that. He was a gamblin' fool when he was right, but I s'pose he
couldn't think of nothin' except fresh meat for Agnes. Letty had him
tagged proper, and I bet she'd of saved him if she hadn't of gone off
her nut. D'you think she's got a chance?"

"For get well?" 'Poleon shrugged his wide shoulders. "De doctor say
it's goin' be hard pull. He's goin' stay so long he can, den--wal,
mebbe 'noder doctor come along. I hope so."

"If she does win out, then what?" Broad inquired.

'Poleon considered the question. "I s'pose I tak' her back to Dyea an'
send her home. I got some dog."

Lucky studied the speaker curiously; there was a peculiar hostile gleam
in his small, colorless eyes. "Medicine every hour, and a steady fire,
you say. You don't figger to get much sleep, do you?"

"Non. No. But me, I'm strong feller; I can sleep hangin' up by de ear
if I got to."

"What's the big idea?"

"Eh?" Doret was frankly puzzled. "Wat you mean, 'beeg idea'?"

"What d'you expect to get out of all this?"

"M'sieu'!" The French Canadian's face flushed, he raised his head and
met the gaze of the two men. There was an air of dignity about him as
he said: "Dere's plenty t'ing in dis worl' we don' get pay' for. You
didn't 'spect no pay yesterday when you run de W'ite 'Orse for save dis
gal an' her papa, did you? No. Wal, I'm woodsman, river-man; I ain't
dam' stampeder. Dis is my countree, we're frien's together long tam; I
love it an' it loves me. I love de birds and hanimals, an' dey're
frien's wit' me also. 'Bout spring-tam, w'en de grub she's short, de
Canada jays dey come to visit me, an' I feed dem; sometam' I fin'
dere's groun-squirrel's nest onder my tent, an' mebbe mister squirrel
creep out of his hole, t'inkin' summer is come. Dat feller he's hongry;
he steal my food an' he set 'longside my stove for eat him. You t'ink I
hurt dose he'pless li'l t'ing? You s'pose I mak' dem pay for w'at dey
eat?"

'Poleon was soaring as only his free soul could soar; he indicated the
tent at his back, whence issued the sound of Rouletta Kirby's ceaseless
murmurings.

"Dis gal--she's tiny snowbird wit' broken wing. Bien! I fix her wing de
bes' I can. I mak' her well an' I teach her to fly again. Dat's all."
Broad and Bridges had listened attentively, their faces impassive.
Lucky was the first to speak.

"Letty's a good girl, y'understand. She's different to these others--"

'Poleon interrupted with a gesture of impatience. "It ain't mak' no
difference if she's good or bad. She's seeck."

"Me 'n' the Kid have done some heavy thinkin', an' we'd about decided
to get a high stool and take turns lookin' out Letty's game, just to
see that her bets went as they laid, but I got a hunch you're a square
guy. What D'YOU think, Kid?"

Mr. Bridges nodded his head slowly. "I got the same hunch. The point is
this," he explained. "We can't very well throw the Countess--we got
some of her outfit--and, anyhow, we'd be about as handy around an
invalid as a coupla cub bears. I think we'll bow out. But,
Frenchy"--the gambler spoke with intense earnestness--"if ever we hear
a kick from that gal we'll--we'll foller you like a track. Won't we,
Lucky?"

"We'll foller him to hell!" Mr. Broad feelingly declared.

Gravely, ceremoniously, the callers shook hands with Doret, then they
returned whence they had come. They went their way; Rouletta's delirium
continued; 'Poleon's problem increased daily; meanwhile, however, the
life of the North did not slacken a single pulse-beat.

Never since their earliest associations had Tom Linton and Jerry Quirk
found themselves in such absolute accord, in such complete harmony of
understanding, as during the days that immediately followed their
reconciliation. Each man undertook to outdo the other in politeness;
each man forced himself to be considerate, and strove at whatever
expense to himself to lighten the other's burdens; all of their
relations were characterized by an elaborate, an almost mid-Victorian
courtesy. A friendly rivalry in self-sacrifice existed between them;
they quarreled good-naturedly over the dish-washing, that disgusting
rite which tries the patience of every grown man; when there was wood
to be cut they battled with each other for the ax.

But there is a limit to politeness; unfailing sunshine grows tedious,
and so does a monotonous exercise of magnanimity.

While it had been an easy matter to cut their rowboat in two, the
process of splicing it together again had required patience and
ingenuity, and it had resulted in delay. By the time they arrived at
Miles Canon, therefore, the season was far advanced and both men,
without knowing it, were in a condition of mind to welcome any sort of
a squall that would serve to freshen the unbearably stagnant atmosphere
of amiability in which they were slowly suffocating.

Here for the first time the results of their quarrel arose to embarrass
them; they could find no pilot who would risk his life in a craft so
badly put together as theirs. After repeated discouragements the
partners took counsel with each other; reluctantly they agreed that
they were up against it.

"Seems like I've about ruined us," Mr. Quirk acknowledged, ruefully.

"You? Why, Jerry, it was my fault we cut the old ship in two," Mr.
Linton declared.

The former speaker remonstrated, gently. "Now, Tom, it's just like you
to take the blame, but it was my doin's; I instigated that fratricidal
strife."

Sweetly but firmly Linton differed with his partner. "It ain't often
that you're wrong, Jerry, old boy--it ain't more than once or twice in
a lifetime--but you're wrong now. I'm the guilty wretch and I'd ought
to hang for it. My rotten temper--"

"Pshaw! You got one of the nicest dispositions I ever see--in a man.
You're sweeter 'n a persimmon. I pecked at you till your core was
exposed. I'm a thorn in the flesh, Tom, and folks wouldn't criticize
you none for doin' away with me."

"You're 'way off. I climbed you with my spurs--"

"Now, Tom!" Sadly Mr. Quirk wagged his gray head. "I don't often argue
with anybody, especially with you, but the damnable idea of dividin'
our spoils originated in my evil mind and I'm goin' to pay the penalty.
I'll ride this white-pine outlaw through by myself. You ear him down
till I get both feet in the stirrups, then turn him a-loose; I'll
finish settin' up and I won't pull leather."

"How you talk! Boats ain't like horses; it'll take a good oarsman to
navigate these rapids--"

"Well?" Quirk looked up quickly. "I'm a good oarsman." There was a
momentary pause. "Ain't I?"

Mr. Linton hastily remedied his slip of the tongue. "You're a bear!" he
asserted, with feeling. "I don't know as I ever saw a better boatman
than you, for your weight and experience, but--there's a few things
about boats that you never had the chance to pick up, you being sort of
a cactus and alkali sailor. For instance, when you want a boat to go
'gee' you have to pull on the 'off' oar. It's plumb opposite to the way
you steer a horse."

"Sure! Didn't I figger that out for the both of us? We 'most had a
runaway till I doped it out."

Now this was a plain perversion of fact, for it was Tom who had made
the discovery. Mr. Linton was about to so state the matter when he
reflected that doubtless Jerry's intentions were honest and that his
failing memory was to blame for the misstatement. It was annoying to be
robbed of the credit for an important discovery, of course, but Tom
swallowed his resentment.

"The point is this," he said, with a resumption of geniality. "You'd
get all wet in them rapids, Jerry, and--you know what that means. I'd
rather take a chance on drowning myself than to nurse you through
another bad cold."

It was a perfectly sincere speech--an indirect expression of deep
concern that reflected no little credit upon the speaker's generosity.
Tom was exasperated, therefore, when Jerry, by some characteristic
process of crooked reasoning, managed to misinterpret it. Plaintively
the latter said:

"I s'pose I AM a handicap to you, Tom. You're mighty consid'rate of my
feelin's, not to throw it up to me any oftener than you do."

"I don't throw it up to you none. I never did. No, Jerry, I'll row the
boat. You go overland and keep your feet dry."

"A lot of good that would do." Mr. Quirk spoke morosely. "I'd starve to
death walkin' around if you lost the grub."

This struck Tom Linton as a very narrow, a very selfish way of looking
at the matter. He had taken no such view of Jerry's offer; he had
thought less about the grub than about his partner's safety. It was an
inconsiderate and unfeeling remark. After a moment he said:

"You know I don't throw things up to you, Jerry. I ain't that kind."
Mr. Quirk stirred uneasily. "You didn't mean to say that, did you?"

What Jerry would have answered is uncertain, for his attention at the
moment was attracted by a stranger who strode down the bank and now
accosted him and his partner jointly.

"Bonjour, m'sieu's!" said the new-comer. "I'm lookin' for buy some
lemon'. You got some, no?"

Mr. Quirk spoke irritably. "Sure. We've got a few, but they ain't for
sale."

The stranger--Quirk remembered him as the Frenchman, Doret, whom he had
seen at Sheep Camp--smiled confidently.

"Oh yes! Everyt'ing is for sale if you pay 'nough for him," said he.

Now this fellow had broken the thread of a conversation into which a
vague undertone of acrimony was creeping--a conversation that gave
every indication of developing into an agreeable and soul-satisfying
difference of opinion, if not even into a loud and free-spoken argument
of the old familiar sort. To have the promise of an invigorating
quarrel frustrated by an idiotic diversion concerning lemons caused
both old men to turn their pent-up exasperation upon the speaker.

"We've got use for our lemons and we're going to keep them," said Tom.
"We're lemon-eaters--full of acid--that's us."

"We wouldn't give lemon aid to nobody." Jerry grinned in malicious
enjoyment of his own wit.

"You got how many?" 'Poleon persisted.

"Oh, 'bout enough! Mebbe a dozen or two."

"I buy 'em. Dere's poor seeck lady--"

Tom cut in brusquely. "You won't buy anything here. Don't tell us your
troubles. We've got enough of our own, and poverty ain't among the
number."

"W'at trouble you got, eh? Me, I'm de trouble man. Mebbe I fix 'em."

Sourly the partners explained their difficulty. When 'Poleon understood
he smiled again, more widely.

"Good! I mak' bargain wit' you, queeck. Me, I'm pilot of de bes' an' I
tak' your boat t'rough for dose lemon'."

The elderly men sat up; they exchanged startled glances.

"D'you mean it?"

"I'm goin' have dose lemon'."

"Can't you buy any in the saloons?"

"No. Wal, w'at you say?"

Tom inquired of his partner, "Reckon you can get along without 'em,
Jerry?"

"Why, I been savin' 'em for you."

"Then it's a go!"

"One t'ing you do for me, eh?" 'Poleon hesitated momentarily. "It's
goin' tak' tam for fin' dam' fool to he'p me row dat bateau, but--I
fin' him. Mebbe you set up wit' li'l seeck gal while I'm gone. What?"
In a few words he made known the condition of affairs at his camp, and
the old men agreed readily enough. With undisguised relief they
clambered stiffly out of their boat and followed the French Canadian up
the trail. As they toiled up the slope 'Poleon explained:

"De doctor he's go to Dawson, an' t'ree day dis gal been layin'
seeck--crazee in de head. Every hour medicine, all de tam fire in de
stove! Sapre! I'm half 'sleep."

"We'll set up with her as long as you want," Tom volunteered. "Being a
family man myself, I'm a regular nurse."

"Me, too," Jerry exclaimed. "I never had no family, but I allus been
handy around hosses, and hosses is the same as people, only bigger--"

Mr. Linton stifled a laugh at this remark. "That'll show you!" said he.
"You leave it to me, Jerry."

"Well, ain't they?"

"No."

"They are, too."

"Plumb different."

The argument waxed hot; it had reached its height when 'Poleon laid a
finger upon his lips, commanding silence. On tiptoe he led the two men
into his tent. When he had issued instructions and left in search of a
boatman the partners seated themselves awkwardly, their caps in their
hands. Curiously, apprehensively, they studied the fever-flushed face
of the delirious girl.

"Purty, ain't she?" Jerry whispered.

Tom nodded. "She's sick, all right, too," he said in a similar tone;
then, after a moment: "I've been thinking about them lemons. We're
getting about a hundred dollars a dozen for 'em. Kind of a rotten
trick, under the circumstances. I'm sorry you put it up to that feller
the way you did."

Mr. Quirk stiffened, his eyes widened in astonishment.

"Me? I didn't put it up to him. You done it. They're your lemons."

"How d'you figure they're mine?"

"You bought 'em, didn't you?"

"I PAID for 'em, if that's what you mean, but I bought 'em for you,
same as I bought that liquor. You've et most of 'em, and you've drank
most of the whisky. You needed it worse than I did, Jerry, and I've
always considered--"

Now any reference, any reflection upon his physical limitations,
however remote or indirect, aroused Jerry's instant ire. "At it again,
ain't you?" he cried, testily. "I s'pose you'll forget about that
whisky in four or five years. I hope so--"

"'Sh-h!" Tom made a gesture commanding silence, for Jerry had
unconsciously raised his voice. "What ails you?" he inquired, sweetly.

"Nothin' ails me," Jerry muttered under his breath. "That's the
trouble. You're allus talkin' like it did--like I had one foot in the
grave and was gaspin' my last. I'm hard as a hickory-nut. I could throw
you down and set on you."

Mr. Linton opened hia bearded lips, then closed them again; he withdrew
behind an air of wounded dignity. This, he reflected, was his reward
for days of kindness, for weeks of uncomplaining sacrifice. Jerry was
the most unreasonable, the most difficult person he had ever met; the
more one did for him the crankier he became. There was no gratitude in
the man, his skin wouldn't hold it. Take the matter of their tent, for
instance: how would the old fellow have managed if he, Tom, had not,
out of pure compassion, taken pity on him and rescued him from the rain
back there at Linderman? Had Jerry remembered that act of kindness? He
had not. On the contrary, he had assumed, and maintained, an attitude
of indulgence that was in itself an offense--yes, more than an offense.
Tom tried to center his mind upon his partner's virtues, but it was a
difficult task, for honesty compelled him to admit that Jerry assayed
mighty low when you analyzed him with care. Mr. Linton gave up the
effort finally with a shake of his head.

"What you wigwaggin' about?" Jerry inquired, curiously. Tom made no
answer. After a moment the former speaker whispered, meditatively: "I'D
have GIVE him the lemons if he'd asked me for 'em. Sick people need
lemons."

"Sometimes they do and sometimes they don't," Mr. Linton whispered,
shortly.

"Lemons is acid, and acid cuts phlegm."

"Lemons ain't acid; they're alkali."

This statement excited a derisive snort from Mr. Quirk. "Alkali! My
God! Ever taste alkali?" Jerry had an irritating way of asserting
himself in regard to matters of which he knew less than nothing; his
was the scornful certainty of abysmal ignorance.

"Did you ever give lemons to sick folks?" Tom inquired, in his turn.

"Sure! Thousands."

Now this was such an outrageous exaggeration that Linton was impelled
to exclaim:

"RATS! You never SAW a thousand sick folks."

"I didn't say so. I said I'd given thousands of lemons--"

"Oh!" Tom filled his pipe and lit it, whereupon his partner breathed a
sibilant warning:

"Put out that smudge! D'you aim to strangle the girl?"

With a guilty start the offender quenched the fire with his thumb.

"The idea of lightin' sheep-dip in a sick-room!" Mr. Quirk went on.
With his cap he fanned violently at the fumes.

"You don't have to blow her out of bed," Tom growled. Clumsily he drew
the blankets closer beneath the sick girl's chin, but in so doing he
again excited his companion's opposition.

"Here!" Jerry protested. "She's burnin' up with fever. You blanket 'em
when they've got chills." Gently he removed the covers from Rouletta's
throat.

Linton showed his contempt for this ridiculous assertion by silently
pulling the bedding higher and snugly tucking it in. Jerry promptly
elbowed him aside and pulled it lower. Tom made an angry gesture, and
for a third time adjusted the covers to suit himself, whereupon Jerry
immediately changed them to accord with his ideas.

Aggressively, violently, but without words this time, the partners
argued the matter. They were glaring at each other, they had almost
come to blows when, with a start, Jerry looked at his watch. Swiftly he
possessed himself of the medicine-glass and spoon; to Tom he whispered:

"Quick! Lift her up."

Linton refused. "Don't you know ANYTHING?" he queried. "Never move a
sick person unless you have to. Give it to her as she lays."

"How you goin' to feed medicine out of a spoon to anybody layin' down?"
the other demanded.

"Easy!" Tom took the glass and the teaspoon; together the two men bent
over the bed.

But Linton's hands were shaky; when he pressed the spoon to Rouletta's
lips he spilled its contents. The girl rolled her head restlessly.

"Pshaw! She moved."

"She never moved," Jerry contradicted. "You missed her." From his
nostrils issued that annoying, that insulting, snort of derision which
so sorely tried his partner's patience. "You had a fair shot at her,
layin' down, Tom, and you never touched her."

"Maybe I'd have had better luck if you hadn't jiggled me."

"Hell! Who jiggled--?"

"'Sh--h!" Once more Mr. Quirk had spoken aloud. "If you've got to
holler, go down by the rapids."

After several clumsy attempts both men agreed that their patient had
doubtless received the equivalent of a full dose of medicine, so Tom
replaced the glass and spoon. "I'm a little out of practice," he
explained.

"I thought you done fine." Jerry spoke with what seemed to be genuine
commendation. "You got it into her nose every time."

Tom exploded with wrath and it was Jerry's turn to command silence.

"Why don't you hire a hall?" the latter inquired. "Or mebbe I better
tree a 'coon for you so you can bark as loud as you want to. Family
man! Huh!" Linton bristled aggressively, but the whisperer continued:

"One head of children don't make a family any more 'n one head of
heifers makes a herd."

Tom paled; he showed his teeth beneath his gray mustache. Leaning
forward, he thrust his quivering bearded face close to the hateful
countenance opposite him. "D'you mean to call my daughter a heifer?" he
demanded, in restrained fury.

"Keep them whiskers to yourself," Jerry snapped. "You can't pick a row
with me, Tom; I don't quarrel with nobody. I didn't call your daughter
a heifer, and you know I didn't. No doubt she would of made a fine
woman if she'd of grown up, but--Say! I bet I know why you lost her. I
bet you poured so much medicine in her crib that she drownded." Jerry
giggled at this thought.

"That ain't funny," the other rumbled. "If I thought you meant to call
a member of my family a heifer--"

"You've called your wife worse 'n that. I've heard you."

"I meant everything I said. She was an old catamount and--"

"Prob'bly she was a fine woman." Jerry had a discourteous habit of
interrupting. "No wonder she walked out and left you flat--she was
human. No doubt she had a fine character to start with. So did I, for
that matter, but there's a limit to human endurance."

"You don't have to put up with me any longer than you want to," Linton
stormed, under his breath. "We can get a divorce easy. All it takes is
a saw."

"You made that crack once before, and I called your bluff!" Jerry's
angry face was now out-thrust; only with difficulty did he maintain a
tone inaudible to the sick girl. "Out of pity I helped you up and
handed you back your crutches. But this time I'll let you lay where you
fall. A hundred dollars a dozen for lemons! For a poor little sick
girl! You 'ain't got the bowels of a shark!"

"It was your proposition!"

"It wasn't!"

"It was!"

"Some folks lie faster 'n a goat can gallop."

"Meaning me?"

"Who else would I mean?"

"Why don't you CALL me a liar and be done with it?"

"I do. It ain't news to anybody but you!"

Having safely landed his craft below the rapids, 'Poleon Doret hurried
back to his tent to find the partners sitting knee to knee, face to
face, and hurling whispered incoherencies at each other. Both men were
in a poisonous mood, both were ripe for violence. They overflowed with
wrath. They were glaring; they shook their fists; they were racked with
fury; insult followed abuse; and the sounds that issued from their
throats were like the rustlings of a corn-field in an autumn gale. Nor
did inquiry elicit a sensible explanation from either.

"Heifer, eh? Drowned my own child, did I?" Tom ground his teeth in a
ferocious manner.

"Don't file your tusks for me," Jerry chattered; "file the saw. We're
goin' to need it."

"You men goin' cut dat boat in two again?" 'Poleon inquired, with
astonishment.

"Sure. And everything we've got."

It was Linton who spoke; there was a light of triumph in his eyes, his
face was ablaze with an unholy satisfaction. "We've been drawing lots
for twenty minutes, and this time--I GOT THE STOVE!"



CHAPTER XVI


Once again Tom and Jerry's skiff had been halved, once again its owners
smarted under the memory of insults unwarranted, of gibes that no
apology could atone for. This time it had been old Jerry who cooked his
supper over an open fire and old Tom who stretched the tarpaulin over
his stove. Neither spoke; both were sulky, avoiding each other's eye;
there was an air of bitter, implacable hostility.

Into this atmosphere of constraint came 'Poleon Doret, and, had it not
been for his own anxieties, he would have derived much amusement from
the situation. As it was, however, he was quite blind to it, showing
nothing save his own deep feeling of concern.

"M'sieu's," he began, hurriedly, "dat gal she's gettin' more seeck. I'm
scare' she's goin' die to-night. Mebbe you set up wit' me, eh?"

Tom quickly volunteered: "Why, sure! I'm a family man. I--"

"Family man!" Jerry snorted, derisively. "He had one head, mister, and
he lost it inside of a month. I'm a better nurse than him."

"Bien! I tak' you both," said 'Poleon.

But Jerry emphatically declined the invitation. "Cut me out if you aim
to make it three-handed--I'd Jim the deck, sure. No, I'll set around
and watch my grub-pile."

Tom addressed himself to 'Poleon, but his words were for his late
partner.

"That settles me," said he. "I'll have to stick close to home, for
there's people I wouldn't trust near a loose outfit."

This was, of course, a gratuitous affront. It was fathered in malice;
it had its intended effect. Old Jerry hopped as if springs in his
rheumatic legs had suddenly let go; he uttered a shrill war-whoop--a
wordless battle-cry in which rage and indignation were blended.

"If a certain old buzzard-bait sets up with you, Frenchy, count your
spoons, that's all. I know him. A hundred dollars a dozen for lemons!
He'd rob a child's bank. He'd steal milk out of a sick baby's bottle."

The pilot frowned. "Dis ain't no tam for callin' names," said he.
"To-night dat gal goin' die or--she's goin' begin get well. Me, I'm
mos' dead now. Mebbe you fellers forget yourse'f li'l while an' he'p me
out."

Tom stirred uneasily. With apparent firmness he undertook to evade the
issue, but in his eyes was an expression of uncertainty. Jerry, too,
was less obdurate than he had pretended. After some further argument he
avoided a weak surrender by muttering:

"All right. Take HIM along, so I'll know my grub's safe, and I'll help
you out. I'm a good hand with hosses, and hosses are like humans, only
bigger. They got more sense and more affection, too. They know when
they're well off. Now if a hoss gets down you got to get him up and
walk him around. My idea about this girl--"

Mr. Linton groaned loudly, then to 'Poleon he cried: "Lead the way. You
watch the girl and I'll watch this vet'rinary."

That was an anxious and a trying night for the three men. They were
unskilled in the care of the sick; nevertheless, they realized that the
girl's illness had reached its crisis and that, once the crisis had
passed, she would be more than likely to recover. Hour after hour they
sat beside her, administering her medicine regularly, maintaining an
even temperature in the tent, and striving, as best they could, to ease
her suffering. This done, they could only watch and wait, putting what
trust they had in her youth and her vitality. Their sense of
helplessness oppressed the men heavily; their concern increased as the
hours dragged along and the life within the girl flared up to a blaze
or flickered down to a mere spark.

Doret was in a pitiable state, on the verge of exhaustion, for his
vigil had been long and faithful; it was a nightmare period of suspense
for him. Occasionally he dozed, but only to start into wakefulness and
to experience apprehensions keener than before. The man was beside
himself, and his anxiety had its effect upon Tom and Jerry. Their
compassion increased when they learned how Sam Kirby had been taken off
and how Rouletta had been brought to this desperate pass. The story of
her devotion, her sacrifice, roused their deepest pity, and in the heat
of that emotion they grew soft.

This mellowing process was not sudden; no spirit of forgiveness was
apparent in either of the pair. Far from it. Both remained sullen,
unrelenting; both maintained the same icy front. They continued to
ignore each other's presence and they exchanged speech only with Doret.
Nevertheless, their sympathy had been stirred and a subtle change had
come over them.

This change was most noticeable in Linton. As the night wore on
distressing memories, memories he considered long dead and gone, arose
to harass him. It was true that he had been unhappily married, but tune
had cured the sting of that experience, or so he had believed. He
discovered now that such was not the case; certain incidents of those
forgotten days recurred with poignant effect. He had experienced the
dawn of a father's love, a father's pride; he lost himself in a
melancholy consideration of what might have been had not that dawn been
darkened. How different, how full, how satisfying, if--As he looked
down upon the fair, fever-flushed face of this girl he felt an
unaccustomed heartache, a throbbing pity and a yearning tenderness. The
hand with which he stroked the hair back from her brow and rearranged
her pillow was as gentle as a woman's.

Jerry, too, altered in his peculiar way. As the hours lengthened, his
wrinkled face became less vinegary, between his eyes there appeared a
deepening frown of apprehension. More than once he opened his lips to
ask Tom's opinion of how the fight progressed, but managed in time to
restrain himself. Finally he could maintain silence no longer, so he
spoke to Doret:

"Mister! It looks to me like she ain't doin' well."

'Poleon rose from his position beside the stove; he bent over the
sick-bed and touched Rouletta's brow with his great hand. In a low
voice he addressed her:

"Ma soeur! Ma petite soeur! It's 'Poleon spik to you."

Rouletta's eyes remained vacant, her ceaseless whispering continued and
the man straightened himself, turning upon his elderly companions.
Alarm was in his face; his voice shook.

"M'sieu's! W'at shall we do? Queeck! Tell me."

But Tom and Jerry were helpless, hopeless. Doret stared at them; his
hands came slowly together over his breast, his groping fingers
interlocked; he closed his eyes, and for a moment he stood swaying.
Then he spoke again as a man speaks who suffers mortal anguish. "She
mus' not die! She--mus' not die! I tell you somet'ing now: dis li'l gal
she's come to mean whole lot for me. At firs' I'm sorry, de same lak
you feel. Sure! But bimeby I get to know her, for she talk, talk--all
tam she talk, lak crazee person, an' I learn to know her soul, her
life. Her soul is w'ite, m'sieu's, it's w'ite an' beautiful; her
life--I lit 'im together in little piece, lak broken dish. Some piece I
never fin', but I save 'nough to mak' picture here and dere. Sometam I
smile an' listen to her; more tam' I cry. She mak' de tears splash on
my hand.

"Wal, I begin talk back to her. I sing her li'l song, I tell her story,
I cool her face, I give her medicine, an' den she sleep. I sit an'
watch her--how many day an' night I watch her I don' know. Sometam I
sleep li'l bit, but when she stir an' moan I spik to her an' sing again
until-she know my voice."

'Poleon paused; the old men watched his working face.

"M'sieu's," he went on, "I'm lonely man. I got no frien's, no family; I
live in dreams. Dat's all I got in dis whole worl'--jus' dreams. One
dream is dis, dat some day I'm going find somet'ing to love, somet'ing
dat will love me. De hanimals I tame dey run away; de birds I mak' play
wit' dey fly south when de winter come. I say, 'Doret, dis gal she's
poor, she's frien'less, she's alone. She's very seeck, but you goin'
mak' her well. She ain't goin' run away. She ain't goin' fly off lak
dem birds. No. She's goin' love you lak a broder, an' mebbe she's goin'
let you stay close by.' Dieu! Dat's fine dream, eh? It mak' me sing
inside; it mak' me warm an' glad. I w'isper in her ear, 'Ma soeur! Ma
petite soeur! It's your beeg broder 'Poleon dat spik. He's goin' mak'
you well,' an' every tam she onderstan'. But now--"

A sob choked the speaker; he opened his tight-shut eyes and stared
miserably at the two old men. "I call to her an' she don' hear. Wat I'm
goin' do, eh?"

Neither Linton nor Quirk made reply. 'Poleon leaned forward; fiercely
he inquired:

"Which one of you feller' is de bes' man? Which one is go to church de
mos'?"

Tom and Jerry exchanged glances. It was the latter who spoke:

"Tom--this gentleman-knows more about churches than I do. He was
married in one."

Mr. Linton nodded. "But that was thirty years ago, so I ain't what
you'd call a regular attendant. I used to carry my religion in my
wife's name, when I had a wife."

"You can pray?"

Tom shook his head doubtfully. "I'd be sure to make a mess of it."

Doret sank to a seat; he lowered his head upon his hands. "Me, too," he
confessed. "Every hour I mak' prayer in my heart, but--I can't spik him
out."

"If I was a good talker I'd take a crack at it," Jerry ventured,
"but--I'd have to be alone."

Doret's lips had begun to move; his companions knew that he was voicing
a silent appeal, so they lowered their eyes. For some moments the only
sound in the tent was the muttering of the delirious girl.

Linton spoke finally; his voice was low, it was husky with emotion:
"I've been getting acquainted with myself to-night--first time in a
long while. Things look different than they did. What's the good of
fighting, what's the use of hurrying and trampling on each other when
this is the end? Gold! It won't buy anything worth having. You're
right, Doret; somebody to love and to care for, somebody that cares for
you, that's all there is in the game. I had dreams, too, when I was a
lot younger, but they didn't last. It's bad, for a man to quit
dreaming; he gets mean and selfish and onnery. Take me--I ain't worth
skinning. I had a kid--little girl--I used to tote her around in my
arms. Funny how it makes you feel to tote a baby that belongs to you;
seems like all you've got is wrapped up in it; you live two lives. My
daughter didn't stay long. I just got started loving her when she went
away. She was--awful nice."

The speaker blinked, for his eyes were smarting. "I feel, somehow, as
if she was here to-night--as if this girl was her and I was her daddy.
She might have looked something like this young lady if she had lived.
She would have made a big difference in me."

Tom felt a hand seek his. It was a bony, big-knuckled hand not at all
like 'Poleon Doret's. When it gave his fingers a strong, firm, friendly
pressure his throat contracted painfully. He raised his eyes, but they
were blurred; he could distinguish nothing except that Jerry Quirk had
sidled closer and that their shoulders all but touched.

Now Jerry, for all of his crabbedness, was a sentimentalist; he also
was blind, and his voice was equally husky when he spoke:

"I'd of been her daddy, too, wouldn't I, Tom? We'd of shared her,
fifty-fifty. I've been mean to you, but I'd of treated her all right.
If you'll forgive me for the things I've said to you maybe the Lord
will forgive me for a lot of other things. Anyhow, I'm goin' to do a
little rough prayin' for this kid. I'm goin' to ask Him to give her a
chance."

Mr. Quirk did pray, and if he made a bad job of it, as he more than
suspected, neither of his earthly hearers noticed the fact, for his
words were honest, earnest. When he had finished Tom Linton's arm was
around his shoulders; side by side the old men sat for a long time.
Their heads were bowed; they kept their eyes upon Rouletta Kirby's
face. Doret stood over them, motionless and intense; they could hear
him sigh and they could sense his suffering. When the girl's pain
caused her to cry out weakly, he knelt and whispered words of comfort
to her.

Thus the night wore on.

The change came an hour or two before dawn and the three men watched it
with their hearts in their throats. Mutely they questioned one another,
deriving deep comfort from each confirmatory nod and gesture, but for
some time they dared not voice their growing hope. Rouletta's fever was
breaking, they felt sure; she breathed more deeply, more easily, and
she coughed less. Her discomfort lessened, too, and finally, when the
candle-light grew feeble before the signs of coming day, she fell
asleep. Later the men rose and stole out of the tent into the cold.

Doret was broken. He was limp, almost lifeless; there were deep lines
about his eyes, but, nevertheless, they sparkled.

"She's goin' get well," he said, uncertainly. "I'm goin' teach dat li'l
bird to fly again."

The partners nodded.

"Sure as shootin'," Jerry declared.

"Right-o!" Linton agreed. "Now then"--he spoke in an energetic,
purposeful tone--"I'm going to put Jerry to bed while I nail that
infernal boat together again."

"Not much, you ain't!" Jerry exclaimed. "You know I couldn't sleep a
wink without you, Tom. What's more, I'll never try."

Arm in arm the two partners set off down the river-bank. 'Poleon smiled
after them. When they were out of sight he turned his face up to the
brightening sky and said, aloud:

"Bon Dieu, I t'ank you for my sister's life."

 Pierce Phillips awoke from a cramped and troubled slumber to find
himself lying upon a pile of baggage in the stern of a skiff. For a
moment he remained dazed; then he was surprised to hear the monotonous
creak of oars and to feel that he was in motion. A fur robe had been
thrown over him; it was powdered with snowflakes, but it had kept him
warm. He sat up to discover Laure facing him.

"Hello!" said he. "You here?"

The girl smiled wearily. "Where did you think I'd be? Have a good
sleep?"

He shrugged and nodded, and, turning his eyes shoreward, saw that the
forest was flowing slowly past. The boat in which he found himself was
stowed full of impedimenta; forward of Laure a man was rowing
listlessly, and on the seat beyond him were two female figures bundled
to the ears in heavy wraps. They were the 'coon-shouting sisters whose
song had drawn Pierce into the Gold Belt Saloon the evening before. In
the distance were several other boats.

"You feel tough, I'll bet." Laure's voice was sympathetic.

After a moment of consideration Pierce shook his head. "No," said he.
"I feel fine--except that I'm hungry. I could eat a log-chain."

"No headache?"

"None. Why?"

Laure's brown eyes widened in admiration and astonishment. "Jimminy!
You're a hound for punishment. You must have oak ribs. Were you weaned
on rum?"

"I never took a drink until last night. I'm a rank amateur."

"Really!" The girl studied him with renewed interest. "What set you
off?"

Pierce made no answer. His face seemed fixed in a frown. His was a
tragic past; he could not bear to think of it, much less could he speak
of it. Noting that the oarsman appeared to be weary, Pierce volunteered
to relieve him, an offer which was quickly accepted. As he seated
himself and prepared to fall to work Laure advised him:

"Better count your money and see if it's all there."

He did as directed. "It's all here," he assured her.

She flashed him a smile, then crept into the place he had vacated and
drew up the robe snugly. Pierce wondered why she eyed him with that
peculiar intentness. Not until she had fallen asleep did he suspect
with a guilty start that the robe was hers and that she had patiently
waited for him to finish his sleep while she herself was drooping with
fatigue. This suspicion gave him a disagreeable shock; he began to give
some thought to the nature of his new surroundings. They were of a sort
to warrant consideration; for a long time he rowed mechanically, a
frown upon his brow.

In the first place, he was amazed to find how bravely he bore the
anguish of a breaking heart, and how little he desired to do away with
himself. The world, strangely enough, still remained a pleasant place,
and already the fret for new adventure was stirring in him. He was not
happy--thoughts of Hilda awoke real pain, and his sense of injury
burned him like a brand--nevertheless, he could not make himself feel
so utterly hopeless, so blackly despondent as the circumstances plainly
warranted. He was, on the whole, agreeably surprised at his powers of
resistance and of recuperation, both physical and emotional. For
instance, he should by all means experience a wretched reaction from
his inebriety; as a matter of fact, he had never felt better in his
life; his head was clear, he was ravenously hungry. Then, too, he was
not altogether hopeless; it seemed quite probable that he and Hilda
would again meet, in which event there was no telling what might
happen. Evidently liquor agreed with him; in his case it was not only
an anodyne, but also a stimulus, spurring him to optimistic thought and
independent action. Yes, whisky roused a fellow's manhood. It must be
so, otherwise he would never have summoned the strength to snap those
chains which bound him to the Countess Courteau, or the reckless
courage to embark upon an enterprise so foreign to his tastes and to
his training as this one.

His memory of the later incidents of the night before was somewhat
indistinct, as was his recollection of the scene when he had served his
notice upon the Countess. Of this much he felt certain, however, he had
done the right thing in freeing himself from a situation that reflected
discredit upon his manhood. Whether he had acted wisely by casting in
his lot with Morris Best's outfit was another matter altogether. He was
quite sure he had not acted wisely, but there is a satisfaction at
certain times in doing what we know to be the wrong thing.

Pierce was no fool; even his limited experience in the North had taught
him a good deal about the character of dance-hall women and of the men
who handled them; he was in no wise deceived, therefore, by the
respectability with which the word "theatrical" cloaked this troupe of
wanderers; it gave him a feeling of extreme self-consciousness to find
himself associated with such folk; he felt decidedly out of place.

What would his people think? And the Countess Courteau? Well, it would
teach her that a man's heart was not a football; that a man's love was
not to be juggled with. He had made a gesture of splendid recklessness;
he would take the consequences.

In justice to the young man, be it said he had ample cause for
resentment, and whatever of childishness he displayed was but natural,
for true balance of character is the result of experience, and as yet
he had barely tasted life.

As for the girl Laure, she awoke no real interest in him, now that he
saw her in the light of day; he included her in his general, vague
contempt for all women of her type. There was, in fact, a certain
contamination in her touch. True, she was a little different from the
other members of the party-greatly different from Pierce's preconceived
ideas of the "other sort"--but not sufficiently different to matter. It
is the privilege of arrogant youth to render stern and conclusive
judgment.

Best waved his party toward the shore shortly before dusk. A
landing-place was selected, tents, bedding, and paraphernalia were
unloaded; then, while the women looked on, the boatmen began pitching
camp. The work had not gone far before Phillips recognized extreme
inefficiency in it. Confusion grew, progress was slow, Best became more
and more excited. Irritated at the general ineptitude, Pierce finally
took hold of things and in a short time had made all snug for the night.

Lights were glowing in the tents when he found his way through the
gloom to the landing in search of his own belongings. Seated on the
gunwale of a skiff he discovered Laure.

"I've been watching you," she said. "You're a handy man."

He nodded. "Is this the way Best usually makes camp?"

"Sure. Only it usually takes him much longer. I'll bet he's glad he
hired you."

Pierce murmured something.

"Are you glad he did?"

"Why, yes--of course."

"What do you think of the other girls?"

"I haven't paid much attention to them," he told her, frankly.

There was a moment's pause; then Laure said:

"Don't!"

"Eh?"

"I say, don't!"

Phillips shrugged. In a world-weary, cynical tone he asserted, "Women
don't interest me."

"What ails you to-day?" Laure inquired, curiously.

"Nothing. I'm not much of a ladies' man, that's all."

"Yes, you are. Anyhow, you were last night."

"I was all tuned up, then," he explained. "That's not my normal pitch."

"Don't you like me as well as you did?"

"Why--certainly."

"Is there another woman?"

"'Another'?" Pierce straightened himself. "There's not even one. What
difference would it make if there were?"

"Oh, none." Laure's teeth flashed through the gloom. "I was just
curious. Curiosity killed a cat, didn't it? Will you help me up the
bank?"

Pierce took the speaker's arm; together they climbed the gravelly
incline toward the illumination from the cook fire. In the edge of the
shadows Laure halted and her hand slipped down over Pierce's.

"Remember!" she said, meaningly. "Don't--or you'll hear from me."



CHAPTER XVII


Laure had no cause to repeat her admonition, for, in the days that
followed, Pierce Phillips maintained toward the women members of the
party an admirable attitude of aloofness. He was not rude, neither was
he discourteous; he merely isolated himself from them and discouraged
their somewhat timid advances toward friendship. This doubtless would
have met with Laure's whole-hearted approval had he not treated her in
precisely the same way. She had at first assumed a somewhat triumphant
air of proprietorship toward him, but this quickly gave way to
something entirely different. They began to know each other, to be
sure; for hours upon end they were together, which could have resulted
in nothing less than a thorough acquaintance; notwithstanding this,
there lurked behind Phillips' friendly interest an emotional apathy
that piqued the girl and put her on her mettle. She hid her chagrin
under an assumption of carelessness, but furtively she studied him, for
every hour he bulked bigger to her. He exercised a pronounced effect
upon her; his voice, his laughter, brought a light and a sparkle to her
eyes; she could not rest when he was out of her sight. His appeal,
unconscious on his part, struck to the very core of her being. To
discover that she lacked a similar appeal for him roused the girl to
desperation; she lay awake nights, trying to puzzle out the reason, for
this was a new experience to her. Recalling their meeting and the
incidents of that first night at White Horse, she realized that here
was a baffling secret and that she did not possess the key to it.

One night the truth came home to her. Best had made camp later than
usual, and as a result had selected a particularly bad spot for it--a
brushy flat running back from a high, overhanging bank beneath which
ran a swirling eddy.

The tents were up, a big camp-fire was blazing brightly, when Pierce
Phillips, burdened with a huge armful of spruce boughs and blinded by
the illumination, stepped too close to the river's rim and felt the
soil beneath him crumble away. Down he plunged, amid an avalanche of
earth and gravel; the last sound he heard before the icy waters
received him was Laure's affrighted scream. An instant later he had
seized a "sweeper," to which he clung until help arrived. He was wet to
the skin, of course; his teeth were chattering by the time he had
regained the camp-fire. Of the entire party, Laure alone had no comment
to make upon the accident. She stood motionless, leaning for support
against a tent-pole, her face hidden in her hands. Best's song-birds
were noisily twittering about Pierce; Best himself was congratulating
the young man upon his ability to swim, when Laure spoke, sharply,
imperiously:

"Somebody find his dry things, quickly. And you, Morris, get your
whisky."

While one of the men ran for Pierce's duffle-bag, Best came hurrying
with a bottle which he proffered to Pierce. The latter refused it,
asserting that he was quite all right; but Laure exclaimed:

"Drink! Take a good one, then go into our tent and change as fast as
you can."

"Sure!" the manager urged. "Don't be afraid of good liquor. There isn't
much left. Drink it all."

A short time later, when Pierce reappeared, clad in dry garments, he
felt none the worse for his mishap, but when he undertook to aid in the
preparations for the night he suspected that he had taken his
employer's orders too literally, for his brain was whirling. Soon he
discovered that his movements were awkward and his hands uncertain, and
when his camp-mates began to joke he desisted with a laughing
confession that he had imbibed too much.

Laure drew him out of hearing, then inquired, anxiously, "Are you all
right again?"

"Sure! I feel great."

"I--I thought I'd die when I saw you disappear." She shuddered and hid
her face in her hands for a second time. It was quite dark where they
stood; they were sheltered from observation.

"Served me right," he declared. "Next time I'll look where--" He halted
in amazement. "Why, Laure, I believe you're crying!"

She lifted her face and nodded. "I'm frightened yet." She laid
trembling, exploratory hands upon him, as if to reassure herself of his
safety. "Pierce! Pierce!" she exclaimed, brokenly.

Suddenly Phillips discovered that this girl's concern affected him
deeply, for it was genuine--it was not in the least put on. All at once
she seemed very near to him, very much a part of himself. His head was
spinning now and something within him had quickened magically. There
was a new note in his voice when he undertook to reassure his
companion. At his first word Laure looked up, startled; into her dark
eyes, still misty with tears, there flamed a light of wonder and of
gladness. She swayed closer; she took the lapels of his coat between
her gloved fingers and drew his head down to hers; then she kissed him
full upon the lips. Slowly, resolutely, his arms encircled her.

On the following morning Laure asked Morris Best for a bottle of
whisky. The evenings were growing cold and some of the girls needed a
stimulant while camp was being pitched, she explained. The bottle she
gave to Pierce, with a request to stow it in his baggage for
safekeeping, and that night when they landed, cramped and chilly, she
prevailed upon him to open it and to drink. The experiment worked.
Laure began to understand that when Pierce Phillips' blood flowed
warmly, when he was artificially exhilarated, then he saw her with the
eyes of a lover. It was not a flattering discovery, but the girl
contented herself, for by now she was desperate enough to snatch at
straws. Thenceforth she counted upon strong drink as her ally.

The closing scenes of the great autumn stampede to Dawson were
picturesque, for the rushing river was crowded with boats all racing
with one another. 'Neath lowering skies, past ghostly shores seen dimly
through a tenuous curtain of sifting snowflakes, swept these craft;
they went by ones and by twos, in groups and in flotillas; hourly the
swirling current bore them along, and as the miles grew steadily less
the spirits of the crews mounted. Loud laughter, songs, yells of
greeting and encouragement, ran back and forth; a triumphant
joyfulness, a Jovian mirth, animated these men of brawn, for they had
met the North and they had bested her. Restraint had dropped away by
now, and they reveled in a new-found freedom. There was license in the
air, for Adventure was afoot and the Unknown beckoned.

Urged on by oar and sweep, propelled by favoring breezes, the Argonauts
pressed forward exultantly. At night their roaring camp-fires winked at
one another like beacon lights along some friendly channel. Unrolling
before them was an endless panorama of spruce and birch and cottonwood,
of high hills white with snow, of unexplored valleys dark with promise.
As the Yukon increased in volume it became muddy, singing a low,
hissing song, as if the falling particles of snow melted on its surface
and turned to steam.

Out of all the traffic that flowed past the dance-hall party, among all
the boats they overhauled and left behind, Pierce Phillips nowhere
recognized the Countess Courteau's outfit. Whether she was ahead or
whether they had outdistanced her he did not know and inquiry rewarded
him with no hint.

During this journey a significant change gradually came over the young
man. Familiarity, a certain intimacy with his companions, taught him
much, and in time he forgot to look upon them as pariahs. Best, for
instance, proved to be an irritable but good-hearted little Hebrew; he
developed a genuine fondness for Pierce, which he took every occasion
to show, and Pierce grew to like him. The girls, too, opened their
hearts and made him feel their friendship. For the most part they were
warm, impulsive creatures, and Pierce was amazed to discover how little
they differed from the girls he had known at home. Among their faults
he discovered unusual traits of character; there was not a little
kindliness, generosity, and of course much cheerfulness. They were
free-handed with what they had; they were ready with a smile, a word of
encouragement or of sympathy; they were absurdly grateful, too, for the
smallest favor or the least act of kindness. Moreover, they behaved
themselves extremely well.

They were an education to Phillips; he acknowledged that he had gravely
misjudged them, and he began to suspect that they had taught him
something of charity.

As for Laure, he knew her very well by now and she knew him--even
better. This knowledge had come to them not without cost--wisdom is
never cheap--but precisely what each of them had paid or was destined
to pay for their better understanding of each other they had not the
slightest idea. One thing the girl by this time had made sure of, viz.,
when Pierce was his natural self he felt her appeal only faintly. On
the other hand, the moment he was not his natural self, the moment his
pitch was raised, he saw allurements in her, and at such times they met
on common ground. She made the most of this fact.

Dawson City burst into view of the party without warning, and no El
Dorado could have looked more promising. Hounding a bend of the river,
they beheld a city of logs and canvas sprawled between the stream and a
curving mountain-side. The day was still and clear, hence vertical
pencil-markings of blue smoke hung over the roofs; against the white
background squat dwellings stood out distinctly, like diminutive dolls'
houses. Upon closer approach the river shore was seen to be lined with
scows and rowboats; a stern-wheeled river steamer lay moored abreast of
the town. Above it a valley broke through from the north, out of which
poured a flood of clear, dark water. It was the valley of the Klondike,
magic word.

The journey was ended. Best's boats were unloaded, his men had been
paid off, and now his troupe had scattered, seeking lodgings. As in a
dream Pierce Phillips joined the drifting current of humanity that
flowed through the long front streets and eddied about the entrances of
amusement places. He asked himself if he were indeed awake, if, after
all, this was his Ultima Thule? Already the labor, the hardship, the
adventure of the trip seemed imaginary; even the town itself was
unreal. Dawson was both a disappointment and a satisfaction to Pierce.
It was not what he had expected and it by no means filled the splendid
picture he had painted in his fancy. Crude, raw, unfinished, small, it
was little more than Dyea magnified. But in enterprise it was
tremendous; hence it pleased and it thrilled the youth. He breathed its
breath, he drank the wine of its intoxication, he walked upon air with
his head in the clouds.

Pierce longed for some one to whom he could confide his feeling of
triumph, but nowhere did he recognize a face. Finally he strolled into
one of the larger saloons and gambling-houses, and was contentedly
eying the scene when he felt a gaze fixed upon him. He turned his head,
opened his lips to speak, then stiffened in his tracks. He could not
credit his senses, for there, lounging at ease against the bar, his
face distorted into an evil grin, stood Joe McCaskey!

Pierce blinked; he found that his jaw had dropped in amazement.
McCaskey enjoyed the sensation he had created; he leered at his former
camp-mate, and in his expression was a hint of that same venom he had
displayed when he had run the gauntlet at Sheep Camp after his
flogging, He broke the spell of Pierce's amazement and proved himself
to be indeed a reality by uttering a greeting.

Pierce was inclined to ignore the salutation, but curiosity got the
better of him and he answered:

"Well! This is a surprise. Do you own a pair of seven-league boots
or--what?"

McCaskey bared his teeth further. In triumph he said: "Thought you'd
lost me, didn't you? But I fooled you-fooled all of you. I jumped out
to the States and caught the last boat for St. Michael, made
connections there with the last up-river packet, and--here I am. I
don't quit; I'm a finisher."

Pierce noted the emphasis with which Joe's last words were delivered,
but as yet his curiosity was unsatisfied. He wondered if the fellow was
sufficiently calloused to disregard his humiliating experience or if he
proposed in some way to conceal it. Certainly he had not evaded
recognition, nor had he made the slightest attempt to alter his
appearance. From his bold insouciance it seemed evident that he was
totally indifferent as to who recognized him. Either the man possessed
moral courage of the extremest sort or else an unbelievable effrontery.

As for Pierce, he was deeply resentful of Joe's false accusation--the
memory of that was ineradicable--nevertheless, in view of the outcome
of that cowardly attempt, he had no desire for further revenge. It
seemed to him that the fellow had been sufficiently punished for his
misdeed; in fact, he could have found it easy to feel sorry for him had
it not been for the ill-concealed malice in Joe's present tone and
attitude.

He was upon the point of answering Joe's indirect threat with a
warning, when his attention was attracted to a short, thick-set,
nervous man at his elbow. The latter had edged close and was staring
curiously at him. He spoke now, saying:

"So you're Phillips, eh?"

It was Joe who replied: "Sure. This is him."

There was no need of an introduction. Pierce recognized the stranger as
another McCaskey, for the family likeness was stamped upon his
features. During an awkward moment the two men eyed each other, and Joe
McCaskey appeared to gloat as their glances clashed.

"This is Frank," the latter explained, with a malicious grin. "He and
Jim was pals. And, say! Here's another guy you ought to meet." He laid
a hand upon still a second stranger, a man leaning across the bar in
conversation with a white-aproned attendant. "Count, here's that fellow
I told you about."

The man addressed turned, exposing a handsome, smiling blond face
ornamented with a well-cared-for mustache. "I beg pardon?" he
exclaimed, vacuously.

"Meet Phillips. He can give you some dope on your wife." Joe chuckled.
Phillips flushed; then he paled; his face hardened.

"Ah! To be sure." Count Courteau bowed, but he did not extend his hand.
"Phillips! Yes, yes. I remember. You will understand that I'm
distracted for news of Hilda. She is with you, perhaps?"

"I left her employ at White Horse. If she's not here, she'll probably
arrive soon."

"Excellent; I shall surprise her."

Pierce spoke dryly. "I'm afraid it won't be so much of a surprise as
you think. She rather expects you." With a short nod and with what
pretense of carelessness he could assume he moved on toward the rear of
the building, whence came the sounds of music and the voice of a
dance-hall caller.

For some time he looked on blindly at the whirling figures. Joe
McCaskey here! And Count Courteau! What an astonishing coincidence! And
yet there was really nothing so remarkable about it; doubtless the same
ship had brought them north, in which event they could not well have
avoided a meeting. Pierce remembered Hilda's prophecy that her indigent
husband would turn up, like a bad penny. His presence was
agitating--for that matter, so was the presence of Joe McCaskey's
brother Frank, as yet an unknown quantity. That he was an enemy was
certain; together, he and Joe made an evil team, and Pierce was at a
loss just how to meet them.

Later, when he strolled out of the saloon, he saw the three men still
at the bar; their heads were together; they were talking earnestly.



CHAPTER XVIII


Rouletta Kirby was awakened by the sound of chopping; in the still,
frosty morning the blows of the ax rang out loudly. For a moment she
lay staring upward at the sloping tent-roof over her bed, studying with
sleepy interest the frost-fringe formed by her breath during the night.
This fringe was of intricate design; it resembled tatters of filmy lace
and certain fragments of it hung down at least a foot, a warning that
the day was to be extremely cold. But Rouletta needed no proof of that
fact beyond the evidence of her nose, the tip of which was like ice and
so stiff that she could barely wrinkle it. She covered it now with a
warm palm and manipulated it gently, solicitously.

There was a damp, unpleasant rime of hoar-frost standing on the edge of
her fur robe, and this she gingerly turned back. Cautiously she freed
one arm, then raised herself upon her elbow. Reaching up, she struck
the taut canvas roof a sharp blow; then with a squeak, like the cry of
a frightened marmot, she dodged under cover just in time to avoid the
frosty shower.

The chopping abruptly ceased. 'Poleon's voice greeted her gaily: "Bon
jour, ma soeur! By golly! You gettin' be de mos' lazy gal! I'spect you
sleep all day only I mak' beeg noise."

"Good morning!" Rouletta's voice was muffled. As if repeating a lesson,
she ran on: "Yes, I feel fine. I had a dandy sleep; didn't cough and my
lungs don't hurt. And no bad dreams. So I want to get up. There! I'm
well."

"You hongry, too, I bet, eh?"

"Oh, I'm dying. And my nose--it won't work."

Doret shouted his laughter. "You wait. I mak' fire queeck an' cook de
breakfas', den--you' nose goin' work all right. I got beeg s'prise for
dat li'l nose to-day."

The top of Rouletta's head, her eyes, then her mouth, came cautiously
out from hiding.

"What is it, 'Poleon? Something to eat?"

"Sapre! What I tol' you? Every minute 'eat, eat'! You' worse dan harmy
of Swede'. I ain't goin' tol' you what is dis s'prise--bimeby you smell
him cookin'."

"Moose meat!" Rouletta cried.

"No'" 'Poleon vigorously resumed his labor every stroke of the ax was
accompanied by a loud "Huh!" "I tol' you not'in'!" he declared; then
after a moment he voiced one word, "Caribou!"

Again Rouletta uttered a famished cry.

Soon the tent strings were drawn and the axman pushed through the door,
his arms full of dry spruce wood. He stood smiling down at the face
framed snugly in the fox fur; then he dropped his burden and knelt
before the stove. In a moment there came a promising crackle, followed
quickly by an agreeable flutter which grew into a roar as the stove
began to draw.

"CARIBOU!" Rouletta's eyes were bright with curiosity and an emotion
far more material. "Where in the world--?"

"Some hinjun hunter mak' beeg kill. I got more s'prise as dat, too. By
golly! Dis goin' be regular Chris'mas for you."

Rouletta stirred. There was stubborn defiance in her tone when she
said: "I'm going to get up and I'm--going--outdoors--clothes or no
clothes. I'll wrap the robe around me and play I'm a squaw." She
checked 'Poleon's protest. "Oh, I'm perfectly well, and the clothes I
have are thick enough."

"Look out you don' froze yourse'f. Dat pretty dress you got is give you
chillsblain in Haugust." The speaker blew upon his fingers and sat back
upon his heels, his eyes twinkling, his brown face wreathed in smiles.

"Then I can do it? You'll let me try?" Rouletta was all eagerness.

"We'll talk 'bout dat bimeby. First t'ing we goin' have beeg potlatch,
lak Siwash weddin'."

"Goody! Now run away while I get up."

But the man shook his head. "Don' be soch hurry. Dis tent warm slow.
Las' night de reever is froze solid so far you look. Pretty queeck
people come."

"Do you think they'll have extra clothes--something warm that I can
wear?"

"Sure! I fix all dat." Still smiling, 'Poleon rose and went stooping
out of the tent, tying the flaps behind him. A few rods distant was
another shelter which he had pitched for himself; in front of it, on a
pole provision-cache, were two quarters of frozen caribou meat, and
seated comfortably in the snow beneath, eyes fixed upon the prize, were
several "husky" dogs of unusual size. At 'Poleon's appearance they
began to caper and to fawn upon him.

"Ho, you ole t'iefs!" he cried, sternly. "You lak steal dose meat, I
bet! Wal, I eat you 'live." Stretching on tiptoe, he removed one of the
quarters and bore it into his tent. The dogs gathered just outside the
door; cautiously they nosed the canvas aside; and as 'Poleon set to
work with hatchet and hunting-knife their bright eyes followed his
every move.

"Non!" he exclaimed, with a ferocious frown. "You don't get so much as
li'l smell. You t'ink ma soeur goin' hongry to feed loafer' lak you?"
Bushy gray tails began to stir, the heads came farther forward, there
was a most unmannerly licking of chops. "By Gar! You sound lak'
miner-man eatin' soup. Wat for you'spect nice grub? You don' work
none." 'Poleon removed a layer of fat, divided it, and tossed a portion
to each animal. The morsels vanished with a single gulp, with one
wolfish click of sharp white teeth, "No, I give you not'in'."

For no reason whatever the speaker broke into loud laughter; then, to
further relieve his bubbling joyousness, he began to hum a song. As he
worked his song grew louder, until its words were audible to the girl
in the next tent.

"Oh, la voix du beau Nord qui m'appelle, Pour benir avec lui le jour,
Et desormais toute peine cruelle Fuira devant mon chant d'amour.
D'amour, d'amour." ("Oh, the voice of the North is a-calling me, To
join in the praise of the day, So whatever the fate that's befalling
me, I'll sing every sorrow away. Away, away.")

The Yukon stove was red-hot now, and Rouletta Kirby's tent was warm.
She seated herself before a homely little dresser fashioned from two
candle-boxes, and began to arrange her hair. Curiously she examined the
comb and brush. They were, or had been, 'Poleon's; so was the
pocket-mirror hanging by a safety-pin to the canvas wall above.
Rouletta recalled with a smile the flourish of pride with which he had
presented to her this ludicrous bureau and its fittings. Was there ever
such a fellow as this Doret? Was there ever a heart so big, so kind? A
stranger, it seemed to the girl that she had known him always. There
had been days--days interminable--when he had seemed to be some dream
figure; an indistinct, unreal being at once familiar and unfamiliar,
friendly and forbidding; then other days during which he had gradually
assumed substance and actuality and during which she had come to know
him. Following her return to sanity, Rouletta had experienced periods
of uncertainty and of terror, then hours of embarrassment the mere
memory of which caused her to shrink and to hide her head. Those were
times of which, even yet, she could not bear to think. Hers had been a
slow recovery and a painful, nay a tragic, awakening, but, as she had
gained the strength and the ability to understand and to suffer,
'Poleon, with a tact and a thoughtfulness unexpected in one of his
sort, had dropped the character of nurse and assumed the role of friend
and protector. That had been Rouletta's most difficult ordeal, the most
trying time for both of them, in fact; not one man in ten thousand
could have carried off such an awkward situation at a cost so low to a
woman's feelings. It was, of course, the very awkwardness of that
situation, together with 'Poleon's calm, courageous method of facing
it, that had given his patient the strength to meet him half-way and
that had made her convalescence anything less than a torture.

And the manner in which he had allowed her to learn all the truth about
herself--bit by bit as her resistance grew--his sympathy, his
repression, his support! He had to know just how far to go; he had
spared her every possible heartache, he had never permitted her to
suffer a moment of trepidation as to herself. No. Her first conscious
feeling, now that she recalled it, had been one of implicit,
unreasoning faith in him. That confidence had increased with every
hour; dismay, despair, the wish to die had given place to resignation,
then to hope, and now to a brave self-confidence. Rouletta knew that
her deliverance had been miraculous and that this man, this total
stranger, out of the goodness of his heart, had given her back her
life. She never ceased pondering over it.

She was now sitting motionless, comb and brush in hand, when 'Poleon
came into the tent for a second time and aroused her from her
abstraction. She hastily completed her toilette, and was sitting curled
up on her bed when the aroma of boiling coffee and the sound of frying
steak brought her to her feet. With a noisy clatter she
enthusiastically arranged the breakfast dishes.

"How wonderful it is to have an appetite in the morning!" said she;
then: "This is the last time you're going to cook. You may chop the
wood and build the fires, but I shall attend to the rest. I'm quite
able."

"Bien!" The pilot smiled his agreement. "Everybody mus' work to be
happy--even dose dog. Wat you t'ink? Dey loaf so long dey begin fight,
jus' lak' people." He chuckled. "Pretty queeck we hitch her up de sled
an' go fly to Dyea. You goin' henjoy dat, ma soeur. Mebbe we meet dose
cheechako' comin' in an' dey holler: 'Hallo, Frenchy! How's t'ing' in
Dawson?' an' we say: 'Pouf! We don' care 'bout Dawson; we goin' home.'"

"Home!" Rouletta paused momentarily in her task.

"Sure! Now--voila! Breakfas' she's serve in de baggage-car." With a
flourish he poured the coffee, saying, "Let's see if you so hongry lak
you pretend, or if I'm goin' keep you in bed some more."

Rouletta's appetite was all--yes, more--than she had declared it to be.
The liberality with which she helped herself to oatmeal, her lavish use
of the sugar--spoon, and her determined attack upon the can of
"Carnation" satisfied any lingering doubts in Doret's mind. Her
predatory interest in the appetizing contents of the frying-pan--she
eyed it with the greedy hopefulness of a healthy urchin--also was
eloquent of a complete recovery and brought a thrill of pride to her
benefactor.

"Gosh! I mak' bad nurse for hospital," he grinned. "You eat him out of
house an' lot." He finished his meal, then looked on until Rouletta
leaned back with regretful satisfaction; thereupon he broke out:

"Wal, I got more s'prise for you."

"You--you can't surprise a toad, and--I feel just like one. Isn't food
good?"

Now Rouletta had learned much about this big woodsman's peculiarities;
among other things she had discovered that he took extravagant delight
in his so-called "s'prises." They were many and varied, now a titbit to
tempt her palate, or again a native doll which needed a complete outfit
of moccasins, cap, and parka, and which he insisted he had met on the
trail, very numb from the cold; again a pair of rabbit-fur
sleeping-socks for herself. That crude dresser, which he had completed
without her suspecting him, was another. Always he was making or doing
something to amuse or to occupy her attention, and, although his gifts
were poor, sometimes absurdly simple, he had, nevertheless, the power
of investing them with importance. Being vitally interested in all
things, big or little, he stimulated others to share in that interest.
Life was an enjoyable game, inanimate objects talked to him, every
enterprise was tinted imaginary colors, and he delighted in
pretense--welcome traits to Rouletta, whose childhood had been starved.

"What is my new s'prise?" she queried. But, without answering, 'Poleon
rose and left the tent; he was back a moment later with a bundle in his
hands. This bundle he unrolled, displaying a fine fur parka, the hood
of which was fringed with a deep fox-tail facing, the skirt and sleeves
of an elaborate checker-board pattern of multicolored skins. Gay
squirrel-tail streamers depended from its shoulders as further
ornamentation. Altogether it was a splendid specimen of Indian
needlework and Rouletta gasped with delight.

"How WONDERFUL!" she cried. "Is--it for me?" The pilot nodded. "Sure
t'ing. De purtiest one ever I see. But look!" He called her attention
to a beaver cap, a pair of beaded moose-hide mittens, and a pair of
small fur boots that went with the larger garments--altogether a
complete outfit for winter travel. "I buy him from dose hinjun hunter.
Put him on, queeck."

Rouletta slipped into the parka; she donned cap and mittens; and
'Poleon was in raptures.

"By golly! Dat's beautiful!" he declared. "Now you' fix for sure. No
matter how col' she come, your li'l toes goin' be warm, you don' froze
your nose--"

"You're good and true--and--" Rouletta faltered, then added, fervently,
"I shall always thank God for knowing you."

Now above all things Doret dreaded his "sister's" serious moods or any
expression of her gratitude; he waved her words aside with an airy
gesture and began in a hearty tone:

"We don't stop dis place no longer. To-morrow we start for Dyea. Wat
you t'ink of dat, eh? Pretty queeck you be home." When his hearer
displayed no great animation at the prospect he exclaimed, in
perplexity: "You fonny gal. Ain't you care?"

"I have no home," she gravely told him.

"But your people--dey goin' be glad for see you?"

"I have no people, either. You see, we lived a queer life, father and
I. I was all he had, outside of poor Danny Royal, and he--was all I
had. Home was where we happened to be. He sold everything to come
North; he cut all ties and risked everything on a single throw. That
was his way, our way--all or nothing. I've been thinking lately; I've
asked myself what he would have wished me to do, and--I've made up my
mind."

"So?" 'Poleon was puzzled.

"I'm not going 'outside.' I'm going to Dawson. 'Be a thoroughbred.
Don't weaken.' That's what he always said. Sam Kirby followed the
frontier and he made his money there. Well, I'm his girl, his blood is
in me. I'm going through."

'Poleon's brow was furrowed in deep thought; it cleared slowly. "Dawson
she's bad city, but you're brave li'l gal and--badness is here," he
tapped his chest with a huge forefinger. "So long de heart she's pure,
not'in' goin' touch you." He nodded in better agreement with Rouletta's
decision. "Mebbe so you're right. For me, I'm glad, very glad, for I
t'ink my bird is goin' spread her wing' an' fly away south lak all de
res', but now--bien! I'm satisfy! We go to Dawson."

"Your work is here," the girl protested. "I can't take you away from
it."

"Fonny t'ing 'bout work," 'Poleon said, with a grin. "Plenty tam I try
to run away from him, but always he catch up wit' me."

"You're a poor man. I can't let you sacrifice too much."

"Poor?" The pilot opened his eyes in amazement. "Mon Dieu! I'm reech
feller. Anybody is reech so long he's well an' happy. Mebbe I sell my
claim."

"Your claim? Have you a claim? At Dawson?"

The man nodded indifferently. "I stake him las' winter. He's pretty
claim to look at--plenty snow, nice tree for cabin, dry wood,
everyt'ing but gold. Mebbe I sell him for beeg price."

"Why doesn't it have any gold?" Rouletta was genuinely curious.

"Why? Biccause I stake him," 'Poleon laughed heartily. "Dose claim I
stake dey never has so much gold you can see wit' your eye. Not one,
an' I stake t'ousan'. Me, I hear dose man talk 'bout million dollar;
I'm drinkin' heavy so I t'ink I be millionaire, too. But bimeby I'm
sober ag'in an' my money she's gone. I'm res'less feller; I don' stop
long no place."

"What makes you think it's a poor claim?"

'Poleon shrugged. "All my claim is poor. Me, I'm onlucky. Mebbe so I
don' care enough for bein' reech. W'at I'll do wit' pile of money, eh?
Drink him up? Gamble? Dat's fun for while. Every spring I sell my fur
an' have beeg tam; two weeks I'm drunk, but--dat's plenty. Any feller
dat's drunk more 'n two weeks is bum. No!" He shook his head and
exposed his white teeth in a flashing smile. "I'm cut off for poor man.
I mak' beeg soccess of dat."

Rouletta studied the speaker silently for a moment. "I know." She
nodded her complete understanding of his type. "Well, I'm not going to
let you do that any more."

"I don' hurt nobody," he protested. "I sing plenty song an' fight li'l
bit. A man mus' got some fun."

"Won't you promise--for my sake?"

'Poleon gave in after some hesitation; reluctantly he agreed. "Eh bien!
Mos' anyt'ing I promise for you, ma soeur. But--she's goin' be mighty
poor trip for me. S'pose mebbe I forget dose promise?"

"I sha'n't let you. I've seen too much drinking--gambling. I'll hold
you to your pledge."

Again the man smiled; there was a light of warm affection in his eyes.
"By Gar! It's nice t'ing to have sister w'at care for you. When we
goin' start for Dawson, eh?"

"To-morrow."



CHAPTER XIX


Every new and prosperous mining-camp has an Arabian Nights atmosphere,
characteristic, peculiar, indescribable. Especially noticeable was this
atmosphere in the early Arctic camps, made up as they were of men who
knew little about mining, rather less about frontier ways, and next to
nothing about the country in which they found themselves. These men had
built fabulous hopes, they dwelt in illusion, they put faith in the
thinnest of shadows. Now the most practical miner is not a conservative
person; he is erratic, credulous, and extravagant; reasonless optimism
is at once his blessing and his curse. Nevertheless, the "old-timers"
of the Yukon were moderate indeed as compared with the adventurous
holiday-seekers who swarmed in upon their tracks. Being none too well
balanced themselves, it was only natural that the exuberance of these
new arrivals should prove infectious and that a sort of general
auto-intoxication should result. That is precisely what happened at
Dawson. Men lost all caution, all common sense; they lived in a land of
rosy imaginings; hard-bought lessons of experience were forgotten;
reality disappeared; fancy took wing and left fact behind; expectations
were capitalized and no exaggeration was too wild to challenge
acceptance. It became a City of Frenzy.

It was all very fine for an ardent youth like Pierce Phillips; it set
him ablaze, stirring a fever in his blood. Having won thus far, he made
the natural mistake of believing that the race was his; so he wasted
little time in the town, but very soon took to the hills, there to make
his fortune and be done with it.

Here came his awakening. Away from the delirium of the camp, in contact
with cold reality, he began to learn something of the serious,
practical business of gold-mining. Before he had been long on the
creeks he found that it was no child's play to wrest treasure from the
frozen bosom of a hostile wilderness, and that, no matter how rich or
how plentiful the treasure, Mother Earth guarded her secrets jealously.
He began to realize that the obstacles he had so blithely overcome in
getting to the Klondike were as nothing to those in the way of his
further success. Of a sudden his triumphal progress slowed down and he
came to a pause; he began to mark time.

There was work in plenty to be had, but, like most of the new-comers,
he was not satisfied to take fixed wages. They seemed paltry indeed
compared with the drunken figures that were on every lip. In the
presence of the uncertain he could not content himself with a sure
thing. Nevertheless, he was soon forced to the necessity of resorting
to it, for through the fog of his misapprehensions, beneath the
obscurity of his ignorance, he began to discover the true outline of
things and to understand that his ideas were impractical.

To begin with, every foot of ground in the proven districts was taken,
and even when he pushed out far afield he found that the whole country
was plastered with locations: rivers, creeks and tributaries, benches
and hillsides, had been staked. For many miles in every direction
blazed trees and pencil notices greeted him--he found them in places
where it seemed no foot but his had ever trod. In Dawson the Gold
Commissioner's office was besieged by daily crowds of claimants; it
would have taken years of work on the part of a hundred thousand men to
even prospect the ground already recorded on the books.

Back and forth Phillips came and went, he made trips with pack and
hand-sled, he slept out in spruce forests, in prospectors' tents, in
new cabins the sweaty green logs of which were still dripping, and when
he had finished he was poorer by a good many dollars and richer only in
the possession of a few recorder's receipts, the value of which he had
already begun to doubt.

Disappointed he was, but not discouraged. It was all too new and
exciting for that. Every visit to Bonanza or El Dorado inspired him. It
would have inspired a wooden man. For miles those valleys were smoky
from the sinking fires, and their clean white carpets were spotted with
piles of raw red dirt. By day they echoed to blows of axes, the crash
of falling trees, the plaint of windlasses, the cries of freighters; by
night they became vast caldrons filled with flickering fires;
tremendous vats, the vapors from which were illuminated by hidden
furnaces. One would have thought that here gold was being made, not
sought--that this was a region of volcanic hot springs where every
fissure and vent-hole spouted steam. It was a strange, a marvelous
sight; it stirred the imagination to know that underfoot, locked in the
flinty depths of the frozen gravel, was wealth unmeasured and unearned,
rich hoards of yellow gold that yesterday were ownerless.

A month of stampeding dulled the keen edge of Pierce's enthusiasm, so
he took a breathing-spell in which to get his bearings.

The Yukon had closed and the human flotsam and jetsam it had borne
thither was settling. Pierce could feel a metamorphic agency at work in
the town; already new habits of life were crystallizing among its
citizens; and beneath its whirlpool surface new forms were in the
making. It alarmed him to realize that as yet his own affairs were in
suspense, and he argued, with all the hot impatience of youth, that it
was high time he came to rest. Opportunities were on every side of him,
but he knew not where or how to lay hold of them to his best advantage.
More than ever he felt himself to be the toy of circumstance, more than
ever he feared the fallibility of his judgment and the consequences of
a mistake. He was in a mood both dissatisfied and irresolute when he
encountered his two trail friends, Tom Linton and Jerry Quirk. Pierce
had seen them last at Linderman, engaged in prosecuting a stampeders'
divorce; he was surprised to find them reunited.

"I never dreamed you'd get through," he told them, when greetings had
passed. "Did you come in one boat or in two?"

Jerry grinned. "We sawed up that outlaw four times. We'd have split her
end to end finally, only we run out of pitch to cork her up."

"That boat was about worn out with our bickerings," Tom declared. "She
ain't over half the length she was--all the rest is sawdust. If the
nail-holes in her was laid end to end they'd reach to Forty Mile. We
were the last outfit in, as it was, and we'd of missed a landing if a
feller hadn't run out on the shore ice and roped us. First town I ever
entered on the end of a lariat. Hope I don't leave it the same way."

"Guess who drug us in," Jerry urged.

"I've no idea," said Pierce.

"Big Lars Anderson."

"Big Lars of El Dorado?"

"He's the party. He was just drunk enough to risk breakin' through.
When he found who we was--well, he gave us the town; he made us a
present of Dawson and all points north, together with the lands,
premises, privileges, and hereditaments appurtenant thereto. I still
got a kind of a hangover headache and have to take soda after my meals."

"Lars was a sheepman when we knew him," Tom explained. "Jerry and I
purloined him from some prominent cow-gentlemen who had him all
decorated up ready to hang, and he hasn't forgotten it. He got
everybody full the night we landed, and wound up by buying all the
fresh eggs in camp. Forty dozen. We had 'em fried. He's a prince with
his money."

"He owns more property than anybody," said pierce.

"Right! And he gave us a 'lay.'"

Phillips' eyes opened. "A lay? On El Dorado?" he queried, in frank
amazement.

"No. Hunker. He says it's a good creek. We're lookin' for a pardner."

"What kind of a partner?"

It was Linton who answered. "Well, some nice, easy-going, hard-working
young feller. Jerry and I are pretty old to wind a windlass, but we can
work underground where it's warm."

"'Easy-goin',' that's the word," Jerry nodded. "Tom and me get along
with each other like an order of buckwheat cakes, but we're set in our
ways and we don't want anybody to come between us."

"How would I do?" Pierce inquired, with a smile.

Tom answered promptly. "If your name was put to a vote I know one of us
that wouldn't blackball you."

"Sure!" cried his partner. "The ballot-box would look like a settin' of
pigeon eggs. Think it over and let us know. We're leavin' to-morrow."

A lease on Hunker Creek sounded good to Phillips. Big Lars Anderson had
been one of the first arrivals from Circle City; already he was rated a
millionaire, for luck had smiled upon him; his name was one to conjure
with. Pierce was about to accept the offer made when Jerry said:

"Who d'you s'pose got the lay below ours? That feller McCaskey and his
brother."

"McCaskey!"

"He's an old pal of Anderson's."

"Does Big Lars know he's a thief?"

Jerry shrugged. "Lars ain't the kind that listens to scandal and we
ain't the kind that carries it."

Pierce meditated briefly; then he said, slowly, "If your lay turns out
good so will McCaskey's." His frown deepened. "Well, if there's a law
of compensation, if there's such a thing as retributive justice--you
have a bad piece of ground."

"But there ain't any such thing," Tom quickly asserted. "Anyhow, it
don't work in mining-camps. If it did the saloons would be
reading-rooms and the gamblers would take in washing. Look at the lucky
men in this camp--bums, most of 'em. George Carmack was a squaw-man,
and he made the strike."

Pierce felt no fear of Joe McCaskey, only dislike and a desire to avoid
further contact with him. The prospect of a long winter in close
proximity to a proven scoundrel was repugnant. Balanced against this
was the magic of Big Lars' name. It was a problem; again indecision
rose to trouble him.

"I'll think it over," he said, finally.

Farther down the street Phillips' attention was arrested by an
announcement of the opening of the Rialto Saloon and Theater, Miller &
Best, proprietors. Challenged by the name of his former employer and
drawn by the sounds of merriment from within, Pierce entered. He had
seen little of Laure since his arrival; he had all but banished her
from his thoughts, in fact; but he determined now to look her up.

The Rialto was the newest and the most pretentious of Dawson's
amusement palaces. It comprised a drinking-place with a spacious
gambling-room adjoining. In the rear of the latter was the theater, a
huge log annex especially designed as the home of Bacchus and
Terpsichore.

The front room was crowded; through an archway leading to the
gambling-hall came the noise of many voices, and over all the strains
of an orchestra at the rear. Ben Miller, a famous sporting character,
was busy weighing gold dust at the massive scales near the door when
Pierce entered.

The theater, too, was packed. Here a second bar was doing a thriving
business, and every chair on the floor, every box in the balcony
overhanging three sides of it, was occupied. Waiters were scurrying up
and down the wide stairway; the general hubbub was punctuated by the
sound of exploding corks as the Klondike spendthrifts advertised their
prosperity in a hilarious contest of prodigality.

All Dawson had turned out for the opening, and Pierce recognized
several of the El Dorado kings, among them Big Lars Anderson.

These new-born magnates were as thriftless as locusts, and in the midst
of their bacchanalian revels Pierce felt very poor, very obscure. Here
was the roisterous spirit of the Northland at full play; it irked the
young man intensely to feel that he could afford no part in it. Laure
was not long in discovering him. She sped to him with the swiftness of
a swallow; breathlessly she inquired:

"Where have you been so long? Why didn't you let me know you were back?"

"I just got in. I've been everywhere." He smiled down at her, and she
clutched the lapel of his coat, then drew him out of the crowd. "I
dropped in to see how you were getting along."

"Well, what do you think of the place?"

"Why, it looks as if you'd all get rich in a night."

"And you? Have you done anything for yourself?"

Pierce shook his head; in a few words he recounted his goings and his
comings, his efforts and his failures. Laure followed the recital with
swift, birdlike nods of understanding; her dark ayes were warm with
sympathy.

"You're going at it the wrong way," she asserted when he had finished.
"You have brains; make them work. Look at Best, look at Miller, his new
partner; they know better than to mine. Mining is a fool's game. Play a
sure thing, Pierce. Stay here in town and live like a human being;
here's where the money will be made."

"Do you think I WANT to go flying over hill and dale, like a
tumbleweed? I haven't had warm feet in a week and I weep salt tears
when I see a bed. But I'm no Croesus; I've got to hustle. I think I've
landed something finally." He told of Tom and Jerry's offer, but failed
to impress his listener.

"If you go out to Hunker Creek I'll scarcely ever see you," said she.
"That's the first objection. I've nearly died these last three weeks.
But there are other objections. You couldn't get along with those old
men. Why, they can't get along with each other! Then there's Joe
McCaskey to think of. Why run into trouble?"

"I've thought of all that. But Big Lars is on the crest of his wave; he
has the Midas touch; everything he lays his hands on turns to gold. He
believes in Hunker--"

"I'll find out if he does," Laure said, quickly. "He's drinking. He'll
tell me anything. Wait!" With a flashing smile she was off.

She returned with an air of triumph. "You'll learn to listen to me,"
she declared. "He says Hunker is low grade. That's why he lets lays on
it instead of working it himself. Lars is a fox."

"He said that?"

"The best there is in it is wages. Those were his very words. Would you
put up with Linton and Quirk and the two McCaskeys for wages? Of course
not. I've something better fixed up for you." Without explaining, she
led Pierce to the bar, where Morris Best was standing.

Best was genuinely glad to see his former employee; he warmly shook
Pierce's hand.

"I've got 'em going, haven't I?" he chuckled.

Laure broke out, imperiously: "Loosen up. Morris, and let's all have a
drink on the house. You can afford it."

"Sure!" With a happy grin the proprietor ordered a quart bottle of
wine. "I can afford more than that for a friend. We put it over, didn't
we, kid?" He linked arms with Pierce and leaned upon him. "Oy! Such
trouble we had with these girls, eh? But we got 'em here, and now I got
Dawson going. I'll be one of these Rockyfeller magnets, believe me."

Pierce had not tasted liquor since his last farewell to Laure. Three
weeks of hard work in the open air had effected a chemical change in
his make-up, a purification of his tissues, and as a result Best's
liquor mounted quickly to his head and warmed his blood. When he had
emptied his glass Laure saw that it was promptly refilled.

"So you've cut out the stampeding," Morris continued. "Good! You've got
sense. Let the rough-necks do it. This here Front Street is the best
pay-streak in the Klondike and it won't pinch out. Why? Because every
miner empties his poke into it." The speaker nodded, and leaned more
intimately against Phillips. "They bring in their Bonanza dust and
their El Dorado nuggets and salt our sluices. That's the system. It's
simpler as falling down a log. What?"

"Come to the good news," Laure urged.

"This little woman hates you, don't she?" Best winked. "Just like she
hates her right eye. You got her going, kid. Well, you can start work
to-morrow."

"Start work? Where?" Pierce was bewildered.

"Miller's looking for a gold-weigher. We'll put you out in the saloon
proper."

"'Saloon proper'?" Pierce shook his head in good-natured refusal. "I
dare say it's the fault of my bringing-up, but--I don't think there's
any such thing. I'm an outdoor person. I'm one of the rough-necks who
salts your sluice-boxes. I think I'd better stick to the hills. It's
mighty nice of you, though, and I'm much obliged."

"Are you going to take that other offer?" Laure inquired. When Pierce
hesitated she laid hold of his other arm. "I won't let you go," she
cried. "I want you here--"

"Nonsense!" he protested. "I can't do anything for you. I have
nothing--"

"Have I ever asked you for anything?" she blazed at him. "I can take
care of myself, but--I want you. I sha'n't let you go."

"Better think it over," Best declared. "We need a good man."

"Yes!" Laure clung to Pierce's hand. "Don't be in a hurry. Anyhow, stay
and dance with me while we talk about it. We've never had a dance
together. Please!"

The proprietor of the theater was in a genial mood. "Stick around," he
seconded. "Your credit is good and it won't worry me none if you never
take up your tabs. Laure has got the right idea; play 'em safe and
sure, and let the other feller do the work. Now we'll have another
bottle."

The three of them were still standing at the bar when the curtain fell
on the last vaudeville act and the audience swarmed out into the
gambling-room of the main saloon. Hastily, noisily, the chairs were
removed from the dance floor, then the orchestra began a spirited
two-step and a raucous-voiced caller broke into loud exhortations. In a
twinkling the room had refilled, this time with whirling couples.

Laure raised her arms, she swayed forward into Pierce's embrace, and
they melted into the throng. The girl could dance; she seemed to float
in cadence with the music; she became one with her partner and answered
his every impulse. Never before had she seemed so utterly and so
completely to embody the spirit of pleasure; she was ardent, alive, she
pulsated with enjoyment; her breath was warm, her dark, fragrant hair
brushed Phillips' cheek; her olive face was slightly flushed; and her
eyes, uplifted to his, were glowing. They voiced adoration, abandon,
surrender.

The music ended with a crash; a shout, a storm of applause followed;
then the dancers swarmed to the bar, bearing Pierce and his companion
with them. Laure was panting. She clung fiercely, jealously, to
Phillips' arm.

"Dance with me again. Again! I never knew what it was--" She trembled
with a vibrant ecstasy.

Drinks were set before them. The girl spurned hers, but absent-mindedly
pocketed the pasteboard check that went with it. While yet Pierce's
throat was warm from the spirits there began the opening measures of a
languorous waltz and the crowd swept into motion again. There was no
refusing the invitation of that music.

Later in the evening Phillips found Tom and Jerry; his color was deeper
than usual, his eyes were unnaturally bright.

"I'm obliged to you," he told them, "but I've taken a job as weigher
with Miller & Best. Good luck, and--I hope you strike it rich."

When he had gone Tom shook his head. His face was clouded with regret
and, too, with a vague expression of surprise.

"Too bad," he said. "I didn't think he was that kind."

"Sure!" Jerry agreed. "I thought he'd make good."



CHAPTER XX


Morris Best's new partner was a square gambler, so called. People there
were who sneered at this description and considered it a contradiction
as absurd as a square circle or an elliptical cube. An elementary
knowledge of the principles of geometry and of the retail liquor
business proved the non-existence of such a thing as a straight crook,
so they maintained. But be that as it may, Ben Miller certainly
differed from the usual run of sporting-men, and he professed peculiar
ideas regarding the conduct of his trade. Those ideas were almost
puritanical in their nature. Proprietorship of recreation centers
similar to the Rialto had bred in Mr. Miller a profound distrust of
women as a sex and of his own ability successfully to deal with them;
in consequence, he refused to tolerate their presence in his immediate
vicinity. That they were valuable, nay, necessary, ingredients in the
success of an enterprise such as the present one he well knew--Miller
was, above all, a business man--but in making his deal with Best he had
insisted positively that none of the latter's song-birds were ever to
enter the front saloon. That room, Miller maintained, was to be his
own, and he proposed to exercise dominion over it. As for the
gambling-hall, that of necessity was neutral territory and he
reluctantly consented to permit the girls to patronize it so long as
they behaved themselves. For his part, he yielded all responsibility
over the theater, and what went on therein, to Best. He agreed to stay
out of it.

This division of power worked admirably, and Miller's prohibitions were
scrupulously observed. He was angered, therefore, when, one morning,
his rule was broken. At the moment he was engaged in weighing, checking
up, and sacking his previous night's receipts, he looked up with a
frown when a woman's--a girl's--voice interrupted him.

"Are you Ben Miller?" the trespasser inquired.

Miller nodded shortly. He could be colder than a frog when he chose.

"I'm looking for work," explained the visitor.

"You got the wrong door," he told her. "You want the dance-hall. We
don't allow women in here."

"So I understand."

Miller's frown deepened. "Well, then, beat it! Saloons are masculine
gender and--"

"I'm not a dance-hall girl, I'm a dealer," the other broke in.

"You're a--WHAT?" Ben's jaw dropped; he stared curiously at the
speaker. She was pretty, very pretty, in a still, dignified way; she
had a fine, intelligent face and she possessed a poise, a carriage,
that challenged attention.

"A dealer? What the deuce can you deal?" he managed to ask.

"Anything--the bank, the wheel, the tub, the cage--"

Disapproval returned to the man's countenance; there was an admonitory
sternness to his voice when he said: "It ain't very nice to see a kid
like you in a place like this. I don't know where you learned that wise
talk, but--cut it out. Go home and behave yourself, sister. If you're
broke, I'll stake you; so'll anybody, for that matter."

His visitor stirred impatiently. "Let's stick to business. I don't want
a loan. I'm a dealer and I want work."

Morris Best bustled out of the adjoining room at the moment, and,
noting a feminine figure in this forbidden territory, he exclaimed:

"Hey, miss! Theater's in the rear."

Miller summoned him with a backward jerk of his head. "Morris, this
kid's looking for a job--as dealer," said he.

"Dealer?" Best halted abruptly. "That's funny."

"What is funny about it?" demanded the girl. "My father was a gambler.
I'm Rouletta Kirby."

"Are you Sam Kirby's girl?" Miller inquired. When Rouletta nodded he
removed his hat, then he extended his hand. "Shake," said he. "Now I've
got you. You've had a hard time, haven't you? We heard about Sam and we
thought you was dead. Step in here and set down." He motioned to the
tiny little office which was curtained off from general view.

Rouletta declined with a smile. "I really want work as a dealer. That's
the only thing I can do well. I came here first because you have a good
reputation."

"Kirby's kid don't have to deal nothing. She's good for any kind of a
stake on his name."

"Dad would be glad to hear that. He was a--great man. He ran straight."
Rouletta's eyes had become misty at Miller's indirect tribute to her
father; nevertheless, she summoned a smile and went on: "He never
borrowed, and neither will I. If you can't put me to work I'll try
somewhere else."

"How did you get down from White Horse?" Miller inquired, curiously.

"'Poleon Doret brought me."

"I know Doret. He's aces."

"Can you really deal?" Best broke in.

"Come. I'll prove that I can." Rouletta started for the gambling-room
and the two men followed. Best spoke to his partner in a low voice:

"Say, Ben, if she can make a half-way bluff at it she'll be a big card.
Think of the play she'll get."

But Miller was dubious. "She's nothing but a kid," he protested. "A
dealer has got to have experience, and, besides, she ain't the kind
that belongs in a dump. Somebody'd get fresh and--I'd have to bust him."

There was little activity around the tables al this hour of the day;
the occupants of the gambling-room were, for the most part, house
employees who were waiting for business to begin. The majority of these
employees were gathered about the faro layout, where the cards were
being run in a perfunctory manner to an accompaniment of gossip and
reminiscence. The sight of Ben Miller in company with a girl evoked
some wonder. This wonder increased to amazement when Miller ordered the
dealer out of his seat; it became open-mouthed when the girl took his
place, then broke a new deck of cards, deftly shuffled them, and
slipped them into the box. At this procedure the languid lookout, who
had been comfortably resting upon his spine, uncurled his legs, hoisted
himself into an attitude of attention, and leaned forward with a
startled expression upon his face.

The gamblers crowded closer, exchanging expectant glances; Ben Miller
and Morris Best helped themselves to chips and began to play. These
were queer doings; the case-hardened onlookers prepared to enjoy a
mildly entertaining treat. Soon grins began to appear; the men
murmured, they nudged one another, they slapped one another on the
back, for what they saw astonished and delighted them. The girl dealt
swiftly, surely; she handled the paraphernalia of the faro-table with
the careless familiarity of long practice; but stranger still, she
maintained a poise, a certain reserve and feminine dignity which were
totally incongruous.

When, during a pause, she absent-mindedly shuffled a stack of chips,
the Mocha Kid permitted his feelings to get the better of him.

"Hang me for a horse-thief!" he snickered. "Will you look at that?" Now
the Mocha Kid was a ribald character, profanity was a part of him, and
blasphemy embellished his casual speech. The mildness of his
exclamation showed that he was deeply moved. He continued in the same
admiring undertone: "I seen a dame once that could deal a bank, but she
couldn't pay and take. This gal can size up a stack with her eyes shut!"

Nothing could have more deeply intrigued the attention of these men
than the sight of a modest, quiet, well-behaved young woman exhibiting
all the technic of a finished faro-dealer. It was contrary to their
experience, to their ideas of fitness. Mastery of the gaming-table
requires years of practice to acquire, and not one of these
professionals but was as proud of his own dexterity as a fine pianist;
to behold a mere girl possessed of all the knacks and tricks and
mannerisms of the craft excited their keenest risibilities. In order
the more thoroughly to test her skill several of them bought stacks of
chips and began to play in earnest; they played their bets open, they
coppered, they split, they strung them, and at the finish they called
the turn. Rouletta paid and took; she measured stacks of counters with
unerring facility, she overlooked no bets. She ran out the cards, upset
the box, and began to reshuffle the cards.

"Well, I'm a son of a gun!" declared the lookout. He doubled up in
breathless merriment, he rocked back and forth in his chair, he stamped
his feet. A shout of laughter issued from the others.

Ben Miller closed the cases with a crash. "You'll do," he announced.
"If there's anything you don't know I can't teach it to you." Then to
the bystanders he said: "This is Sam Kirby's girl. She wants work, and
if I thought you coyotes knew how to treat a lady I'd put her on."

"Say!" The Mocha Kid scowled darkly at his employer. "What kinda guys
do you take us for? What makes you think we don't know--"

He was interrupted by an angry outburst, by a chorus of resentful
protests, the indignant tone of which seemed to satisfy Miller. The
latter shrugged his shoulders and rose. Rouletta stirred as if to
follow suit, but eager hands stayed her, eager voices urged her to
remain.

"Run 'em again, miss," begged Tommy Ryan, the roulette-dealer. Mr. Ryan
was a pale-faced person whose addiction to harmful drugs was notorious;
his extreme pallor and his nervous lack of repose had gained for him
the title of "Snowbird." Tommy's hollow eyes were glowing, his
colorless lips were parted in an engaging smile. "Please run 'em once
more. I 'ain't had so much fun since my wife eloped with a drummer in
El Paso."

Rouletta agreed readily enough, and her admiring audience crowded
closer. Their interest was magnetic, their absorption and their
amusement were communicated to some new-comers who had dropped in.
Before the girl had dealt half the cards these bona-fide customers had
found seats around the table and were likewise playing. They, too,
enjoyed the novel experience, and the vehemence with which they
insisted that Rouletta retain her office proved beyond question the
success of Miller's experiment.

It was not yet midday, nevertheless the news spread quickly that a girl
was dealing bank at the Rialto, and soon other curious visitors
arrived. Among them was Big Lars Anderson. Lars did not often gamble,
but when he did he made a considerable business of it and the sporting
fraternity took him seriously. Anything in the nature of an innovation
tickled the big magnate immensely, and to evidence his interest in this
one he purchased a stack of chips. Ere long he had lost several hundred
dollars. He sent for Miller, finally, and made a good-natured complaint
that the game was too slow for him.

"Shall I raise the limit?" the proprietor asked of Rouletta. The girl
shrugged indifferently, whereupon the Mocha Kid and the Snowbird
embraced each other and exchanged admiring profanities in smothered
tones.

Big Lars stubbornly backed his luck, but the bank continued to win, and
meanwhile new arrivals dropped in. Two, three hours the play went on,
by which time all Dawson knew that a big game was running and that a
girl was in the dealer's chair. Few of the visitors got close enough to
verify the intelligence without receiving a sotto voce warning that
rough talk was taboo--Miller's ungodly clan saw to that--and on the
whole the warning was respected. Only once was it disregarded; then a
heavy loser breathed a thoughtless oath. Disapproval was marked,
punishment was condign; the lookout leisurely descended from his eyrie
and floored the offender with a blow from his fist.

When the resulting disturbance had quieted down the defender of decorum
announced with inflexible firmness, but with a total lack of heat:

"Gents, this is a sort of gospel game, and it's got a certain tone
which we're going to maintain. The limit is off, except on cussing, but
it's mighty low on that. Them of you that are indisposed to swallow
your cud of regrets will have it knocked out of you."

"Good!" shouted Big Lars. He pounded the table with the flat of his
huge palm. "By Jingo! I'll make that unanimous. If anybody has to cuss
let him take ten paces to the rear and cuss the stove."

It was well along in the afternoon when Rouletta Kirby pushed back her
chair and rose. She was very white; she passed an uncertain hand over
her face, then groped blindly at the table for support. At these signs
of distress a chorus of alarm arose.

"It's nothing," she smiled. '"I'm just--hungry. I've been pretty ill
and I'm not very strong yet."

Lars Anderson was dumfounded, appalled. "Hungry? My God!" To his
companions he shouted: "D'you hear that, boys? She's starved out!"

The boys had heard; already they had begun to scramble. Some ran for
the lunch-counter in the adjoining room, others dashed out to the
nearest restaurants. The Snowbird so far forgot his responsibilities as
to abandon the roulette-wheel and leave its bank-roll unguarded while
he scurried to the bar and demanded a drink, a tray of assorted drinks,
fit for a fainting lady. He came flying back, yelling, "Gangway!" and,
scattering the crowd ahead of him, he offered brandy, whisky, creme de
menthe, hootch, absinthe and bitters to Rouletta, all of which she
declined. He was still arguing the medicinal value of these beverages
when the swinging doors from the street burst open and in rushed the
Mocha Kid, a pie in each hand. Other eatables and drinkables appeared
as by magic, the faro-table was soon spread with the fruits of a
half-dozen hasty and hysterical forays.

Rouletta stared at the apprehensive faces about her, and what she read
therein caused her lips to quiver and her voice to break when she tried
to express her thanks.

"Gosh! Don't cry!" begged the Mocha Kid. With a counterfeit assumption
of juvenile hilarity he exclaimed: "Oh, look at the pretty pies! They
got little Christmas-trees on their lids, 'ain't they? Um-yum! Rich and
juicy! I stuck up the baker and stole his whole stock, but I slipped
and spilled 'em F. O. B.--flat on the boardwalk."

Rouletta laughed. "Let's end the game and all have lunch," she
suggested, and her invitation was accepted.

Big Lars spoke up with his mouth full of pastry: "We don't allow
anybody to go hungry in this camp," said he. "We're all your friends,
miss, and if there's anything you want and can't afford, charge it to
me."

Rouletta stopped to speak with Miller, on her way out. "Do I get the
position?" she inquired.

"Say! You know you get it!" he told her. "You go on at eight and come
off at midnight."

"What is the pay?"

"I pay my dealers an ounce a shift, but--you can write your own ticket.
How is two ounces?"

"I'll take regular wages," Rouletta smiled.

Miller nodded his approval of this attitude; then his face clouded.
"I've been wondering how you're going to protect your bank-roll. Things
won't always be like they were to-day. I s'pose I'll have to put a man
on--"

"I'll protect it," the girl asserted. "Agnes and I will do that."

The proprietor was interested. "Agnes? Holy Moses! Is there two of you?
Have you got a sister? Who's Agnes?"

"She's an old friend of my father's."

Miller shrugged. "Bring her along if you want to," he said, doubtfully,
"but those old dames are trouble-makers."

"Yes, Agnes is all of that, but"--Rouletta's eyes were dancing--"she
minds her own business and she'll guard the bank-roll."

Lucky Broad and Kid Bridges had found employment at the Rialto soon
after it opened. As they passed the gold-scales on their way to work
Pierce Phillips halted them.

"I've some good news for you, Lucky," he announced. "You've lost your
job."

"Who, me?" Broad was incredulous.

"Miller has hired a new faro-dealer, and you don't go on until
midnight." Briefly Pierce retold the story that had come to his ears
when he reported for duty that evening.

Broad and Bridges listened without comment, but they exchanged glances.
They put their heads together and began a low-pitched conversation.
They were still murmuring when Rouletta appeared, in company with
'Poleon Doret.

'Poleon's face lighted at sight of the two gamblers. He strode forward,
crying: "Hallo! I'm glad for see you some more." To the girl he said:
"You 'member dese feller'. Dey he'p save you in de rapids."

Rouletta impulsively extended her hands. "Of course! Could I forget?"
She saw Pierce Phillips behind the scales and nodded to him. "Why,
we're all here, aren't we? I'm so glad. Everywhere I go I meet friends."

Lucky and the Kid inquired respectfully regarding her health, her
journey down the river, her reasons for being here; then when they had
drawn her aside the former interrupted her flow of explanations to say:

"Listen, Letty. We got just one real question to ask and we'd like a
straight answer. Have you got any kick against this Frenchman?"

"Any kick of any kind?" queried Bridges. "We're your friends; you can
tip us off."

The sudden change in the tone of their voices caused the girl to start
and to stare at them. She saw that both men were in sober earnest; the
reason behind their solicitude she apprehended.

She laid a hand upon the arm of each. Her eyes were very bright when
she began: "'Poleon told me how you came to his tent that morning
after--you know, and he told me what you said. Well, it wasn't
necessary. He's the dearest thing that ever lived!"

"Why'd he put you to work in a place like this?" Bridges roughly
demanded.

"He didn't. He begged me not to try it. He offered me all he has--his
last dollar. He--"

Swiftly, earnestly, Rouletta told how the big woodsman had cared for
her; how tenderly, faithfully, he had nursed her back to health and
strength; how he had cast all his plans to the winds in order to bring
her down the river. "He's the best, the kindest, the most generous man
I ever knew," she concluded. "His heart is clean and--his soul is full
of music."

"'Sta bueno!" cried Lucky Broad, in genuine relief. "We had a hunch he
was right, but--you can't always trust those Asiatic races."

Ben Miller appeared and warmly greeted his new employee. "Rested up,
eh? Well, it's going to be a big night. Where's Agnes--the other one?
Has she got cold feet?"

"No, just a cold nose. Here she is." From a small bag on her arm
Rouletta drew Sam Kirby's six-shooter. "Agnes was my father's friend.
Nobody ever ran out on her."

Miller blinked, he uttered a feeble exclamation, then he burst into a
mighty laugh. He was still shaking, his face was purple, there were
tears of mirth in his eyes, when he followed Broad, Bridges, and
Rouletta into the gambling-room.

There were several players at the faro-table when the girl took her
place. Removing her gloves, she stowed them away in her bag. From this
bag she extracted the heavy Colt's revolver, then opened the drawer
before her and laid it inside. She breathed upon her fingers, rubbing
the circulation back into them, and began to shuffle the cards.
Slipping them into the box, the girl settled herself in her chair and
looked up into a circle of grinning faces. Before her level gaze eyes
that had been focused queerly upon her fell. The case-keeper's lips
were twitching, but he bit down upon them. Gravely he said:

"Well, boys, let's go!"



CHAPTER XXI


In taking charge of a sick girl, a helpless, hopeless stranger, 'Poleon
Doret had assumed a responsibility far greater than he had anticipated,
and that responsibility had grown heavier every day. Having, at last,
successfully discharged it, he breathed freely, his first relaxation in
a long time; he rejoiced in the consciousness of a difficult duty well
performed. So far as he could see there was nothing at all
extraordinary, nothing in the least improper, about Rouletta's
engagement at the Rialto. Any suggestion of impropriety, in fact, would
have greatly surprised him, for saloons and gambling-halls filled a
recognized place in the every-day social life of the Northland. Customs
were free, standards were liberal in the early days; no one, 'Poleon
least of all, would have dreamed that they were destined to change in a
night. Had he been told that soon the country would be dry, and
gambling-games and dance-halls be prohibited by law, he would have
considered the idea too utterly fantastic for belief; the mere
contemplation of such a dreary prospect would have proved extremely
dispiriting. He--and the other pioneers of his kind--would have been
tempted immediately to pack up and move on to some freer locality where
a man could retain his personal liberty and pursue his happiness in a
manner as noisy, as intemperate, and as undignified as suited his
individual taste.

In justice to the saloons, be it said, they were more than mere
drinking-places; they were the pivots about which revolved the business
life of the North country. They were meeting-places, social centers,
marts of trade; looked upon as evidences of enterprise and general
prosperity, they were considered desirable assets to any community.
Everybody patronized them; the men who ran them were, on the whole, as
reputable as the men engaged in other pursuits. No particular stigma
attached either to the places themselves or to the people connected
with them.

These gold-camps had a very simple code. Work of any sort was
praiseworthy and honorable, idleness or unproductivity was
reprehensible. Mining, storekeeping, liquor-selling, gambling,
steamboating, all were occupations which men followed as necessity or
convenience prompted. A citizen gained repute by the manner in which he
deported himself, not by reason of the nature of the commodity in which
he dealt. Such, at least, was the attitude of the "old-timers."

Rouletta's instant success, the fact that she had fallen among friends,
delighted a woodsman like 'Poleon, and, now that he was his own master
again, he straightway surrendered himself to the selfish enjoyment of
his surroundings. His nature and his training prescribed the limits of
those pleasures; they were quite as simple as his everyday habits of
life; he danced, he gambled, and he drank.

To-night he did all three, in the reverse order. To him Dawson was a
dream city; its lights were dazzling, its music heavenly, its games of
chance enticing, and its liquor was the finest, the smoothest, the most
inspiriting his tongue had ever tested. Old friends were everywhere,
and new ones, too, for that matter. Among them were alluring women who
smiled and sparkled. Each place 'Poleon entered was the home of
carnival.

By midnight he was gloriously drunk. Ere daylight came he had sung
himself hoarse, he had danced two holes in his moccasins, and had
conducted three fist-fights to a satisfactory if not a successful
conclusion. It had been a celebration that was to live in his memory.
He strode blindly off to bed, shouting his complete satisfaction with
himself and with the world, retired without undressing, and then sang
himself to sleep, regardless of the protests of the other lodgers.

"Say! That Frenchman is a riot," Kid Bridges declared while he and
Lucky Broad were at breakfast. "He's old General Rough-houser, and he
set an altogether new mark in disorderly conduct last night. Letty
'most cried about it."

"Yeah? Those yokels are all alike--one drink and they declare a
dividend." Lucky was only mildly concerned. "I s'pose the vultures
picked him clean."

"Nothin' like it," Bridges shook his head. "He gnawed 'em naked, then
done a war-dance with their feathers in his hat. He left 'em bruised
an' bleedin'."

For a time the two friends ate in silence, then Broad mused, aloud:
"Letty 'most cried, eh? Say, I wonder what she really thinks of him?"

"I don't know. Miller told me she was all broke up, and I was goin' to
take her home and see if I could fathom her true feelin's,
but--Phillips beat me to it."

"Phillips! He'll have to throw out the life-line if Laure gets onto
that. She'll take to Letty just like a lone timber-wolf."

"Looks like she'd been kiddin' us, don't it? She calls him her
'brother' and he says she's his masseur--you heard him, didn't you?"
There was another pause. "What's a masseur, anyhow?"

"A masseur," said Mr. Broad, "is one of those women in a barber-shop
that fixes your fingernails. Yes, I heard him, and I'm here to say that
I didn't like the sound of it. I don't yet. He may mean all right,
but--them foreigners have got queer ideas about their women. Letty's a
swell kid and she's got a swell job. What's more, she's got a wise gang
riding herd on her. It's just like she was in a church--no danger, no
annoyance, nothing. If Doret figures to start a barber-shop with her
for his masseur, why, we'll have to lay him low with one of his own
razors."

Mr. Bridges nodded his complete approval of this suggestion. "Right-o!
I'll bust a mirror with him myself. Them barber-shops is no place for
good girls."

Broad and Bridges pondered the matter during the day, and that evening
they confided their apprehensions to their fellow-workers. The other
Rialto employees agreed that things did not look right, and after a
consultation it was decided to keep a watch upon the girl. This was
done. Prompted by their pride in her, and a genuinely unselfish
interest in her future, the boys made guarded attempts to discover the
true state of her feelings for the French Canadian, but they learned
little. Every indirect inquiry was met with a tribute to 'Poleon's
character so frank, so extravagant, as to completely baffle them. Some
of the investigators declared that Rouletta was madly in love with him;
others were equally positive that this extreme frankness in itself
proved that she was not. All agreed, however, that 'Poleon was not in
love with her--he was altogether too enthusiastic over her growing
popularity for a lover. Had the gamblers been thoroughly assured of her
desires in the matter, doubtless they would have made some desperate
effort to marry 'Poleon to her, regardless of his wishes-they were men
who believed in direct action--but under the circumstances they could
only watch and wait until the uncertainty was cleared up.

Meanwhile, as 'Poleon continued his celebration, Rouletta grew more and
more miserable; at last he sobered up--sufficiently to realize he was
hurting her. He was frankly puzzled at this; he met her reproaches with
careless good-nature, brushing aside the remonstrances of Lucky Broad
and his fellows by declaring that he was having the time of his life,
and arguing that he injured nobody. In the end the girl prevailed upon
him to stop drinking, and then bound him to further sobriety by means
of a sacred pledge. When, perhaps a week later, he disappeared into the
hills Rouletta and her corps of self-appointed guardians breathed
easier.

But the boys did not relax their watchfulness; Rouletta was their
charge and they took good care of her. None of the Rialto's patrons,
for instance, was permitted to follow up his first acquaintance with
"the lady dealer." Some member of the clan was always on hand to frown
down such an attempt. Broad or Bridges usually brought her to work and
took her home, the Snowbird and the Mocha Kid made it a practice to
take her to supper, and when she received invitations from other
sources one or the other of them firmly declined, in her name, and
treated the would-be host with such malevolent suspicion that the
invitation was never repeated. Far from taking offense at this
espionage, Rouletta rather enjoyed it; she grew to like these ruffians,
and that liking became mutual. Soon most of them took her into their
confidence with a completeness that threatened to embarrass her, as,
for instance, when they discussed in her hearing incidents in their
colorful lives that the Mounted Police would have given much to know.
The Mocha Kid, in particular, was addicted to reminiscence of an
incriminating sort, and he totally ignored Rouletta's protests at
sharing the secrets of his guilty past. As for the Snowbird, he was
fond of telling her fairy-stories. They were queer fairy-stories, all
beginning in the same way:

"Once upon a time there was a beautiful Princess and her name was
Rouletta."

All the familiar characters figured in these narratives, the Wicked
Witch, the Cruel King, the Handsome Prince; there were other
characters, too, such as the Wise Guy, the Farmer's Son, the Boob
Detective, the Tough Mary Ann and the Stony-hearted Jailer.

The Snowbird possessed a fertile fancy but it ran in crooked channels;
although he launched his stories according to Grimm, he sailed them
through seas of crime, of violence, and of bloodshed too realistic to
be the product of pure imagination. The adventures of the beautiful
Princess Rouletta were blood-curdling in the extreme, and the doings of
her criminal associates were unmistakably autobiographic. Naturally
Rouletta never felt free to repeat these stories, but it was not long
before she began to look forward with avid interest to her nightly
entertainment.

Inasmuch as Pierce Phillips went off shift at the same time as did
Rouletta, they met frequently, and more than once he acted as her
escort. He offered such a marked contrast to the other employees of the
Rialto, his treatment of her was at such total variance with theirs,
that he interested her in an altogether different way. His was an
engaging personality, but just why she grew so fond of him she could
not tell; he was neither especially witty and accomplished nor did he
lay himself out to be unusually agreeable. He was quiet and reserved;
nevertheless, he had the knack of making friends quickly. Rouletta had
known men like Broad and Bridges and the Mocha Kid all her life, but
Pierce was of a type quite new and diverting. She speculated
considerably regarding him.

Their acquaintance, while interesting, had not progressed much beyond
that point when Rouletta experienced a disagreeable shock. She had
strolled into the theater one evening and was watching the performance
when Laure accosted her. As Rouletta had not come into close contact
with any of the dance-hall crowd, she was surprised at the tone this
girl assumed.

"Hello! Looking for new conquests?" Laure began.

Miss Kirby shook her head in vague denial, but the speaker eyed her
with open hostility and there was an unmistakable sneer behind her next
words:

"What's the matter? Have you trimmed all the leading citizens?"

"I've finished my work, if that's what you mean."

"Now you're going to try your hand at box-rustling, eh?"

Rouletta's expression altered; she regarded her inquisitor more
intently. "You know I'm not," said she. "What are you driving at?"

"Well, why don't you? Are you too good?"

"Yes." The visitor spoke coldly. She turned away, but Laure stepped
close and cried, in a low, angry voice:

"Oh no, you're not! You've fooled the men, but you can't fool us girls.
I've got your number. I know your game."

"My game? Then why don't you take a shift in the gambling-room? Why
work in here?"

"You understand me," the other persisted. "Too good for the dance-hall,
eh? Too good to associate with us girls; too good to live like us! YOU
stop at the Courteau House, the RESPECTABLE hotel! Bah! Miller fell for
you, but--you'd better let well enough alone."

"That's precisely what I do. If there were a better hotel than the
Courteau House I'd stop there. But there isn't. Now, then, suppose you
tell me what really ails you."

Laure's dusky eyes were blazing, her voice was hoarse when she answered:

"All right. I'll tell you. I want you to mind your own business. Yes,
and I'm going to see that you do. You can't go home alone, can you?
Afraid of the dark, I suppose, or afraid some man will speak to you. My
goodness! The airs you put on--YOU! Sam Kirby's girl, the daughter of a
gambler, a--"

"Leave my father out of this!" There was something of Sam Kirby's force
in this sharp command, something of his cold, forbidding anger in his
daughter's face. "He's my religion, so you'd better lay off of him.
Speak out. Where did I tread on your toes?"

"Well, you tread on them every time you stop at the gold-scales, if you
want to know. I have a religion, too, and it's locked up in the
cashier's cage."

There was a pause; the girls appraised each other with mutual dislike.

"You mean Mr. Phillips?"

"I do. See that you call him 'Mister,' and learn to walk home alone."

"Don't order me. I can't take orders."

Laure was beside herself at this defiance. She grew blind with rage, so
much so that she did not notice Phillips himself; he had approached
within hearing distance. "You've got the boss; he's crazy about you,
but Pierce is mine--"

"What's that?" It was Phillips who spoke. "What are you saying about
me?" Both girls started. Laure turned upon him furiously.

"I'm serving notice on this faro-dealer, that's all. But it goes for
you, too--"

Phillips' eyes opened, his face whitened with an emotion neither girl
had before seen. To Rouletta he said, quietly:

"The other boys are busy, so I came to take you home."

Laure cried, wildly, hysterically: "Don't do it! I warn you!"

"Are you ready to go?"

"All ready," Rouletta agreed. Together they left the theater.

Nothing was said as the two trod the snow-banked streets; not until
they halted at the door of the Courteau House did Rouletta speak; then
she said:

"I wouldn't have let you do this, only--I have! a temper."

"So have I," Pierce said, shortly. "It's humiliating to own up."

"I was wrong. I have no right to hurt that girl's feelings."

"Right?" He laughed angrily. "She had no right to make a scene."

"Why not? She's fighting for her own, isn't she? She's honest about it,
at least." Noting Pierce's expression of surprise, Rouletta went on:
"You expect me to be shocked, but I'm not, for I've known the truth in
a general way. You think I'm going to preach. Well, I'm not going to do
that, either. I've lived a queer life; I've seen women like Laure--in
fact, I was raised among them--and nothing they do surprises me very
much. But I've learned a good many lessons around saloons and
gambling-places. One is this: never cheat. Father taught me that. He
gave everybody a square deal, including himself. It's a good thing to
think about--a square deal all around, even to yourself."

"That sounds like an allopathic sermon of some sort," said Pierce, "but
I can't see just how it applies to me. However, I'll think it over.
You're a brick, Miss Kirby, and I'm sorry if you had an unpleasant
moment." He took Rouletta's hand and held it while he stared at her
with a frank, contemplative gaze. "You're an unusual person, and you're
about the nicest girl I've met. I want you to like me."

As he walked back down-town Pierce pondered Rouletta's words, "a square
deal all around, even to yourself." They were a trifle puzzling. Whom
had he cheated? Surely not Laure. From the very first he had protested
his lack of serious interest in her, and their subsequent relations
were entirely the result of her unceasing efforts to appropriate him to
herself. He had resisted, she had persisted. Nor could he see that he
had cheated--in other words, injured--himself. This was a liberal
country; its code was free and it took little account of a man's
private conduct. Nobody seriously blamed him for his affair with Laure;
he had lost no standing by reason of it. It was only a part of the big
adventure, a passing phase of his development, an experience such as
came to every man. Since it had left no mark upon him, and had not
seriously affected Laure, the score was even. He dismissed Rouletta's
words as of little consequence. In order, however, to prevent any
further unpleasant scenes he determined to put Laure in her place, once
for all.

Rouletta went to her room, vaguely disturbed at her own emotions. She
could still feel the touch of Phillips' hand, she could still feel his
gaze fixed earnestly, meditatively, upon hers, and she was amazed to
discover the importance he had assumed in her thoughts. Importance,
that was the word. He was a very real, a very interesting, person, and
there was some inexplicable attraction about him that offset his faults
and his failings, however grave. For one thing, he was not an
automaton, like the other men; he was a living, breathing problem, and
he absorbed Rouletta's attention.

She was sitting on the edge of her bed, staring at the wall, when the
Countess Courteau knocked at her door and entered. The women had become
good friends; frequently the elder one stopped to gossip. The Countess
flung herself into a chair, rolled and lit a cigarette, then said:

"Well, I see you and Agnes saved the bankroll again."

Rouletta nodded. "Agnes is an awful bluff. I never load her. But of
course nobody knows that."

"You're a queer youngster. I've never known a girl quite like you.
Everybody is talking about you."

"Indeed? Not the nice people?"

"Nice people?" The Countess lifted her brows. "You mean those at the
Barracks and up on the hill? Yes, they're talking about you, too."

"I can imagine what they say." Rouletta drew her brows together in a
frown. "No doubt they think I'm just like the dance-hall girls. I've
seen a few of them--at a distance. They avoid me as if I had measles."

"Naturally. Do you care?"

"Certainly I care. I'd like to be one of them, not a--a specimen.
Wouldn't you?"

"Um-m, perhaps. I dare say I could be one of them if it weren't for
Courteau. People forget things quickly in a new country."

"Why did you take him back? I'm sure you don't care for him."

"Not in the least. He's the sort of man you can't love or hate; he's a
nine-spot. Just the same, he protects me and--I can't help being sorry
for him."

Rouletta smiled. "Fancy you needing protection and him giving--"

"You don't understand. He protects me from myself. I mean it. I'm as
unruly as the average woman and I make a fool of myself on the
slightest provocation. Henri is a loafer, a good-for-nothing, to be
sure, but, nevertheless, I have resumed his support. It was easier than
refusing it. I help broken miners. I feed hungry dogs. Why shouldn't I
clothe and feed a helpless husband? It's a perfectly feminine,
illogical thing to do."

"Other people don't share your opinion of him. He can be very
agreeable, very charming, when he tries."

"Of course. That's his stock in trade; that's his excuse for being.
Women are crazy about him, as you probably know, but--give me a man the
men like." There was a pause. "So you don't enjoy the thing you're
doing?"

"I hate it! I hate the whole atmosphere--the whole underworld.
It's-unhealthy, stifling."

"What has happened?"

Slowly, hesitatingly, Rouletta told of her encounter with Laure. The
Countess listened silently.

"It was an unpleasant shock," the girl concluded, "for it brought me
back to my surroundings. It lifted the curtain and showed me what's
really going on. It's a pity Pierce Phillips is entangled with that
creature, for he's a nice chap and he's got it in him to do big things.
But it wasn't much use my trying to tell him that he was cheating
himself. I don't think he understood. I feel almost--well, motherly
toward him."

Hilda nodded gravely. "Of course you do. He has it."

"Has it? What?"

"The call--the appeal--the same thing that lets Henri get by."

"Oh, he's nothing like the Count!" Rouletta protested, quickly.

The elder woman did not argue the point. "Pierce has more character
than Henri, but a man can lose even that in a gambling-house. I was
very fond of him--fonder than I knew. Yes, it's a fact. I'm jealous of
Laure, jealous of you--"

"JEALOUS? of ME? You're joking!"

"Of course. Don't take me seriously. Nevertheless, I mean it." The
Countess smiled queerly and rose to her feet. "It's improper for a
married woman to joke about such things, even a woman married to a
no-good count, isn't it? And it's foolish, too. Well, I'm going to do
something even more foolish--I'm going to give you some advice. Cut out
that young man. He hasn't found himself yet; he's running wild. He's
light in ballast and he's rudderless. If he straightens out he'll make
some woman very happy; otherwise--he'll create a good deal of havoc.
Believe me, I know what I'm talking about, for I collided with Henri
and--look at the result!"



CHAPTER XXII


Pierce Phillips possessed the average young American's capacities for
good or evil. Had he fallen among healthy surroundings upon his arrival
at Dawson, in all probability he would have experienced a healthy
growth. But, blown by the winds of chance, he took root where he
dropped--in the low grounds. Since he possessed the youthful power of
quick and vigorous adaptation, he assumed a color to match his
environment. Of necessity this alteration was gradual; nevertheless, it
was real; without knowing it he suffered a steady deterioration of
moral fiber and a progressive change in ideals.

His new life was easy; hours at the Rialto were short and the pay was
high. Inasmuch as the place was a playground where cares were
forgotten, there was a wholly artificial atmosphere of gaiety and
improvidence about it. When patrons won at the gambling-games, they
promptly squandered their winnings at the bar and in the theater; when
they lost, they cheerfully ignored their ill-fortune. Even the gamblers
themselves shared this recklessness, this prodigality; they made much
money; nevertheless, they were usually broke. Most of them drank quite
as freely as did the customers.

This was not a temperance country. Although alcohol was not considered
a food, it was none the less regarded as a prime essential of comfort
and well-being. It was inevitable, therefore, that Pierce Phillips, a
youth in his growing age, should adopt a good deal the same habits, as
well as the same spirit and outlook, as the people with whom he came in
daily contact.

Vice is erroneously considered hideous; it is supposed to have a visage
so repulsive that the simplest stranger will shudder at sight of it and
turn of his own accord to more attractive Virtue. If that were only
true! More often than not it is the former that wears a smile and
masquerades in agreeable forms, while the latter repels. This is true
of the complex life of the city, where a man has landmarks and
guide-posts of conduct to go by, and it is equally true of the less
complicated life of the far frontier where he must blaze his own trail.
Along with the strength and vigor and independence derived from the
great outdoors, there comes also a freedom of individual conduct, an
impatience at irksome restraints, that frequently offsets any benefits
that accrue from such an environment.

So it was in Pierce's case. He realized, subconsciously, that he was
changing, had changed; on the whole, he was glad of it. It filled him
with contemptuous amusement, for instance, to look back upon his old
puritanical ideas. They seemed now very narrow, very immature, very
impractical, and he was gratified at his broader vision. The most
significant alteration, however, entirely escaped his notice. That
alteration was one of outlook rather than of inlook. Bit by bit he had
come to regard the general crowd--the miners, merchants,
townspeople--as outsiders, and him self as an insider--one of the wise,
clever, ease-loving class which subsisted without toil and for whom a
freer code of morals existed. Those outsiders were stupid,
hard-working; they were somehow inferior. He and his kind were of a
higher, more advanced order of intelligence; moreover, they were bound
together by the ties of a common purpose and understanding and
therefore enjoyed privileges denied their less efficient brethren.

If jackals were able to reason, doubtless they would justify their
existence and prove their superiority to the common herd by some such
fatuous argument.

Pierce's complacency received its first jolt when he discovered that he
had lost caste in the eyes of the better sort of people--people such as
he had been accustomed to associate with at home. This discovery came
as the result of a chance meeting with a stranger, and, but for it, he
probably would have remained unaware of the truth, for his newly made
friends had treated him with consideration and nothing had occurred to
disturb his complacency. He had acquired a speaking acquaintance with
many of the best citizens, including the Mounted Police and even the
higher Dominion officials, all of whom came to the Rialto. These men
professed a genuine liking for him, and, inasmuch as his time was
pretty full and there was plenty of amusement close at hand, he had
never stopped to think that the side of Dawson life which he saw was
merely the under side--that a real social community was forming, with
real homes on the back streets, where already women of the better sort
were living. Oblivious of these facts, it never occurred to Pierce to
wonder why these men did not ask him to their cabins or why he did not
meet their families.

He had long since become a night-hawk, mainly through a growing
fondness for gambling, and he had arrived at the point where daylight
impressed him as an artificial and unsatisfactory method of
illumination. Recently, too, he had been drinking more than was good
for him, and he awoke finally to the unwelcome realization that he was
badly in need of fresh air and outdoor exercise.

After numerous half-hearted attempts, he arose one day about noon;
then, having eaten a tasteless breakfast and strengthened his languid
determination by a stiff glass of "hootch," he strolled out of town,
taking he first random trail that offered itself. It was a wood trail,
leading nowhere in particular, a fact which precisely suited his
resentful mood. His blood moved sluggishly, he was short of breath, the
cold was bitter. Before long he decided that walking was a profitless
and stultifying occupation, a pastime for idiots and solitaire-players;
nevertheless, he continued in the hope of deriving some benefit,
however indirect or remote.

It was a still afternoon. A silvery brightness beyond the mountain
crests far to the southward showed where the low winter sun was
sweeping past on its flat arc. The sky to the north was empty,
colorless. There had been no wind for some time, and now the firs
sagged beneath burdens of white; even the bare birch branches carried
evenly balanced inch-deep layers of snow. Underfoot, the earth was
smothered in a feathery shroud as light, as clean as the purest
swan's-down, and into it Pierce's moccasins sank to the ankles. He
walked as silently as a ghost. Through this queer, breathless hush the
sounds of chopping, of distant voices, of an occasional dog barking
followed him as he went deeper into the woods.

Time was when merely to be out in the forest on such a day would have
pleased him, but gone entirely was that pleasure, and in its place
there came now an irritation at the physical discomfort it entailed. He
soon began to perspire freely, too freely; nevertheless, there was no
glow to his body; he could think only of easy-chairs and warm stoves.
He wondered what ailed him. Nothing could be more abhorrent than this,
he told himself. Health was a valuable thing, no doubt, and he agreed
that no price was too high to pay for it--no price, perhaps, except
dull, uninteresting exercise of this sort. He was upon the point of
turning back when the trail suddenly broke out into a natural clearing
and he saw something which challenged his attention.

To the left of the path rose a steep bank, and beyond that the bare,
sloping mountain-side. In the shelter of the bank the snow had drifted
deep, but, oddly enough, its placid surface was churned up, as if from
an explosion or some desperate conflict that had been lately waged. It
had been tossed up and thrown down. What caused him to stare was the
fact that no footprints were discernible--nothing except queer,
wavering parallel streaks that led downward from the snowy turmoil to
the level ground below. They resembled the tracks of some oddly
fashioned sled.

Pierce halted, and with bent head was studying the phenomenon, when
close above him he heard the rush of a swiftly approaching body; he
looked up just in time to behold an apparition utterly unexpected,
utterly astounding. Swooping directly down upon him with incredible
velocity was what seemed at first glance to be a bird-woman, a valkyr
out of the pages of Norse mythology. Wingless she was, yet she came
like the wind, and at the very instant Pierce raised his eyes she took
the air almost over his head--quite as if he had startled her into an
upward flight. Upon her feet was a pair of long, Norwegian skees, and
upon these she had scudded down the mountain-side; where the bank
dropped away she had leaped, and now, like a meteor, she soared into
space. This amazing creature was clad in a blue-and-white toboggan
suit, short skirt, sweater jacket, and knitted cap. As she hung
outlined against the wintry sky Pierce caught a snap-shot glimpse of a
fair, flushed, youthful face set in a ludicrous expression of
open-mouthed dismay at sight of him. He heard, too, a high-pitched cry,
half of warning, half of fright; the next instant there was a mighty
upheaval of snow, an explosion of feathery white, as the human
projectile landed, then a blur of blue-and-white stripes as it went
rolling down the declivity.

"Good Lord!" Pierce cried, aghast; then he sped after the apparition.
Only for the evidence of that undignified tumble, he would have doubted
the reality of this flying Venus and considered her some creature of
his imagination. There she lay, however, a thing of flesh and blood,
bruised, broken, helpless; apprehensively he pictured himself
staggering back to town with her in his arms.

He halted, speechless, when the girl sat up, shook the snow out of her
hair, gingerly felt one elbow, then the other, and finally burst into a
peal of ringing laughter. The face she lifted to his, now that it wore
a normal expression, was wholly charming; it was, in fact, about the
freshest, the cleanest, the healthiest and the frankest countenance he
had ever looked into.

"Glory be!" he stammered. "I thought you were--completely spoiled."

"I'm badly twisted," the girl managed to gasp, "but I guess I'm all
here. Oh! What a bump!"

"You scared me. I never dreamed--I didn't hear a thing until-- Well, I
looked up and there you were. The sky was full of you. Gee! I thought
I'd lost my mind. Are you quite sure you're all right?"

"Oh, I'll be black and blue again, but I'm used to that. That's the
funniest one I've had, the very funniest. Why don't you laugh?"

"I'm--too rattled, I suppose. I'm not accustomed to flying girls. Never
had them rain down on me out of the heavens."

The girl's face grew sober. "You're entirely to blame," she cried,
angrily. "I was getting it beautifully until you showed up. You popped
right out of the ground. What are you doing in the Queen's Park,
anyhow? You've no business at the royal sports."

"I didn't mean to trespass."

"I think I'll call the guards."

"Call the court physician and make sure--"

"Pshaw! I'm not hurt." Ignoring his extended hand, she scrambled to her
feet and brushed herself again. Evidently the queenly anger was
short-lived, for she was beaming again, and in a tone that was boyishly
intimate she explained:

"I'd made three dandy jumps and was going higher each time, but the
sight of you upset me. Think of being upset by a perfectly strange man.
Shows lack of social training, doesn't it? It's a wonder I didn't break
a skee."

Pierce glanced apprehensively at the bluff overhead. "Hadn't we better
move out of the way?" he inquired. "If the royal family comes dropping
in, we'll be ironed out like a couple of handkerchiefs. I don't want to
feel the divine right of the king, or his left, either."

"There isn't any king-nor any royal family. I'm just the Queen of
Pretend."

"You're skee-jumping, alone? Is that what you mean?"

The girl nodded.

"Isn't that a dangerous way to amuse self? I thought skees
were--tricky."

"Have you ever ridden them?" the girl inquired, quickly.

"Never."

"You don't know what fun is. Here--" The speaker stooped and detached
her feet from the straps. "Just have a go at it." Pierce protested, but
she insisted in a business-like way. "They're long ones--too long for
me. They'll just suit you."

"Really, I don't care to--"

"Oh yes, you do. You must."

"You'll be sorry," Pierce solemnly warned her. "When my feet glance off
and leave me sticking up in the snow to starve, you'll--Say! I can
think of a lot of things I want to do, but I don't seem to find
skee-jumping on the list."

"You needn't jump right away." Determination was in the girl's tone;
there was a dancing light of malice in her eyes. "You can practise a
bit. Remember, you laughed at me."

"Nothing of the sort. I was amazed, not amused. I thought I'd flushed a
very magnificent pheasant with blue-and-white stripes, and I was afraid
it was going to fly away before I got a good look at it. Now, then--"
He slowly finished buckling the runners to his feet and looked up
interrogatively. "What are your Majesty's orders?"

"Walk around. Slide down the hill."

"What on?"

The girl smothered a laugh and waved him away. She looked on while he
set off with more or less caution. When he managed to maintain an
upright position despite the antics of his skees her face expressed
genuine disappointment.

"It's not so hard as I thought it would be," he soon announced,
triumphantly. "A little awkward at first, but--" he cast an eye up at
the bank. "You never know what you can do until you try."

"You've been skeeing before," she accused him, reproachfully.

"Never."

"Then you pick it up wonderfully. Try a jump."

Her mocking invitation spurred him to make the effort, so he removed
the skees and waded a short distance up the hill. When he had secured
his feet in position for a second time he called down:

"I'm going to let go and trust to Providence. Look out."

"The same to you," she cried. "You're wonderful, but--men can do
anything, can't they?"

There was nothing graceful, nothing of the free abandon of the
practised skee-runner in Pierce's attitude; he crouched apelike, with
his muscles set to maintain an equilibrium, and this much he succeeded
in doing--until he reached the jumping, off place. At that point,
however, gravity, which he had successfully defied, wreaked vengeance
upon him; it suddenly reached forth and made him its vindictive toy. He
pawed, he fought, he appeared to be climbing an invisible rope. With a
mighty flop he landed flat upon his back, uttering a loud and dismayed
grunt as his breath left him. When he had dug himself out he found that
the girl, too, was breathless. She was rocking in silent ecstasy, she
hugged herself gleefully, and there were tears in her eyes.

"I'm--so--sorry!" she exclaimed, in a thin, small voice. "Did you--trip
over something?"

The young man grinned. "Not at all. I was afraid of a sprained ankle,
so I hit on my head. We meet on common ground, as it were."

Once again he climbed the grade, once again he skidded downward, once
again he went sprawling. Nor were his subsequent attempts more
successful. After a final ignominious failure he sat where he had
fetched up and ruefully took stock of the damage he had done himself.
Seriously he announced:

"I was mistaken. Women are entitled to vote--they're entitled to
anything. I've learned something else, too--Mr. Newton's interesting
little theory is all wrong; falling bodies travel sixteen miles, not
sixteen feet, the first second."

The girl demanded her skees, and, without rising, Pierce surrendered
them; then he looked on admiringly while she attached them to her feet
and went zigzagging up the hill to a point much higher than the one
from which he had dared to venture. She made a very pretty picture, he
acknowledged, for she was vivid with youth and color. She was lithe and
strong and confident, too; she was vibrant with the healthy vigor of
the out-of-doors.

She descended with a terrific rush, and this time she took the air with
grace and certainty. She cleared a very respectable distance and
ricocheted safely down the landing-slope.

Pierce applauded her with enthusiasm. "Beautiful! My sincere
congratulations, O Bounding Fawn!"

"That's the best I've done," she crowed. "You put me on my mettle. Now
you try it again."

Pierce did try again; he tried manfully, but with a humiliating lack of
success. He was puffing and blowing, his face was wet with
perspiration, he had lost all count of time, when his companion finally
announced it was time for her to be going.

"You're not very fit, are you?" said she.

Pierce colored uncomfortably. "Not very," he confessed. He was relieved
when she did not ask the reason for his lack of fitness. Just why he
experienced such relief he hardly knew, but suddenly he felt no great
pride in himself nor in the life that had brought him to such a state
of flabbiness. Nor did he care to have this girl know who or what he
was. Plainly she was one of those "nice people" at whom Laure and the
other denizens of the Rialto were wont to sneer with open contempt;
probably that was why he had never chanced to meet her. He felt cheated
because they had not met, for she was the sort of girl he had known at
home, the sort who believed in things and in whom he believed. Despite
all his recently acquired wisdom, in this short hour she had made him
over into a boy again, and somehow or other the experience was
agreeable. Never had he seen a girl so cool, so candid, so refreshingly
unconscious and unaffected as this one. She was as limpid as a pool of
glacier water; her placidity, he imagined, had never been stirred, and
in that fact lay much of her fascination.

With her skees slung over her shoulder, the girl strode along beside
Phillips, talking freely on various topics, but with no disposition to
chatter. Her mind was alert, inquisitive, and yet she had that
thoughtful gravity of youth, wisdom coming to life. That Pierce had
made a good impression upon her she implied at parting by voicing a
sincere hope that they would meet again very soon.

"Perhaps I'll see you at the next dance," she suggested.

"Dance!" The word struck Pierce unpleasantly.

"Saturday night, at the Barracks."

"I'd love to come," he declared.

"Do. They're loads of fun. All the nice people go."

With a nod and a smile she was gone, leaving him to realize that he did
not even know her name. Well, that was of no moment; Dawson was a small
place, and--Saturday was not far off. He had heard about those official
parties at the Barracks and he made up his mind to secure an invitation
sufficiently formal to permit him to attend the very next one.

His opportunity came that night when one of the younger Mounted Police
officers paused to exchange greetings with him. Lieutenant Rock was a
familiar figure on the streets of Dawson and on the trails near by, a
tall, upstanding Canadian with a record for unfailing good humor and
relentless efficiency. He nodded at Pierce's casual reference to the
coming dance at Headquarters.

"Great sport," said he. "It's about the only chance we fellows have to
play."

When no invitation to share in the treat was forthcoming Pierce told of
meeting a most attractive girl that afternoon, and, having obtained his
hearer's interest, he described the youthful goddess of the snows with
more than necessary enthusiasm. He became aware of a peculiar
expression upon Rock's face.

"Yes. I know her well," the latter said, quietly. "D'you mean to say
she invited you to the ball?"

"It wasn't exactly an invitation--"

"Oh! I see. Well"--Rock shook his head positively--"there's nothing
doing, old man. It isn't your kind of a party. Understand?"

"I--don't understand," Pierce confessed in genuine surprise.

The officer eyed him with a cool, disconcerting directness. "We draw
the lines pretty close--have to in a camp like this. No offense, I
trust." With a smile and a careless wave of the hand he moved on,
leaving Pierce to stare after him until he was swallowed up by the
crowd in the gambling-room.

A blow in the face would not have amazed Pierce Phillips more, nor
would it have more greatly angered him. So, he was ostracized! These
men who treated him with such apparent good-fellowship really despised
him; in their eyes he was a renegade; they considered him unfit to know
their women. It was incredible!

This was the first deliberate slight the young man had ever received.
His face burned, his pride withered under it; he would have bitten out
his tongue rather than subject himself to such a rebuff. Who was Rock?
How dared he? Rock knew the girl, oh yes! But he refused to mention her
name--as if that name would be sullied by his, Pierce's, use of it.
That hurt most of all; that was the bitterest pill. Society! Caste! On
the Arctic Circle! It was to laugh!

But Phillips could not laugh. He could more easily have cried, or
cursed, or raved; even to pretend to laugh off such an affront was
impossible. It required no more than this show of opposition to fan the
embers of his flickering desire into full flame, and, now that he was
forbidden to meet that flying goddess, it seemed to him that he must do
so at whatever cost. He'd go to that dance, he decided, in spite of
Rock; he'd go unbidden; he'd force his way in if needs be.

This sudden ardor died, however, as quickly as it had been born,
leaving him cold with apprehension. What would happen if he took the
bit in his teeth? Rock knew about Laure--those detestable redcoats knew
pretty much everything that went on beneath the surface of Dawson
life--and if Pierce ran counter to the fellow's warning he would
probably speak out. Rock was just that sort. His methods were direct
and forceful. What then? Pierce cringed inwardly at the contemplation.
That snow-girl was so clean, so decent, so radically different from all
that Laure stood for, that he shrank from associating them together
even in his thoughts.

Well, he was paying the fiddler, and the price was high. Even here on
the fringe of the frontier society exacted penalty for the breach of
its conventions. Pierce's rebellion at this discovery, his resentment
at the whole situation, prevented him from properly taking the lesson
to heart. The issue was clouded, too, by a wholly natural effort at
self-justification. The more he tried this latter, however, the angrier
he became and the more humiliating seemed his situation.

He was in no mood to calmly withstand another shock, especially when
that shock was administered by Joe McCaskey, of all persons;
nevertheless, it came close upon the heels of Rock's insult.

Pierce had not seen either brother since their departure for Hunker
Creek, therefore Joe's black visage leering through the window of the
cashier's cage was an unwelcome surprise.

"Hello, Phillips! How are you making it?" the man inquired.

"All right."

Despite this gruffness, Joe's grin widened. There was nothing of
pleasure at the meeting, nor of friendliness behind it, however. On the
contrary, it masked both malice and triumph, as was plain when he asked:

"Did you hear about our strike?"

"What strike?"

"Why, it's all over town! Frank and I hit pay in our first shaft--three
feet of twenty-cent dirt."

"Really?" Pierce could not restrain a movement of surprise.

Joe nodded and chuckled, meanwhile keeping his malignant gaze focused
upon the younger man's face. "It's big. We came to town to buy grub and
a dog-team and to hire a crew of hands. We've got credit at the A. C.
Company up to fifty thousand dollars."

There was a brief pause which Pierce broke by inquiring, as casually as
he could:

"Did Tom and Jerry have any luck?"

"Sure thing! They've hit it, the same as us. You tossed off a
home-stake, kid. Don't believe it, eh? Well, here's the proof-coarse
gold from Hunker." With an ostentatious flourish the speaker flung down
a half-filled poke, together with a bar check. "Cash me in, and don't
let any of it stick to your fingers."

Pierce was impelled to hurl the gold sack at Joe's head, but he
restrained himself. His hands were shaky, however, and when he untied
the thongs he was mortified at spilling some of the precious yellow
particles. Mortification changed to anger when the owner cried, sharply:

"Hey! Got cashier's ague, have you? Just cut out the sleight-of-hand!"

Pierce smothered a retort; silently he brushed the dust back into the
blower and set the weights upon his scales. But McCaskey ran on with an
insulting attempt at banter:

"I'm onto you short-weighers. Take your bit out of the drunks; I'm
sober."

When Pierce had retied the sack and returned it he looked up and into
Joe's face. His own was white, his eyes were blazing.

"Don't pull any more comedy here," he said, quietly. "That short-weight
joke doesn't go at the Rialto."

"Oh, it don't? JOKE!" McCaskey snorted. "I s'pose it's a joke to spill
dust--when you can't get away with it. Well, I've spotted a lot of
crooked cashiers in this town."

"No doubt. It takes a thief to catch a thief." McCaskey started. His
sneer vanished. "Thief! Say--" he blustered, angrily. "D'you mean--"
The clash, brief as it had been, had excited attention. Noting the fact
that an audience was gathering, the speaker lowered his voice and,
thrusting his black, scowling countenance closer to the cage opening,
he said: "You needn't remind me of anything. I've got a good memory.
Damn' good!" After a moment he turned his back and moved away.

When Pierce went off shift he looked up Lars Anderson and received
confirmation of the Hunker strike. Lars was in a boisterous mood and
eager to share his triumph.

"I knew that was a rich piece of ground," he chuckled, "and I knew I
was handing those boys a good thing. But a fellow owes something to his
friends, doesn't he?"

"I thought you said it was low grade?"

"Low grade!" Big Lars threw back his head and laughed loudly. "I never
said nothing of the kind. Me knock my own ground? Why, I'd have banked
my life on Hunker!"

Here was luck, Pierce told himself. A fortune had been handed him on a
silver platter, and he had shoved it aside. He was sick with regret; he
was furious with himself for his lack of wisdom; he hated Laure for the
deception she had practised upon him. The waste he had made of this
opportunity bred in him a feeling of desperation.

Toward the close of the show Laure found him braced against the bar;
the face he turned upon her was cold, repellent. When she urged him to
take her to supper he shook his head.

"What's the matter?" she inquired.

"Big Lars never told you Hunker was low grade," he declared.

The girl flushed; she tossed her dark head defiantly. "Well, what of
it?"

"Simply this--Tom and Jerry and the McCaskeys have struck rich pay."

"Indeed?"

"You lied to me."

Laure's lips parted slowly in a smile. "What did you expect? What would
any girl do?" She laid a caressing hand upon his arm. "I don't care how
much they make or how poor you are--"

Pierce disengaged her grasp. "I care!" he cried, roughly. "I've lost my
big chance. They've made their piles and I'm--well, look at me."

"You blame me?"

He stared at her for a moment. "What's the difference whether I blame
you or myself? I'm through. I've been through for some time, but--this
is curtain."

"Pierce!"

Impatiently he flung her off and strode out of the theater.

Laure was staring blindly after him when Joe McCaskey spoke to her.
"Have a dance?" he inquired.

She undertook to answer, but her lips refused to frame any words;
silently she shook her head.

"What's the idea? A lovers' quarrel?" McCaskey eyed her curiously, then
he chuckled mirthlessly. "You can come clean with me. I don't like him
any better than you do."

"Mind your own business," stormed the girl in a sudden fury.

"That's what I'm doing, and minding it good. I've got a lot of
business--with that rat." Joe's sinister black eyes held Laure's in
spite of her effort to avoid them; it was plain that he wished to say
more, but hesitated. "Maybe it would pay us to get acquainted," he
finally suggested. "Frank and me and the Count are having a bottle of
wine upstairs. Better join us."

"I will," said Laure, after a moment. Together they mounted the stairs
to the gallery above.



CHAPTER XXIII


"Wal, w'at I tol' you?" 'Poleon Doret exclaimed, cheerfully. "Me, I'm
cut off for poor man. If one dose El Dorado millionaire' give me his
pay-dump, all de gold disappear biffore I get him in de sluice-box.
Some people is born Jonah." Despite this melancholy announcement
'Poleon was far from depressed. On the contrary, he beamed like a boy
and his eyes were sparkling with the joy of again beholding his
"sister."

He had returned from the hills late this evening and now he had come to
fetch Rouletta from her work. This was his first opportunity for a word
with her alone.

The girl was not unmoved by his tale of blighted expectations; she
refused, nevertheless, to accept it as conclusive. "Nonsense!" she
said, briskly. "You know very well you haven't prospected your claim
for what it's worth. You haven't had time."

"I don' got to prospec' him," 'Poleon asserted. "Dat's good t'ing 'bout
dat claim. Some Swede fellers above me cross-cut de whole dam' creek
an' don' fin' so much as one color. Sapre! Dat's fonny creek. She
'ain't got no gravel." The speaker threw back his head and laughed
heartily. "It's fac'! I'scover de only creek on all de Yukon wit'out
gravel. Muck! Twenty feet of solid frozen muck! It's lucky I stake on
soch bum place, eh? S'pose all winter I dig an' don' fin' 'im out?"

For a moment Rouletta remained silent; then she said, wearily:

"Everything is all wrong, all upside down, isn't it? The McCaskeys
struck pay; so did Tom and Jerry. But you--why, in all your years in
this country you've never found anything. Where's the justice--"

"No, no! I fin' somet'ing more better as dem feller. I fin' a sister; I
fin' you. By Gar! I don't trade you for t'ousan' pay-streak!" Lowering
his voice, 'Poleon said, earnestly, "I don' know how much I love you,
ma soeur, until I go 'way and t'ink 'bout it."

Rouletta smiled mistily and touched the big fellow's hand, whereupon he
continued:

"All dese year I look in de mos' likely spot for gold, an' don' fin'
him. Wal, I mak' change. I don' look in no more creek-bottom; I'm goin'
hit de high spot!"

Reproachfully the girl exclaimed, "You promised me to cut that out."

With a grin the woodsman reassured her: "No, no! I mean I'm goin' dig
on top de mountains."

"Not--really? Why, 'Poleon, gold is heavy! It sinks. It's deep down in
the creek-beds."

"It sink, sure 'nough," he nodded, "but where it sink from, eh? I don'
lak livin' in low place, anyhow--you don' see not'in'. Me, I mus' have
good view."

"What are you driving at?"

"I tell you: long tam ago I know old miner. He's forever talk 'bout
high bars, old reever-bed, an' soch t'ing. We call him 'High Bar.' He
mak' fonny story 'bout reever dat used to was on top de mountain. By
golly! I laugh at him! But w'at you t'ink? I'm crossin' dose hill 'bove
El Dorado an' I see place where dose miner is shoot dry timber down
into de gulch. Dose log have dug up de snow an' I fin'--what?"
Impressively the speaker whispered one word, "GRAVEL!"

Much to his disappointment, Rouletta remained impassive in the face of
this startling announcement. Vaguely she inquired: "What of it? There's
gravel everywhere. What you want is gold--"

"Mon Dieu!" 'Poleon lifted his hands in despair. "You're worse as
cheechako. Where gravel is dere you fin' gold, ain't you?"

"Why--not always."

With a shrug the woodsman agreed. "Of course, not always, but--"

"On top of a hill?"

"De tip top."

"How perfectly absurd! How could gold run uphill?"

"I don' know," the other confessed. "But, for dat matter, how she run
downhill? She 'ain't got no legs. I s'pose de book hexplain it somehow.
Wal! I stake two claim--one for you, one for me. It's dandy place for
cabin! You look forty mile from dat spot. Mak' you feel jus' lak bird
on top of high tree. Dere's plenty dry wood, too, an' down below is de
Forks--nice town wit' saloon an' eatin'-place. You can hear de choppin'
an' de win'lass creakin' and smell de smoke. It's fine place for
singin' songs up dere."

"'Poleon!" Rouletta tried to look her sternest. "You're a great,
overgrown boy. You can't stick to anything. You're merely lonesome and
you want to get in where the people are."

"Lonesome! Don' I live lak bear when I'm trappin'? Some winter I don'
see nobody in de least."

"Probably I made a mistake in bringing you down here to Dawson," the
girl continued, meditatively. "You were doing well up the river, and
you were happy. Here you spend your money; you gamble, you drink--the
town is spoiling you just as it is spoiling the others."

"Um-m! Mebbe so," the man confessed. "Never I felt lak I do lately. If
I don' come in town to-day I swell up an' bus'. I'm full of t'ing' I
can't say."

"Go to work somewhere."

"For wages? Me?" Doret shook his head positively. "I try him
once--cookin' for gang of rough-neck'--but I mak' joke an' I'm fire'.
Dem feller kick 'bout my grub an' it mak' me mad, so one day I sharpen
all de table-knife. I put keen edge on dem--lak razor." The speaker
showed his white teeth in a flashing smile. "Dat's meanes' trick ever I
play. Sapre! Dem feller cut deir mouth so fast dey mos' die of
bleedin'. No, I ain't hired man for nobody. I mus' be free."

"Very well," Rouletta sighed, resignedly, "I won't scold you, for--I'm
too glad to see you." Affectionately she squeezed his arm, whereupon he
beamed again in the frankest delight. "Now, then, we'll have supper and
you can take me home."

The Rialto was crowded with its usual midnight throng; there was the
hubbub of loud voices and the ebb and flow of laughter. From midway of
the gambling-hall rose the noisy exhortations of some amateur gamester
who was breathing upon his dice and pleading earnestly, feelingly, with
"Little Joe"; from the theater issued the strains of a sentimental
ballad. As Rouletta and her companion edged their way toward the
lunch-counter in the next room they were intercepted by the Snowbird,
whose nightly labors had also ended.

"All aboard for the big eats," the latter announced. "Mocha's buttoned
up in a stud game where he dassen't turn his head to spit. He's good
for all night, but I'm on the job."

"I'm having supper with 'Poleon," Rouletta told him.

The Snowbird paused in dismay. "Say! You can't run out on a pal," he
protested. "You got to O.K. my vittles or they won't harmonize."

"But 'Poleon has just come in from the creeks and we've a lot to talk
about."

"Won't it keep? I never seen talk spoil overnight." When Rouletta
smilingly shook her head Mr. Ryan dangled a tempting bait before her.
"I got a swell fairy-story for you. I bet you'd eat it up. It's like
this: Once upon a time there was a beautiful Princess named Rouletta
and she lived in an old castle all covered with ivy. It was smothered
up in them vines till you'd vamp right by and never see it. Along came
a busted Prince who had been spendin' his vacation and some perfectly
good ten-dollar bills in the next county that you could scarcely tell
from the real thing. He was takin' it afoot, on account of the jailer's
daughter, who had slipped him a file along with his laundry, but she
hadn't thought to put in any lunch. See? Well, it's a story of how this
here hungry Prince et the greens off of the castle and discovered the
sleepin' Princess. It's a knockout. I bet you'd like it."

"I'm sure I would," Rouletta agreed. "Save it for to-morrow night."

The Snowbird was reluctant in yielding; he eyed 'Poleon darkly, and
there was both resentment and suspicion in his somber glance when he
finally turned away.

Not until Rouletta and her companion were perched upon their high
stools at the oilclothcovered lunch-counter did the latter speak; then
he inquired, with a frown:

"Tell me, is any dese feller mak' love on you, ma soeur?"

"Why, no! They're perfectly splendid, like you. Why the terrible black
look?"

"Gamblers! Sure-t'ing guys! Boosters! Bah! Better dey lef you alone,
dat's all. You're nice gal; too nice for dem feller."

Rouletta smiled mirthlessly; there was an expression in her eyes that
the woodsman had never seen. "'Too nice!' That's almost funny when you
think about it. What sort of men would make love to me, if not
gamblers, fellows like Ryan?"

'Poleon breathed an exclamation of astonishment at this assertion. "Wat
you sayin'?" he cried. "If dat loafer mak' fresh talk wit' you I--pull
him in two piece wit' dese fingers. Dere's plenty good man. I--you--"
He paused uncertainly; then his tone changed to one of appeal. "You
won't marry wit' nobody, eh? Promise me dat."

"That's an easy promise, under the circumstances."

"Bien! I never t'ink 'bout you gettin' married. By gosh! dat's fierce
t'ing, for sure! Wat I'll do if--" 'Poleon shook his massive shoulders
as if to rid himself of such unwelcome speculations.

"No danger!"

Rouletta's crooked smile did not go unnoticed. 'Poleon studied her face
intently; then he inquired:

"Wat ail' you, li'l sister?"

"Why--nothing."

"Oh yes! I got eye lak fox. You seeck?"

"The idea!" Miss Kirby pulled herself together, but there was such
genuine concern in her companion's face that her chin quivered. She
felt the need of saying something diverting; then abruptly she turned
away.

'Poleon's big hand closed over hers; in a voice too low for any but her
ears he said: "Somet'ing is kill de song in your heart, ma petite. I
give my life for mak' you happy. Sometam you care for tell me, mebbe I
can he'p li'l bit."

The girl suddenly bowed her head; her struggling tears overflowed
reluctantly; in a weary, heartsick murmur she confessed:

"I'm the most miserable girl in the world. I'm so--unhappy."

Some instinct of delicacy prompted the woodsman to refrain from
speaking. In the same listless monotone Rouletta continued:

"I've always been a lucky gambler, but--the cards have turned against
me. I've been playing my own stakes and I've lost."

"You been playing de bank?" he queried, in some bewilderment.

"No, a gambler never plays his own game. He always bucks the other
fellow's. I've been playing--hearts."

'Poleon's grasp upon her hand tightened. "I see," he said. "Wal, bad
luck is boun' to change."

In Rouletta's eyes, when she looked up, was a vision of some glory far
beyond the woodsman's sight. Her lips had parted, her tears had dried.
"I wonder--" she breathed. "Father's luck always turned. 'Don't weaken;
be a thoroughbred!' That's what he used to tell me. He'd be ashamed of
me now, wouldn't he? I've told you my troubles, 'Poleon, because you're
all I have left. Forgive me, please, big brother."

"Forgive? Mon Dieu!" said he.

Their midnight meal was set out; to them it was tasteless, and neither
one made more than a silent pretense of eating it. They were absorbed
in their own thoughts when the sound of high voices, a commotion of
some sort at the front of the saloon, attracted their attention.
Rouletta's ears were the first to catch it; she turned, then uttered a
breathless exclamation. The next instant she had slid down from her
perch and was hurrying away. 'Poleon strode after her; he was at her
back when she paused on the outskirts of a group which had assembled
near the cashier's cage.

Pierce Phillips had left his post behind the scales; he, Count
Courteau, and Ben Miller, the proprietor, were arguing hotly. Rock, the
Police lieutenant, was listening to first one then another. The Count
was deeply intoxicated; nevertheless, he managed to carry himself with
something of an air, and at the moment he was making himself heard with
considerable vehemence.

"I have been drinking, to be sure," he acknowledged, "but am I drunk?
No. Damnation! There is the evidence." In his hand he was holding a
small gold-sack, and this he shook defiantly under the officer's nose.
"Do you call that eight hundred dollars? I ask you. Weigh it! Weigh it!"

Rock took the little leather bag in his fingers; then he agreed. "It's
a lot short of eight hundred, for a fact, but--"

In a strong voice Phillips cried: "I don't know what he had. That's all
there was in the sack when he paid his check."

The Count lurched forward, his face purple with indignation. "For
shame!" he cried. "You thought I was blind. You thought I was like
these other--cattle. But I know to a dollar--" He turned to the crowd.
"Here! I will prove what I say. McCaskey, bear me out."

With a show of some reluctance Frank, the younger and the smaller of
the two brothers, nodded to the Police lieutenant. "He's giving you the
straight goods. He had eight hundred and something on him, when he went
up to the cage."

Rock eyed the speaker sharply. "How do you know?" said he.

"Joe and I was with him for the last hour and a half. Ain't that right,
Joe?" Joe verified this statement. "Understand, this ain't any of our
doings. We don't want to mix up in it, but the Count had a thousand
dollars, that much I'll swear to. He lost about a hundred and forty up
the street and he bought two rounds of drinks afterward. I ain't quick
at figures--"

Pierce uttered a threatening cry. He moved toward the speaker, but Rock
laid a hand on his arm and in a tone of authority exclaimed: "None of
that, Phillips. I'll do all the fighting."

Ben Miller, who likewise had bestirred himself to forestall violence,
now spoke up. "I'm not boosting for the house," said he, "but I want
more proof than this kind of chatter. Pierce has been weighing here
since last fall, and nobody ever saw him go south with a color. If he
split this poke he must have the stuff on him. Let Rock search you,
Pierce."

Phillips agreed readily enough to this suggestion, and assisted the
officer's search of his pockets, a procedure which yielded nothing.

"Dat boy's no t'ief," 'Poleon whispered to Rouletta. "M'sieu' le Comte
has been frisk' by somebody." The girl did not answer. She was intently
watching the little drama before her.

During the search Miller forced his way out of the ring of spectators,
unlocked the gate of the cashier's cage, and passed inside. "We keep
our takin's in one pile, and I'll lay a little eight to five that
they'll balance up with the checks to a pennyweight," said he. "Just
wait till I add up the figgers and weigh--" He paused; he stooped; then
he rose with something he had picked up from the floor beneath his feet.

"What have you got, Ben?" It was Rock speaking.

"Dam' if I know! There it is." The proprietor shoved a clean, new
moose-skin gold-sack through the wicket.

Rock examined the bag, then he lifted an inquiring gaze to Pierce
Phillips. There was a general craning of necks, a shifting of feet, a
rustle of whispers.

"Ah!" mockingly exclaimed Courteau. "I was dreaming, eh? To be sure!"
He laughed disagreeably.

"Is this 'house' money?" inquired the redcoat.

Miller shook his head in some bewilderment. "We don't keep two kitties.
I'll weigh it and see if it adds up with the Count's--"

"Oh, it will add up!" Phillips declared, his face even whiter than
before. "It's a plant, so of course it will add up."

Defiantly he met the glances that were fixed upon him. As his eyes
roved over the faces turned upon him he became conscious for the first
tune of 'Poleon's and Rouletta's presence, also that Laure had somehow
appeared upon the scene. The latter was watching him with a peculiar
expression of hostility frozen upon her features; her dark eyes were
glowing, she was sneering faintly. Of all the bystanders, perhaps the
two McCaskeys seemed the least inclined to take part in the affair.
Both brothers, in fact, appeared desirous of effacing themselves as
effectively as possible.

But Courteau's indignation grew, and in a burst of excitement he
disclaimed the guilt implied in Pierce's words. "So! You plead
innocence! You imply that I robbed myself, eh? Well, how did I place
the gold yonder? I ask you? Am I a magician?" He waved his arms wildly,
then in a tone of malevolence he cried: "This is not the first time you
have been accused of theft. I have heard that story about Sheep Camp."

"Sheep Camp, yes!" Phillips' eyes ignored the speaker; his gaze flew to
Joe McCaskey's face and to him he directed his next words: "The whole
thing is plain enough to me. You tried something like this once before,
Joe, and failed. I suppose your back is well enough now for the rest of
those forty lashes. Well, you'll get 'em--"

The Count came promptly to the rescue of his friend. "Ho! Again you lay
your guilt upon others. Those miners at Sheep Camp let you off easy.
Well, a pretty woman can do much with a miners' meeting, but here there
will be no devoted lady to the rescue--no skirt to hide behind, for--"

Courteau got no further. Ignoring Rock's previous admonition, Pierce
knocked the fellow down with a swift, clean blow. He would have
followed up his attack only for the lieutenant, who grappled with him.

"Here! Do you want me to put you in irons?"

Courteau raised himself with difficulty; he groped for the bar and
supported himself dizzily thereon, snarling from the pain. With his
free hand he felt his cheek where Pierce's knuckles had found lodgment;
then, as a fuller realization of the indignity his privileged person
had suffered came home to him, he burst into a torrent of frenzied
abuse.

"Shut up!" the officer growled, unsympathetically. "I know as much
about that trial at Sheep Camp as you do, and if Phillips hadn't
floored you I would. That's how you stand with me. You, too!" he shot
at the McCaskeys. "Let me warn you if this is a frame-up you'll all go
on the woodpile for the winter. D'you hear me? Of course, if you want
to press this charge I'll make the arrest, but I'll just take you three
fellows along so you can do some swearing before the colonel, where
it'll go on the records."

"Arrest? But certainly!" screamed the Count. "The fellow is a thief, a
pig. He struck me. ME! You saw him. I--"

"Sure, I saw him!" the officer grinned. "I was afraid he'd miss you.
Stop yelling and come along." With a nod that included the McCaskeys as
well as the titled speaker he linked arms with Pierce Phillips and led
the way out into the night.

"W'at fool biznesse!" Doret indignantly exclaimed. "Dat boy is hones'
as church."

He looked down at the sound of Rouletta's voice; then he started. The
girl's face was strained and white and miserable; her hands were
clasped over her bosom; she was staring horrified at the door through
which Phillips had been taken. She swayed as if about to fall. 'Poleon
half dragged, half carried her out into the street; with his arm about
her waist he helped her toward her hotel.

The walk was a silent one, for Rouletta was in a state bordering upon
collapse; gradually she regained control of herself and stumbled along
beside him.

"They're three to one," she said, finally. "Oh, 'Poleon! They'll swear
it on him. The Police are strict; they'll give him five years. I heard
the colonel say so."

"Dere's been good deal of short-weighin', but--" Doret shook his head.
"Nobody goin' believe Courteau. And McCaskey is dam' t'ief."

"If--only I--could help him. You'll go to him, 'Poleon, won't you?
Promise."

Silently the Canadian assented. They had reached the door of the hotel
before he spoke again; then he said slowly, quietly:

"You been playin' 'hearts' wit' HIM, ma soeur? You--you love him? Yes?"

"Oh--yes!" The confession came in a miserable gasp.

"Bien! I never s'pect biff ore. Wal, dat's all right."

"The Police are swift and merciless," Rouletta persisted, fearfully.
"They hate the Front Street crowd; they'd like to make an example."

"Go in your li'l bed an' sleep," he told her, gently. "Dis t'ing is
comin' out all right. 'Poleon fix it, sure; he's dandy fixer."

For some time after the door had closed upon Rouletta the big fellow
stood with bent head, staring at the snow beneath his feet. The cheer,
the sympathy, had left his face; the smile had vanished from his lips;
his features were set and stony. With an effort he shook himself, then,
murmured:

"Poor li'l bird! Wal, I s'pose now I got to bus' dat jail!"



CHAPTER XXIV


Although 'Poleon had spoken with confidence, he found, upon arriving at
Police Headquarters, that the situation was by no means as simple as it
had appeared, and that something more than a mere word regarding
Phillips' character would be required to offset the very definite
accusation against him. Courteau, he learned, had pressed his charge
with vigor, and although the two McCaskeys had maintained their outward
show of reluctance at being dragged into the affair, they had,
nevertheless, substantiated his statements with a thoroughness and a
detail that hinted more than a little at vindictiveness. Pierce, of
course, had denied his guilt, but his total inability to explain how
the gold-dust in dispute came to be concealed in the cashier's cage, to
which no one but he had access, had left the Police no alternative
except to hold him. By the time 'Poleon arrived Pierce had been locked
up for the night.

Drawing Rock aside, Doret put in an earnest plea for his young friend.
The lieutenant answered him with some impatience:

"I admit it looks fishy, but what is there to do? The colonel likes
Pierce, as we all do, but--he had no choice."

"It's dirty frame-up."

"I imagine he believes so. And yet--how the deuce did that sack get
where it was? I was standing alongside the McCaskeys when Courteau went
up to pay his check, and I'm sure they had no part in it."

"M'sieu' le Comte is sore," 'Poleon asserted. "Me, I savvy plenty. Wal,
how we goin' get dat boy from out of jail, eh? By Gar! I bet I don'
sleep none if I'm lock up."

"Get bail for him."

'Poleon was frankly puzzled at this suggestion, but when its nature had
been explained his face lit up.

"Ho! Dat's nice arrangements, for sure. Come! I fix it now."

"Have you got enough money?"

"I got 'bout t'irty dollar, but dat ain't mak' no differ. I go to
workin' somewhere. Me, I'm good for anyt'ing."

"That won't do," Rock smiled. "You don't understand." Laboriously he
made more plain the mysteries of court procedure, whereupon his hearer
expressed the frankest astonishment.

"Sacre!" the latter exclaimed. "What for you say two, free T'OUSAN'
dollar? Courteau 'ain't lose but six hundred, an' he's got it back. No!
I'm t'inkin' you Policemans is got good sense, but I lak better a
miners' meetin'. Us 'sour-dough' mak' better law as dem feller at
Ottawa."

"Morris Best was willing to go his bail," Rock informed him, "but
Miller wouldn't allow it. Ben is sore at having the Rialto
implicated--there's been so much short-weighing going on. Understand?"

'Poleon wagged his head in bewilderment. "I don' savvy dis new kin' of
law you feller is bring in de country. S'pose I say, 'M'sieu' Jodge, I
know dis boy long tam; he don' steal dat gold.' De Jodge he say,
'Doret, how much money you got? T'ousand dollar?' I say, 'Sure! I got
'bout t'ousand dollar.' Den he tell me, 'Wal, dat ain't 'nough. Mebbe
so you better gimme two t'ousan' dollar biffore I b'lieve you.' Bien! I
go down-town an' win 'noder t'ousan' on de high card, or mebbe so I
stick up some feller, den I come back and m'sieu' le jodge he say:
'Dat's fine! Now we let Phillips go home. He don' steal not'in'.' Wat I
t'ink of dem proceedin's? Eh? I t'ink de jodge is dam' grafter!"

Rock laughed heartily. "Don't let Colonel Cavendish hear you," he
cautioned. "Seriously now, he'd let Pierce go if he could; he told me
so. He'll undoubtedly allow him the freedom of the Barracks, so he'll
really be on parole until his trial."

"Trial? You goin' try him again?" The woodsman could make little of the
affair. "If you try him two tam, dose crook is mak' t'ief of Pierce for
sure. One trial is plenty. I s'pose mebbe I better kill dem feller off
an' settle dis t'ing."

"Don't talk like that," Rock told him. "I'm not saying they don't need
killing, but--nobody gets away with that stuff nowadays."

"No?" 'Poleon was interested and a trifle defiant. "For why? You never
catch me, M'sieu'. Nobody is able for doin' dat. I'm good traveler."

Rock eyed the stalwart speaker meditatively. "I'd hate to take your
trail, that's a fact, but I'd have to do it. However, that would be a
poor way to help Pierce. If he's really innocent, Courteau will have a
hard job to convict him. I suggest that you let matters rest as they
are for a day or so. We'll treat the kid all right."

On the way to her room Rouletta met the Countess Courteau, and in a few
words made known the facts of Pierce's arrest. The elder woman listened
in astonishment.

"Arrested? For theft? Absurd! Who made the charge?"

"Count Courteau."

"COURTEAU? Where did he get a thousand dollars?" The speaker's face was
set in an expression of utter incredulity.

"I don't know. It's all too wretched, too terrible--" Rouletta's voice
broke; she hid her face in her hands. For a moment there was silence;
then the elder woman exclaimed, harshly, peremptorily:

"Tell me everything. Quick! There's a reason why I must know all about
it."

Drawing Rouletta into her room, she forced her into a chair, then stood
over her while the latter repeated the story in greater detail.

"So! That's it!" the Countess cried, at last. "The McCaskeys backed him
up. Of course! And he referred to Sheep Camp--to me. He's the sort to
do a thing like that. God! What a dog!" After a time she went on: "I'm
sorry Pierce struck him; he'll never get over that and it will make it
harder--much harder."

"You think it can be straightened out?" Rouletta's face was strained;
her eyes searched the former speaker's face eagerly.

"It's GOT to be straightened out. It would be monstrous to allow--" The
Countess shook her head, then, with a mirthless smile, exclaimed: "But
what a situation! Henri, of all persons! It's pleasant for me, isn't
it? Well, somebody planted that poke--probably one of the McCaskeys.
They'd like to railroad the boy. Joe is as vindictive as an Indian and
he blames Pierce and me for his brother's death."

In desperation Rouletta cried: "I'll pay the Count back his money--I'll
double it."

"HIS money?" sneered the woman. "He hasn't a cent, except what I give
him. That was McCaskey's dust." She stared at the apprehensive figure
crouched upon the edge of the chair, and slowly her expression
softened. In a gentler tone she said, "I see you didn't take my advice;
you didn't heed my warning."

"Who ever heeds a warning like yours?"

"Does Pierce know that you--feel this way about him?"

Rouletta sighed wearily. "I didn't know myself, although I more than
half suspected. I didn't permit myself to think, it made me so unhappy."

"It ought to satisfy me somewhat to learn that he doesn't care for you,
but--somehow it doesn't. He didn't care for me, either. But I cared for
him. I love him now, just as you love him--better, probably. Oh, why
conceal it? I've spent a good many black hours thinking about it and
trying to fight it. Mind you, it wasn't his fault; it was just fate.
There are some fellows who go smiling and singing along through
life--clean, decent fellows, too--attending to their own affairs in a
perfectly proper manner, but leaving a trail of havoc behind them. It
isn't so true of women--they're usually flirts--their smiles don't last
and the echo of their songs dies out. He's perfectly impossible for me.
I wouldn't marry him if I were free and if he asked me. But that has
nothing whatever to do with the case."

"I had no idea!" Rouletta said. "I suppose there's no hope for me,
either. I'm not his kind. He's told me about his life, his people. I
wouldn't fit in."

"It isn't that--people are adaptable, they make themselves fit, for a
while at least--it's a question of identities. As much a matter of
family histories as anything else. You're his antithesis in every
respect and--like should mate with like. Now then, about this other
trouble. I must work in my own way, and I see but one. I'll have to pay
high, but--" The speaker lifted her shoulders as if a cold wind had
chilled her. "I've paid high, up to date, and I suppose I shall to the
end. Meanwhile, if you can get him out of jail, do so by all means. I
can't. I daren't even try."

When, at a late hour, Count Henri Courteau entered the establishment
that bore his name he was both surprised and angered to find his wife
still awake. The guests of the hotel were asleep, the place was quiet,
but the Countess was reading in an easy-chair beside the office stove.
She was in negligee, her feet were resting upon the stove fender. She
turned her head to say:

"Well, Henri, you look better than I thought you would."

The Count passed a caressing hand over his swollen cheek and his
discolored left eye. "You heard about the fight, eh?" he inquired,
thickly.

"Yes--if you'd call it that."

Courteau grimaced, but there was a ring of triumph and of satisfaction
in his voice when he cried:

"Well, what do you think of that fellow? It was like him, wasn't it,
after I had caught him red-handed?"

"To punch you? Quite like him," agreed the woman.

"Pig! To strike a defenseless man. Without warning, too. It shows his
breeding. And now"--the speaker sneered openly--"I suppose you will
bail him out."

"Indeed! Why should I?"

"Oh, don't pretend innocence!" the Count stormed. "Don't act so
unconcerned. What's your game, anyhow? Whatever it is, that fellow will
cut cord-wood for the rest of the winter where the whole of Dawson can
see him and say, 'Behold the lover of the Countess Courteau!'"

"There's some mistake. He isn't a thief."

"No?" The husband swayed a few steps closer, his face working
disagreeably. "Already it is proved. He is exposed, ruined. Bah! He
made of me a laughing-stock. Well, he shall suffer! A born thief,
that's what he is. What have you to say?"

"Why--nothing. I hoped it was a mistake, that's all."

"You HOPED! To be sure!" sneered the speaker. "Well, what are you going
to do about it?" When his wife said nothing the man muttered, in some
astonishment: "I didn't expect you to take it so quietly. I was
prepared for a scene. What ails you?"

Hilda laid down her book. She turned to face her accuser. "Why should I
make a scene?" she asked. "I've had nothing to do with Phillips since
we parted company at White Horse. I've scarcely spoken to him, and you
know it."

"You don't deny there was something between you?"

The woman shrugged non-committally, her lips parted in a faint,
cheerless smile. "I deny nothing. I admit nothing."

Although Courteau's brain was fogged, he experienced a growing surprise
at the self-possession with which his wife had taken this blow which he
had aimed as much at her as at Pierce Phillips; he studied her
intently, a mingling of suspicion, of anger, and of admiration in his
uncertain gaze. He saw, for one thing, that his effort to reach her had
failed and that she remained completely the mistress of herself. She
reclined at ease in her comfortable chair, quite unstirred by his
derision, his jubilation. He became aware, also, of the fact that she
presented an extremely attractive picture, for the soft white fur of
the loose robe she wore exposed an alluring glimpse of snowy throat and
bosom; one wide sleeve had fallen back, showing a smoothly rounded arm;
her silken ankles, lifted to the cozy warmth of the stove, were small
and trim; her feet were shod in neat high-heeled slippers. The Count
admired neatly shod ladies.

"You're a very smart-looking woman," he cried, with some reluctance.
"You're beautiful, Hilda. I don't blame the young fool for falling. But
you're too old, too wise--"

Hilda nodded. "You've said it. Too old and too wise. If I'd been as
young and as silly as when I met you--who knows? He's a handsome boy."

Again the husband's anger blazed up.

"But I'm not young and silly," his wife interrupted.

"Just the same, you played me a rotten trick," the Count exploded. "And
I don't forget. As for him"--he swore savagely--"he'll learn that it's
not safe to humiliate me, to rob me of any woman--wife or mistress.
You've never told me the half; I've had to guess. But I'm patient, I
know how to wait and to use my eyes and my ears. Then to strike me!
Perdition! I'll follow this through, never fear."

"How did you get a thousand dollars, Henri?" the wife inquired,
curiously.

Courteau's gaze shifted. "What difference? I won it on a turn at the
North Star; it was given to me; I found it. Anyhow, I had it. It was a
good night for me; yes, a very good night. I had my revenge and I
showed my friends that I'm a man to be reckoned with."

In a tone unexpectedly humble the woman said: "I had no idea you cared
very much what I did or how I carried on. After all, it was your own
fault."

"Mine?" The Count laughed in derision and astonishment.

"Exactly! If you had taken the trouble to show me that you cared--well,
things might have been different. However--" The Countess rose, and
with another change of voice and manner said: "Come along. Let's do
something for your eye."

The Count stared at her in bewilderment, then he turned away, crying:
"Bah! I want no help." At the door he paused to jeer once more. "Pierce
Phillips! A common thief, a despicable creature who robs the very man
he had most deeply injured. I've exposed him to the law and to public
scorn. Sleep on that, my dear. Dream on it." With a chuckle he traced
an uncertain course to the stairs, mounted them to his room, and
slammed his door behind him.

He had undressed and flung himself into bed, but he had not yet fallen
asleep when the door reopened and his wife entered, bearing in her hand
a steaming pitcher of hot water. This she deposited; into it she dipped
a folded towel.

"I'm sorry you're disfigured, Henri," she told him, quietly.

Despite his surly protests, she bathed and soothed his swollen features
until he dropped asleep, after which she stole out and down to her room
on the floor below. There, however, she paused, staring back up the
empty stairway, a look of deepest loathing upon her face. Slowly,
carefully, she wiped her hands as if they were unclean; her lips curled
into a mirthless smile; then she passed into her chamber and turned the
key behind her.

Rock had spoken truly in assuring 'Poleon that Pierce Phillips' lot
would be made as easy for him as possible. That is what happened. No
one at the Barracks appeared to take much stock in Courteau's charge,
and even Colonel Cavendish, the commandant, took the trouble to send
for him early the next morning and to ask for the whole story in
detail. When Pierce had given it the officer nodded. "It looks very
much like a spite case. I couldn't imagine your doing such a thing, my
boy."

"It is a spite case, nothing else."

"Courteau is a rotter, and your affair with his wife explains his
animosity."

"It wasn't exactly an 'affair,' sir." Pierce colored slightly as he
went on to explain. "You see, I was perfectly honest. I didn't know
there was a count, and when I learned there was I up stakes and ended
it. She was the first woman who ever--Well, sir, I admired her
tremendously. She--impressed me wonderfully."

"No doubt," the colonel smiled. "She's an impressive person. Are you
still fond of her?"

"Not in the same way."

"What about this girl Laure?"

This time Pierce flushed uncomfortably. "I've no excuses to offer
there, sir--no explanations. We--just drifted together. It was a long
trip and the Yukon does that sort of thing. Force of circumstance as
much as anything, I presume. I've been trying to break away, but--" he
shrugged.

"You've been a pretty foolish lad." Pierce remained silent at this
accusation, and the colonel went on: "However, I didn't bring you here
to lecture you. The Royal Mounted have other things to think about than
young wasters who throw themselves away. After all, it's a
free-and-easy country and if you want to play ducks and drakes it's
your own business. I merely want you to realize that you've put
yourself in a bad light and that you don't come into court with clean
hands."

"I understand. I put in a wakeful night thinking about it. It's the
first time in a long while that I've done any serious thinking."

"Well, don't be discouraged. A little thinking will benefit you. Now
then, I'm going to put Rock at work on your case, and meanwhile you may
have the liberty of the Barracks. You're a gentleman, and I trust you
to act as one."

Pierce was only too grateful for this courtesy, and to realize that he
retained the respect of this middle-aged, soldierly officer, whom he
had long admired, filled him with deep relief. He gave his promise
readily enough.

Later in the day Broad and Bridges came in to see him, and their
indignation at the outrage, their positive assertion that it was
nothing less than a deliberate conspiracy, and so considered among the
Front Street resorts, immensely cheered him.

"You remember the holler I let up when them Sheep-Campers wanted to
hang McCaskey?" Broad inquired. "It was my mistake. His ear and a hemp
knot would go together like rheumatism and liniment."

Bridges agreed. "Funny, us three bein' tillicums, ain't it?" he mused.
"Especially after the way we dredged you. We didn't need your loose
change, but--there it was, so we took it."

"You'd of done better if you'd turned on the hollow of your foot that
day and romped right back to the old farm," Broad asserted. "You'd
never of doubled up with the McCaskeys and you'd still be the blushing
yokel you was."

"Yes, you're a different kid, now." Both gamblers, it seemed, were in
the melancholy mood for moralizing. "Why, we was talkin' to Rouletta
about you this morning. She's all bereaved up over this thing; she sent
us here to cheer you. You was clean as an apple, then--and easier to
pick--now you're just a common bar-fly, the same as us. Laure done it.
She's the baby vampire that made a bum of you."

"You're not very flattering." Phillips smiled faintly.

"Oh, I'm sort of repeatin' what Letty said. She put me to thinkin'.
She's quite a noisy little missionary when she gets started."

"Missionary!" Broad exclaimed, in disdain. "I don't like the word. Them
birds is about useful as a hip pocket in an undershirt. Why,
missionaries don't do no real, lasting good outside of Indian villages!
Us sure-thing guys are the best missionaries that ever struck this
country. Look at the good we done around Dyea and Skagway. Them
gospel-bringers never touched it. We met the suckers on the edge of the
Frozen North and we turned 'em back by the score. Them three walnut
husks done more good than the Ten Commandments. Yes, sir, a set of
cheatin' tools will save more strayed lambs than a ship-load of
Testaments."

"Letty figgers that somebody tossed that goldsack over the top of the
cage after you follered the Count out."

"Impossible," Pierce declared.

"I got an idea." It was Broad speaking again. "The mere contemplation
of physical violence unmans that Frog. He'd about as soon have a
beatin' as have a leg cut off with a case-knife. S'pose me and the Kid
lure him to some lonely spot--some good yellin'-place--and set upon him
with a coupla pick-handles. We'll make him confess or we'll maim and
meller him till he backs out through his bootlegs. What d'you say?"

Pierce shook his head. "Something must be done, but I doubt if that's
it. It's tough to be--disgraced, to have a thing like this hanging over
you. I wouldn't mind it half so much if I were up for murder or arson
or any man's-sized crime. Anything except STEALING!"

"A mere matter of choice," the former speaker lightly declared. "We got
boys around the Rialto that has tried 'em all. They don't notice no
particular difference."

For some time the three friends discussed the situation, then, when his
visitors rose to go, Pierce accompanied them to the limits of the
Barracks premises and there stood looking after them, realizing with a
fresh pang that he was a prisoner. It was an unfortunate predicament,
he reflected, and quite as unpleasant as the one which had brought him
into conflict with the angry men of Sheep Camp. That had been an
experience fraught with peril, but his present plight was little
better, it seemed to him, for already he felt the weight of the
Dominion over him, already he fancied himself enmeshed in a
discouraging tangle of red tape. There was no adventurous thrill to
this affair, nothing but an odious feeling of shame and disgrace which
he could not shake off.

He was staring morosely at the ground between his feet when he heard a
voice that caused him to start. There, facing him with a light of
pleasure in her blue eyes, was the girl of the skees.

"Hello!" said she. She extended her hand, and her mitten closed over
Pierce's fingers with a firm clasp. "I'm awfully glad to see you again,
Mr--" She hesitated, then with a smile confessed, "Do you know, you're
my only pupil and yet I've never heard your name."

"Phillips," said he.

"You don't deserve to be remembered at all, for you didn't come to the
dance. And after you had promised, too."

"I couldn't come," he assured her, truthfully enough.

"I looked for you. I was quite hurt when you failed to appear. Then I
thought perhaps you expected something more formal than a mere verbal
invitation, and in that way I managed to save my vanity. If I'd known
who you were or how to find you I'd have had my father send you a note.
If it wasn't that, I'm glad. Well, there's another dance this week and
I'll expect you."

"I--I'm not dancing," he stammered. "Not at the Barracks, anyhow."

The girl was puzzled; therefore Pierce summoned his courage and
explained, with as brave an attempt at lightness as he could afford:
"You see before you a victim of unhappy circumstance, a person to be
shunned. I'm worse than a case of smallpox. I don't think you should be
seen talking to me."

"What are you driving at?"

"I'm getting up the spiritual momentum necessary to tell you that I'm a
thief! Truly. Anyhow, three choice gentlemen are so sure of it that
they went to the trouble of perjuring themselves and having me
arrested--"

"Arrested? YOU?"

"Exactly. And the evidence is very strong. I almost think I must be
guilty."

"Are you?"

Pierce shook his head.

"Of course you're not. I remember, now--something father said at
breakfast, but I paid no attention. You fought with that good-looking
French count, didn't you?"

"Thank you for reminding me of the one cheerful feature connected with
the entire affair. Yes, I raised my hand to him in anger--and let it
fall, but Lieutenant Rock spoiled the whole party."

"Tell me everything, please."

Pierce was more than willing to oblige, and he began his recital at the
time of his first meeting with Joe McCaskey on the beach at Dyea. While
he talked the girl listened with that peculiar open-eyed meditative
gravity he had noted upon their former meeting. When he had finished
she cried, breathlessly:

"Why, it's as exciting as a book!"

"You think so? I don't. If I were only a clever book character I'd
execute some dramatic coup and confound my enemies--book people always
do. But my mind is a blank, my ingenuity is at a complete standstill. I
feel perfectly foolish and impotent. To save me, I can't understand how
that gold got where it was, for the cashier's cage is made of wire and
the door has a spring-lock. I heard it snap back of me when I followed
the Count outside. I had an insane idea that his nose would stretch if
I pulled it and I believe yet it would. Well, I've spent one night in
the dungeon and I'm not cut out to enjoy that mode of life. All I can
think about is the Prisoner of Chillon and the Man in the Iron Mask and
other distressing instances of the law's injustice. I feel as if I'd
grown a gray beard in the last twelve hours. Do I look much older than
when we met?"

The girl shook her head. "It's tremendously dramatic. Think what a
story it will make when it's over and when you look back on it."

"Do you feel that way, too?" Pierce inquired, curiously. "As if
everything is an adventure? I used to. I used to stand outside of
myself and look on, but now--I'm on the inside, looking out. I suppose
it's the effect of the gray beard. Experience comes fast in this
country. To one thing I've made up my mind, however; when I get out of
this scrape, if I ever do, I'm going away up into the hills where the
wind can blow me clean, and stay there."

"It's a perfect shame!" the girl said, indignantly. "I shall tell
father to fix it. He fixes everything I ask him to. He's wonderful, as
you probably know."

"Inasmuch as I haven't the faintest idea who he is--"

"Why, he's Colonel Cavendish! I'm Josephine Cavendish. I thought
everybody knew me."

Pierce could not restrain a start of surprise. Very humbly he inquired:

"Now that you understand who I am and what I'm charged with, do you
want to--know me; be friends with me?"

"We ARE friends," Miss Cavendish warmly declared. "That's not something
that may happen; it has happened. I'm peculiar about such matters; I
have my own way of looking at them. And now that we're friends we're
going to be friends throughout and I'm going to help you. Come along
and meet mother."

"I--don't know how far my parole extends," Pierce ventured, doubtfully.

"Nonsense! There's only one authority around here. Father thinks he's
it, but he isn't. I am. You're my prisoner now. Give me your word you
won't try to escape--"

"Escape!" Pierce smiled broadly. "I don't much care if I never get out.
Prisons aren't half as bad as they're pictured."

"Then come!"



CHAPTER XXV


"You really must do something for this boy Pierce Phillips." Mrs.
Cavendish spoke with decision.

The newspaper which the colonel was reading was barely six weeks old,
therefore he was deeply engrossed in it, and he looked up somewhat
absentmindedly.

"Yes, yes. Of course, my dear," he murmured. "What does he want now?"

"Why, he wants his liberty! He wants this absurd charge against him
dismissed! It's a shame to hold a boy of his character, his breeding,
on the mere word of a man like Count Courteau."

Colonel Cavendish smiled quizzically. "You, too, eh?" said he.

"What do you mean by that?"

"Why, you're the fourth woman who has appealed to me since his arrest.
I dare say I'll hear from others. I never saw a fellow who had the
female vote so solidly behind him. I'm beginning to regard him as a
sort of domestic menace."

"You surely don't believe him guilty?"

When her husband refused to commit himself Mrs. Cavendish exclaimed,
"Rubbish!"

"First Josephine came to me," the colonel observed. "She was deeply
indignant and considerably disappointed in me as a man and a father
when I refused to quash the entire proceedings and apologize, on behalf
of the Dominion Government, for the injury to the lad's feelings. She
was actually peeved. What ails her I don't know. Then the Countess
Courteau dropped in, and so did that 'lady dealer' from the Rialto. Now
you take up his defense." The speaker paused thoughtfully for an
instant. "It's bad enough to have the fellow hanging around our
quarters at all hours, but Josephine actually suggested that we have
him DINE with us!"

"I know. She spoke of it to me. But he isn't 'hanging around at all
hours.' Josephine is interested in his case, just as I am, because--"

"My dear! He's a weigher in a saloon, a gambling-house employee. D'you
think it wise to raise such a dust about him? I like the boy
myself--can't help liking him--but you understand what he's been doing?
He's been cutting up; going the pace. I never knew you to countenance a
fellow--"

"I never saw a boy toward whom I felt so--motherly," Mrs. Cavendish
said, with some irrelevance. "I don't like wild young men any better
than you do, but--he isn't a thief, of that I'm sure."

"Look here." Colonel Cavendish laid down his paper, and there was more
gravity than usual in his tone. "I haven't told you everything, but
it's evidently time I did. Phillips was mixed up with bad associates,
the very worst in town--"

"So he told me."

"He couldn't have told you what I'm about to. He had a most unfortunate
affair with a dance-hall girl--one that reflects no credit upon him. He
was on the straight path to ruin and going at a gallop, drinking,
gambling--everything."

 "All the more reason for trying to save him. Remember, you were
pretty wild yourself."

"Wait! I don't say he's guilty of this charge; I want to believe him
innocent--I'd like to help prove it. For that very reason it occurred
to me that Laure--she's the dance-hall girl--might throw some light on
the matter, so I put Rock to work on her. Well, his report wasn't
pleasant. The girl talked, but what she said didn't help Phillips. She
confessed that he'd been stealing right along and giving her the money."

Mrs. Cavendish was shocked, incredulous. After a moment, however, she
shook her head positively and exclaimed, "I don't believe a word of it."

"She's going to swear to it."

"Her oath would be no better than her word--"

"Good Lord!" the colonel cried, testily. "Has this young imp completely
hypnotized you women? The Kirby girl is frightened to death, and the
Countess--well, she told me herself that her husband's jealousy was at
the bottom of the whole thing. Laure, in spite of what she said to
Rock, is behaving like a mad person. I dropped in at the Rialto this
evening and she asked me what was the worst Pierce could expect. I made
it strong, purposely, and I thought she'd faint. No, it's a nasty
affair, all through. And, by Jove! to cap the climax, you and Josephine
take part in it! I flatter myself that I'm democratic, but--have him
here to dine! Gad! That's playing democracy pretty strong."

"It isn't fair to imply that he's nothing more than a ladies' man.
They're detestable. The men like Phillips, too."

"True," Cavendish admitted. "He has the God-given faculty of making
friends, and for that alone I can forgive him almost anything. It's a
wonderful faculty--better than being born lucky or rich or handsome.
I'm fond of him, but I've favored him all I can. If I thought Josephine
were seriously interested in him--well, I wouldn't feel so friendly."
The speaker laughed shortly, "No. The man who claims that girl's
attention must be clean through and through. He must stand the acid
test."

When his wife silently approved this sentiment the colonel picked up
his paper and resumed his reading.

Pierce's friends were indeed uniformly indignant, and without exception
they maintained their faith in his innocence; most of them, in fact,
actually applied themselves to the task of clearing him of Courteau's
charge. But of the latter the one who applied herself the most
thoughtfully, the most seriously, was the Countess Courteau. Having
reasoned that she herself was indirectly responsible for his plight,
she set about aiding him in a thoroughly feminine and indirect manner.
It was an unpleasant undertaking; she took it up with intense
abhorrence; it required her utmost determination to carry it on. Her
plan had formed itself immediately she had learned what had happened;
her meeting with the Count that evening and her unexpected solicitude,
her unbidden attention to his injury, were a part of it. As time went
on she assumed an air that amazed the man. She meekly accepted his
reproaches, she submitted to his abuse; cautiously, patiently she paved
the way to a reconciliation.

It was by no means easy, for she and Henri had long lived in what was
little better than a state of open hostility, and she had been at no
pains to conceal the utter disregard and contempt she felt for him. He,
of course, had resented it; her change of demeanor now awoke his
suspicion. He was a vain and shallow person, however; his conceit was
thoroughly Latin, and Hilda's perseverance was in a way rewarded.
Slowly, grudgingly he gave ground before her subtle advances--they
were, in fact, less advances on her part than opportunities for him--he
experienced a feeling of triumph and began to assume a masterful air
that was indeed trying to one of her disposition. Before his friends he
boasted that his energetic defense of his honor had worked a marvel in
his home; in her presence he made bold to take on a swagger and an
authority hitherto unknown.

Hilda stood it, with what cost no one could possibly understand. In
some manner she managed to convey the idea that he dominated her and
that she cringed spiritually before him. She permitted him occasionally
to surprise a look of bewilderment, almost of fright, in her eyes, and
this tickled the man immensely. With a fatuous complacency, thoroughly
typical, he told himself that she feared and respected him--was
actually falling in love with him all over again. When he felt the
impulse to scout this idea he went to his mirror and examined himself
critically, Why not? he asked himself. He was very pleasing. Women had
always been wax in his hands; he had a personality, an air, an
irresistible something that had won him many conquests. It seemed not
unlikely that Hilda had been shocked into a new and keener realization
of his many admirable qualities and was ready to make up, if, or when,
he graciously chose to permit her.

On the very evening that Colonel Cavendish and his wife were discussing
Pierce Phillips' affair, Courteau, feeling in a particularly jubilant
mood, decided to put the matter to a test; therefore he surprised his
wife by walking into her room unannounced.

"My dear," he began, "it's high time we had a talk."

"Indeed!" said she. "What about?"

"About you, about me, about our affairs. Are we husband and wife or are
we not? I ask you."

With a queer flicker of her eyelids she answered: "Why--of course. You
have appeared to forget it sometimes, but--"

"No reproaches, please. The past is gone. Neither of us is without
blame. You've had your fling, too, but I've shown you that I'm made of
stern stuff and will tolerate no further foolishness. I am a different
Courteau than you ever knew. I've had my rebirth. Now then, our present
mode of life is not pleasing to me, for I'm a fellow of spirit. Think
of me--in the attitude of a dependent!"

"I share generously with you. I give you money--"

"The very point," he broke in, excitedly. "You give; I accept. You
direct; I obey. It must end now, at once. I cannot play the
accompaniment while you sing. Either I close my eyes to your folly and
forgive, utterly--either we become man and wife again and I assume
leadership--or I make different plans for the future."

"Just what do you propose, Henri?"

The fellow shrugged. "I offer you a reconciliation; that, to begin
with. You've had your lesson and I flatter myself that you see me in a
new light. The brave can afford to be generous. I--well, I've always
had a feeling for you; I've never been blind to your attractions, my
dear. Lately I've even experienced something of the--er--the old spell.
Understand me? It's a fact.' I'm actually taken with you, Hilda; I have
the fire of an impetuous lover."

Courteau's eyes gleamed; there was an unusual warmth to his gaze and a
vibrance to his tone. He curled his mustache, he swelled his chest, he
laughed lightly but deeply. "What do you say, eh? I'm not altogether
displeasing. No? You see something in me to admire? I thrill you?
Confess."

The wife lowered her eyes. "You have some power--" she murmured.

"Power! Precisely." The Count nodded and there was a growing vivacity
and sparkle to him. "That is my quality--a power to charm, a power to
achieve, a power to triumph. Well, I choose now to win you again for
myself. It is my whim. To rekindle a love which one has lost is a test
of any man's power, n'est-ce pas? You are fond of me. I see it. Am I
not right, my sweet?"

He laid his soft white hands upon his wife's shoulders and bent an
ardent gaze upon her. Hilda faced him with an odd smile; her cheeks
were white, her ice-blue eyes were very wide and bright and they held a
curious expression.

"Come! A kiss!" he persisted. "Oho! You tremble, you shrink like a
maiden. I, too, am exhilarated, but--" With a chuckle he folded her in
his embrace and she did not resist. After a moment he resumed: "This is
quite too amusing. I wish my friends to see and to understand. Put on
your prettiest dress--"

"What for?"

"We are going down-town. We shall celebrate our reunion--we shall drink
to it publicly. All Dawson shall take note. They have said, 'Courteau
is a loafer, a ne'er-do-well, and he permits another to win his wife
away from him.' I propose to show them."

"You mean you propose to show me off. Is that it? Another conquest, eh?"

"Have it as you will. I--"

"I won't go," Hilda cried, furiously. She freed herself from his arms.
"You know I won't go. You'd like to parade me in the places you
frequent--saloons, dance-halls, gambling-houses. The idea!"

"You won't? Tut, tut! What is this?" Courteau cried, angrily.
"Rebellious so soon? Is this recent change of demeanor assumed? Have
you been fooling me?"

"What change?" the woman parried. "I don't know--"

"Oh yes, you do! For the first time in years you have treated me as a
husband should be treated; half-measures will no longer satisfy me. We
have arrived at the show-up. Are you a miserable Delilah or--"

"Please don't ask me to go out with you, Henri," the woman pleaded, in
genuine distress, now that she saw he was in earnest. "To be paraded
like an animal on a chain! Think of my feelings."

"Indeed! Think of mine," he cried. "This is my hour, my triumph; I
propose to make it complete. Now that I carefully consider it, I will
put you to the test. You've had a fine time; if you pay a price for it,
whose fault is that? No! One must be cruel to be kind."

"Cruel! Kind!" Hilda sneered. "It merely pleases you to humiliate me."

"Very well!" blazed the Count. "If it pleases me, so be it. That is my
attitude now and henceforth--my will is to be law. Come! Your prettiest
dress and your prettiest smile, for we celebrate. Yes, and money, too;
I'm as poverty-ridden as usual. We will treat my friends, we will
gamble here and there, we will watch the shows to an accompaniment of
popping corks so that every one shall see us and say: 'Yonder is
Courteau and his wife. They have made up and she adores him like a
mistress. Parbleu! The man has a way with women, eh!' It shall be a
great night for me."

"Are you really serious?"

Courteau stamped his felt-shod foot. "Anger me no more."

Hilda's face was colorless, her eyes were still glowing with that
peculiar light of defiance, of desperation, of curiosity; nevertheless,
she turned away and began to dress herself.

Courteau was not disappointed. His appearance in the river-front
resorts, accompanied by his wife, created a sensation indeed. And
Hilda's bearing, under the circumstances, added to his gratification,
for, now that the die was cast, she surrendered completely, she clung
to him as if feeling a new dependence, and this filled his cup to
overflowing. It was an outrageous thing to do; no one save a Courteau
would have thought of subjecting the woman who bore his name to such a
humiliation. But he was a perverse individual; his mind ran in crooked
courses; he took a bizarre delight in the unusual, and morality of the
common sort he knew not. To smirch her, even a little bit, to subject
her to seeming disgrace, not only taught her a lesson, but also united
them more closely, so he told himself. That he had the ability to
compel her to do anything against her will immensely tickled his
vanity, for her stubborn independence had always been a trial to him.
He knew that her social status was not of the highest; nevertheless,
her reputation was far better than his, and among all except the newest
arrivals in Dawson she bore a splendid name. To be, himself, the cause
of blackening that name, in order to match his own, gratified his
feelings of resentment. All in all, it was a night of nights for him
and he was at no pains to conceal his satisfaction. From one place to
another he led her, taking malicious enjoyment from the distress he
caused.

Courteau was not loud nor blatant; nevertheless, his triumphant
demeanor, his proprietary air, fairly shouted the fact that he had
tamed this woman and was exhibiting her against her inclinations. At
every bar he forced her to drink with him and with his friends; he even
called up barroom loafers whom he did not know and introduced them with
an elaborate flourish. The money he spent was hers, of course, but he
squandered it royally, leaving a trail of empty champagne-bottles
behind. Champagne, at this time, sold for twenty dollars a quart and,
although Hilda saw her earnings melting away with appalling rapidity,
she offered no protest. Together they flung their chips broadcast upon
the gambling-tables, and their winnings, which were few, went to buy
more popularity with the satellites who trailed them.

As time passed and Hilda continued to meet the test, her husband's
satisfaction gained a keener edge. He beamed, he strutted, he twisted
his mustache to needle-points. She was a thoroughbred, that he assured
himself. But, after all, why shouldn't she do this for him? The women
with whom he was accustomed to associate would not have counted such an
evening as this a sacrifice, and, even had they so considered it, he
was in the habit of exacting sacrifices from women. They liked it; it
proved their devotion.

Her subjugation was made complete when he led her into a box at the
Rialto Theater and insisted upon the two McCaskeys joining them. The
brothers at first declined, but by this time Courteau's determination
carried all before it.

Joe halted him outside the box door, however, to inquire into the
meaning of the affair.

"It means this," the Count informed him. "I have effected a complete
reconciliation with my adorable wife. Women are all alike--they fear
the iron, they kiss the hand that smites them. I have made her my
obedient slave, mon ami. That's what it means."

"It don't look good to me," Joe said, morosely. "She's got an ace
buried somewhere."

"Eh? What are you trying to say?"

"I've got a hunch she's salving you, Count. She's stuck on Phillips,
like I told you, and she's trying to get a peek at your hole card."

It was characteristic of Courteau that he should take instant offense
at this reflection upon his sagacity, this doubt of his ability as a
charmer.

"You insult my intelligence," he cried, stiffly, "and, above all, I
possess intelligence. You--do not. No. You are coarse, you are gross. I
am full of sentiment--"

"Rats!" McCaskey growled. "I get that way myself sometimes. Sentiment
like yours costs twenty dollars a quart. But this ain't the time for a
spree; we got business on our hands."

The Count eyed his friend with a frown. "It is a personal affair and
concerns our business not in the least. I am a revengeful person; I
have pride and I exact payment from those who wound it. I brought my
wife here as a punishment and I propose to make her drink with you.
Your company is not agreeable at any time, my friend, and she does you
an honor--"

"Cut out that tony talk," Joe said, roughly. "You're a broken-hipped
stiff and you're trying to grab her bank-roll. Don't you s'pose I'm on?
My company was all right until you got your hand in the hotel
cash-drawer; now I'm coarse. Maybe she's on the square--she fell for
you once--but I bet she's working you. Make sure of this, my high and
mighty nobleman"--for emphasis the speaker laid a heavy hand upon the
Count's shoulder and thrust his disagreeable face closer--"that you
keep your mouth shut. Savvy? Don't let her sweat you--"

The admonitory words ended abruptly, for the door of the box reopened
and Joe found the Countess Courteau facing him. For an instant their
glances met and in her eyes the man saw an expression uncomfortably
reminiscent of that day at Sheep Camp when she had turned public wrath
upon his brother Jim's head. But the look was fleeting; she turned it
upon her husband, and the Count, with an apology for his delay, entered
the box, dragging McCaskey with him.

Frank, it appeared, shared his brother's suspicions; the two exchanged
glances as Joe entered; then when the little party had adjusted itself
to the cramped quarters they watched the Countess curiously, hoping to
analyze her true intent. But in this they were unsuccessful. She
treated both of them with a cool, impartial formality, quite natural
under the circumstances, but in no other way did she appear conscious
of that clash on the Chilkoot trail. It was not a pleasant situation at
best, and Joe especially was ill at ease, but Courteau continued his
spendthrift role, keeping the waiters busy, and under the influence of
his potations the elder McCaskey soon regained some of his natural
sang-froid. All three men drank liberally, and by the time the lower
floor had been cleared for dancing they were in a hilarious mood. They
laughed loudly, they shouted greetings across to other patrons of the
place, they flung corks at the whirling couples below.

Meanwhile, they forced the woman to imbibe with them. Joe, in spite of
his returning confidence, kept such close watch of her that she could
not spill her glass into the bucket, except rarely. Hilda hated alcohol
and its effect; she was not accustomed to drinking. As she felt her
intoxication mounting she became fearful that the very medium upon
which she had counted for success would prove to be her undoing.
Desperately she battled to retain her wits. More than once, with a
reckless defiance utterly foreign to her preconceived plans, she was
upon the point of hurling the bubbling contents of her glass into the
flushed faces about her and telling these men how completely she was
shamming, but she managed to resist the temptation. That she felt such
an impulse at all made her fearful of committing some action equally
rash, of dropping some word that would prove fatal.

It was a hideous ordeal. She realized that already the cloak of
decency, of respectability, which she had been at such pains to
preserve during these difficult years, was gone, lost for good and all.
She had made herself a Lady Godiva; by this night of conspicuous
revelry she had undone everything. Not only had she condoned the sins
and the shortcomings of her dissolute husband, but also she had put
herself on a level with him and with the fallen women of the town--his
customary associates. Courteau had done this to her. It had been his
proposal. She could have throttled him where he sat.

The long night dragged on interminably. Like leeches the two McCaskeys
clung to their prodigal host, and not until the early hours of morning,
when the Count had become sodden, sullen, stupefied, and when they were
in a condition little better, did they permit him to leave them. How
Hilda got him home she scarcely knew, for she, too, had all but lost
command of her senses. There were moments when she fought unavailingly
against a mental numbness, a stupor that rolled upward and suffused her
like a cloud of noxious vapors, leaving her knees weak, her hands
clumsy, her vision blurred; again waves of deathly illness surged over
her. Under and through it all, however, her subconscious will to
conquer remained firm. Over and over she told herself:

"I'll have the truth and then--I'll make him pay."

Courteau followed his wife into her room, and there his maudlin manner
changed. He roused himself and smiled at her fatuously; into his eyes
flamed a desire, into his cheeks came a deeper flush. He pawed at her
caressingly; he voiced thick, passionate protestations. Hilda had
expected nothing less; it was for this that she had bled her flesh and
crucified her spirit these many hours.

"You're--wonderful woman," the man mumbled as he swayed with her in his
arms. "Got all the old charm and more. Game, too!" He laughed
foolishly, then in drunken gravity asserted: "Well, I'm the man, the
stronger vessel. To turn hate into love, that--"

"You've taken your price. You've had your hour," she told him. Her head
was thrown back, her eyes were closed, her teeth were clenched as if in
a final struggle for self-restraint.

Courteau pressed his lips to hers; then in a sudden frenzy he crushed
her closer and fell to kissing her cheeks, her neck, her throat. He
mistook her shudder of abhorrence for a thrill responsive to his
passion, and hiccoughed:

"You're mine again, all mine, and--I'm mad about you. I'm aflame. This
is like the night of our marriage, what?"

"Are you satisfied, now that you've made me suffer? Do you still
imagine I care for that foolish boy?"

"Phillips? Bah! A noisy swine." Again the Count chuckled, but this time
his merriment ran away with him until he shook and until tears came to
his eyes.

Without reason Hilda joined in his laughter. Together they stood
rocking, giggling, snickering, as if at some excruciating jest.

"He--he tried to steal you--from me. From ME. Imagine it! Then he
struck me. Well, where is he now, eh?"

"I never dreamed that you cared enough for me to--do what you did. To
risk so much."

"Risk?"

Hilda nodded, and her loose straw-gold hair brushed Courteau's cheek.
"Don't pretend any longer. I knew from the start. But you were jealous.
When a woman loses the power to excite jealousy it's a sign she's
growing old and ugly and losing her fire. She can face anything except
that."

"Fire!" Henri exclaimed. "Parbleu! Don't I know you to be a volcano?"

"How did you manage the affair--that fellow's ruin? It frightens me to
realize that you can accomplish such things."

The Count pushed his wife away. "What are you talking about?" he
demanded.

"Oh, very well! Carry it out if you wish," she said, with a careless
shrug. "But you're not fooling me in the least. On the contrary, I
admire your spirit. Now then, I'm thirsty. And you are, too." With a
smile she evaded his outstretched arms and left the room. She was back
in a moment with a bottle and two glasses. The latter she filled; her
own she raised with a gesture, and Courteau blindly followed suit.

In spite of his deep intoxication the man still retained the embers of
suspicion, and when she spoke of Pierce Phillips they began to glow and
threatened to burst into flame. Cunningly, persistently she played upon
him, however. She enticed, she coquetted, she cajoled; she maddened him
with her advances; she teased him with her repulses; she drugged him
with her smiles, her fragrant charms. Time and again he was upon the
point of surrender, but caught himself in time.

She won at last. She dragged the story from him, bit by bit, playing
upon his vanity, until he gabbled boastfully and took a crapulent
delight in repeating the details. It was a tale distorted and confused,
but the truth was there. She made an excuse to leave him, finally, and
remained out of the room for a long time. When she returned it was to
find him sprawled across her bed and fast asleep.

For a moment she held dizzily to the bedpost and stared down at him.
Her mask had slipped now, her face was distorted with loathing, and so
deep were her feelings that she could not bear to touch him, even to
cover him over. Leaving him spread-eagled as he was, she staggered out
of his unclean presence.

Hilda was deathly sick; objects were gyrating before her eyes; she felt
a hideous nightmare sensation of unreality, and was filled with an
intense contempt, a tragic disgust for herself. Pausing at the foot of
the stairs, she strove to gather herself together; then slowly,
passionately she cursed the name of Pierce Phillips.



CHAPTER XXVI


Tom Linton and Jerry Quirk toiled slowly up the trail toward their
cabin. Both men were bundled thickly in clothing, both bewhiskered
visages bore grotesque breath-masks of ice; even their eyebrows were
hoary with frost. The partners were very tired.

Pausing in the chip-littered space before their door, they gazed down
the trail to a mound of gravel which stood out raw and red against the
universal whiteness. This mound was in the form of a truncated cone and
on its level top was a windlass and a pole bucket track. From beneath
the windlass issued a cloud of smoke which mounted in billows, as if
breathed forth from a concealed chimney--smoke from the smothered drift
fires laid against the frozen face of pay dirt forty feet below the
surface. Evidently this fire was burning to suit the partners; after
watching it a moment, Tom took a buck-saw and fell stiffly to work upon
a dry spruce log which lay on the saw-buck; Jerry spat on his mittens
and began to split the blocks as they fell.

Darkness was close at hand, but both men were so fagged that they found
it impossible to hurry. Neither did they speak. Patiently, silently
they sawed and chopped, then carried the wood into the chilly cabin;
while one lit the lamp and went for a sack of ice, the other kindled a
fire. These tasks accomplished, by mutual consent, but still without
exchanging a word, they approached the table. From the window-sill Tom
took a coin and balanced it upon his thumb and forefinger; then, in
answer to his bleak, inquiring glance, Jerry nodded and he snapped the
piece into the air. While it was still spinning Jerry barked, sharply:

"Tails!"

Both gray heads bent and near-sightedly examined the coin.

"Tails she is," Tom announced. He replaced the silver piece, crossed
the room to his bunk, seated himself upon it, and remained there while
Jerry, with a sudden access of cheerfulness, hustled to the stove,
warmed himself, and then began culinary preparations.

These preparations were simple, but precise; also they were deliberate.
Jerry cut one slice of ham, he measured out just enough coffee for one
person, he opened one can of corn, and he mixed a half-pan of biscuits.
Tom watched him from beneath a frown, meanwhile tugging moodily at the
icicles which still clung to his lips. His corner of the cabin was
cold, hence it was a painful process. When he had disposed of the last
lump and when he could no longer restrain his irritation, he broke out:

"Of course you had to make BREAD, didn't you? Just because you know I'm
starving."

"It come tails, didn't it?" Jerry inquired, with aggravating
pleasantness. "It ain't my fault you're starving, and you got all night
to cook what YOU want--after I'm done. _I_ don't care if you bake a
layer cake and freeze ice-cream. You can put your front feet in the
trough and champ your swill; you can root and waller in it, for all of
ME. _I_ won't hurry you, not in the least."

"It's come tails every time lately," grumbled the former speaker.

Jerry giggled. "I always was right lucky, except in pickin' pardners,"
he declared. In a cracked and tuneless voice he began humming a
roundelay, evidently intended to express gaiety and contentment.

Unable longer to withstand his gnawing hunger, Tom secured for himself
a large round hardtack, and with this he tried to ward off the pangs of
starvation. But he had small success with the endeavor, for his teeth
were poor. He flung the thing of adamant aside, finally, and cried,
testily:

"My God! Ain't it bad enough to EAT a phonograph record without having
to listen to the damn' machine? Shut up, will you? You've got the
indecentest singing voice I ever heard."

"Say!" Jerry looked up belligerently. "You don't have to listen to my
singin'. There's plenty of room outside--all the room from here south
to Seattle. And you don't have to gum that pilot-bread if your teeth is
loose. You can boil yourself a pot of mush--when your turn comes. You
got a free hand. As for me, I eat anything I want to and I SING
anything I want to whenever I want to, and I'd like to see anybody stop
me. We don't have to toss up for turns at singin'." More loudly he
raised his high-pitched voice; ostentatiously he rattled his dishes.

Tom settled back in exasperated silence, but as time wore on and his
hungry nostrils were assailed with the warm, tantalizing odor of frying
ham fat he fidgeted nervously.

Having prepared a meal to his liking, Jerry set the table with a single
plate, cup, and saucer, then seated himself with a luxurious grunt. He
ate slowly; he rolled every mouthful with relish; he fletcherized it
with calculated deliberation; he paused betweentimes to blow loudly
upon his coffee and to smack his lips--sounds that in themselves were a
provocation and an insult to his listener. When he had cleaned up his
interminable repast and was finishing the last scrap, Tom rose and made
for the stove.

Jerry watched him, paralyzed in mid-motion, until his partner's hand
was outstretched, then he suddenly shouted:

"Get away from there!"

Tom started. "What for?" he queried, a light of rebellion flaring into
his eyes. "Ain't you through with your supper? You been at it long
enough."

"You see me eatin', don't you? After I get fed up and my teeth picked I
got all my dishes to wash."

"That wasn't our arrangement."

"It was so."

"You'll eat all night," Tom complained, almost tearfully. "You'll set
there and gorge till you bust."

"That's my privilege. I don't aim to swaller my grub whole. I'm shy a
few teeth and some of the balance don't meet, so I can't consume
vittles like I was a pulp-mill. I didn't start this row--"

"Who did?"

"Now ain't that a fool question?" Jerry leaned back comfortably and
began an elaborate vacuum-cleaning process of what teeth he retained.
"Who starts all our rows, if I don't? No. I'm as easy-going as a
greased eel, and 'most anybody can get along with me, but, tread on my
tail and I swop ends, pronto. That's me. I go my own even way, but I
live up to my bargains and I see to it that others do the same. You get
the hell away from that stove!"

Tom abandoned his purpose, and with the resignation of a martyr
returned to teeter upon the edge of his bunk. He remained there, glum,
malevolent, watchful, until his cabin-mate had leisurely cleared the
table, washed and put away his dishes; then with a sigh of fat
repletion, unmistakably intended as a provocation, the tormentor lit
his pipe and stretched himself luxuriously upon his bed.

Even then Tom made no move. He merely glowered at the recumbent figure.
Jerry blew a cloud of smoke, then waved a generous gesture.

"Now then, fly at it, Mr. Linton," he said, sweetly. "I've et my fill;
I've had an ample sufficiency; I'm through and in for the night."

"Oh no, you ain't! You get up and wash that skillet."

Mr. Quirk started guiltily.

"Hustle your creaking joints and scrub it out."

"Pshaw! I only fried a slice--"

"Scrub it!" Linton ordered.

This command Jerry obeyed, although it necessitated heating more water,
a procedure which, of course, he maliciously prolonged. "Waited till I
was all spread out, didn't you," he sneered, as he stooped over the
wood-box. "That's like you. Some people are so small-calibered they'd
rattle around in a gnat's bladder like a mustard seed in a bass drum."

"I'm particular who I eat after," Tom said, "so be sure you scrub it
clean."

"Thought you'd spoil my smoke. Well, I can smoke standin' on my head
and enjoy it." There was a silence, broken only by the sound of Jerry's
labors. At last he spoke: "Once again I repeat what I told you
yesterday. I took the words out of your own mouth. You said the woman
was a hellion--"

"I never did. Even if I had I wouldn't allow a comparative stranger to
apply such an epithet to a member of my family."

"You did say it. And she ain't a member of your family."

Tom's jaws snapped. "If patience is a virtue," he declared, in
quivering anger, "I'll slide into heaven on skids. Assassination ought
not to be a crime; it's warranted, like abating a nuisance; it ain't
even a misdemeanor--sometimes. She was a noble woman--"

"Hellion! I got it on the authority of her own husband--you!"

Tom rose and stamped over to the stove; he slammed its door and
clattered the coffee-pot to drown this hateful persistence. Having had
the last word, as usual, Jerry retreated in satisfaction to his bed and
stretched his aching frame upon it.

The dingy cabin was fragrant with the odor of cooking food for a second
time that evening when the sound of voices and a knock at the door
brought both old men to their feet.

Before they could answer, the door flew open and in and out of the
frosty evening came Rouletta Kirby and 'Poleon Doret. The girl's cheeks
were rosy, her eyes were sparkling; she warmly greeted first one
partner, then the other. Pausing, she sniffed the air hungrily.

"Goody!" she cried. "We're just in time. And we're as hungry as bears."

"Dis gal 'ain't never got 'nough to eat since she's seeck in W'ite
'Orse," 'Poleon laughed. "For las' hour she's been sayin': 'Hurry!
Hurry! We goin' be late.' I 'mos' keel dem dog."

Linton's seamed face softened; it cracked into a smile of genuine
pleasure; there was real hospitality and welcome in his voice when he
said:

"You're in luck, for sure. Lay off your things and pull up to the fire.
It won't take a jiffy to parlay the ham and coffee--one calls three, as
they say. No need to ask if you're well; you're prettier than ever, and
some folks would call that impossible."

Jerry nodded in vigorous agreement. "You're as sweet as a bunch of
jessamine, Letty. Why, you're like a breath of spring! What brought you
out to see us, anyhow?"

"Dat's long story," 'Poleon answered. "Sapre! We got plenty talkin' to
do. Letty she's goin' he'p you mak' de supper now, an' I fix dem dog.
We goin' camp wit' you all night. Golly! We have beeg tam."

The new-comers had indeed introduced a breath of new, clean air. Of a
sudden the cabin had brightened, it was vitalized, it was filled with a
magic purpose and good humor. Rouletta flung aside her furs and bustled
into the supper preparations. Soon the meal was ready. The first pause
in her chatter came when she set the table for four and when Jerry
protested that he had already dined.

The girl paused, plate in hand. "Then we WERE late and you didn't tell
us," she pouted, reproachfully.

"No. I got through early, but Tom--he was held up in the traffic. You
see, I don't eat much, anyhow. I just nibble around and take a cold
snack where I can get it."

"And you let him!" Rouletta turned to chide the other partner. "He'll
come down sick, Tom and you'll have to nurse him again. If you boys
won't learn to keep regular meal hours I'll have to come out and run
your house for you. Shall I? Speak up. What am I offered?"

Now this was the most insidious flattery. "Boys" indeed! Jerry
chuckled, Tom looked up from the stove and his smoke-blue eyes were
twinkling.

"I can't offer you more 'n a half-interest in the 'lay.' That's all I
own."

"Is dis claim so reech lak people say?" 'Poleon inquired. "Dey're
tellin' me you goin' mak' hondred t'ousan' dollar."

"We're just breastin' out--cross-cuttin' the streak, but--looky." Jerry
removed a baking-powder can from the window-shelf and out of it he
poured a considerable amount of coarse gold which the visitors examined
with intense interest. "Them's our pannin's."

"How splendid!" Rouletta cried.

"I been clamorin' to hire some men and take life easy. I say put on a
gang and h'ist it out, but"--Jerry shot a glance at his
partner--"people tell me I'm vi'lent an' headstrong. They say, 'Prove
it up.'"

Linton interrupted by loudly exclaiming, "Come and get it, strangers,
or I'll throw it out and wash the skillet."

Supper was welcome, but, despite the diners' preoccupation with it,
despite Tom's and Jerry's effort to conceal the fact of their
estrangement, it became evident that something was amiss. Rouletta
finally sat back and, with an accusing glance, demanded to know what
was the matter.

The old men met her eyes with an assumption of blank astonishment.

"'Fess up," she persisted. "Have you boys been quarreling again?"

"Who? Us? Why, not exactly--"

"We sort of had words, mebbe."

"What about?"

There was an awkward, an ominous silence. "That," Mr. Linton said, in a
harsh and firm voice, "is something I can't discuss. It's a personal
matter."

"It ain't personal with me," Jerry announced, carelessly. "We was
talkin' about Tom's married life and I happened to say--"

"DON'T!" Linton's cry of warning held a threat. "Don't spill your
indecencies in the presence of this child or--I'll hang the frying-pan
around your neck. The truth is," he told Letty, "there's no use trying
to live with a horn' toad. I've done my best. I've let him defame me to
my face and degrade me before strangers, but he remains hostyle to
every impulse in my being; he picks and pesters and poisons me a
thousand times a day. And snore! My God! You ought to hear him at
night."

Strangely enough, Mr. Quirk did not react to this passionate outburst.
On the contrary, he bore it with indications of a deep and genuine
satisfaction.

"He's workin' up steam to propose another divorce," said the object of
Tom's tirade.

"That I am. Divorce is the word," Linton growled.

"WHOOP-EE!" Jerry uttered a high-pitched shout. "I been waitin' for
that. I wanted him to say it. Now I'm free as air and twice as light.
You heard him propose it, didn't you?"

"Wat you goin' do 'bout dis lay?" Toleon inquired.

"Split her," yelled Jerry.

"Dis cabin, too?"

"Sure. Slam a partition right through her."

"We won't slam no partition anywhere," Tom declared. "Think I'm going
to lay awake every night listening to distant bugles? No. We'll pull
her apart, limb from limb, and divvy the logs. It's a pest-house,
anyhow. I'll burn my share."

Tom's positive refusal even to permit mention of the cause of the
quarrel rendered efforts at a reconciliation difficult; 'Poleon's and
Rouletta's attempts at badinage, therefore, were weak failures, and
their conversation met with only the barest politeness. Now that the
truth had escaped, neither partner could bring himself to a serious
consideration of anything except his own injuries. They exchanged evil
glances, they came into direct verbal contact only seldom, and when
they did it was to clash as flint upon steel. No statement of the one
was sufficiently conservative, sufficiently broad, to escape a sneer
and an immediate refutation from the other. Evidently the rift was deep
and was widening rapidly.

Of course the facts were revealed eventually--Rouletta had a way of
winning confidences, a subtle, sweet persuasiveness--they had to do
with the former Mrs. Linton, that shadowy female figure which had
fallen athwart Tom's early life. It seemed that Jerry had referred to
her as a "hellion."

Now the injured husband himself had often applied even more disparaging
terms to the lady in question, therefore the visitors were puzzled at
his show of rabid resentment; the most they could make out of it was
that he claimed the right of disparagement as a personal and exclusive
privilege, and considered detraction out of the lips of another a
trespass upon his intimate private affairs, an aspersion and an insult.
The wife of a man's bosom, he averred, was sacred; any creature who
breathed disrespect of her into the ears of her husband was lower than
a hole in the ground and lacked the first qualifications of a friend, a
gentleman, or a citizen.

Jerry, on the other hand, would not look at the matter in this light.
Tom had called the woman a "hellion," therefore he was privileged to do
the same, and any denial of that privilege was an iniquitous
encroachment upon HIS sacred rights. Those rights he proposed to
safeguard, to fight for if necessary. He would shed his last drop of
blood in their defense. No cantankerous old grouch could refuse him
free speech and get away with it.

"You're not really mad at each other," Rouletta told them.

"AIN'T we?" they hoarsely chorused.

She shook her head. "You need a change, that's all. As a matter of
fact, your devotion to each other is about the most beautiful, the most
touching, thing I know. You'd lay down your lives for each other;
you're like man and wife, and well you know it."

"Who? US?" Jerry was aghast. "Which one of us is the woman? I been
insulted by experts, but none of 'em ever called me 'Mrs. Linton.' She
was a tough customer, a regular hellion--"

"He's off again!" Tom growled. "Me lay down MY life for a squawking
parrot! He'll repeat that pet word for the rest of time if I don't
wring his neck."

"Mebbe so you lak hear 'bout some other feller's trouble," 'Poleon
broke in, diplomatically.

"Wal, ma soeur she's come to you for help, queeck."

Both old men became instantly alert. "You in trouble?" Tom demanded of
the girl. "Who's been hurting you, I'd like to know?"

Jerry, too, leaned forward, and into his widening eyes came a stormy
look. "Sure! Has one of them crawlin' worms got fresh with you, Letty?
Say--!" He reached up and removed his six-shooter from its nail over
his bed.

Rouletta set them upon the right track. Swiftly but earnestly she
recited the nature and the circumstances of the misfortune that had
overtaken Pierce Phillips, and of the fruitless efforts his friends
were making in his behalf. She concluded by asking her hearers to go
his bail.

"Why, sure!" Linton exclaimed, with manifest relief. "That's easy. I'll
go it, if they'll take me."

"There you are, hoggin' the curtain, as usual," Jerry protested. "I'll
go his bail myself. I got him in trouble at Sheep Camp. I owe him--"

"I've known the boy longer than you have. Besides, I'm a family man; I
know the anguish of a parent's heart--"

"Lay off that 'family' stuff," howled Mr. Quirk. "You know it riles me.
I could of had as much of a family as you had if I'd wanted to. You'd
think it give you some sort of privilege. Why, ever since we set up
with Letty you've assumed a fatherly air even to her, and you act like
I was a plumb outsider. You remind me of a hen--settin' on every loose
door-knob you find."

"If you'd lay off the 'family' subject we'd get along better."

Once again the fray was on; it raged intermittently throughout the
evening; it did not die out until bedtime put an end to it.

Rouletta and her three companions were late in reaching town on the
following day, for they awakened to find a storm raging, and in
consequence the trails were heavy. Out of this white smother they
plodded just as the lights of Dawson were beginning to gleam. Leaving
the men at the Barracks, the girl proceeded to her hotel. She had
changed out of her trail clothes and was upon the point of hurrying
down-town to her work when she encountered Hilda Courteau.

"Where in the world have you been?" the latter inquired.

"Nowhere, in the world," Rouletta smiled. "I've been quite out of it."
Then she told of her and 'Poleon's trip to the mines and of their
success. "Pierce will be at liberty inside of an hour," she declared.

"Well, I've--learned the truth."

Rouletta started; eagerly she clutched at the elder woman. "What? You
mean--?"

"Yes. I wrung it out of Courteau. He confessed."

"It WAS a frame-up--a plot? Oh, my dear--!"

"Exactly. But don't get hysterical. I'm the one to do that. What a
night, what a day I've put in!" The speaker shuddered, and Rouletta
noticed for the first time how pale, how ill she looked.

"Then Pierce is free already? He's out--?"

"Not yet. I'll tell you everything if you'll promise not to breathe a
word, not to interfere until Henri has a chance to square himself.
I--think I've earned the right to demand that much. I told you the
whole thing was counterfeit--was the work of Joe McCaskey. I couldn't
believe Henri was up to such villainy. He's dissolute, weak,
vain--anything you choose--but he's not voluntarily criminal. Well, I
went to work on him. I pretended to--" the Countess again shivered with
disgust. "Oh, you saw what I was doing. I hated myself, but there was
no choice. Things came to a climax last night. I don't like to talk
about it--think about it--but you're bound to hear. I consented to go
out with him. He dragged me through the dance-halls and the
saloons--made me drink with him, publicly, and with the scum of the
town." Noting the expression on her hearer's face, the Countess laughed
shortly, mirthlessly. "Shocking, wasn't it? Low, indecent, wretched?
That's what everybody is saying. Dawson is humming with it. God! How he
humiliated me! But I loosened his tongue. I got most of the
details--not all, but enough. It was late, almost daylight, before I
succeeded. He slept all day, stupefied, and so did I, when I wasn't too
ill.

"He remembered something about it, he had some shadowy recollection of
talking too much. When he woke up he sent for me. Then we had it. He
denied everything, of course. He lied and he twisted, but I'm the
stronger--always have been. I beat him down, as usual. I could have
felt sorry for the poor wretch only for what he had put me through. He
went out not long ago."

"Where to? Tell me--"

"To the Police--to Colonel Cavendish. I gave him the chance to make a
clean breast of everything and save his hide, if possible. If he
weakens I'll take the bit in my teeth."

Rouletta stood motionless for a moment; then in deep emotion she
exclaimed: "I'm so glad! And yet it must have been a terrible
sacrifice. I think I understand how you must loathe yourself. It was a
very generous thing to do, however. Not many women could have risen to
it."

"I--hope he doesn't make me tell. I haven't much pride left, but--I'd
like to save what remains, for you can imagine what Cavendish will
think. A wife betraying her husband for her--for another man! What a
story for those women on the hill!"

Impulsively Rouletta bent forward and kissed the speaker. "Colonel
Cavendish will understand. He's a man of honor. But, after all, when a
woman really--cares, there's a satisfaction, a compensation, in
sacrifice, no matter how great."

Hilda Courteau's eyes were misty, their dark-fringed lids trembled
wearily shut. "Yes," she nodded, "I suppose so. Bitter and sweet! When
a woman of my sort, my age and experience, lets herself really care,
she tastes both. All I can hope is that Pierce never learns what he
made me pay for loving him. He wouldn't understand--yet." She opened
her eyes again and met the earnest gaze bent upon her. "I dare say you
think I feel the same toward him as you do, that I want him, that I'm
hungry for him. Well, I'm not. I'm 'way past that. I've been through
fire, and fire purifies. Now run along, child. I'm sure everything will
come out right."

The earlier snowfall had diminished when Rouletta stepped out into the
night, but a gusty, boisterous wind had risen and this filled the air
with blinding clouds of fine, hard particles, whirled up from the
streets, and the girl was forced to wade through newly formed drifts
that rose over the sidewalks, in places nearly to her knees. The wind
flapped her garments and cut her bare cheeks like a knife; when she
pushed her way into the Rialto and stamped the snow from her feet her
face was wet with tears; but they were frost tears. She dried them
quickly and with a song in her heart she hurried back to the
lunch-counter and climbed upon her favorite stool. There it was that
Doret and his two elderly companions found her.

"Well, we sprung him," Tom announced.

"All we done was sign on the dotted line," Jerry explained. "But, say,
if that boy hops out of town he'll cost us a lot of money."

"How's he going to hop out?" Tom demanded. "That's the hell of this
country--there's no getting away."

Jerry snorted derisively. "No gettin' away? What are you talkin' about?
Ain't the Boundary within ninety miles? 'Ain't plenty of people made
get-aways? All they need is a dog-team and a few hours' start of the
Police."

"Everyt'ing's all fix'," 'Poleon told his sister. "I had talk wit'
Pierce. He ain't comin' back here no more."

"Not coming back?" the girl exclaimed.

Doret met her startled gaze. "Not in dis kin' of place. He's cut 'em
out for good. I mak' him promise."

"A touch of jail ain't a bad thing for a harum-scarum kid," Tom
volunteered, as he finished giving his supper order. "It's a cold
compress--takes down the fever--"

"Nothing of the sort," Jerry asserted. "Jails is a total waste of time.
I don't believe in 'em. You think this boy's tamed, do you? Well, I
talked with him, an' all I got to say is this: keep Courteau away from
him or there's one Count you'll lose count of. The boy's got pizen in
him, an' I don't blame him none. If I was him I'd make that Frog hop.
You hear me."

'Poleon met Rouletta's worried glance with a reassuring smile. "I been
t'inkin' 'bout dat, too. W'at you say I go pardners wit' him, eh? I got
dog-team an' fine claim on hilltop. S'pose I geeve him half-interes' to
go wit' me?"

"WILL you?" eagerly queried the girl.

"Already I spoke it to him. He say mebbe so, but firs' he's got li'l
biznesse here."

"Of course! His case. But that will be cleared up. Mark what I say.
Yes"--Rouletta nodded happily--"take him with you, 'Poleon--out where
things are clean and healthy and where he can get a new start. Oh, you
make me very happy!"

The woodsman laid a big hand gently over hers. In a low voice he
murmured: "Dat's all I want, ma soeur--to mak' you happy. If dat claim
is wort' million dollar' it ain't too much to pay, but--I'm scare'
she's 'noder bum."

The song was still sounding in Rouletta's heart when she sat down at
the faro-table, and all through the evening it seemed to her that the
revelry round about was but an echo of her gladness. Pierce was free,
his name was clean. Probably ere this the whole truth was known to the
Mounted Police and by to-morrow it would be made public.

Moreover, he and 'Poleon were to be partners. That generous woodsman,
because of his affection for her, proposed to take the young fellow
into his heart and make a man of him. That was like him--always giving
much and taking little. Well, she was 'Poleon's sister. Who could tell
what might result from this new union of interests? Of course, there
was no pay out there on that mountain-crest, but hard work, honest
poverty, an end of these demoralizing surroundings were bound to affect
Pierce only for the better. Rouletta blessed the name of Hilda
Courteau, who had made this possible, and of 'Poleon Doret,
too--'Poleon of the great heart, who loved her so sincerely, so
unselfishly. He never failed her; he was a brother, truly--the best,
the cheeriest, the most loyal in the world. Rouletta was amazed to
realize what a part in her life the French Canadian had played. His
sincere affection was about the biggest thing that had come to her, so
it seemed.

Occupied with such comforting thoughts, Rouletta failed to note that
the evening had passed more quickly than usual and that it was after
midnight. When she did realize that fact, she wondered what could have
detained Lucky Broad. Promptness was a habit with him; he and Bridges
usually reported at least a half-hour ahead of time.

She caught sight of the pair, finally, through the wide archway, and
saw that they were surrounded by an excited crowd, a crowd that grew
swiftly as some whisper, some intelligence, spread with electric
rapidity through the barroom. Yielding to a premonition that something
was amiss, Rouletta asked the lookout to relieve her, and, rising, she
hurried into the other hall. Even before she had come within sound of
Lucky's voice the cause of the general excitement was made known to
her. It came in the form of an exclamation, a word or two snatched out
of the air. "Courteau!" "Dead!" "Shot--back street--body just found!"

Fiercely Rouletta fought her way through the press, an unvoiced
question trembling upon her lips. Broad turned at her first touch.

"Tough, ain't it?" said he. "Me and the Kid stumbled right over
him--kicked him out of the snow. We thought he'd been froze."

"We never dreamed he'd been shot till we got him clean down to the
drug-store," Bridges supplemented. "Shot in the back, too."

Questions were flying back and forth now. Profiting by the confusion,
Rouletta dragged Broad aside and queried, breathlessly:

"Was he dead--quite dead--?"

"Oh, sure!"

"Who--shot him?" The question came with difficulty. Lucky stared at his
interrogator queerly, then he shrugged.

"Quien sabe? Nobody seen or heard the shooting. He'd been croaked a
long while when we found him."

For a moment the two eyed each other silently. "Do you think--?"
Rouletta turned her white face toward the cashier's cage.

"More 'n likely. He was bitter--he made a lot of cracks around the
Barracks. The first thing the Police said when we notified 'em was,
'Where's Phillips?' We didn't know the boy was out until that very
minute or--we'd 'a' done different. We'd 'a' left the Count in the
drift and run Phillips down and framed an alibi. Think of us, his pals,
turnin' up the evidence!" Lucky breathed an oath.

"Oh, why--?" moaned the girl. "He--It was so useless. Everything was
all right. Perhaps--after all, he didn't do it."

"You know him as well as I do. I'm hoping he had better sense,
but--he's got a temper. He was always talking about the disgrace."

"Has he gone? Can't you help him? He might make the Boundary--"

Broad shook his head. "No use. It's too late for that. If he's still
here me 'n' the Kid will do our best to swear him out of it."

Rouletta swayed, she groped blindly at the bar rail for support,
whereupon her companion cried in a low voice:

"Here! Brace up, or you'll tip it all off! If he stands pat, how they
going to prove anything? The Count's been dead for hours. He was all
drifted--"

Broad was interrupted by the Mocha Kid, who entered out of the night at
that instant with the announcement: "Well, they got him! Rock found
him, and he denies it, but they've got him at the Barracks, puttin' him
through the third degree. I don't mind sayin' that Frenchman needed
croakin', bad, and they'd ought to give Phillips a vote of thanks and a
bronx tablet."

Mocha's words added to Rouletta's terror, for it showed that other
minds ran as did hers. Already, it seemed to her, Pierce Phillips had
been adjudged guilty. Through the murk of fright, of apprehension in
which her thoughts were racing there came a name--'Poleon Doret. Here
was deep trouble, grave peril, a threat to her newfound happiness.
'Poleon, her brother, would know what to do, for his head was clear,
his judgment was unerring. He never failed her. Blindly she ran for her
wraps, hurriedly she flung them on, then plunged out into the night. As
she scurried through the street, panic-stricken, beset, one man's name
was in her thoughts, but another's was upon her lips. Over and over she
kept repeating:

"'Poleon! Oh,'Poleon!"



CHAPTER XXVII


The news of Count Courteau's death traveled fast. 'Poleon Doret was not
long in hearing of it, and of course he went at once in search of
Rouletta. By the time he found her the girl's momentary panic had been
succeeded by a quite unnatural self-possession; her perturbation had
changed to an intense but governable agitation, and her mind was
working with a clarity and a rapidity more than normal. This power of
rising to an emergency she had doubtless inherited from her father.
"One-armed" Kirby had been a man of resource, and, so long as he
remained sober, he had never lost his head. Swiftly the girl told of
the instant suspicion that had attached to Phillips and of his prompt
apprehension.

"Who done dat shootin' if he don't?" Doret inquired, quickly.

"Joe McCaskey--or Frank," Rouletta answered with positiveness. 'Poleon
started. Through the gloom he stared incredulously at the speaker.

"I'm sure of it, now that I've had time to think," the girl declared.
"That's why I ran for you. Now listen! I promised not to tell this,
but--I must. Courteau confessed to his wife that he and the McCaskeys
trumped up that charge against Pierce. They paid Courteau well for his
part--or they promised to--and he perjured himself, as did they. Hilda
got the truth out of him while he was drunk. Of course he denied it
later, but she broke him down, and this evening, just before we got
home, he promised to go to Colonel Cavendish and make a clean breast of
everything. He went out for that purpose, but--evidently he lacked
courage to go through with it. Otherwise how did he come to be on the
back streets? The McCaskeys live somewhere back yonder, don't they?"

"Sure!" 'Poleon meditated, briefly. "Mebbe so you're right," he said,
finally.

"I know I'm right," Rouletta cried. "The first thing to do is find
them. Where are they?"

"I don' see 'em no place."

"Then we must tell the colonel to look them up."

But Doret's brows remained puckered in thought. "Wait!" he exclaimed.
"I got idea of my own. If dem feller kill Courteau dey ain't nowheres
roun' here. Dey beat it, firs' t'ing."

"To Hunker? Perhaps--"

"No. For de Boun'ry." 'Poleon slapped his thigh in sudden
enlightenment. "By golly! Dat's why I don' see 'em no place. You stay
here. I mak' sure."

He turned and strode away, but Rouletta followed at his heels.

"I'm going, too," she stoutly asserted. "Don't argue. I'll bet ten to
one we find their cabin empty."

Together they made their way rapidly out of the brightly illuminated
portion of the town and into the maze of blank warehouses and
snow-banked cabins which lay behind. At this hour of the night few
lamps were burning even in private residences, and, inasmuch as these
back streets were unlighted, the travelers had to feel their way. The
wind was diminishing, but even yet the air was thick with flying
flakes, and new drifts seriously impeded progress. Wading knee-deep in
places, stumbling in and out of cuts where the late snow had been
removed, clambering over treacherous slopes where other snows lay hard
packed and slippery, the two pursued their course.

'Poleon came to a pause at length in the shelter of a pole
provision-cache and indistinctly took his bearings. Silently he pointed
to the premises and vigorously nodded his head; then he craned his neck
for a view of the stove-pipe overhead. Neither sparks nor smoke nor
heat was rising from it. After a cautious journey of exploration he
returned to Rouletta and spoke aloud:

"Dey gone. Sled, dogs, ever't'ing gone."

He pushed open the cache door, and a moment later there came the sound
of rending wood as he shouldered his way into the dark cabin,
regardless of lock and bar. Rouletta was close behind him when he
struck a match and held it to a candle which he discovered fixed in its
own wax beside the window.

Curiously the interlopers surveyed the unfamiliar premises. Rouletta
spoke first, with suppressed excitement:

"You were right. And they left in a hurry, too."

"Sure. Beddin' gone, an'--dey got plenty beddin' on Hunker. Here dey
mak' grub-pack, see?" 'Poleon ran his finger through a white dust of
flour which lay thick upon the table. Striding to the stove, he laid
his hand upon it; he lifted the lid and felt of the ashes within. "Dey
lef 'bout five hour' ago. Wal, dat's beeg start. I guess mebbe dey safe
enough."

"Don't say that," Rouletta implored. "Rock can overtake them. He's a
famous traveler."

"I dunno. Dey got good team--"

"He must catch them! Why, he has ninety miles to do it in! He must,
'Poleon, he MUST! Of course this is evidence, but it isn't proof.
Remember, Pierce talked wildly. People are prejudiced against him
and--you know the Police. They act on suspicion, and circumstances are
certainly strong. Poor boy! If these men get away--who knows what may
happen to him? I tell you his very life may be in danger, for the law
is an awful thing. I--I've always been afraid of it. So was father, to
his dying day. We must send Rock flying. Yes, and without a moment's
delay."

"You still got deep feelin' for dat feller?" 'Poleon inquired, gravely.
The quick look of anguish, the frank nod of assent that he received,
were enough. "Bien!" he said, slowly. "I mak' satisfy, dat's all. I
never see you so scare' as dis."

"You know how I feel," Rouletta said; then, more curiously: "Why do you
need to make sure? Do you think I've changed--?" She hesitated for an
instant; there came a faint pucker of apprehension between her brows;
into her eyes crept a look of wonder which changed to astonishment,
then to incredulity, fright. "Oh--h!" she exclaimed. She raised a
faltering hand to her lips as if to stay a further betrayal of the
knowledge that had suddenly come to her. "Oh, 'Poleon, my dear! My
brother!"

The man smiled painfully as he met her shocked gaze. "I'm fonny feller,
ma saeur; always dream-in' de mos' foolish t'ing. Don' pay no'tention."

"I am--I always will be that--your sister. Have I made you unhappy?"

Vigorously he shook his head; his face slowly cleared. "No, no. In dis
life one t'ing is give me happiness--one t'ing alone--an' dat is bring
you joy. Now come. De grass growin' on our feet."

Together and in silence they hurried back as they had come; then, on
the plea that he could make better time alone, 'Poleon left his
companion and headed for the Barracks.

Rouletta let him go without protest; her heart was heavier than lead;
she could find no words whatever. A new tragedy, it seemed, had risen
to face her, for she realized now that she had hurt the man who loved
her best of all. That certainty filled her with such regret, such a
feeling of guilt, that she could not bear to think of it. A very
poignant sense of pain troubled her as she turned into the Rialto, and
as a consequence the lively clatter of the place grated upon her
sensibilities; she felt a miserable, sick desire to shut her ears to
this sound of laughter which was like ribald applause for the
death-blow she had dealt. Yes, she had dealt a death-blow, and to one
most dear. But how could she have known? How could she have foreseen
such a wretched complication as this? Who would have dreamed that gay,
careless, laughing 'Poleon Doret was like other men? Rouletta felt the
desire to bend her head and release those scalding tears that trembled
on her lashes.

Lieutenant Rock was preparing for bed when 'Poleon, after some little
difficulty, forced his way in upon him. The officer listened to his
caller's recital, and even before it was finished he had begun to dress
himself in his trail clothes.

"Courteau confessed, eh? And the McCaskeys have disappeared--taken
French leave. Say! That changes the look of things, for a fact. Of
course they may have merely gone back to Hunker--"

"In de middle of snow-storm? Dis tam de night? No. Dey makin' run for
de Line an' it's goin' tak' fas' team for pull 'em down."

"Well, I've got the best dogs in town."

Rock's caller smiled. "M'sieu', dey goin' travel some if dey keep in
sight of me."

"YOU?" Rock straightened himself. "Will you go along? Jove! I'd like
that!" he cried, heartily. "I've heard you own a lively bunch of mutts."

"I give you tas'e of Injun travel. Better you dress light an' buckle up
dat belt, for I got reason to fin' out who keel Courteau. I ain't goin'
sleep no more till I know."

The officer smiled as he declared: "That suits me exactly. We may not
catch them, but--they'll know they've been in a race before they thumb
their noses at us from across the Boundary. Now see how fast you can
harness up."

It was considerably after midnight when 'Poleon swung his dog-team into
the lighted space in front of the Rialto; nevertheless, many people
were about, for Dawson was a city of sleep-haters. The sight of a
racing-team equipped for a flying trip at this hour of the night evoked
instant interest and speculation, pointing, as it did, to a new gold
discovery and a stampede. Stampedes were frequent, they never failed to
create a sensation, therefore the woodsman was soon the center of an
inquisitive crowd. Not until he had fully explained the nature of his
business was suspicion allayed; then his word that Joe and Frank
McCaskey had fled for the Boundary ran up and down the street and
caused even greater excitement.

Rouletta came hurrying forth with the others, and to her 'Poleon made
known his intention of accompanying the fleet-footed Rock.

"Nobody is able to catch dem feller but him an' me," he explained. "Dey
got too long start."

"You think they may get across?" she queried, apprehensively.

"Five, six hour, dat's beeg edge. But me--" The speaker shrugged.
"Forty Mile, Circle, Fort Yukon, Rampart, it mak' no differ. I get 'em
some place, if I go plumb to St. Michael's. When I get goin' fas' it
tak' me long tam for run down."

Rouletta's eyes opened. "But, 'Poleon--you can't! There's the Boundary.
You're not an officer; you have no warrant."

"Dem t'ing is dam' nuisance," he declared. "I don' savvy dis law
biznesse. You say get 'em. Bien! I do it."

Rouletta stared curiously, wonderingly into the big fellow's face; she
was about to put her thoughts into words when a shout arose from the
crowd as the Police team streamed into view. Down the street it came at
a great pace, flashing through shadows and past glaring lighted fronts,
snatching the light hickory sled along behind as if it were a thing of
paper. Rock balanced himself upon the runner heels until, with a shout,
he put his weight upon the sharp-toothed sled brake and came to a pause
near 'Poleon. The rival teams plunged into their collars and set up a
pandemonium of yelping, but willing hands held them from flying at one
another's throats. Meanwhile, saloon doors were opening, the street was
filling; dance-hall girls, white-aproned bartenders, bleary-eyed
pedestrians, night-owls--all the queerly assorted devotees of Dawson's
vivid and roisterous nocturnal life hastened thither; even the
second-story windows framed heads, for this clamor put slumber to
flight without delay.

The wind was no longer strong, and already a clearing sky was evidenced
by an occasional winking star; nevertheless, it was bitterly cold and
those who were not heavily clad were forced to stamp their feet and to
whip their arms in order to keep their blood in motion.

Nothing is more exciting, more ominous, than a man-hunt; doubly
portentous was this one, the hasty preparations for which went forward
in the dead of night. Dawson had seen the start of more than one race
for the Boundary and had awaited the outcome with breathless interest.
Most of the fugitives overtaken had walked back into town, spent,
famished, frost-blackened, but there were some who had returned on
their backs, wrapped in robe or canvas and offering mute testimony to
the speedy and relentless efficiency of the men from the Barracks. Of
that small picked corps Lieutenant Rock was by long odds the favorite.
Now, therefore, he was the center of attention, and wagers were laid
that he would catch his men, however rapidly they traveled, however
great their start. Only a few old-timers--"sour-doughs" from the
distant reaches of the Yukon--knew 'Poleon Doret, but those few drew
close to him and gave the lieutenant little notice. This French
Canadian they regarded as the most tireless traveler in all the North;
about him, therefore, they assembled, and to him they addressed their
questions and offered their advice.

The dogs were inspired, now, with the full intoxication of the chase;
they strained forward fretfully, their gray plumes waving, their
tongues lolling, their staccato chorus adding to the general
disturbance. When the word came to go, they leaped into their harness,
and with a musical jingle of bells they swept down toward the river;
over the steep bank they poured, and were gone. A shout of
encouragement followed Rock as he was snapped into the blackness, then
noisily the crowd bolted for the warm interiors behind them.

Rouletta was slow in leaving; for some time she stood harkening to the
swift diminuendo of those tinkling sleigh-bells, staring into the night
as if to fix in her mind's eye the picture of what she had last seen,
the picture of a mighty man riding the rail of a plunging basket sled.
In spite of the biting cold he was stripped down; a thin drill parka
sufficed to break the temper of the wind, light fur boots were upon his
feet, the cheek pieces of his otter cap were tied above his crown. He
had turned to wave at her and to shout a word of encouragement just
before he vanished. That was like him, she told herself--eager to spare
her even the pain of undue apprehension. The shock of her discovery of
an hour ago was still too fresh in Rouletta's memory; it was still too
new and too agitating to permit of orderly thought, yet there it stood,
stark and dismaying. This woodsman loved her, no longer as a sister,
but as the one woman of his choice. As yet she could not reconcile
herself to such a state of affairs; her attempts to do so filled her
with mixed emotions. Poor 'Poleon! Why had this come to him? Rouletta's
throat swelled; tears not of the wind or the cold stood in her eyes
once again; an aching tenderness and pity welled up from her heart.

She became conscious finally that her body was growing numb, so she
bestirred herself. She had taken but a step or two, however, when some
movement in the shadows close at hand arrested her. Peering into the
gloom, she discovered a figure. It was Laure.

The girl wore some sort of wrap, evidently snatched at random, but
under it she was clad in her dance-hall finery, and she, too, was all
but frozen.

Rouletta was about to move on, when the other addressed her through
teeth that clicked like castanets.

"I got here--late. Is it true? Have they--gone after Joe and Frank?"

"Yes."

"What happened? I--I haven't heard. Don't they think--Pierce did it?"

"You KNOW he didn't do it," Rouletta cried. "Neither did he steal
Courteau's money."

"What do you mean, 'I know'?" Laure's voice was harsh, imperative. She
clutched at the other girl; then, as Rouletta hesitated, she regained
control of herself and ran on, in a tone bitterly resentful: "Oh, you'd
like to get him out of it--save him for yourself--wouldn't you? But you
can't. You can't have him. I won't let you. My God! Letty, he's the
only thing I ever cared for! I never had even a dog or a cat or a
canary of my own. Think a little bit of me."

Almost dazed by this mingled accusation and appeal, Rouletta at length
responded by a question, "Then why haven't you done something to clear
him?"

Laure drew her flimsy wrap closer; she was shaking wretchedly. When she
spoke her words were spilled from her lips as if by the tremors of her
body. "I could help. I would, but--you sha'n't have him. Nobody shall!
I'd rather see him dead. I'd--No, no! I don't know what I'm saying. I'd
sooner die than hurt him. I'd do my bit, only--McCaskey'd kill me. Say.
Will Rock get him, d'you think? I hear he gets his man every time. But
Joe's different; he's not the ordinary kind; he's got the devil in him.
Frank--he's a dog, but Joe'll fight. He'll kill--at the drop of the
hat. So will Rock, I suppose. Maybe he'll kill them both, eh? Or maybe
they'll kill him and get away. I don't care which way it goes--"

"Don't talk like that!" Rouletta exclaimed.

"I mean it," Laure ran on, crazily. "Yes, Joe'd kill anybody that stood
in his way or doublecrossed him. I guess I know. Why, he told me so
himself! And Courteau knew it, perfectly well--the poor fool!--but look
at him now. He got his, didn't he?"

Rouletta laid a cold hand upon the shivering, distracted creature
before her. Sternly she said:

"I believe you know who committed that murder. You act as if you did."

"I'm a g-good guesser, but--I can keep my mouth shut. I know when I'm
well off. That's more than the Count knew."

"And you probably know something about his robbery, too. I mean that
gold-sack--"

Laure cast off the hand that rested upon her; she looked up quickly.
"If I did, d'you think I'd tell you? Well, hardly. But I don't. I don't
know anything, except that--Pierce is a thief. He stole and gave me the
money. He did that regularly, and that's more than he'd do for you. You
may as well know the truth. Cavendish knows it. You think he's too good
for me, don't you? Well, he isn't. And you're no better than I am,
either, for that matter. You've got a nerve to put on airs. God! How I
hate you and your superior ways."

"Never mind me. I want to know who killed Count Courteau."

"All right. Wait till Rock comes back and ask him. He thinks he'll find
out, but--we'll see. Joe McCaskey'll be over the Line and away, thank
Heaven! If anything happens and they should overtake him--well, he'll
fight. He'll never come in alive, never." Turning, the speaker stumbled
toward the lights of the saloon, and as she went Rouletta heard her
mutter again: "He'll never come in alive, never. Thank God for that!"



CHAPTER XXVIII


From Dawson City the Yukon flows in a northwesterly direction toward
the International Boundary, and although the camp is scarcely more than
fifty miles due east of American territory, by the river it is ninety.
Since the Yukon is the main artery of travel, both winter and
summer--there being no roads or trails--it behooved those malefactors
who fled the wrath of the Northwest Mounted Police to obtain a liberal
start, for ninety miles of dead flat going is no easy run and the
Police teams were fleet of foot. Time was when evil-doers had
undertaken to escape up-river, or to lose themselves in the hills to
the northward, but this was a desperate adventure at best and had
issued in such uniform disaster as to discourage its practice. The
Police had won the reputation of never leaving a trail, and, in
consequence, none but madmen longer risked anything except a dash for
American soil, and even then only with a substantial margin of time in
their favor.

But the winter winds are moody, the temper of the Arctic is uncertain,
hence luck played a large part in these enterprises. Both Rock and
Doret were sufficiently familiar with the hazards and the
disappointments of travel at this time of year to feel extremely
doubtful of overhauling the two McCaskeys, and so they were by no means
sanguine of success as they drove headlong into the night.

Both teams were loaded light; neither driver carried stove, tent, or
camp duffle. Sleeping-bags, a little cooked food for themselves, a
bundle of dried fish for the dogs, that was the limit the pursuers had
allowed themselves. Given good weather, nothing more was needed. In
case of a storm, a sudden blizzard, and a drop in temperature, this
lack of equipment was apt to prove fatal, but neither traveler
permitted himself to think about such things. Burdened thus lightly,
the sleds rode high and the malamutes romped along with them. When the
late dawn finally came it found them far on their way.

That wind, following the snowfall of the day before, had been a happy
circumstance, for in many places it had blown the trail clean, so that
daylight showed it winding away into the distance like a thread laid
down at random. Here and there, of course, it was hidden; under the lee
of bluffs or of wooded bends, for instance, it was drifted deep,
completely obliterated, in fact, and in such places even a seasoned
musher would have floundered aimlessly, trying to hold it. But 'Poleon
Doret possessed a sixth sense, it appeared, and his lead dog, too, had
unusual sagacity. Rock, from his position in the rear, marveled at the
accuracy with which the woodsman's sled followed the narrow,
hard-packed ridge concealed beneath the soft, new covering. Undoubtedly
the fellow knew his business and the officer congratulated himself upon
bringing him along.

They had been under way for five or six hours when the tardy daylight
came, but even thereafter Doret continued to run with his hand upon his
sled. Seldom did he ride, and then only for a moment or two when the
going was best. For the most part he maintained a steady, swinging trot
that kept pace with the pattering feet ahead of him and caused the
miles rapidly to drop behind. Through drifts knee-deep, through long,
soft stretches he held to that unfaltering stride; occasionally he
turned his head and flashed a smile or waved his hand at the man behind.

Along about ten o'clock he halted his team where a dead spruce overhung
the river-bank. By the time Rock had pulled in behind him he had
clambered up the bank, ax in hand, and was making the chips fly. He
sent the dry top crashing down, then explained:

"Dem dogs go better for l'il rest. We boil de kettle, eh?"

Rock wiped the sweat from his face. "You're certainly hitting it off,
old man. We've made good time, but I haven't seen any tracks. Have you?"

"We see 'em bimeby."

"Kind of a joke if they hadn't come, after all--if they'd really gone
out to Hunker. Gee! The laugh would be on us."

"Dey come dis way," 'Poleon stoutly maintained.

Soon a blaze was going; then, while the ice in the blackened tea-bucket
was melting, the drivers sliced a slab of bacon into small cubes and
fed it sparingly to their animals, after which they carefully examined
the dogs' feet and cleaned them of ice and snow pellets.

The tea was gulped, the hardtack swallowed, and the travelers were
under way again almost before their sweaty bodies had begun to chill.
On they hurried, mile after mile, sweeping past bends, eagerly,
hopefully scanning every empty tangent that opened up ahead of them.
They made fast time indeed, but the immensity of the desolation through
which they passed, the tremendous scale upon which this country had
been molded, made their progress seem slower than an ant-crawl.

Eventually 'Poleon shouted something and pointed to the trail
underfoot. Rock fancied he could detect the faint, fresh markings of
sled runners, but into them he could not read much significance. It was
an encouragement, to be sure, but, nevertheless, he still had doubts,
and those doubts were not dispelled until Doret again halted his team,
this time beside the cold embers of a fire. Fresh chips were scattered
under the bank, charred fagots had embedded themselves in the ice and
were frozen fast, but 'Poleon interpreted the various signs without
difficulty.

"Here dey mak' breakfas'--'bout daylight," said he. "Dey go slower as
us."

"But they're going pretty fast, for all that. We'll never get them this
side of Forty Mile."

"You don' spec' it, do you? Dey got beeg scare, dem feller. Dey runnin'
so fas' dey can."

Forty Mile, so called because the river of that name enters the Yukon
forty miles above the Boundary, was a considerable camp prior to the
Dawson boom, but thereafter it had languished, and this winter it was
all but deserted. So, too, was Cudahy, the rival trading-post a
half-mile below. It was on the bars of this stream that the earliest
pioneers had first found gold. Here at its mouth, during the famine
days before the steamboats came, they had cached their supplies; here
they had brewed their hootch in the fall and held high carnival to
celebrate their good luck or to drown their ill-fortune.

Rock and his companion pulled up the bank and in among the windowless
cabins during the afternoon; they had halted their dogs before the
Mounted Police station, only to find the building locked and cold. The
few faithful Forty-Milers who came out to exchange greetings explained
that both occupants of the barracks had gone down-river to succor some
sick Indians.

Rock was disgusted, but his next question elicited information that
cheered him. Yes, a pair of strangers had just passed through, one of
them an active, heavy-set fellow, the other a tall, dark, sinister man
with black eyes and a stormy demeanor. They had come fast and they had
tarried only long enough to feed their dogs and to make some inquiries.
Upon learning that the local police were on the main river somewhere
below, they had held a consultation and then had headed up the Forty
Mile.

"UP Forty Mile?" Rock cried, in surprise. "Are you sure?"

"We seen 'em go," his informant declared. "That's what made us think
there was something wrong. That's why we been on the lookout for you.
We figgered they was on the dodge and hard pressed, but we couldn't do
nothing about it. You see, it's only about twenty-three miles to the
Line up Forty Mile. Down the Yukon it's forty. They been gone 'most two
hours, now."

"What do you want 'em for?" another bystander inquired.

"Murder," Rock exclaimed, shortly; then he heaved his sled into motion
once more, for 'Poleon had started his team and was making off through
the town. Down into the bed of the smaller stream the pursuers made
their way and up this they turned. Again they urged their dogs into a
run. It took some effort to maintain a galloping pace now, for the
teams were tiring, and after some mental calculations Rock shook his
head doubtfully. Of course, his quarry was at a disadvantage, there
being two men to one sled, but--twenty-three miles, with a two-hour
start! It was altogether too great a handicap. The lieutenant had
figured on that last forty miles, the last five or ten, in fact, but
this change of direction had upset all his plans and his estimates.
Evidently the McCaskeys cared not how nor where they crossed the Line,
so long as they crossed it quickly and got Canadian territory behind
them. Barring accident, therefore, which was extremely unlikely, Rock
told himself regretfully that they were as good as gone. Two hours! It
was too much. On the other hand, he and 'Poleon now had a fresh trail
to follow, while the fleeing brothers had unbroken snow ahead of them,
and that meant that they must take turns ahead of their dogs. Then,
too, fifty miles over drifted trails at this season of the year was a
heavy day's work, and the McCaskeys must be very tired by now, for
neither was in the best of condition. In the spring, when the snows
were wet and sled runners ran as if upon grease, such a journey would
have been no great effort, but in this temperature the steel shoes
creaked and a man's muscles did not work freely. Men had been known to
play out unexpectedly. After all, there was a possibility of pulling
them down, and as long as there was that possibility the Mounted
Policeman refused to quit.

Rock assured himself that this flight had established one thing, at
least, and that was Pierce Phillips' innocence of the Courteau killing.
The murderers were here; there could be no doubt of it. Their frantic
haste confessed their guilt. Friendship for the boy, pride in his own
reputation, the memory of that ovation he had received upon leaving,
gave the officer new strength and determination, so he shut his teeth
and spurred his rebellious limbs into swifter action. There was no
longer any opportunity of riding the sled, even where the trail was
hard, for some of the Police dogs were limping and loafing in their
collars. This was indeed a race, a Marathon, a twenty-three-mile test
of courage and endurance, and victory would go to him who could call
into fullest response his last uttermost ounce of reserve power.

Doret had promised that he would show his trail-mate how to travel, and
that promise he had made good; all day he had held the lead, and
without assistance from the lash. Even now his dogs, while not fresh,
were far from exhausted. As for the man himself, Rock began to feel a
conviction that the fellow could go on at this rate eternally.

Luck finally seemed to break in favor of the pursuers; accident
appeared to work in their behalf. The day was done, night was again
upon them, when Doret sent back a cry of warning, and, leaping upon his
sled, turned his leader at right angles toward the bank.

His companion understood the meaning of that move, but the Police team
was less responsive to command, and before Rock could swing them he
felt his feet sink into soft slush.

"Dam' overflow!" Doret panted when the two teams were safely out upon
the bank. "You wet your feet, eh?"

Apprehensively the officer felt of his moccasins; they were wet to the
touch, but as yet no moisture had penetrated his socks. "You yelled in
the nick of time," he declared, as he dried his soles in the loose snow.

"Dem feller got in it ankle-deep. I bet we fin' camp-fire soon."

This prediction came true. As the travelers rounded the next bluff they
smelled the odor of burning spruce and came upon a trampled bed of
boughs beside which some embers were still smoldering.

"Jove! That gives us a chance, doesn't it?" Rock panted.

His companion smiled. "We goin' start travel now, for sure. Dey can't
be more 'n a mile or two ahead."

Down upon the river-bed the teams rushed. With biting lash and sharp
commands the drivers urged them into a swifter run. Rock was forcing
his dogs now; he made the smoke fly from their hides when they lagged.
He vowed that he would not permit this French Canadian to outdistance
him. He swore a good deal at his malamutes; he cursed himself as a
weakling, a quitter; anger at his fatigue ran through him.

The travelers were up among the hills by now. Occasionally they passed
a deserted cabin, home of some early gold-digger. Valleys dark with
night opened up to right and to left as the Forty Mile wound higher,
deeper into the maze of rounded domes: the Boundary was close at hand.
The hillsides hid their feet in black thickets of spruce, but their
slopes were thinly timbered, their crests were nearly bare, and the
white snow gave off a dim radiance that made traveling possible even
after the twilight had deepened. By and by it grew lighter and the
north horizon took on a rosy flush that spread into a tremendous flare.
The night was still, clear, crackly; it was surcharged with some static
force, and so calm was the air, so deathlike the hush, that the empty
valley rang like a bell. That mysterious illumination in the north grew
more and more impressive; great ribbons, long pathways of quivering
light, unrolled themselves and streamed across the sky; they flamed and
flickered, they writhed and melted, disappearing, reappearing, rising,
falling. It was as if the lid had been lifted from some stupendous
caldron and the heavens reflected the radiance from its white-hot
contents. Mighty fingers, like the beams of polar search-lights, groped
through the voids overhead; tumbling waves of color rushed up and
dashed themselves away into space; the whole arch of the night was lit
as from a world in flames. Red, yellow, orange, violet,
ultra-violet--the tints merged with one another bewilderingly and the
snows threw back their flicker until coarse print would have been
readable. Against that war of clashing colors the mountain-crests stood
out in silhouette and the fringe of lonely wind-twisted trunks high up
on their saddles were etched in blackest ink.

It was a weird, an unearthly effect; it was exciting, too. As always
when the Aurora is in full play, the onlookers marveled that such a
tremendous exhibition of energy could continue in such silence. That
was the oddest, the most impressive feature of all, for the crash of
avalanches, the rumble of thunder, the diapason of a hundred Niagaras,
should have accompanied such appalling phenomena. It seemed odd indeed
that the whine of sled runners, the scuff of moccasins, the panting of
dogs, should be the only audible sounds.

There were other overflows underfoot now, but the cold had frozen them
and the going was getting constantly better. The snow was thin and in
places the sleds slewed sidewise and the dogs ran on slack traces
across long stretches of bare glare ice. It was while negotiating such
a place as this that Rock paid the price of his earlier carelessness.
Doret's dry moose-skin soles had a sure grip, hence he never hesitated,
but the lieutenant's moccasins were like a pair of tin shoes now and,
without warning, he lost his footing. He was running swiftly at the
moment; he strove to save himself, to twist in midair, but he failed.
'Poleon heard a cry of pain and dismay, so he halted his team and came
striding back. Rock raised himself, then took a step, but faltered and
clung helplessly to the handlebars. He began to curse furiously; he
undertook to estimate the extent of his injury, then explained:

"My foot doubled under me and I came down on it like a ton of bricks.
By Heavens! I believe something broke!"

'Poleon was solicitous. He blamed himself, too. "It's dem wet
moccasin'. I should have stop' an' mak' you change," said he.

"We can't stop," Rock groaned. "I'll be all right as soon as--" The
words ended in another explosive oath as he again put his weight upon
the injured member. Blasphemy poured from his lips as repeatedly he
tried to force his foot to carry him. He cursed himself for a clumsy,
blundering ass; he shouted at his dogs; he sent his sled forward and
lurched along behind it, half supporting himself, until 'Poleon finally
halted him.

"It's no good mak' bad t'ing worse, M'sieu'," the woodsman declared.
"You bus' him for sure, an' it's no use goin' furder. S'pose mebbe we
boil de kettle, eh?"

"And let them get away clean? When we had 'em? They can't be a mile
ahead. Let 'em slip between our fingers?" raved the officer. "I can't.
I won't--"

"We mak' li'l fire an' look him over dat foot. Me, I t'ink you don'
walk no more for two, free week'."

"You go! I'll deputize you! Get 'em, Doret, quick! You can do it! I'll
wait! Go ahead!"

The other nodded. "Sure, I can get 'em! I never have no doubt 'bout dat
in de least, but it's better we fix you comfor'ble."

"They'll be across, I tell you--over the Line--"

"I came pas' dat place more 'n once or twice"--the French Canadian
grinned--"an' I never seen it no Line." He forced his companion to
lower himself upon the sled, then swung it toward the river-bank,
calling upon his own lead dog to follow. Up and into the shelter of the
spruce he drove the Police team; quickly he felled dry wood and kindled
a fire. This took but a few moments, but Rock was wet with sweat and in
consequence he was shivering wretchedly; his teeth were chattering even
before the blaze had taken hold. 'Poleon continued to work with what
speed he could, and in a surprisingly short time he had built a snug
wickiup and filled it with boughs. This done, he unhitched and fed both
teams, spread Rock's sleeping-bag under the shelter, and set a pail of
snow to melt. By the light of the fire he examined the latter's injury,
but could make little of it, for already it was badly swollen and every
manipulation caused its owner extreme pain. There were no remedies
available; there was not even a vessel of sufficient size in which to
bathe the foot; hence 'Poleon contented himself by bandaging it and
helping his trail-mate into bed.

Not since leaving Dawson had either man tasted hot food, but their
hunger was as nothing to their thirst. Even in this length of time
their bodies had shrunk, withered, inside their clothing, and for
perhaps an hour they took turns greedily draining the pail of its tepid
contents. Under intense cold the human body consumes itself at a rapid
rate. Once it has burned itself out it preys upon those deep-hidden
forces which nature holds in reserve, and the process of recuperation
waits upon a restoration of a normal balance of moisture.

Both men were weighed down by an aching, nightmare fatigue, and as they
sat gulping hot water, absorbing heat from within and without, their
muscles set and they felt as if their limbs had turned to stone.

But, once the first mad craving for drink had been assuaged, they fried
bacon and made tea. Like wolves they fell upon the salt meat; they
dipped the hot grease up in their spoons and swallowed it with relish;
they crunched their hardtack and washed the powdery mouthfuls down with
copious draughts from the blackened pail. When the tea was gone they
brewed another scalding bucketful.

Rock lay back, finally, but the movement caused him to bare his teeth
in agony. At 'Poleon's quick inquiry he shook his head.

"I'm all right," he declared. "Good for the night. You can pull out any
time you want to."

"Dere's plenty tam." 'Poleon lit his pipe and reached again for the
tea-bucket.

"Better go before you stiffen up."

"I go bimeby--sooner I get li'l drinkin' done."

"They'll fight," Rock announced, after a silence of perhaps five
minutes. "I feel pretty rotten, playing out like this."

"You done firs' rate," the woodsman told him. "If I come alone I catch
'em ten mile below, but--li'l tam, more less, don' mak' no differ."

"I believe you WOULD have got 'em," the officer acknowledged. After a
time he persisted: "They'll put up a battle, Doret. You'll need to be
careful."

'Poleon was squatted Indian fashion over the blaze; he was staring
fixedly into the flames, and an aboriginal reticence had settled upon
him. After a long time he answered: "Mebbe so I keel de beeg feller. I
dunno. So long one is lef' I mak' him clear dat boy Phillips."

"Decent of you to take a chance like that for Pierce," Rock resumed.
"It's different with me; I have to do it. Just the same, I wouldn't
care to follow those fellows over the Boundary. I don't think you'd
better try it."

In spite of his suffering, the lieutenant fell into a doze; whether he
slept ten minutes or an hour he never knew, but he awoke, groaning, to
find the big woodsman still bulked over the campfire, still smoking,
still sipping tea. Rock ate and drank some more; again he slept. For a
second time his pain roused him, and once more he marveled to discover
'Poleon occupied as before. It seemed to him that the fellow would
never satisfy himself. Eventually, however, the latter arose and made
preparations to leave.

The Northern Lights had flickered out now; the empty sky was sprinkled
with a million stars which glittered like scintillating frost jewels
frozen into the dome of heaven; there were no sounds whatever to break
the deathlike silence of the night, for the Arctic wastes are all but
lifeless. There were no bird-calls, no sounds of insects, not even the
whisper of running water, for the river was locked deep beneath its icy
armor.

"You got 'nough wood to las' long tam," 'Poleon declared. "If I don'
come back, dem Forty Mile Police is sure to pick you up."

"I can go in alone if I have to," the injured man declared. "Au revoir
and good luck."

'Poleon made no attempt to hurry his tired team; for several miles he
plodded along behind them, guiding them to right or left by a
low-spoken word. Years before, he had rocked on the bars of this
stream; therefore its landmarks were familiar to him, and in spite of
the darkness he readily identified them. In time he made out the
monuments marking the International Boundary, and a short distance
beyond that point he unhitched his dogs, then took a carbine from his
sled and slipped it full of shells. Next he removed his lash rope,
coiled it, and placed it in his pocket, after which he resumed his
journey alone.

Occasionally he dimly glimpsed deserted cabins, habitations built by
the gold-diggers of other days. Carefully he followed the all but
indistinguishable sled tracks ahead of him until they swerved abruptly
in toward the bank. Here he paused, pulled a mitten, and, moistening a
finger, held it up to test the wind. What movement there was to the air
seemed to satisfy him, for, step by step, he mounted the steep slope
until his head finally rose over its crest. Against the skyline he now
made out a small clearing; straining his eyes, he could see the black
square of a cabin wall. No light shone from it, therefore he argued
that his men had supped and were asleep. He had assumed that they would
not, could not, go far beyond the Boundary; he had purposely allowed
them sufficient time in which to overcome the first agony of fatigue
and to fall asleep. He wondered apprehensively where they had put their
dogs, and if by any evil chance the McCaskey team included an "outside"
dog of the watchful, barking variety.

Gingerly he stepped out, and found that the snow underfoot gave off
only the faintest whisper. Like a shadow he stole closer to the hut,
keeping the imperceptible night breeze in his face.

So noiseless was his approach that the tired dogs, snugly curled each
in its own deep bed of snow, did not hear him--your malamutes that are
broken to harness are bad watch-dogs at best. Not until he had melted
into the gloom beneath the wide overhang above the cabin door did the
first disturbance come. Then something started into life and the
silence was broken.

'Poleon saw that a canvas sled-cover had been used to curtain the door
opening, and during the instant following the alarm he brushed the
tarpaulin aside and stepped into the pitch-black interior.

It had been a swift maneuver, the result of a lightning-like decision,
and not so reckless as it appeared.

He stood now with his back to the rough log wall, every muscle in his
body taut, his ears strained for some sound, some challenge. He had
been prepared for a shot out of the darkness, but nothing came. His
lungs were filling with the first deep breath of relief when a sleepy
voice spoke:

"That you, Frank?" 'Poleon remained fixed in his tracks. "Frank!" There
was a moment's pause, then, "FRANK!"

Followed a rustle as of a body turning, then a startled mumble in
answer.

"Was that you?" Joe McCaskey's voice again demanded.

"Me? What--?"

"Was you outside?"

"Outside?"

"I heard the dogs rowing. They're stirring now. Hear 'em? I'll swear I
saw that fly drop--" McCaskey's words died out and again the interior
of the cabin became soundless.

"Who's there?" the former speaker suddenly barked.

When another moment had dragged by, a sulphur match was struck. For a
second or two it shed a sickly blue radiance sufficient only to
silhouette a pair of hands cupped over it; then, as the flame ignited
the tiny shaft, it burst into a yellow glow and sent the shadows of the
cabin leaping.

Joe McCaskey uttered a cry, a scream. The flame was crushed in his
palms and again the cabin was ink black. It remained as silent as
before except for a dry rattling of breath in the elder brother's
throat.

"Wha--what'd you--see?" the younger one gasped. Both men were now fully
awake, but, disregarding the question, Joe cried, wildly:

"Who are you? What d'you want?" And then, when no answer came: "Christ!
SAY something."

'Poleon could hear the wretch moisten his dry lips; he could picture
both men sitting bolt upright in their sleeping-bags; he could feel the
terror that was creeping over them.

"Who'd you see?" Frank whispered again.

"S-something big! Right there! By God! Something's in here!"

Joe's tone was firmer now; nevertheless, fright still held him
motionless, paralyzed. He was staring with blind eyes into the velvet
blackness, and his flesh was rippling with a superstitious horror of
that formless creature he had glimpsed. What was it that had walked in
out of the night and now crouched ready to spring? Nothing human,
nothing natural, that was sure.

Similar thoughts raced madly through his brother's brain, and the
latter let forth a thin wail--almost a sob. The sound set Joe into
motion. Swiftly but clumsily he fumbled through the dry grass with
which his bunk was filled. He uttered a throaty curse, for he had laid
his revolver by his side, right where his hand would fall upon it.
Where was the thing--?

Joe's body turned rigid, his shaking fingers grew stiff and useless,
when out of the darkness came a sigh--faint but unmistakable; whence it
issued neither brother could tell.

With another shriek Frank fell back and burrowed into his sleeping-bag.



CHAPTER XXIX


Rouletta Kirby spent an anxious and a thoughtful night. The more she
dwelt upon Laure's peculiar behavior the more it roused her suspicions
and the more she felt justified in seeking an interview with Colonel
Cavendish. She rose early, therefore, and went to Police Headquarters.

Two people were in the office when she entered, one a redcoat,
evidently acting in some clerical capacity; the other a girl whom
Rouletta had never seen. The colonel was engaged, so Rouletta was told,
and she sat down to wait. With furtive curiosity she began to study
this other young woman. It was plain that the latter was a privileged
person, for she made herself perfectly at home and appeared to be not
in the least chilled by the official formality of her surroundings. She
wandered restlessly about the room, humming a tune under her breath;
she readjusted the window-curtains to her liking; she idly thumbed the
books upon the shelves; finally she perched herself upon the table in
the midst of the documents upon which the officer was engaged, and
began a low-voiced conversation with him.

Rouletta was not a little impressed by this stranger. She had never
seen a finer, healthier, cleaner-cut girl. Here for once was a "nice"
woman of the town who did not stare at her with open and offensive
curiosity. She was not surprised when she overheard the Police officer
address her as "Miss Cavendish." No wonder this girl had poise and
breeding--the Cavendishes were the best people in the community. With a
jealous pang the caller reflected that the colonel's daughter was very
much what she herself would like to be, very much her ideal, so far as
she could judge.

When, eventually, the commandant himself emerged from his sanctum, he
paused for a moment at his daughter's side; then he approached Rouletta.

Very briefly the latter made known the reason of her presence, and the
colonel nodded.

"You did quite right in coming here," he declared, "and I'm sure this
dance-hall girl knows more than she has told. In fact, I was on the
point of sending for her. Please wait until she arrives. Perhaps we can
straighten out this whole unpleasant affair informally. I'll need
Phillips, too. Meanwhile, there's a friend of yours inside." Stepping
to the inner door, he spoke to some one, and an instant later the
Countess Courteau came forth.

Rouletta had not seen the Countess alone since early the previous
evening. She went swiftly to her now and placed an arm about her
shoulders. Hilda responded to this mark of sympathy with a weary smile.

"Well, I had to go through with it to the bitter end," she said, in a
low voice. "Henri didn't spare me even that."

Rouletta pressed her closer, murmuring: "Colonel Cavendish is a fine
man--I'm sure he understands. You've undergone a dreadful ordeal,
but--it's nearly over. He's sending for Laure now. She can tell a good
deal, if she will."

"About the theft, yes. But what about the--murder? Joe McCaskey did it.
There's no doubt about that. Henri weakened, after I gave him his
chance. He got to drinking, I hear, and evidently he conceived the
notion of telling those men. He may have gone to warn them, to appeal
to them. I don't know. Then they must have quarreled. It's all clear
enough when you understand the inside facts. Without knowing them, it
was natural to suspect Pierce, so--I did what I had to do. I doubt if
Laure knows anything about this part of the affair."

The two women were still talking when Laure entered, in company with
the Mounted Police officer who had been sent to fetch her. At sight of
them she halted; a sudden pallor came into her cheeks; she cast a
glance of alarm about her as if seeking retreat; but Colonel Cavendish
grimly invited her to follow him, and stepped into his private office.
The new-comer faltered; then with a defiant toss of her head and with
lips curled in disdain she obeyed; the door closed behind her.

Rouletta and the Countess Courteau fell silent now. They found nothing
to talk about, and in spite of themselves they strained their ears for
some sound from the other room. Even Miss Cavendish seemed vaguely to
feel the suspense, for she finally took her stand beside a frost-rimed
window and engaged herself in tracing patterns thereon with the tip of
her finger. An occasional stormy murmur of voices, deadened by the
thick log partition, indicated that Laure and her inquisitor were not
getting on well together.

Suddenly the girl at the window started; her apathy vanished; her
expression of boredom gave place to one of such lively anticipation as
to draw the attention of the two other women. A magic change came over
her; she became suddenly animated, alive, atingle in every nerve; her
eyes sparkled and a new color flooded her cheeks. The alteration
interested her observers; they were mystified as to its cause until a
quick step sounded in the entry and the door opened to admit Pierce
Phillips.

It was natural that he should first see Miss Cavendish, and that he
should greet her before recognizing the other occupants of the room. It
was natural, too, that he should be a trifle nonplussed at finding
Hilda here; nevertheless, he managed to cover his lack of ease. Not so,
however, when, a moment later, the door to Colonel Cavendish's office
opened and Laure, of all persons, appeared therein. Quickly Pierce
inferred the reason for his summons, but, happily for him, he was
spared further embarrassment. Cavendish called to him, took him by the
hand in the friendliest manner, and again disappeared into his retreat,
drawing the young man with him.

Brief as had been the interruption, both Hilda and Rouletta had
gathered much from it; their inference was borne out when Laure paused
before them and in a voice subdued by the very force of her agitation
exclaimed:

"Well, I hope you're satisfied! I got it, and got it good." Her face
was livid, her dark eyes were blazing wrathfully. She outthrust a
shaking hand and unclenched her fingers, displaying therein a crumpled
sheet of pink paper, a printed official form, the telltale tint of
which indicated its fateful character. Both of her hearers were
familiar with the so-called "pink tickets" of the Mounted Police; every
one in the Northwest Territory, in fact, knew what they
were--deportation orders. But in a tone hoarse and suppressed Laure
read, "'--leave by the first safe conveyance!' That's what it says--the
first safe conveyance. I suppose you'd like it better if it were a blue
ticket and I had to leave in twenty-four hours. You put it over, but I
won't forget. I'll get even with you."

"We had nothing to do with that," the Countess declared, quietly. "I'm
sorry you take it so hard, but--it serves you right."

"Who wouldn't take it hard? To be expelled, fired out like a thief,
a--" The girl's voice broke; then she pulled herself together and
uttered a quavering, artificial laugh. She tossed her head again, with
an obvious attempt at defiance. "Oh, it takes more than a pink ticket
to down me! Anyhow, I'm sick of this place, sick of the people. I hate
them." With a vicious fling of her shoulders she swept on to a seat as
far from them as possible and sank into it.

So the girl had confessed, Hilda reflected. She was glad, for Pierce's
sake, that this miserable complication was in process of clearing up
and that he would be finally and completely exonerated; she was glad,
too, that her efforts in his behalf, her humiliation, had borne fruit.
He would never know how high he had made her pay, but that was all
right. She felt very gently toward him at this moment, and experienced
a certain wistful desire that he might understand how unselfish had
been her part. It might make a difference; probably it would. Things
now were not as they had been. She was a free woman. This thought
obtruded itself insistently into the midst of her meditations. Yes,
Courteau was gone; there was no reason now why she could not look any
man honestly in the eye. Of course, there was the same disparity in
years between her and Pierce which she had recognized from the
beginning, but, after all, was that necessarily fatal? He had loved her
genuinely enough at one time. Hilda recalled that windy night on the
shores of Linderman when the whimper of a rising storm came out of the
darkness, when the tree-tops tossed their branches to the sky, and when
her own soul had broken its fetters and defied restraint. She thrilled
at memory of those strong young arms about her, those hot lips pressing
hers. That was a moment to remember always. And those dreamy, magic
days that had followed, the more delightful, the more unreal because
she had deliberately drugged her conscience. Then that night at White
Horse! He had told her bitterly, broken-heartedly, that he could never
forget. Perhaps even yet--With an effort Hilda Courteau roused herself.
Never forget? Why, he had forgotten the very next day, as was quite
natural. No, she was a foolish sentimentalist, and he--well, he was
just one whom fate had cast for a lover's role, one destined to excite
affection in women, good and bad. Some day he would find his mate
and--Hilda believed she loved him well enough to rejoice in his
happiness when it came. There spoke the maternal instinct which
Phillips had the knack of rousing; for want of something better, she
determined she would cherish that.

Meanwhile Laure sat in her corner, her head bowed, her very soul in
revolt. She was tasting failure, disappointment, balked desire, and it
was like gall in her mouth. She could have cried out aloud in her rage.
She hated these other women whom she blamed for her undoing; she hated
Cavendish, Pierce Phillips, herself.

"It serves me right," she told herself, furiously. "I deserve the pink
ticket for making a fool of myself. Yes, a FOOL! What has Pierce ever
done for me? Nothing. And I--?" Before her mind's eye came a vision of
the opportunities she had let slip, the chances she had ignored. She
knew full well that she could have had the pick of many men--the
new-made millionaires of Dawson--but instead she had chosen him. And
why? Merely because he had a way, a smile, a warm and pleasing
personality--some magnetic appeal too intangible to identify. It was
like her to make the wrong choice--she always did. She had come North
with but one desire, one determination--namely, to make money, to reap
to the full her share of this free harvest. She had given up the life
she liked, the people she knew, the comforts she craved, for that and
for nothing else, and what a mess she had made of the venture! Other
girls not half so smart, not half so pretty as she, had feathered their
nests right here before her eyes, while she was wasting her time. They
had kept their heads, and they would go out in the spring, first class,
with good clothes and a bank-roll in the purser's safe. Some of them
were married and respectable. "Never again!" she whispered to herself.
"The next one will pay." Chagrin at the treatment she had suffered
filled her with a poisonous hatred of all mankind, and soundlessly she
cursed Phillips as the cause of her present plight.

Such thoughts as these ran tumbling through the girl's mind; her rage
and her resentment were real enough; nevertheless, through this
overtone there ran another note; a small voice was speaking in the
midst of all her tumult--a small voice which she refused to listen to.
"What I ever saw in him I don't know," she sneered, goading herself to
further bitterness and stiffening her courage. "I never really cared
for him; I'm too wise for that. I don't care for him now. I detest the
poor, simple-minded fool. I--HATE him." So she fought with herself,
drowning the persistent piping of that other voice. Then her eyes
dropped to that fatal paper in her lap and suddenly venom fled from
her. She wondered if Cavendish would tell Pierce that he had given her
the pink ticket. Probably not. The Mounted Police were usually
close-mouthed about such things, and yet--Laure crushed the paper into
a crumpled ball and furtively hid it in the pocket of her coat; then
she raised wild, apprehensive eyes to the door. If only she dared slip
out now, before Pierce reappeared, before he had a chance to see her.
It seemed as if she could not bear to have him know, but--Cavendish had
ordered her to wait. "My God!" the girl whispered. "I'll die, if he
knows! I'll die!" She began to tremble wretchedly and to wring her
hands; she could not remove her gaze from the door.

This waiting-room at the Barracks had housed people of divers and many
sorts during its brief history; it had harbored strained faces, it had
been the scene of strong emotional conflicts, but never, perhaps, had
its narrow walls encompassed emotions in wider contrast than those
experienced by the four silent women who waited there at this moment.
One object of interest dominated the thoughts of each of them. These
thoughts were similar in nature and sprang from the same
starting-point. Curiously enough, however, they took channels as wide
apart as the poles.

Josephine Cavendish had heard just enough about the incidents of the
previous night to awaken her apprehensions and to stir her feeling of
loyalty to the depths. The suggestion that Pierce Phillips was in the
slightest degree responsible for the death of Count Courteau had roused
her indignation and her fighting-blood. Unable to endure the suspense
of idle waiting, she had sought relief by assuming a sort of sentinel
post where she could watch developments. It was something to be close
to his affairs. It was next to being close to him; hence the reason of
her presence and her insistence upon remaining.

In her mind there had never been the slightest question of Pierce's
innocence; any doubt of it, expressed or implied, awoke in her a sharp
and bitter antagonism quite remarkable; no bird could have flown
quicker to the aid of her chick, no wolf mother could have bristled
more ferociously at threat to her cub, than did this serene,
inexperienced girl-woman at hint of peril to Pierce Phillips. And yet,
on the surface, at least, she and Pierce were only friends. He had
never voiced a word of love to her. But--of what use are words when
hearts are full and when confession lurks in every glance, every
gesture; when every commonplace is thrilling and significant?

In her eyes no disgrace whatever attached to him as a result of the
notoriety he had suffered. On the contrary, she considered him a
martyr, a hero, the object of a deep conspiracy, and his wrongs smarted
her. He was, in short, a romantic figure. Moreover, she had recently
begun to believe that this entire situation was contrived purely for
the purpose of bringing them together, of acquainting them with each
other, and of testing the strength of their mutual regard. These other
women, whom she saw to-day for the first time, she considered merely
extra figures in the drama of which she and Pierce played the
leads--witnesses in the case deserving no attention. She would be
grateful to them, of course, if they succeeded in helping him, but, at
best, they were minor characters, supers in the cast. Once Pierce
himself strode into the scene, she forgot them entirely.

What a picture her lover made, she reflected; how he filled her eye!
What importance he possessed! Surely the world must see and feel how
dominant, how splendid he was. It must recognize how impossible it
would be for him to do wrong. The mere sight of him had set her to
vibrating, and now inspired in her a certain reckless abandon; guilty
or innocent, he was her mate and she would have followed him at a word.
But--he was innocent; it was her part to wait here as patiently as she
could until the fact was proved and until he could ask that question
which forever trembled between them.

Such thoughts as these were impossible to conceal; they were mirrored
upon the face of the colonel's daughter as she stood raptly gazing at
the door through which Pierce Phillips had disappeared. Her lips were
parted; the shadow of the smile his coming had evoked still lingered
upon them; her soul was in her shining eyes. Unknown to her, at least
one of the other women present had read her sudden emotions and now
watched her curiously, with an intent and growing astonishment.

Rouletta Kirby had been as quick as the Countess to correctly interpret
Laure's chagrin, and she, too, had experienced a tremendous relief.
Oddly enough, however, she had felt no such fierce and jealous
exultation as she had anticipated; there had been no selfish thrill
such as she had expected. What ailed her? she wondered. While groping
for an answer, her attention had been challenged by the expression upon
Miss Cavendish's face, and vaguely she began to comprehend the truth.
Breathlessly now she watched the girl; slowly conviction grew into
certainty.

So! That was why the colonel's daughter was here. That was why, at
sound of a certain step, she had become glorified. That was why Pierce
had been blind to her own and Hilda's presence in the room.

It would be untrue to say that Rouletta was not shocked by this
discovery. It came like a thunderclap, and its very unexpectedness
jolted her mind out of the ruts it had been following these many days.
But, astonishing to relate, it caused her no anguish. After the first
moment or two of dizzy bewilderment had passed she found that her whole
being was galvanized into new life and that the eyes of her soul were
opened to a new light. With understanding came a peculiar emotional
let-down, a sudden, welcome relaxation--almost a sensation of relief.

Rouletta asked herself, over and over, what could be the matter with
her; why she felt no twinge, no jealousy; why the sight of that eager,
breathless girl with the rapturous face failed to cause her a
heartache. She was amazed at herself. It could not be that she no
longer cared for Pierce, that she had mistaken her feelings toward him.
No, he was what he had always been--her ideal--the finest, the most
lovable, the dearest creature she had ever met; just the sort of fellow
she had always longed to know, the kind any girl would crave for lover,
friend, brother. She felt very tender toward him. She was not greatly
surprised that the nicest girl in Dawson had recognized his charm and
had surrendered to it. Well, he deserved the nicest girl in the world.

Rouletta was startled at the direction her thoughts were taking. Did
she love Pierce Phillips as she had believed she did, or had she merely
fallen in love with his good qualities? Certainly he had never been
dearer to her than he was at this moment, and yet--Rouletta abandoned
the problem of self-analysis and allowed her bubbling relief at the
turn events had taken to remain a mystery for the time being.

The door to the commandant's office opened without warning. Pierce
stood framed in it. His head was up, his shoulders were back, his
countenance was alight; with confident tread he entered the big room
and crossed it directly to the girl who stood waiting beside the table.
He held out his two hands to her and with a flash of her clear blue
eyes she placed hers in his. Gladness, trust, blind faith, and
adoration were in her face. She murmured something which Rouletta did
not hear, for at that instant Colonel Cavendish appeared with the curt
announcement:

"That is all, ladies. You needn't remain longer."

Blindly, confusedly, Rouletta rose and fumbled with her wraps. She saw
the colonel go to Laure and speak with her in a stiff, formal way. She
saw Pierce and Josephine turn away hand in hand, their heads close
together--he had not even glanced in her direction; then Cavendish was
speaking to her directly.

At first she did not understand him, but finally made out that he was
telling her that everything had been cleared up, including even the
mystery of Count Courteau's gold-sack.

"Laure confessed that she got a duplicate key to the cashier's cage,"
she heard the colonel say. "Got it from Pierce. It was she who put the
evidence in there during the confusion. Pretty ingenious, I call it,
and pretty spiteful."

"Did she--have anything to say about the--the murder?" Rouletta
inquired.

"No. But the Countess has that figured out right, I'm sure. We'll have
the proof when Rock brings back his prisoners."

As Rouletta moved toward the door Pierce stopped her. There was a ring
in his voice as he said:

"Rouletta, I want you to meet Miss Cavendish. I want the two nicest
girls in the world to know each other. Josephine, this is Miss Kirby,
of whom I've said so much." Then without reason he laughed joyously,
and so did the colonel's daughter.

The latter took Rouletta's hand in a warm and friendly clasp. Her
smiling lips were tremulous. Engagingly, shyly, she said:

"Pierce has told me how splendid you've been to him, and I'm sure
you're as happy as we are, but--things always come out right if we wish
for them hard enough. Don't you think so?"

The Countess Courteau was walking slowly when Rouletta overtook her a
block or so down the street. She looked up as the younger woman joined
her.

"Well," she said, "I presume you saw. Not a look, not a thought for any
one but her--that other girl."

"Yes, I saw." There was a pause, then: "She's wonderful. I think I'm
very glad."

"Glad?" Hilda raised her brows; she glanced curiously at the speaker.

"If I had a brother I'd want him to love a girl like that."

"But--you have no brother, outside of 'Poleon Doret." Hilda was more
than ever amazed when her companion laughed softly, contentedly.

"I know, but if I had one, I'd want him to be like--Pierce. I--My dear,
something has changed in me, oh, surprisingly! I scarcely know what it
is, but--I'm walking on air and my eyes are open for the first time.
And you? We've been honest with each other--how do you feel?"

"I?" The Countess smiled wistfully. "Why--it doesn't matter how I feel!
The boy has found himself, and nothing else is of the least importance."



CHAPTER XXX


Joe McCaskey was not a coward, neither was he a superstitious man, but
he had imagination. The steady strain of his and Frank's long flight,
the certainty of pursuit close behind, had frayed his nerve and
rendered him jumpy. For a man in his condition to be awakened out of a
trancelike sleep by an intruder at once invisible, dumb; to feel the
presence of that mysterious visitor and actually to see him--it--bulked
dim and formless among the darting shadows cast by a blazing match--was
a test indeed. It was too much for Joe.

As for Frank, he had actually seen nothing, heard nothing except his
brother's voice, and then--that sigh. For that very reason his terror
was, if anything, even greater than his brother's.

During what seemed an age there was no sound except the stertorous
breathing of the McCaskeys themselves and the stir of the dogs outside.
The pale square of the single window, over which a bleached-out cotton
flour-sack had been tacked, let in only enough light to intensify the
gloom. Within the cabin was a blackness thick, tangible, oppressive;
the brothers stared into it with bulging eyes and listened with
ear-drums strained to the point of rupture. Oddly enough, this utter
silence augmented their agitation. Unable finally to smother the
evidence of his steadily growing fright, Frank uttered a half-audible
moan. Joe in the next bunk put it down as a new and threatening
phenomenon. What sort of thing was it that sighed and moaned thus? As
evidence of the direction Joe's mind was taking, he wondered if these
sounds could be the complaint of Courteau's unshriven spirit. It was a
shocking thought, but involuntarily he gasped the dead man's name.

A guilty conscience is a proven coward-maker; so, too, is a quick,
imaginative mind. It took only a moment or two to convince Joe that
this nocturnal interloper was not a creature of flesh and blood, but
some enormous, unmentionable, creeping thing come out of the other
world--out of the cold earth--to visit punishment upon him for his
crime. He could hear it stirring, finally, now here, now there; he
could make out the rustle of its grave-clothes. There is no doubt that
the cabin was full of half-distinguishable sounds--so is any warm
habitation--but to Joe's panicky imagination the nature of these
particular sounds indicated that they could not come from any normal,
living being. There was, for instance, a slow, asthmatic wheezing, like
the breath of a sorely wounded man; a stretching and straining as of a
body racked with mortal agony; even a faint bubbling choke like a
death-rattle heard in an adjoining chamber. These and others as
horribly suggestive. Joe's wild agitation distorted all of them, no
matter whether they came from his brother Frank, from the poorly
seasoned pole rafters overhead, or from the sleepy dogs outside, and
'Poleon Doret, with a grim internal chuckle, took advantage of the fact.

When finally the elder McCaskey heard his own name whispered, the last
shred of self-control left to him was whipped away; his wits went
skittering, and for a second time he groped with frantic, twitching
fingers for his revolver. He raised it and, with a yell, fired at
random into the blackness, meanwhile covering his eyes with his left
arm for fear of beholding in the sulphurous flash that bloodless,
fleshless menace, whatever it might be.

Somehow he managed to get out of bed and to place his back against the
wall, and there he cowered until he heard his brother's body threshing
about the floor. As a matter of fact, that shot had sent Frank
sprawling from his bunk, and he was striving to kick off the hampering
folds of his sleeping-bag, nothing more; but the thumping of his knees
and elbows bore a dreadful significance to the terrified listener.
Evidently the Thing had closed in--had grappled with Frank. Its hands,
damp with death sweat, even now were groping for him, Joe. The thought
was unbearable.

Blindly the elder brother thrust his revolver at full length in front
of him and pulled the trigger; Frank shrieked, but again and again Joe
fired, and when the last cartridge was spent he continued to snap the
weapon. He desisted only when he heard a voice, faint, but hoarse with
agony, crying:

"O God! You've shot me, Joe! You've shot me!"

Then and not until then, did a sort of sanity come to the wretch. The
revolver slipped from his fingers; he felt his bones dissolving into
water; a horror ten times greater than he had previously suffered fell
upon him. He tried to speak, to throw off this hideous nightmare, but
his voice came only as a dry, reedy whisper.

Frank was still now; he did not respond to his brother's incoherencies
except with a deep groaning that momentarily became more alarming.

"I--I--didn't--Christ! I didn't shoot you ... Frank! ... Answer me! Say
something. ..." Even yet the dread of that hobgoblin presence lay like
ice upon the elder brother; he feared to move lest he encounter it,
lest he touch it and it enfold him; but when Frank's twitching body
became still he fell to his knees and went groping forward on all-fours
in search of it. Death was here now. He had slain his brother and there
was NO LIGHT!

Joe began to sob and to chatter in a maudlin hysteria of fright and
apprehension. He succeeded in finding Frank by the sound of his
breathing, and he was pawing at him and wildly calling his name when at
his back a match was struck.

The sound, the flare, brought a scream from his throat. He cringed and
cowered; the pallid face he raised was slack-jawed, his gaze was that
of a crazy man.

Slowly, very slowly his dementia left him. His eyes were still
distended, to be sure, but into them sanity, recognition, began to
creep. He stared dazedly about him, and at last he managed to speak
Doret's name.

"Wh-what you doing--here?" he breathed.

"Me? I come to tak' you back." Joe shook his head weakly. "You can't.
We're across--safe." His eyes dropped to the prostrate body beside
which he knelt, and a new thought swiftly flooded his vacant mind.
"Look! You--Now I understand. YOU did it! YOU shot him. I never--BY
GOD!" The fellow's insane vehemence, the panting eagerness with which
he undertook to absolve himself from the hideous results of his deed,
argued that he loved his brother. He rose slowly to his feet, his
countenance flaming, his gaze fixed in an arresting expression of
mingled rage and horror upon the woodsman's face. "You did it, damn
you! Shot him, in the dark, asleep! Now you want me ... Take me back,
eh? You can't do it. I'm safe ... safe ... !"

'Poleon uttered a grunt. He leaned his carbine against the wall behind
him, and from his pocket he drew a thin cotton sled-rope. With this in
his hand he advanced upon the slayer.

McCaskey retreated. Weakly at first he fought off his captor; then, as
fear overwhelmed him, he became possessed of a phrenetic energy and
struggled with the strength of two men. He struck, he bit, he clawed,
he kicked. It was like the battle of a man with a beast--ferocious,
merciless--while it lasted. They rocked about the cabin, heedless of
the wounded man; the stove came crashing down and they trampled the
pipe under their feet.

But McCaskey collapsed as suddenly as he had flown to action. When
'Poleon trussed him up he had neither strength nor spirit either for
resistance or for resentment. He was as spineless as a wet sack. With
anguished eyes he watched his captor lift Frank into a bunk and then
proceed to do what remained to be done. Bleak of face, lifeless of
voice, hopeless of expression, he answered the questions put to him and
made no feeblest effort at concealment. He was, in fact, no longer
capable of any resistance, mental or physical.

Frank died as the first ashen streaks of dawn came through the window
and lit the sickly face of the brother who had slain him. There was no
longer need of the rope; in fact, Joe implored his captor with such
earnestness not to leave him alone that 'Poleon untied his hands,
feeling sure that he was impotent. Joe followed him outside, and stood
near by while he harnessed the dogs; he accompanied every step the
woodsman took--wild horses could not have dragged him away in his
present frame of mind--and finally, when they set out back toward the
Canadian Line, he shambled along ahead of the team with head down and
eyes averted from the gruesome bundle that lay in the sled. His
punishment had overtaken him and he was unequal to it.

Dawson was in ferment, for the news of another "strike" had come in and
a stampede was under way. Discoveries of gold, or rumors of them, had
been common. The camp had thrilled to many Arabian Nights tales, but
this one was quite the most sensational of all. So amazing, so
unbelievable was it, in truth, that those who had been too often fooled
laughed at it and declared it impossible on its face. Some woodcutters
on the hills above El Dorado had been getting out dry timber for the
drift fires, so ran the report, and in shooting the tree-trunks down
into the valley they had discovered a deposit of wash gravel. One of
them, possessed of the prospector's instinct, had gophered a capful of
the gravel from off the rim where the plunging tree-trunks had dug
through the snow and exposed the outcropping bedrock, and, to satisfy
his curiosity, had taken it down to camp for a test. He had thawed and
panned it; to his amazement, he had discovered that it carried an
astonishing value in gold--coarse, rough gold--exactly like that in the
creek pay-streak, except with less signs of abrasion and erosion. Rumor
placed the contents of that first prospect at ten dollars. Ten cents
would have meant the riches of Aladdin, but--ten dollars! No wonder the
wiseacres shook their heads. Ten dollars to the pan, on a hilltop!
Absurd! How did metal of that specific gravity get up there? How could
there be wash gravel on the crest of a mountain? There was no sense to
such a proposition.

But such old California placer miners as chanced to hear of it lost no
time in hitting the trail. They were familiar with high bars,
prehistoric riverbeds, and they went as fast as their old legs would
carry them.

More faith was put in the story when it became known that the diggings
were being deserted and that the men of El Dorado and Bonanza were
quitting their jobs, actually leaving their thawed drifts to freeze
while they scattered over the domes and saddles round about, staking
claims. That settled matters, so far as Dawson was concerned; men who
had dogs hitched them up, those who had none rolled their packs; soon
the trail up the Klondike was black and the recorder's office prepared
for riotous activity.

Those who had set out thus late met excited travelers hastening
townward, and from them obtained confirmation. Yes, the story was true,
more than true! The half had not been told as yet. Gold lay under the
grass roots where anybody could see it; it was more plentiful than in
the creeks--this was the richest thing ever known. "Frenchman's Hill,"
the discovery had been named, but all the ground for miles round about
had been already staked and now men were going even further afield. It
was well to hurry.

A frenzy took possession of the hearers, and they pressed on more
rapidly. This was like the rush of the autumn previous, from Dyea to
the Chilkoot, only here dogs flew under snapping lashes; pedestrians,
when shouldered aside, abandoned their burdens and sacrificed all to
speed. At the Forks the new arrivals scattered up over the hills, and
that night road-houses, cabins, tents, were crowded; men slept on
chairs, on floors; they stood around open fires.

Dawson awoke, on the second morning, to behold a long queue of fur-clad
miners waiting outside the Gold Commissioner's office; the town took on
an electric liveliness. This signified big things; it gave permanence;
it meant that Dawson was to be the world's first placer camp. Business
picked up, the saloons became thronged, on every corner knots of
gossiping men assembled. There began a considerable speculation in
claims on Frenchman's Hill; merchants planned larger stocks for the
next season; the price of town lots doubled.

Late that afternoon through the streets ran a cry that took every
foot-free man hurrying to the river-front. "Rock was coming!" In a
jiffy the vantage-points were crowded. Sure enough, far down the Yukon
two teams were approaching; with the smoke of Dawson in their nostrils
they were coming on the run, and soon the more keen-eyed spectators
announced that they could make out 'Poleon Doret. The lieutenant
himself, however, was not in evidence. Instantly speculation became
rife. Here was a sensation indeed, and when the second runner was
identified beyond question as Joe McCaskey, excitement doubled. Where
was Rock? Where was the other fugitive? What, in the name of all that
was unexpected, had occurred?

A shout of relief issued from the crowd when the teams drew in under
the bank and Rock sat up, waving a mittened hand; the shout was quickly
hushed as the lookers-on saw what sort of burden Joe McCaskey was
driving.

Up into the main street came the cavalcade. The crowd fell in alongside
and ran with it to the Barracks, clamoring for details, pouring
questions upon the returning travelers. Joe McCaskey, of course, was
speechless, this ordeal proving, as a matter of fact, scarcely less
trying than that other one at Sheep Camp when he had run the gauntlet.
As for Rock and the French Canadian, neither had much to say, and as a
result sensational stories soon spread through the resorts. The Mounted
Policeman had got his men, as usual, but only after a desperate affray
in which Frank McCaskey had fallen and the officer himself had been
wounded--so ran the first account. Those who had gone as far as the
Barracks returned with a fanciful tale of a siege in the snow and of
Rock's single-handed conquest of the two fugitives. These conflicting
reports were confusing and served to set the town so completely agog
that it awaited fuller details with the most feverish impatience. One
thing only was certain--the lieutenant had again made himself a hero;
he had put a new feather in his cap. Men lifted glasses to him and to
the Force. Such efficiency as this commanded their deepest respect and
admiration.

Pierce Phillips, of course, was the most eager member of that welcoming
throng. At the earliest moment he bore 'Poleon away to his cabin, and
there, when the last morbid curiosity-seeker had been shaken off and
the dogs had been attended to, he heard the story.

"You don' got no more worry," 'Poleon told him, with a smile. "Joe
keel' de Count."

"He confessed? Really?"

"Rouletta figger' it out jus' right. By golly! Dat's de smartes' gal!"

"She is indeed. But Frank? What happened? How did you manage--?"

'Poleon hesitated. There was a reason why he did not wish the details
of that affair on the upper Forty Mile to become public. Joe McCaskey
was beginning to talk loudly about his outraged rights, his
citizenship, international law, and such incomprehensible things--but
stronger by far than any fear of consequences to himself, remote at
best, 'Poleon felt a desire to help his friend, the Police lieutenant.
Rock was deeply humiliated at his weak failure in living up to his
reputation; he felt that he had cut a very sorry figure indeed; and,
although he had undertaken to conceal that feeling from 'Poleon, the
latter had read him like a book and had secretly made up his mind to
give full credit to the officer, eliminating himself as much as
possible. There was no reason why the actual facts should be made
public, so far as he could see, and, once an artfully colored account
of the exploit had gained currency, Rock could not well contradict it.
He might, undoubtedly would, make a truthful report to his superiors,
but 'Poleon determined that in the eyes of the hero-worshiping people
of Dawson the fellow should still remain a hero and stand for one
hundred per cent. efficiency. That was quite as it should be.

It was not difficult to distort the story enough to reverse the roles
he and the officer had played, and, when he had finished, Pierce was
loud in his praise of the Mounted Policeman.

"Well, things happened here, too," the youth declared. Succinctly he
told the story of Laure's delayed confession proving that he had been
the victim of a deliberate conspiracy. "Believe me, I'm glad it has all
come out so well," he said. "People didn't actually accuse me, but I
was conscious of their suspicion, their doubt. I had talked too much.
Then, too, there was that beastly rumor about the Countess and me. It
was fierce! Appearances were strong. I'd--have gone on the stampede,
only I didn't have the heart. You've heard about that, of course? The
new strike?" When 'Poleon shook his head the young man's eyes kindled.
"Why, man," he broke out, "the town's crazy! dippy! It's the biggest
thing ever! Frenchman's Hill, it's called. Get that? Frenchman's Hill!"

"Some French feller mak' lucky strike, eh?" 'Poleon was not greatly
interested. "Where de place is? Who dis Frenchman?"

"It's a high bar somewhere above El Dorado--a mountain of pay
gravel--an old river-bed or something. They say it's where all the gold
came from, the mother lode. You can see it right at the grass roots--"

'Poleon started and his mouth opened; then he shook his head.

"By Gar! Dat's fonny! I seen gravel up dere, but me--I'm onlucky. Never
I quite get not'in'; always I'm close by when 'noder feller mak'
strike."

Pierce still managed to control himself enough to explain: "They were
shooting dead timber down into the gulch and they wore the snow off
where the rim cropped out. It happened to be staked ground right
there." Pierce's excitement, the odd light in his dancing eyes, bore to
'Poleon a significance. "Some Frenchman had taken it up, so they called
it Frenchman's Hill."

Doret's blank, confounded stare caused the speaker finally to blurt
out: "Good Heavens! man, wake up! I'm trying to break the news gently
that you're a millionaire--the Frenchman of Frenchman's Hill. I don't
want you to faint. First time in history a miner ever left his claim
and another fellow came along--"

Doret uttered a feeble cry and rose to his feet. "Ma soeur!" he
exclaimed. "She's got claim up dere--I stake it for her. For me, I don'
care if I lose mine--plenty tam I come jus' so close as dis; but if dem
feller jump her groun'--"

"Wait, wait! There's no question of anything like that. Nobody has
jumped your claim, or hers, either. The law wouldn't let 'em. I wonder
if she knows--Why, she CAN'T know! I left her not two hours ago--"

"She don' know?"

Pierce shook his head. "She doesn't dream. I wish I'D known. I'd have
loved to tell her."

'Poleon Doret gazed fixedly, curiously at the speaker. He nodded his
head. A peculiar, set, hopeless look crept into his eyes; his broad
shoulders sagged wearily. He had traveled far and swiftly on this young
man's affairs; he had slept but little; and now a great fatigue
mastered him. Oddly enough, too, that fierce, consuming desire to see
Rouletta which had hourly gnawed at him was gone; all at once he felt
that she was quite the last person he wished to face. This weakness,
this smallness of spirit, was only temporary, he assured himself; it
would soon pass, and then he would find the strength to go to her with
his customary smile, his mask in place. Now, however, he was empty,
cheerless, frightened by the portent of this new thing. It could have
but one significance--it meant that he would lose his "sister," that
she would have no further need of him.

Well, that was all right. It was something like this that he had worked
for. Why cherish a mean envy of this happy boy? Why permit a narrow
selfishness to mar this supreme moment?

Doret was not a grudging giver; he straightened himself finally, and
into his tired eyes there came the gleam that Phillips had been waiting
for.

"Bien!" he breathed. "My li'l bird goin' wear de plumage she deserve.
She's goin' be reech an' happy all her life. By golly! Dat's nice, for
fac'. I feel lak gettin' drunk."

"She'd never stand for that."

"I spec' you tol' her you an' me is pardners on dis Frenchman' Hill,
eh? An' she's glad 'bout dat--"

"Oh, see here!" Pierce's tone changed abruptly. "Of course I didn't
tell her. That's cold; it's off. D'you think I'd permit--" The boy
choked and stammered. "D'you imagine for a minute that I'd let you go
through with a proposition like that? I understand why you made it--to
get me away from the life I've been leading. It was bully of you,
but--well, hardly. I'm not that sort. No, I've laid off the old stuff,
absolutely--straightened out. I've lived ten years in the last ten
days. Wait and see. 'Poleon, I'm the happiest, the most deliriously
happy man you ever saw. I only want one thing. That's work and lots of
it--the harder the better, so long as it's honest and self-respecting.
What d'you think of that?"

"W'at I t'ink?" the woodsman said, warmly. "I t'ink dat's de bes' news
of all. Mon ami, you got reecher pay-streak in you as Frenchman' Hill,
if only you work 'im hard. But you need pardner to get 'im out." He
winked meaningly. "I guess mebbe you fin' dat pardner, eh?"

Pierce flushed; he nodded vigorously and laughed in the purest,
frankest joy. "You're a good guesser. A partner--life partner!
I--She--Oh, my Lord! I'm overflowing! I'm--Funny thing, I've never said
a word to her; she doesn't know--"

"Ho, ho!" cried the elder man.

"Oh, she does know, of course. If she didn't I wouldn't feel as I do,
but we've never actually mentioned it. I've got to prove myself,
understand? It came to me of a sudden, struck me all in a heap, I can
tell you. I saw what a fool I'd made of myself. What a damnable thing
chance is, anyhow! It makes you, breaks you; carries you along and
leaves you stranded finally, then sweeps you on again. Fortunately,
she's big enough to understand and make allowances. If she weren't, I'd
die. I wouldn't want to live and not make good. It's ecstasy and
it's--pain. I'm frightened, too, at my own unworthiness--" Abruptly the
speaker's voice ceased and he bowed his head.

'Poleon wet his dry lips and essayed to speak, but he could find
nothing to say. Of course Rouletta was big enough to understand and
make allowance for any human shortcomings. She was the sanest, the most
liberal, the most charitable of girls. And it was true, too, that love
came unbidden. He had learned that, to his cost. It was pretty hard to
stand quietly and lend a sympathetic ear to this lucky devil; it took
an effort to maintain a smile, to keep a friendly gaze fixed upon
Phillips' face. The big fellow was growing weary of forever fighting
himself. It would be a relief to get away and to yield to his misery.

But with a lover's fatuous absorption in his own affairs Pierce
resumed: "I've been thinking lately how I came to this country looking
for Life, the big adventure. Everything that happened, good or bad, was
part of a stage play. I've been two people in one--the fellow who did
things and the fellow who looked on and applauded--actor and audience.
It was tremendously interesting in an unreal sort of way, and I jotted
everything down mentally. I was stocking up with experience.
Understand? Well, the whole thing has suddenly become very different.
I'm not in the gallery now, not in the theater at all, not acting. And
I thank God for it. I don't imagine that I make myself plain in the
least--"

Evidently he had not; evidently, too, his auditor's mind had strayed
slightly, for the latter said:

"I s'pose you t'inkin' all at once 'bout gettin'--marry, eh?"

Phillips paled; he uttered a panicky denial. "Not yet! Oh no--! That
is, I've THOUGHT about it a good deal--can't think of anything
else--but it's too early yet. I'm in no position; I must make good
first."

"For why it's too early? Mebbe dis gal goin' tak' lot of fun in he'p
you mak' good."

"I wonder--"

"Sure t'ing. All women is lak dat. You goin' t'ink of her after dis,
not yourse'f. She's got money--"

"Oh yes. That makes it hard, still--"

"Wal, you ain't broke, my frien', not wit' half interes' in Discovery
on Frenchman' Hill."

"Once and for all," Pierce protested, in extreme agitation, "I tell you
I won't take it. My Lord! that's generous! You're a princely fellow,
Doret, but--the most you can give me is a job. Work? Yes, I'll eat that
up."

"All right. We talk 'bout dat 'noder tam. Now, mebbe so she lak hear de
lates' news from you. Dere's plenty for tellin' her--'bout Joe McCaskey
an' all de res'. You can spoke now, lak hones' man. Sapre! Don' you
s'pose she's waitin' to hear you say you love her? An' how you goin'
mak' big success? By Gar! I keeck you out dis cabin if you keep her
waitin' some more!"

With a cry, half of trepidation, half of exultance, Phillips crushed
his cap upon his head. "I--I've a notion to. I can ALMOST say it;
anyhow, I can say enough so she'll understand. Gad! I will! I just
needed you to stiffen me up." Fiercely he wrung the woodsman's hand,
and, forgetful of all else but his new determination, moved toward the
door. "Thanks for all you've done for me, old man, and all you've
offered to do."

"Frenchman' Hill is nice place for two nestin' doves--fine place for
sing an' be happy," the other reminded him.

In a choking voice Pierce exclaimed: "You're a prince, Doret, and I
won't forget! A prince!"

He was gone; the cabin door had slammed shut with a crash. 'Poleon sank
to a seat and with a long sigh bowed his head.

It was over; he had done his bit. For a long while he remained there
inert, his patient, haggard face bent, his eyes fixed upon the floor.
He felt very old, very much used up, and the labor of thinking was
unbearable. When the fire had died and a chill had crept into the room
he roused himself to note that it had grown dark. Manifestly, this
would not do; there was the problem of living still to face. Sooner or
later this very evening he must go to Rouletta and pretend to a
joyousness he could never again know. That meant more smiles, more
effort; it would take all he had in him to carry it off, and,
meanwhile, the more he let his mind dwell upon her the more unbearable
became his thoughts. This solitude was playing tricks with him. Enough
of it! He must get out into the lights; he must hear voices and regain
the mastery of himself through contact with sane people. Perhaps in the
saloons, the restaurants, he could absorb enough laughter to make safe
the mockery he purposed; perhaps it would enable him to stamp a grin
upon his features.

But his impulse was futile; in spite of himself he shrank from people
and hid himself unobtrusively in a corner of the first place he
entered. He was hurt, wounded, sick to death; he longed to creep away
somewhere and be alone with his pain.

In order that he might the sooner be free to do so, he rose finally and
slunk out upon the street. It would soon be time for Rouletta to go to
work. He would get it over with.

Cap in hand, his heart beating heavily at the prospect of merely seeing
her, he came on noiseless soles to her door. He could hear her stirring
inside, so he took a deep breath and rapped softly.

She uttered a cry when she saw him standing there; then a sudden pallor
crept into her cheeks, a queer constraint enveloped her. Nevertheless,
she put both her hands in his and drew him across the threshold. She
said something which neither of them understood.

'Poleon's ears were roaring, but after a few moments he discovered that
she was gently chiding him. Where had he been? Why had he delayed so
long, knowing all the time that she was dying to see him and to hear
his story? He could not understand her embarrassment, her shyness, the
fact that she seemed hurt.

"Wal, I'm tucker' out wit' travelin'," he declared. "Dat's hardes' trip
ever I mak'. You hear 'bout 'im, eh?--'bout how McCaskey tell de truth?"

Rouletta nodded, with a curious little smile upon her lips. "Yes. I
heard all about it, the first thing--how Rock ran down those
fellows--everything. The town was ringing with his name inside of an
hour. Of course, I went to the Barracks, finally, looking for you. I'm
just back. I saw the lieutenant and--he told me the true story."

'Poleon stirred uncomfortably.

"He swore at you roundly and said he'd take it out of your skin as soon
as he was able--giving him the credit. He told me it was you who did it
all--how you followed those men over the Line, alone, after he played
out; how Joe McCaskey killed his own brother in trying to kill you. But
the whole thing is public now. I heard it as I came back. You're quite
a famous character in Dawson to-night, 'Poleon dear, what with this and
with Frenchman's Hill."

"Ho! Dat Frenchman' Hill," the man broke out, hurriedly. "It's beeg
s'prise for us, eh? Pierce told you 'bout dat?"

"Pierce?" The girl shook her head vaguely.

"You 'member I stake two claim', one for you, one for me. By golly! ma
soeur, you're millionaire."

"I remembered, of course," Rouletta said, faintly. "I--" She closed her
eyes. "I couldn't believe it, however. At first I didn't understand
where the strike had been made; then I couldn't credit it. I thought I
was dreaming--"

"You dream as much as you can," 'Poleon said, warmly. "Dey all come
true now. What? Everyt'ing come out nice, eh?"

Rouletta opened her eyes. They were shining; so, too, was her face.
"Yes, my dream has come true--that is, my biggest, finest dream.
I'm--the happiest girl in the world, 'Poleon."

"Ma soeur!" the man cried brokenly and with a depth of feeling that
even Rouletta could not fathom. "I give my life to hear you say dose
word', to see dat light in your eye. No price too high for dat."

A silence, throbbing, intense, fell between them, Rouletta felt her
heart-beats swaying her. She opened her lips, but no sound issued. The
figure before her was growing misty and she had to wink the tears back
into place.

"'Ma soeur!'" she echoed, faintly. "I love to hear you say that, dear.
It has grown to be a caress, a--kiss, when you say it. But I've
something to tell you--"

"I know."

"Something you don't know and would never guess. I've found another
brother." When he stared at her in open bewilderment she repeated:
"Yes, another brother. I took him for something altogether different,
but--" She laughed happily. "What do you think of a girl who doesn't
know her own mind? Who lets the one man, the real man, go away? She
doesn't deserve much, does she?"

"Ma soeur! Ma soeur!" the big fellow cried, hoarsely. He had fallen all
atremble now; he could have believed himself demented only for
something in Rouletta's face. "You mean--HIM? Wat's dis you sayin'?"

"I mean him--you. Who else could I mean? He doesn't care for me, but
for another, and I'm--oh, so glad!"

"Mon Dieu!" 'Poleon gasped. "For why you look at me lak dat?
Don'--don'--!" His cry was one of pain, of reproach; he closed his eyes
the while he strove to still his working features. He opened them with
a snap when a small, warm, tremulous hand closed over his.

"You wouldn't mind if he called me his sister, if--if you called
me--something else, would you, dear?"

"Oh, ma soeur!" he whispered. "I'm poor, ignorant feller. I ain't no
good. But you--de bes' man in all de worl' would love you."

"He does, but he won't say so," Rouletta declared. "Come, must I say it
for him?"

One last protest the fellow voiced. "Me, I'm rough-neck man. I scarcely
read an' write. But you--"

"I'm a gambler's daughter, nothing more--a bold and forward creature.
But I'm done with dealing. I'm tired of the game and henceforth I'm
going to be the 'lookout'--your 'lookout,' dear." With a choking little
laugh the girl drew nearer, and, lifting his hands, she crept inside
his arms. Then as life, vigor, fire succeeded his paralysis, she swayed
closer, until her breast was against his.

With a wordless, hungry cry of ecstasy, so keen that it was akin to
agony, 'Poleon Doret enfolded her in his great embrace. "Don' spoke no
more," he implored her. "I'll be wakin' up too soon."

They stood so for a long time before she raised her dewy lips to his.

THE END





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