Title: The Spoilers
Author: Beach, Rex
Language: English
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                             The Spoilers

                           _By_ REX E. BEACH

                       [Illustration: colophon]

                        With Four Illustrations
                       By CLARENCE F. UNDERWOOD

                    A. L. BURT COMPANY, PUBLISHERS
                               NEW YORK.

                   Copyright, 1905, by REX E. BEACH.

                        _All rights reserved._

                        Published April, 1906.

                               THIS BOOK
                       IS LOVINGLY DEDICATED TO
                               MY MOTHER



CONTENTS


CHAP.                                                               PAGE

I. THE ENCOUNTER                                                       1

II. THE STOWAWAY                                                      13

III. IN WHICH GLENISTER ERRS                                          22

IV. THE KILLING                                                       33

V. WHEREIN A MAN APPEARS                                              48

VI. AND A MINE IS JUMPED                                              59

VII. THE “BRONCO KID’S” EAVESDROPPING                                 68

VIII. DEXTRY MAKES A CALL                                             80

IX. SLUICE ROBBERS                                                    94

X. THE WIT OF AN ADVENTURESS                                         107

XI. WHEREIN A WRIT AND A RIOT FAIL                                   120

XII. COUNTERPLOTS                                                    132

XIII. IN WHICH A MAN IS POSSESSED OF A DEVIL                         149

XIV. A MIDNIGHT MESSENGER                                            168

XV. VIGILANTES                                                       183

XVI. IN WHICH THE TRUTH BEGINS TO BARE ITSELF                        201

XVII. THE DRIP OF WATER IN THE DARK                                  218

XVIII. WHEREIN A TRAP IS BAITED                                      236

XIX. DYNAMITE                                                        249

XX. IN WHICH THREE GO TO THE SIGN OF THE SLED AND BUT TWO RETURN     268

XXI. THE HAMMER-LOCK                                                 285

XXII. THE PROMISE OF DREAMS                                          300



THE SPOILERS



CHAPTER I

THE ENCOUNTER


Glenister gazed out over the harbor, agleam with the lights of anchored
ships, then up at the crenelated mountains, black against the sky. He
drank the cool air burdened with its taints of the sea, while the blood
of his boyhood leaped within him.

“Oh, it’s fine--fine,” he murmured, “and this is my country--my country,
after all, Dex. It’s in my veins, this hunger for the North. I grow. I
expand.”

“Careful you don’t bust,” warned Dextry. “I’ve seen men get plumb drunk
on mountain air. Don’t expand too strong in one spot.” He went back
abruptly to his pipe, its villanous fumes promptly averting any danger
of the air’s too tonic quality.

“Gad! What a smudge!” sniffed the younger man. “You ought to be in
quarantine.”

“I’d ruther smell like a man than talk like a kid. You desecrate the
hour of meditation with rhapsodies on nature when your æsthetics ain’t
honed up to the beauties of good tobacco.”

The other laughed, inflating his deep chest. In the gloom he stretched
his muscles restlessly, as though an excess of vigor filled him.

They were lounging upon the dock, while before them lay the _Santa
Maria_ ready for her midnight sailing. Behind slept Unalaska, quaint,
antique, and Russian, rusting amid the fogs of Bering Sea. Where, a week
before, mild-eyed natives had dried their cod among the old bronze
cannon, now a frenzied horde of gold-seekers paused in their rush to the
new El Dorado. They had come like a locust cloud, thousands strong,
settling on the edge of the Smoky Sea, waiting the going of the ice that
barred them from their Golden Fleece--from Nome the new, where men found
fortune in a night.

The mossy hills back of the village were ridged with graves of those who
had died on the out-trip the fall before, when a plague had gripped the
land--but what of that? Gold glittered in the sands, so said the
survivors; therefore men came in armies. Glenister and Dextry had left
Nome the autumn previous, the young man raving with fever. Now they
returned to their own land.

“This air whets every animal instinct in me,” Glenister broke out again.
“Away from the cities I turn savage. I feel the old primitive
passions--the fret for fighting.”

“Mebbe you’ll have a chance.”

“How so?”

“Well, it’s this way. I met Mexico Mullins this mornin’. You mind old
Mexico, don’t you? The feller that relocated Discovery Claim on Anvil
Creek last summer?”

“You don’t mean that ‘tin-horn’ the boys were going to lynch for
claim-jumping?”

“Identical! Remember me tellin’ you about a good turn I done him once
down Guadalupe way?”

“Greaser shooting-scrape, wasn’t it?”

“Yep! Well, I noticed first off that he’s gettin’ fat; high-livin’ fat,
too, all in one spot, like he was playin’ both ends ag’in the centre.
Also he wore di’mon’s fit to handle with ice-tongs.

“Says I, lookin’ at his side elevation, ‘What’s accented your middle
syllable so strong, Mexico?’

“‘Prosperity, politics, an’ the Waldorf-Astorier,’ says he. It seems Mex
hadn’t forgot old days. He claws me into a corner an’ says, ‘Bill, I’m
goin’ to pay you back for that Moralez deal.’

“‘It ain’t comin’ to me,’ says I. ‘That’s a bygone!’

“‘Listen here,’ says he, an’, seein’ he was in earnest, I let him run
on.

“‘How much do you value that claim o’ yourn at?’

“‘Hard tellin’,’ says I. ‘If she holds out like she run last fall,
there’d ought to be a million clear in her.’

“‘How much ’ll you clean up this summer?’

“‘’Bout four hundred thousand, with luck.’

“‘Bill,’ says he, ‘there’s hell a-poppin’ an’ you’ve got to watch that
ground like you’d watch a rattle-snake. Don’t never leave ’em get a grip
on it or you’re down an’ out.’

“He was so plumb in earnest it scared me up, ’cause Mexico ain’t a gabby
man.

“‘What do you mean?’ says I.

“‘I can’t tell you nothin’ more. I’m puttin’ a string on my own neck,
sayin’ _this_ much. You’re a square man, Bill, an’ I’m a gambler, but
you saved my life oncet, an’ I wouldn’t steer you wrong. For God’s sake,
don’t let ’em jump your ground, that’s all.’

“‘Let who jump it? Congress has give us judges an’ courts an’
marshals--’ I begins.

“‘That’s just it. How you goin’ to buck that hand? Them’s the best cards
in the deck. There’s a man comin’ by the name of McNamara. Watch him
clost. I can’t tell you no more. But don’t never let ’em get a grip on
your ground.’ That’s all he’d say.”

“Bah! He’s crazy! I wish somebody would try to jump the Midas; we’d
enjoy the exercise.”

The siren of the _Santa Maria_ interrupted, its hoarse warning throbbing
up the mountain.

“We’ll have to get aboard,” said Dextry.

“Sh-h! What’s that?” the other whispered.

At first the only sound they heard was a stir from the deck of the
steamer. Then from the water below them came the rattle of rowlocks and
a voice cautiously muffled.

“Stop! Stop there!”

A skiff burst from the darkness, grounding on the beach beneath. A
figure scrambled out and up the ladder leading to the wharf. Immediately
a second boat, plainly in pursuit of the first one, struck on the beach
behind it.

As the escaping figure mounted to their level the watchers perceived
with amazement that it was a young woman. Breath sobbed from her lungs,
and, stumbling, she would have fallen but for Glenister, who ran forward
and helped her to her feet.

“Don’t let them get me,” she panted.

He turned to his partner in puzzled inquiry, but found that the old man
had crossed to the head of the landing ladder up which the pursuers were
climbing.

“Just a minute--you there! Back up or I’ll kick your face in.” Dextry’s
voice was sharp and unexpected, and in the darkness he loomed tall and
menacing to those below.

“Get out of the way. That woman’s a runaway,” came from the one highest
on the ladder.

“So I jedge.”

“She broke qu--”

“Shut up!” broke in another. “Do you want to advertise it? Get out of
the way, there, ye damn fool! Climb up, Thorsen.” He spoke like a bucko
mate, and his words stirred the bile of Dextry.

Thorsen grasped the dock floor, trying to climb up, but the old miner
stamped on his fingers and the sailor loosened his hold with a yell,
carrying the under men with him to the beach in his fall.

“This way! Follow me!” shouted the mate, making up the bank for the
shore end of the wharf.

“You’d better pull your freight, miss,” Dextry remarked; “they’ll be
here in a minute.”

“Yes, yes! Let us go! I must get aboard the _Santa Maria_. She’s leaving
now. Come, come!”

Glenister laughed, as though there were a humorous touch in her remark,
but did not stir.

“I’m gettin’ awful old an’ stiff to run,” said Dextry, removing his
mackinaw, “but I allow I ain’t too old for a little diversion in the way
of a rough-house when it comes nosin’ around.” He moved lightly, though
the girl could see in the half-darkness that his hair was silvery.

“What do you mean?” she questioned, sharply.

“You hurry along, miss; we’ll toy with ’em till you’re aboard.” They
stepped across to the dock-house, backing against it. The girl followed.

Again came the warning blast from the steamer, and the voice of an
officer:

“Clear away that stern line!”

“Oh, we’ll be left!” she breathed, and somehow it struck Glenister that
she feared this more than the men whose approaching feet he heard.

“_You_ can make it all right,” he urged her, roughly. “You’ll get hurt
if you stay here. Run along and don’t mind us. We’ve been thirty days on
shipboard, and were praying for something to happen.” His voice was
boyishly glad, as if he exulted in the fray that was to come; and no
sooner had he spoken than the sailors came out of the darkness upon
them.

During the space of a few heart-beats there was only a tangle of
whirling forms with the sound of fist on flesh, then the blot split up
and forms plunged outward, falling heavily. Again the sailors rushed,
attempting to clinch. They massed upon Dextry only to grasp empty air,
for he shifted with remarkable agility, striking bitterly, as an old
wolf snaps. It was baffling work, however, for in the darkness his blows
fell short or overreached.

Glenister, on the other hand, stood carelessly, beating the men off as
they came to him. He laughed gloatingly, deep in his throat, as though
the encounter were merely some rough sport. The girl shuddered, for the
desperate silence of the attacking men terrified

[Illustration: “WHAT I WANT--I TAKE,” AND THEN, TURNING, HE KISSED HER
SOFTLY, FIERCELY, FULL UPON THE LIPS

[See p. 32]

her more than a din, and yet she stayed, crouched against the wall.

Dextry swung at a dim target, and, missing it, was whirled off his
balance. Instantly his antagonist grappled with him, and they fell to
the floor, while a third man shuffled about them. The girl throttled a
scream.

“I’m goin’ to kick ’im, Bill,” the man panted hoarsely. “Le’ me fix
’im.” He swung his heavy shoe, and Bill cursed with stirring eloquence.

“Ow! You’re kickin’ me! I’ve got ’im, safe enough. Tackle the big un.”

Bill’s ally then started towards the others, his body bent, his arms
flexed yet hanging loosely. He crouched beside the girl, ignoring her,
while she heard the breath wheezing from his lungs; then silently he
leaped. Glenister had hurled a man from him, then stepped back to avoid
the others, when he was seized from behind and felt the man’s arms
wrapped about his neck, the sailor’s legs locked about his thighs. Now
came the girl’s first knowledge of real fighting. The two spun back and
forth so closely entwined as to be indistinguishable, the others holding
off. For what seemed many minutes they struggled, the young man striving
to reach his adversary, till they crashed against the wall near her and
she heard her champion’s breath coughing in his throat at the tightening
grip of the sailor. Fright held her paralyzed, for she had never seen
men thus. A moment and Glenister would be down beneath their stamping
feet--they Would kick his life out with their heavy shoes. At thought of
it, the necessity of action smote her like a blow in the face. Her
terror fell away, her shaking muscles stiffened, and before realizing
what she did she had acted.

The seaman’s back was to her. She reached out and gripped him by the
hair, while her fingers, tense as talons, sought his eyes. Then the
first loud sound of the battle arose. The man yelled in sudden terror;
and the others as suddenly fell back. The next instant she felt a hand
upon her shoulder and heard Dextry’s voice.

“Are ye hurt? No? Come on, then, or we’ll get left.” He spoke quietly,
though his breath was loud, and, glancing down, she saw the huddled form
of the sailor whom he had fought.

“That’s all right--he ain’t hurt. It’s a Jap trick I learned. Hurry up!”

They ran swiftly down the wharf, followed by Glenister and by the groans
of the sailors in whom the lust for combat had been quenched. As they
scrambled up the _Santa Maria’s_ gang-plank, a strip of water widened
between the boat and the pier.

“Close shave, that,” panted Glenister, feeling his throat gingerly, “but
I wouldn’t have missed it for a spotted pup.”

“I’ve been through b’iler explosions and snow-slides, not to mention a
triflin’ jail-delivery, but fer real sprightly diversions I don’t recall
nothin’ more pleasin’ than this.” Dextry’s enthusiasm was boylike.

“What kind of men are you?” the girl laughed nervously, but got no
answer.

They led her to their deck cabin, where they switched on the electric
light, blinking at each other and at their unknown guest.

They saw a graceful and altogether attractive figure in a trim, short
skirt and long, tan boots. But what Glenister first saw was her eyes;
large and gray, almost brown under the electric light. They were active
eyes, he thought, and they flashed swift, comprehensive glances at the
two men. Her hair had fallen loose and crinkled to her waist, all
agleam. Otherwise she showed no sign of her recent ordeal.

Glenister had been prepared for the type of beauty that follows the
frontier; beauty that may stun, but that has the polish and chill of a
new-ground bowie. Instead, this girl with the calm, reposeful face
struck a note almost painfully different from her surroundings,
suggesting countless pleasant things that had been strange to him for
the past few years.

Pure admiration alone was patent in the older man’s gaze.

“I make oration,” said he, “that you’re the gamest little chap I ever
fought over, Mexikin, Injun, or white. What’s the trouble?”

“I suppose you think I’ve done something dreadful, don’t you?” she said.
“But I haven’t. I had to get away from the _Ohio_ to-night for--certain
reasons. I’ll tell you all about it to-morrow. I haven’t stolen
anything, nor poisoned the crew--really I haven’t.” She smiled at them,
and Glenister found it impossible not to smile with her, though dismayed
by her feeble explanation.

“Well, I’ll wake up the steward and find a place for you to go,” he said
at length. “You’ll have to double up with some of the women, though;
it’s awfully crowded aboard.”

She laid a detaining hand on his arm. He thought he felt her tremble.

“No, no! I don’t want you to do that. They mustn’t see me to-night. I
know I’m acting strangely and all that, but it’s happened so quickly I
haven’t found myself yet. I’ll tell you to-morrow, though, really. Don’t
let any one see me or it will spoil everything. Wait till to-morrow,
please.”

She was very white, and spoke with eager intensity.

“Help you? Why, sure Mike!” assured the impulsive Dextry, “an’, see
here, Miss--you take your time on explanations. We don’t care a cuss
what you done. Morals ain’t our long suit, ’cause ‘there’s never a law
of God or man runs north of Fifty-three,’ as the poetry man remarked,
an’ he couldn’t have spoke truer if he’d knowed what he was sayin’.
Everybody is privileged to ‘look out’ his own game up here. A square
deal an’ no questions asked.”

She looked somewhat doubtful at this till she caught the heat of
Glenister’s gaze. Some boldness of his look brought home to her the
actual situation, and a stain rose in her cheek. She noted him more
carefully; noted his heavy shoulders and ease of bearing, an ease and
looseness begotten of perfect muscular control. Strength was equally
suggested in his face, she thought, for he carried a marked young
countenance, with thrusting chin, aggressive thatching brows, and mobile
mouth that whispered all the changes from strength to abandon. Prominent
was a look of reckless energy. She considered him handsome in a heavy,
virile, perhaps too purely physical fashion.

“You want to stowaway?” he asked.

“I’ve had a right smart experience in that line,” said Dextry, “but I
never done it by proxy. What’s your plan?”

“She will stay here to-night,” said Glenister quickly. “You and I will
go below. Nobody will see her.”

“I can’t let you do that,” she objected. “Isn’t there some place where I
can hide?” But they reassured her and left.

When they had gone, she crouched trembling upon her seat for a long
time, gazing fixedly before her. “I’m afraid!” she whispered; “I’m
afraid. What am I getting into? Why do men look so at me? I’m
frightened. Oh, I’m sorry I undertook it.” At last she rose wearily. The
close cabin oppressed her; she felt the need of fresh air. So, turning
out the lights, she stepped forth into the night. Figures loomed near
the rail and she slipped astern, screening herself behind a life-boat,
where the cool breeze fanned her face.

The forms she had seen approached, speaking earnestly. Instead of
passing, they stopped abreast of her hiding-place; then, as they began
to talk, she saw that her retreat was cut off and that she must not
stir.

“What brings her here?” Glenister was echoing a question of Dextry’s.
“Bah! What brings them all? What brought ‘the Duchess,’ and Cherry
Malotte, and all the rest?”

“No, no,” said the old man. “She ain’t that kind--she’s too fine, too
delicate--too pretty.”

“That’s just it--too pretty! Too pretty to be alone--or anything except
what she is.”

Dextry growled sourly. “This country has plumb ruined you, boy. You
think they’re all alike--an’ I don’t know but they are--all but this
girl. Seems like she’s different, somehow--but I can’t tell.”

Glenister spoke musingly:

“I had an ancestor who buccaneered among the Indies, a long time
ago--so I’m told. Sometimes I think I have his disposition. He comes and
whispers things to me in the night. Oh, he was a devil, and I’ve got his
blood in me--untamed and hot--I can hear him saying something
now--something about the spoils of war. Ha, ha! Maybe he’s right. I
fought for her to-night--Dex--the way he used to fight for his
sweethearts along the Mexicos. She’s too beautiful to be good--and
‘there’s never a law of God or man runs north of Fifty-three.’”

They moved on, his vibrant, cynical laughter stabbing the girl till she
leaned against the yawl for support.

She held herself together while the blood beat thickly in her ears, then
fled to the cabin, hurling herself into her berth, where she writhed
silently, beating the pillow with hands into which her nails had bitten,
staring the while into the darkness with dry and aching eyes.



CHAPTER II

THE STOWAWAY


She awoke to the throb of the engines, and, gazing cautiously through
her stateroom window, saw a glassy, level sea, with the sun brightly
agleam on it.

So this was Bering? She had clothed it always with the mystery of her
school-days, thinking of it as a weeping, fog-bound stretch of gray
waters. Instead, she saw a flat, sunlit main, with occasional
sea-parrots flapping their fat bodies out of the ship’s course. A
glistening head popped up from the waters abreast, and she heard the cry
of “seal!”

Dressing, the girl noted minutely the personal articles scattered about
the cabin, striving to derive therefrom some fresh hint of the
characteristics of the owners. First, there was an elaborate,
copper-backed toilet-set, all richly ornamented and leather-bound. The
metal was magnificently hand-worked and bore Glenister’s initial. It
spoke of elegant extravagance, and seemed oddly out of place in an
Arctic miner’s equipment, as did also a small set of De Maupassant.

Next, she picked up Kipling’s _Seven Seas_, marked liberally, and felt
that she had struck a scent. The roughness and brutality of the poems
had always chilled her, though she had felt vaguely their splendid pulse
and swing. This was the girl’s first venture from a sheltered life. She
had not rubbed elbows with the world enough to find that Truth may be
rough, unshaven, and garbed in homespun. The book confirmed her analysis
of the junior partner.

Pendent from a hook was a worn and blackened holster from which peeped
the butt of a large Colt’s revolver, showing evidence of many years’
service. It spoke mutely of the white-haired Dextry, who, before her
inspection was over, knocked at the door, and, when she admitted him,
addressed her cautiously:

“The boy’s down forrad, teasin’ grub out of a flunky. He’ll be up in a
minute. How’d ye sleep?”

“Very well, thank you,” she lied, “but I’ve been thinking that I ought
to explain myself to you.”

“Now, see here,” the old man interjected, “there ain’t no explanations
needed till you feel like givin’ them up. You was in trouble--that’s
unfortunate; we help you--that’s natural; no questions asked--that’s
Alaska.”

“Yes--but I know you must think--”

“What bothers me,” the other continued irrelevantly, “is how in blazes
we’re goin’ to keep you hid. The steward’s got to make up this room, and
somebody’s bound to see us packin’ grub in.”

“I don’t care who knows if they won’t send me back. They wouldn’t do
that, would they?” She hung anxiously on his words.

“Send you back? Why, don’t you savvy that this boat is bound for Nome?
There ain’t no turnin’ back on gold stampedes, and this is the wildest
rush the world ever saw. The captain wouldn’t turn back--he
couldn’t--his cargo’s too precious and the company pays five thousand a
day for this ship. No, we ain’t puttin’ back to unload no stowaways at
five thousand per. Besides, we passengers wouldn’t let him--time’s too
precious.” They were interrupted by the rattle of dishes outside, and
Dextry was about to open the door when his hand wavered uncertainly
above the knob, for he heard the hearty greeting of the ship’s captain.

“Well, well, Glenister, where’s all the breakfast going?”

“Oo!” whispered the old man--“that’s Cap’ Stephens.”

“Dextry isn’t feeling quite up to form this morning,” replied Glenister
easily.

“Don’t wonder! Why weren’t you aboard sooner last night? I saw
you--‘most got left, eh? Served you right if you had.” Then his voice
dropped to the confidential: “I’d advise you to cut out those women.
Don’t misunderstand me, boy, but they’re a bad lot on this boat. I saw
you come aboard. Take my word for it--they’re a bad lot. Cut ’em out.
Guess I’ll step inside and see what’s up with Dextry.”

The girl shrank into her corner, gazing apprehensively at the other
listener.

“Well--er--he isn’t up yet,” they heard Glenister stammer; “better come
around later.”

“Nonsense; it’s time he was dressed.” The master’s voice was gruffly
good-natured. “Hello, Dextry! Hey! Open up for inspection.” He rattled
the door.

There was nothing to be done. The old miner darted an inquiring glance
at his companion, then, at her nod, slipped the bolt, and the captain’s
blue bulk filled the room.

His grizzled, close-bearded face was genially wrinkled till he spied the
erect, gray figure in the corner, when his cap came off involuntarily.
There his courtesy ended, however, and the smile died coldly from his
face. His eyes narrowed, and the good-fellowship fell away, leaving him
the stiff and formal officer.

“Ah,” he said, “not feeling well, eh? I thought I had met all of our
lady passengers. Introduce me, Dextry.”

Dextry squirmed under his cynicism.

“Well--I--ah--didn’t catch the name myself.”

“What?”

“Oh, there ain’t much to say. This is the lady we brought aboard last
night--that’s all.”

“Who gave you permission?”

“Nobody. There wasn’t time.”

“There wasn’t _time_, eh? Which one of you conceived the novel scheme of
stowing away ladies in your cabin? Whose is she? Quick! Answer me.”
Indignation was vibrant in his voice.

“Oh!” the girl cried--her eyes widening darkly. She stood slim and pale
and slightly trembling.

His words had cut her bitterly, though through it all he had
scrupulously avoided addressing her.

The captain turned to Glenister, who had entered and closed the door.

“Is this your work? Is she yours?”

“No,” he answered quietly, while Dextry chimed in:

“Better hear details, captain, before you make breaks like that. We
helped the lady side-step some sailors last night and we most got left
doing it. It was up to her to make a quick get-away, so we helped her
aboard.”

“A poor story! What was she running away from?” He still addressed the
men, ignoring her completely, till, with hoarse voice, she broke in:

“You mustn’t talk about me that way--I can answer your questions. It’s
true--I ran away. I had to. The sailors came after me and fought with
these men. I had to get away quickly, and your friends helped me on here
from gentlemanly kindness, because they saw me unprotected. They are
still protecting me. I can’t explain how important it is for me to reach
Nome on the first boat, because it isn’t my secret. It was important
enough to make me leave my uncle at Seattle at an hour’s notice when we
found there was no one else who could go. That’s all I can say. I took
my maid with me, but the sailors caught her just as she was following me
down the ship’s ladder. She had my bag of clothes when they seized her.
I cast off the rope and rowed ashore as fast as I could, but they
lowered another boat and followed me.”

The captain eyed her sharply, and his grim lines softened a bit, for she
was clean-cut and womanly, and utterly out of place. He took her in,
shrewdly, detail by detail, then spoke directly to her:

“My dear young lady--the other ships will get there just as quickly as
ours, maybe more quickly. To-morrow we strike the ice-pack and then it
is all a matter of luck.”

“Yes, but the ship I left won’t get there.”

At this the commander started, and, darting a great, thick-fingered hand
at her, spoke savagely:

“What’s that? What ship? Which one did you come from? Answer me.”

“The _Ohio_,” she replied, with the effect of a hand-grenade. The master
glared at her.

“The _Ohio_! Good God! You _dare_ to stand there and tell me that?” He
turned and poured his rage upon the others.

“She says the _Ohio_, d’ye hear? You’ve ruined me! I’ll put you in
irons--all of you. The _Ohio_!”

“What d’ye mean? What’s up?”

“What’s up? There’s small-pox aboard the _Ohio_! This girl has broken
quarantine. The health inspectors bottled up the boat at six o’clock
last night! That’s why I pulled out of Unalaska ahead of time, to avoid
any possible delay. Now we’ll all be held up when we get to Nome. Great
Heavens! do you realize what this means--bringing this hussy aboard?”

His eyes burned and his voice shook, while the two partners stared at
each other in dismay. Too well they knew the result of a small-pox panic
aboard this crowded troop-ship. Not only was every available cabin
bulging with passengers, but the lower decks were jammed with both
humanity and live stock all in the most unsanitary conditions. The
craft, built for three hundred passengers, was carrying triple her
capacity; men and women were stowed away like cattle. Order and a
half-tolerable condition were maintained only by the efforts of the
passengers themselves, who held to the thought that imprisonment and
inconvenience would last but a few days longer. They had been aboard
three weeks and every heart was aflame with the desire to reach Nome--to
reach it ahead of the pressing horde behind.

What would be the temper of this gold-frenzied army if thrown into
quarantine within sight of their goal? The impatient hundreds would have
to lie packed in their floating prison, submitting to the foul disease.
Long they must lie thus, till a month should

[Illustration: “SHE STEPPED BACK AGAINST THE WALL, HER WONDROUS, DEEP,
GRAY EYES WIDE AND TROUBLED”]

have passed after the disappearance of the last symptom. If the disease
recurred sporadically, that might mean endless weeks of maddening
idleness. It might even be impossible to impose the necessary restraint;
there would be violence, perhaps mutiny.

The fear of the sickness was nothing to Dextry and Glenister, but of
their mine they thought with terror. What would happen in their absence,
where conditions were as unsettled as in this new land; where titles
were held only by physical possession of the premises? During the long
winter of their absence, ice had held their treasure inviolate, but with
the warming summer the jewel they had fought for so wearily would lie
naked and exposed to the first comer. The Midas lay in the valley of the
richest creek, where men had schemed and fought and slain for the right
to inches. It was the fruit of cheerless, barren years of toil, and if
they could not guard it--they knew the result.

The girl interrupted their distressing reflections.

“Don’t blame these men, sir,” she begged the captain. “I am the only one
at fault. Oh! I _had_ to get away. I have papers here that must be
delivered quickly.” She laid a hand upon her bosom. “They couldn’t be
trusted to the unsettled mail service. It’s almost life and death. And I
assure you there is no need of putting me in quarantine. I haven’t the
small-pox. I wasn’t even exposed to it.”

“There’s nothing else to do,” said Stephens. “I’ll isolate you in the
deck smoking-cabin. God knows what these madmen on board will do when
they hear about it, though. They’re apt to tear you to shreds. They’re
crazy!”

Glenister had been thinking rapidly.

“If you do that, you’ll have mutiny in an hour. This isn’t the crowd to
stand that sort of thing.”

“Bah! Let ’em try it. I’ll put ’em down.” The officer’s square jaws
clicked.

“Maybe so; but what then? We reach Nome and the Health Inspector hears
of small-pox suspects, then we’re all quarantined for thirty days; eight
hundred of us. We’ll lie at Egg Island all summer while your company
pays five thousand a day for this ship. That’s not all. The firm is
liable in damages for your carelessness in letting disease aboard.”

“_My carelessness!_” The old man ground his teeth.

“Yes; that’s what it amounts to. You’ll ruin your owners, all right.
You’ll tie up your ship and lose your job, that’s a cinch!”

Captain Stephens wiped the moisture from his brow angrily.

“My carelessness! Curse you--you say it well. Don’t you realize that I
am criminally liable if I don’t take every precaution?” He paused for a
moment, considering. “I’ll hand her over to the ship’s doctor.”

“See here, now,” Glenister urged. “We’ll be in Nome in a week--before
the young lady would have time to show symptoms of the disease, even if
she were going to have it--and a thousand to one she hasn’t been
exposed, and will never show a trace of it. Nobody knows she’s aboard
but we three. Nobody will see her get off. She’ll stay in this cabin,
which will be just as effectual as though you isolated her in any other
part of the boat. It will avoid a panic--you’ll save your ship and your
company--no one will be the wiser--then if the girl comes down with
small-pox after she gets ashore, she can go to the pest-house and not
jeopardize the health of all the people aboard this ship. You go up
forrad to your bridge, sir, and forget that you stepped in to see old
Bill Dextry this morning. We’ll take care of this matter all right. It
means as much to us as it does to you. We’ve _got_ to be on Anvil Creek
before the ground thaws or we’ll lose the Midas. If you make a fuss,
you’ll ruin us all.”

For some moments they watched him breathlessly as he frowned in
indecision, then--

“You’ll have to look out for the steward,” he said, and the girl sank to
a stool while two great tears rolled down her cheeks. The captain’s eyes
softened and his voice was gentle as he laid his hand on her head.

“Don’t feel hurt over what I said, miss. You see, appearances don’t tell
much, hereabouts--most of the pretty ones are no good. They’ve fooled me
many a time, and I made a mistake. These men will help you through; I
can’t. Then when you get to Nome, make your sweetheart marry you the day
you land. You are too far north to be alone.”

He stepped out into the passage and closed the door carefully.



CHAPTER III

IN WHICH GLENISTER ERRS


“Well, bein’ as me an’ Glenister is gougin’ into the bowels of Anvil
Creek all last summer, we don’t really get the fresh-grub habit fastened
on us none. You see, the gamblers down-town cop out the few aigs an’
green vegetables that stray off the ships, so they never get out as far
as the Creek none; except, maybe, in the shape of anecdotes.

“We don’t get intimate with no nutriments except hog-boosum an’ brown
beans, of which luxuries we have unstinted measure, an’ bein’ as this is
our third year in the country we hanker for bony fido grub, somethin’
scan’lous. Yes, ma’am--three years without a taste of fresh fruit nor
meat nor nuthin’--except pork an’ beans. Why, I’ve et bacon till my
immortal soul has growed a rind.

“When it comes time to close down the claim, the boy is sick with the
fever an’ the only ship in port is a Point Barrow whaler, bound for
Seattle. After I book our passage, I find they have nothin’ aboard to
eat except canned salmon, it bein’ the end of a two years’ cruise, so
when I land in the States after seventeen days of a fish diet, I am what
you might call sated with canned grub, and have added salmon to the list
of things concernin’ which I am goin’ to economize.

“Soon’s ever I get the boy into a hospital, I gallop up to the best
restarawnt in town an’ prepare for the huge pot-latch. This here, I
determine, is to be a gormandizin’ jag which shall live in hist’ry, an’
wharof in later years the natives of Puget Sound shall speak with bated
breath.

“First, I call for five dollars’ worth of pork an’ beans an’ then a
full-grown platter of canned salmon. When the waiter lays ’em out in
front of me, I look them vittles coldly in their disgustin’ visages, an’
say in sarcastic accents:

“‘Set there, damn you! an’ watch me eat _real_ grub,’ which I proceed to
do, cleanin’ the menu from soda to hock. When I have done my worst, I
pile bones an’ olive seeds an’ peelin’s all over them articles of
nourishment, stick toothpicks into ’em, an’ havin’ offered ’em what
other indignities occur to me, I leave the place.”

Dextry and the girl were leaning over the stern-rail, chatting idly in
the darkness. It was the second night out and the ship lay dead in the
ice-pack. All about them was a flat, floe-clogged sea, leprous and
mottled in the deep twilight that midnight brought in this latitude.
They had threaded into the ice-field as long as the light lasted,
following the lanes of blue water till they closed, then drifting idly
till others appeared; worming out into leagues of open sea, again
creeping into the shifting labyrinth till darkness rendered progress
perilous.

Occasionally they had passed herds of walrus huddled sociably upon
ice-pans, their wet hides glistening in the sunlight. The air had been
clear and pleasant, while away on all quarters they had seen the smoke
of other ships toiling through the barrier. The spring fleet was
knocking at the door of the Golden North.

Chafing at her imprisonment, the girl had asked the old man to take her
out on deck under the shelter of darkness; then she had led him to speak
of his own past experiences, and of Glenister’s; which he had done
freely. She was frankly curious about them, and she wondered at their
apparent lack of interest in her own identity and her secret mission.
She even construed their silence as indifference, not realizing that
these Northmen were offering her the truest evidence of _camaraderie_.

The frontier is capable of no finer compliment than this utter disregard
of one’s folded pages. It betokens that highest faith in one’s
fellow-man, the belief that he should be measured by his present deeds,
not by his past. It says, translated: “This is God’s free country where
a man is a man, nothing more. Our land is new and pure, our faces are to
the front. If you have been square, so much the better; if not, leave
behind the taints of artificial things and start again on the
level--that’s all.”

It had happened, therefore, that since the men had asked her no
questions, she had allowed the hours to pass and still hesitated to
explain further than she had explained to Captain Stephens. It was much
easier to let things continue as they were; and there was, after all, so
little that she was at liberty to tell them.

In the short time since meeting them, the girl had grown to like Dextry,
with his blunt chivalry and boyish, whimsical philosophy, but she
avoided Glenister, feeling a shrinking, hidden terror of him, ever since
her eavesdropping of the previous night. At the memory of that scene
she grew hot, then cold--hot with anger, icy at the sinister power and
sureness which had vibrated in his voice. What kind of life was she
entering where men spoke of strange women with this assurance and hinted
thus of ownership? That he was handsome and unconscious of it, she
acknowledged, and had she met him in her accustomed circle of friends,
garbed in the conventionalities, she would perhaps have thought of him
as a striking man, vigorous and intelligent; but here he seemed
naturally to take on the attributes of his surroundings, acquiring a
picturesque negligée of dress and morals, and suggesting rugged,
elemental, chilling potentialities. While with him--and he had sought
her repeatedly that day--she was uneasily aware of his strong
personality tugging at her; aware of the unbridled passionate flood of a
nature unbrooking of delay and heedless of denial. This it was that
antagonized her and set her every mental sinew in rigid resistance.

During Dextry’s garrulous ramblings, Glenister emerged from the darkness
and silently took his place beside her, against the rail.

“What portent do you see that makes you stare into the night so
anxiously?” he inquired.

“I am wishing for a sight of the midnight sun or the aurora borealis,”
she replied.

“Too late for one an’ too fur south for the other,” Dextry interposed.
“We’ll see the sun further north, though.”

“Have you ever heard the real origin of the Northern Lights?” the young
man inquired.

“Naturally, I never have,” she answered.

“Well, here it is. I have it from the lips of a great hunter of the
Tananas. He told it to me when I was sick, once, in his cabin, and
inasmuch as he is a wise Indian and has a reputation for truth, I have
no doubt that it is scrupulously correct.

“In the very old days, before the white man or corned beef had invaded
this land, the greatest tribe in all the North was the Tananas. The
bravest hunter of these was Itika, the second chief. He could follow a
moose till it fell exhausted in the snow and he had many belts made from
the claws of the brown bear which is deadly wicked and, as every one
knows, inhabited by the spirits of ‘Yabla-men,’ or devils.

“One winter a terrible famine settled over the Tanana Valley. The moose
departed from the gulches and the caribou melted from the hills like
mist. The dogs grew gaunt and howled all night, the babies cried, the
women became hollow-eyed and peevish.

“Then it was that Itika decided to go hunting over the saw-tooth range
which formed the edge of the world. They tried to dissuade him, saying
it was certain death because a pack of monstrous white wolves, taller
than the moose and swifter than the eagle, was known to range these
mountains, running madly in chase. Always, on clear, cold nights, could
be seen the flashing of the moonbeams from their gleaming hungry sides,
and although many hunters had crossed the passes in other years, they
never returned, for the pack slew them.

“Nothing could deter Itika, however, so he threaded his way up through
the range and, night coming, burrowed into a drift to sleep in his
caribou-skin. Peering out into the darkness, he saw the flashing lights
a thousand times brighter than ever before. The whole heavens were
ablaze with shifting streamers that raced and writhed back and forth in
wild revel. Listening, he heard the hiss and whine of dry snow under the
feet of the pack, and a distant noise as of rushing winds, although the
air was deathly still.

“With daylight, he proceeded through the range, till he came out above a
magnificent valley. Descending the slope, he entered a forest of
towering spruce, while on all sides the snow was trampled with tracks as
wide as a snow-shoe. There came to him a noise which, as he proceeded,
increased till it filled the woods. It was a frightful din, as though a
thousand wolves were howling with the madness of the kill. Cautiously
creeping nearer, he found a monstrous white animal struggling beneath a
spruce which had fallen upon it in such fashion as to pinion it
securely.

“All brave men are tender-hearted, so Itika set to work with his axe and
cleared away the burden, regardless of the peril to himself. When he had
released it, the beast arose and instead of running away addressed him
in the most polite and polished Indian, without a trace of accent.

“‘You have saved my life. Now, what can I do for you?’

“‘I want to hunt in this valley. My people are starving,’ said Itika, at
which the wolf was greatly pleased and rounded up the rest of the pack
to help in the kill.

“Always thereafter when Itika came to the valley of the Yukon the giant
drove hunted with him. To this day they run through the mountains on
cold, clear nights, in a multitude, while the light of the moon flickers
from their white sides, flashing up into the sky in weird, fantastic
figures. Some people call it Northern Lights, but old Isaac assured me
earnestly, toothlessly, and with the light of ancient truth, as I lay
snow-blind in his lodge, that it is nothing more remarkable than the
spirit of Itika and the great white wolves.”

“What a queer legend!” she said. “There must be many of them in this
country. I feel that I am going to like the North.”

“Perhaps you will,” Glenister replied, “although it is not a woman’s
land.”

“Tell me what led you out here in the first place. You are an Eastern
man. You have had advantages, education--and yet you choose this. You
must love the North.”

“Indeed I do! It calls to a fellow in some strange way that a gentler
country never could. When once you’ve lived the long, lazy June days
that never end, and heard geese honking under a warm, sunlit midnight;
or when once you’ve hit the trail on a winter morning so sharp and clear
that the air stings your lungs, and the whole white, silent world
glistens like a jewel; yes--and when you’ve seen the dogs romping in
harness till the sled runners ring; and the distant mountain-ranges come
out like beautiful carvings, so close you can reach them--well, there’s
something in it that brings you back--that’s all, no matter where you’ve
lost yourself. It means health and equality and unrestraint. That’s what
I like best, I dare say--the utter unrestraint.

“When I was a school-boy, I used to gaze at the map of Alaska for hours.
I’d lose myself in it. It wasn’t anything but a big, blank corner in the
North then, with a name, and mountains, and mystery. The word ‘Yukon’
suggested to me everything unknown and weird--hairy mastodons, golden
river bars, savage Indians with bone arrow-heads and seal-skin trousers.
When I left college I came as fast as ever I could--the adventure, I
suppose....

“The law was considered my destiny. How the shades of old Choate and
Webster and Patrick Henry must have wailed when I forswore it. I’ll bet
Blackstone tore his whiskers.”

“I think you would have made a success,” said the girl, but he laughed.

“Well, anyhow, I stepped out, leaving the way to the United States
Supreme bench unobstructed, and came North. I found it was where I
belonged. I fitted in. I’m not contented--don’t think that. I’m
ambitious, but I prefer these surroundings to the others--that’s all.
I’m realizing my desires. I’ve made a fortune--now I’ll see what else
the world has.”

He suddenly turned to her. “See here,” he abruptly questioned, “what’s
your name?”

She started, and glanced towards where Dextry had stood, only to find
that the old frontiersman had slipped away during the tale.

“Helen Chester,” she replied.

“Helen Chester,” he repeated, musingly. “What a pretty name! It seems
almost a pity to change it--to marry, as you will.”

“I am not going to Nome to get married.”

He glanced at her quickly.

“Then you won’t like this country. You are two years too early; you
ought to wait till there are railroads and telephones, and _tables
d’hôte_, and chaperons. It’s a man’s country yet.”

“I don’t see why it isn’t a woman’s country, too. Surely we can take a
part in taming it. Yonder on the Oregon is a complete railroad, which
will be running from the coast to the mines in a few weeks. Another ship
back there has the wire and poles and fixings for a telephone system,
which will go up in a night. As to _tables d’hôte_, I saw a real French
count in Seattle with a monocle. He’s bringing in a restaurant outfit,
imported snails, and _pâté de foies gras_. All that’s wanting is the
chaperon. In my flight from the _Ohio_ I left mine. The sailors caught
her. You see I am not far ahead of schedule.”

“What part are you going to take in this taming process?” he asked.

She paused long before replying, and when she did her answer sounded
like a jest.

“I herald the coming of the law,” she said.

“The law! Bah! Red tape, a dead language, and a horde of shysters! I’m
afraid of law in this land; we’re too new and too far away from things.
It puts too much power in too few hands. Heretofore we men up here have
had recourse to our courage and our Colt’s, but we’ll have to unbuckle
them both when the law comes. I like the court that hasn’t any appeal.”
He laid hand upon his hip.

“The Colt’s may go, but the courage never will,” she broke in.

“Perhaps. But I’ve heard rumors already of a plot to prostitute the law.
In Unalaska a man warned Dextry, with terror in his eye, to beware of
it; that beneath the cloak of Justice was a drawn dagger whetted for us
fellows who own the rich diggings. I don’t think there’s any truth in
it, but you can’t tell.”

“The law is the foundation--there can’t be any progress without it.
There is nothing here now but disorder.”

“There isn’t half the disorder you think there is. There weren’t any
crimes in this country till the tender-feet arrived. We didn’t know what
a thief was. If you came to a cabin you walked in without knocking. The
owner filled up the coffee-pot and sliced into the bacon; then when he’d
started your meal, he shook hands and asked your name. It was just the
same whether his cache was full or whether he’d packed his few pounds of
food two hundred miles on his back. That was hospitality to make your
Southern article look pretty small. If there was no one at home, you ate
what you needed. There was but one unpardonable breach of etiquette--to
fail to leave dry kindlings. I’m afraid of the transitory stage we’re
coming to--that epoch of chaos between the death of the old and the
birth of the new. Frankly, I like the old way best. I love the license
of it. I love to wrestle with nature; to snatch, and guard, and fight
for what I have. I’ve been beyond the law for years and I want to stay
there, where life is just what it was intended to be--a survival of the
fittest.”

His large hands, as he gripped the bulwark, were tense and corded, while
his rich voice issued softly from his chest with the hint of power
unlimited behind it. He stood over her, tall, virile, and magnetic. She
saw now why he had so joyously hailed the fight of the previous night;
to one of his kind it was as salt air to the nostrils. Unconsciously she
approached him, drawn by the spell of his strength.

“My pleasures are violent and my hate is mighty bitter in my mouth.
What I want, I take. That’s been my way in the old life, and I’m too
selfish to give it up.”

He was gazing out upon the dimly lucent miles of ice; but now he turned
towards her, and, doing so, touched her warm hand next his on the rail.

She was staring up at him unaffectedly, so close that the faint odor
from her hair reached him. Her expression was simply one of wonder and
curiosity at this type, so different from any she had known. But the
man’s eyes were hot and blinded with the sight of her, and he felt only
her beauty heightened in the dim light, the brush of her garments, and
the small, soft hand beneath his. The thrill from the touch of it surged
over him--mastered him.

“What I want--I take,” he repeated, and then suddenly he reached forth
and, taking her in his arms, crushed her to him, kissing her softly,
fiercely, full upon the lips. For an instant she lay gasping and stunned
against his breast, then she tore her fist free and, with all her force,
struck him full in the face.

It was as though she beat upon a stone. With one movement he forced her
arm to her side, smiling into her terrified eyes; then, holding her like
iron, he kissed her again and again upon the mouth, the eyes, the
hair--and released her.

“I am going to love you--Helen,” said he.

“And may God strike me dead if I ever stop _hating_ you!” she cried, her
voice coming thick and hoarse with passion.

Turning, she walked proudly forward towards her cabin, a trim, straight,
haughty figure; and he did not know that her knees were shaking and
weak.



CHAPTER IV

THE KILLING


For four days the _Santa Maria_ felt blindly through the white fields,
drifting north with the spring tide that sets through Behring Strait,
till, on the morning of the fifth, open water showed to the east.
Creeping through, she broke out into the last stage of the long race,
amid the cheers of her weary passengers; and the dull jar of her engines
made welcome music to the girl in the deck state-room.

Soon they picked up a mountainous coast which rose steadily into
majestic, barren ranges, still white with the melting snows; and at ten
in the evening under a golden sunset, amid screaming whistles, they
anchored in the roadstead of Nome. Before the rumble of her chains had
ceased or the echo from the fleet’s salute had died from the shoreward
hills, the ship was surrounded by a swarm of tiny craft clamoring about
her iron sides, while an officer in cap and gilt climbed the bridge and
greeted Captain Stephens. Tugs with trailing lighters circled discreetly
about, awaiting the completion of certain formalities. These over, the
uniformed gentleman dropped back into his skiff and rowed away.

“A clean bill of health, captain,” he shouted, saluting the commander.

“Thank ye, sir,” roared the sailor, and with that the row-boats swarmed
inward pirate-like, boarding the steamer from all quarters.

As the master turned, he looked down from his bridge to the deck below,
full into the face of Dextry, who had been an intent witness of the
meeting. With unbending dignity, Captain Stephens let his left eyelid
droop slowly, while a boyish grin spread widely over his face.
Simultaneously, orders rang sharp and fast from the bridge, the crew
broke into feverish life, the creak of booms and the clank of
donkey-hoists arose.

“We’re here, Miss Stowaway,” said Glenister, entering the girl’s cabin.
“The inspector passed us and it’s time for you to see the magic city.
Come, it’s a wonderful sight.”

This was the first time they had been alone since the scene on the
after-deck, for, besides ignoring Glenister, she had managed that he
should not even see her except in Dextry’s presence. Although he had
ever since been courteous and considerate, she felt the leaping emotions
that were hidden within him and longed to leave the ship, to fly from
the spell of his personality. Thoughts of him made her writhe, and yet
when he was near she could not hate him as she willed--he overpowered
her, he would not be hated, he paid no heed to her slights. This very
quality reminded her how willingly and unquestioningly he had fought off
the sailors from the _Ohio_ at a word from her. She knew he would do so
again, and more, and it is hard to be bitter to one who would lay down
his life for you, even though he has offended--particularly when he has
the magnetism that sweeps you away from your moorings.

“There’s no danger of being seen,” he continued. “The crowd’s crazy,
and, besides, we’ll go ashore right away. You must be mad with the
confinement--it’s on my nerves, too.”

As they stepped outside, the door of an adjacent cabin opened, framing
an angular, sharp-featured woman, who, catching sight of the girl
emerging from Glenister’s state-room, paused with shrewdly narrowed
eyes, flashing quick, malicious glances from one to the other. They came
later to remember with regret this chance encounter, for it was fraught
with grave results for them both.

“Good-evening, Mr. Glenister,” the lady said with acid cordiality.

“Howdy, Mrs. Champian?” He moved away.

She followed a step, staring at Helen.

“Are you going ashore to-night or wait for morning?”

“Don’t know yet, I’m sure.” Then aside to the girl he muttered, “Shake
her, she’s spying on us.”

“Who is she?” asked Miss Chester, a moment later.

“Her husband manages one of the big companies. She’s an old cat.”

Gaining her first view of the land, the girl cried out, sharply. They
rode on an oily sea, tinted like burnished copper, while on all sides,
amid the faint rattle and rumble of machinery, scores of ships were
belching cargoes out upon living swarms of scows, tugs, stern-wheelers,
and dories. Here and there Eskimo oomiaks, fat, walrus-hide boats, slid
about like huge, many-legged water-bugs. An endless, ant-like stream of
tenders, piled high with freight, plied to and from the shore. A mile
distant lay the city, stretched like a white ribbon between the gold of
the ocean sand and the dun of the moss-covered tundra. It was like no
other in the world. At first glance it seemed all made of new white
canvas. In a week its population had swelled from three to thirty
thousand. It now wandered in a slender, sinuous line along the coast for
miles, because only the beach afforded dry camping ground. Mounting to
the bank behind, one sank knee-deep in moss and water, and, treading
twice in the same tracks, found a bog of oozing, icy mud. Therefore, as
the town doubled daily in size, it grew endwise like a string of
dominoes, till the shore from Cape Nome to Penny River was a long reach
of white, glinting in the low rays of the arctic sunset like foamy
breakers on a tropic island.

“That’s Anvil Creek up yonder,” said Glenister. “There’s where the Midas
lies. See!” He indicated a gap in the buttress of mountains rolling back
from the coast. “It’s the greatest creek in the world. You’ll see gold
by the mule-load, and hillocks of nuggets. Oh, I’m glad to get back.
_This_ is life. That stretch of beach is full of gold. These hills are
seamed with quartz. The bed-rock of that creek is yellow. There’s gold,
gold, gold, everywhere--more than ever was in old Solomon’s mines--and
there’s mystery and peril and things unknown.”

“Let us make haste,” said the girl. “I have something I must do
to-night. After that, I can learn to know these things.”

Securing a small boat, they were rowed ashore, the partners plying their
ferryman with eager questions. Having arrived five days before, he was
exploding with information and volunteered the fruits of his ripe
experience till Dextry stated that they were “sourdoughs” themselves,
and owned the Midas, whereupon Miss Chester marvelled at the awe which
sat upon the man and the wondering stare with which he devoured the
partners, to her own utter exclusion.

“Sufferin’ cats! Look at the freight!” ejaculated Dextry. “If a storm
come up it would bust the community!”

The beach they neared was walled and crowded to the high-tide mark with
ramparts of merchandise, while every incoming craft deposited its quota
upon whatever vacant foot was close at hand, till bales, boxes, boilers,
and baggage of all kinds were confusedly intermixed in the narrow space.
Singing longshoremen trundled burdens from the lighters and piled them
on the heap, while yelling, cursing crowds fought over it all,
selecting, sorting, loading.

There was no room for more, yet hourly they added to the mass. Teams
splashed through the lapping surf or stuck in the deep sand between
hillocks of goods. All was noise, profanity, congestion, and feverish
hurry. This burning haste rang in the voice of the multitude, showed in
its violence of gesture and redness of face, permeated the atmosphere
with a magnetic, electrifying energy.

“It’s somethin’ fierce ashore,” said the oarsman. “I been up fer three
days an’ nights steady--there ain’t no room, nor time, nor darkness to
sleep in. Ham an’ eggs is a dollar an’ a half, an’ whiskey’s four bits a
throw.” He wailed the last, sadly, as a complaint unspeakable.

“Any trouble doin’?” inquired the old man.

“You _know_ it!” the other cried, colloquially. “There was a massacree
in the Northern last night.”

“Gamblin’ row?”

“Yep. Tin-horn called ‘Missou’ done it.”

“Sho!” said Dextry. “I know him. He’s a bad actor.” All three men nodded
sagely, and the girl wished for further light, but they volunteered no
explanation.

Leaving the skiff, they plunged into turmoil. Dodging through the
tangle, they came out into fenced lots where tents stood wall to wall
and every inch was occupied. Here and there was a vacant spot guarded
jealously by its owner, who gazed sourly upon all men with the
forbidding eye of suspicion. Finding an eddy in the confusion, the men
stopped.

“Where do you want to go?” they asked Miss Chester.

There was no longer in Glenister’s glance that freedom with which he had
come to regard the women of the North. He had come to realize dully that
here was a girl driven by some strong purpose into a position repellent
to her. In a man of his type, her independence awoke only admiration and
her coldness served but to inflame him the more. Delicacy, in Glenister,
was lost in a remarkable singleness of purpose. He could laugh at her
loathing, smile under her abuse, and remain utterly ignorant that
anything more than his action in seizing her that night lay at the
bottom of her dislike. He did not dream that he possessed
characteristics abhorrent to her; and he felt a keen reluctance at
parting.

She extended both hands.

“I can never thank you enough for what you have done--you two; but I
shall try. Good-bye!”

Dextry gazed doubtfully at his own hand, rough and gnarly, then taking
hers as he would have handled a robin’s egg, waggled it limply.

“We ain’t goin’ to turn you adrift this-a-way. Whatever your destination
is, we’ll see you to it.”

“I can find my friends,” she assured him.

“This is the wrong latitude in which to dispute a lady, but knowin’ this
camp from soup to nuts, as I do, I su’gests a male escort.”

“Very well! I wish to find Mr. Struve, of Dunham & Struve, lawyers.”

“I’ll take you to their offices,” said Glenister. “You see to the
baggage, Dex. Meet me at the Second Class in half an hour and we’ll run
out to the Midas.” They pushed through the tangle of tents, past piles
of lumber, and emerged upon the main thoroughfare, which ran parallel to
the shore.

Nome consisted of one narrow street, twisted between solid rows of
canvas and half-erected frame buildings, its every other door that of a
saloon. There were fair-looking blocks which aspired to the dizzy height
of three stories, some sheathed in corrugated iron, others gleaming and
galvanized. Lawyers’ signs, doctors’, surveyors’, were in the upper
windows. The street was thronged with men from every land--Helen Chester
heard more dialects than she could count. Laplanders in quaint,
three-cornered, padded caps idled past. Men with the tan of the tropics
rubbed elbows with yellow-haired Norsemen, and near her a carefully
groomed Frenchman with riding-breeches and monocle was in pantomime with
a skin-clad Eskimo. To her left was the sparkling sea, alive with ships
of every class. To her right towered timberless mountains, unpeopled,
unexplored, forbidding, and desolate--their hollows inlaid with snow.
On one hand were the life and the world she knew; on the other, silence,
mystery, possible adventure.

The roadway where she stood was a crush of sundry vehicles from bicycles
to dog-hauled water-carts, and on all sides men were laboring busily,
the echo of hammers mingling with the cries of teamsters and the tinkle
of music within the saloons.

“And this is midnight!” exclaimed Helen, breathlessly. “Do they ever
rest?”

“There isn’t time--this is a gold stampede. You haven’t caught the
spirit of it yet.”

They climbed the stairs in a huge, iron-sheeted building to the office
of Dunham & Struve, and in answer to their knock, a red-faced,
white-haired, tousled man, in shirt-sleeves and stocking-feet, opened
the door.

“What d’ye wan’?” he bawled, his legs wavering uncertainly. His eyes
were heavy and bloodshot, his lips loose, and his whole person exhaled
alcoholic fumes like a gust from a still-house. Hanging to the knob, he
strove vainly to solve the mystery of his suspenders--hiccoughing
intermittently.

“Humph! Been drunk ever since I left?” questioned Glenister.

“Somebody mus’ have tol’ you,” the lawyer replied. There was neither
curiosity, recognition, nor resentment in his voice. In fact, his head
drooped so that he paid no attention to the girl, who had shrunk back at
sight of him. He was a young man, with marks of brilliancy showing
through the dissipation betrayed by his silvery hair and coarsened
features.

“Oh, I don’t know what to do,” lamented the girl.

“Anybody else here besides you?” asked her escort of the lawyer.

“No. I’m runnin’ the law business unassisted. Don’t need any help.
Dunham’s in Wash’n’ton, D. C, the lan’ of the home, the free of the
brave. What can I do for you?”

He made to cross the threshold hospitably, but tripped, plunged forward,
and would have rolled down the stairs had not Glenister gathered him up
and borne him back into the office, where he tossed him upon a bed in a
rear room.

“Now what, Miss Chester?” asked the young man, returning.

“Isn’t that dreadful?” she shuddered. “Oh, and I must see him to-night!”
She stamped impatiently. “I must see him alone.”

“No, you mustn’t,” said Glenister, with equal decision. “In the first
place, he wouldn’t know what you were talking about, and in the second
place--I know Struve. He’s too drunk to talk business and too sober
to--well, to see you alone.”

“But I _must_ see him,” she insisted. “It’s what brought me here. You
don’t understand.”

“I understand more than he could. He’s in no condition to act on any
important matter. You come around to-morrow when he’s sober.”

“It means so much,” breathed the girl. “The beast!”

Glenister noted that she had not wrung her hands nor even hinted at
tears, though plainly her disappointment and anxiety were consuming her.

“Well, I suppose I’ll have to wait, but I don’t know where to go--some
hotel, I suppose.”

“There aren’t any. They’re building two, but to-night you couldn’t hire
a room in Nome for money. I was about to say ‘love or money.’ Have you
no other friends here--no women? Then you must let me find a place for
you. I have a friend whose wife will take you in.”

She rebelled at this. Was she never to have done with this man’s favors?
She thought of returning to the ship, but dismissed that. She undertook
to decline his aid, but he was half-way down the stairs and paid no
attention to her beginning--so she followed him.

It was then that Helen Chester witnessed her first tragedy of the
frontier, and through it came to know better the man whom she disliked
and with whom she had been thrown so fatefully. Already she had thrilled
at the spell of this country, but she had not learned that strength and
license carry blood and violence as corollaries.

Emerging from the doorway at the foot of the stairs, they drifted slowly
along the walk, watching the crowd. Besides the universal tension, there
were laughter and hope and exhilaration in the faces. The enthusiasm of
this boyish multitude warmed one. The girl wished to get into this
spirit--to be one of them. Then suddenly from the babble at their elbows
came a discordant note, not long nor loud, only a few words, penetrating
and harsh with the metallic quality lent by passion.

Helen glanced over her shoulder to find that the smiles of the throng
were gone and that its eyes were bent on some scene in the street, with
an eager interest she had never seen mirrored before. Simultaneously
Glenister spoke:

“Come away from here.”

With the quickened eye of experience he foresaw trouble and tried to
drag her on, but she shook off his grasp impatiently, and, turning,
gazed absorbed at the spectacle which unfolded itself before her.
Although not comprehending the play of events, she felt vaguely the
quick approach of some crisis, yet was unprepared for the swiftness with
which it came.

Her eyes had leaped to the figures of two men in the street from whom
the rest had separated like oil from water. One was slim and well
dressed; the other bulky, mackinawed, and lowering of feature. It was
the smaller who spoke, and for a moment she misjudged his bloodshot eyes
and swaying carriage to be the result of alcohol, until she saw that he
was racked with fury.

“Make good, I tell you, quick! Give me that bill of sale, you ----.”

The unkempt man swung on his heel with a growl and walked away, his
course leading him towards Glenister and the girl. With two strides he
was abreast of them; then, detecting the flashing movement of the other,
he whirled like a wild animal. His voice had the snarl of a beast in it.

“Ye had to have it, didn’t ye? Well, there!”

The actions of both men were quick as light, yet to the girl’s taut
senses they seemed theatrical and deliberate. Into her mind was seared
forever the memory of that second, as though the shutter of a camera had
snapped, impressing upon her brain the scene, sharp, clear-cut, and
vivid. The shaggy back of the large man almost brushing her, the
rage-drunken, white-shirted man in the derby hat, the crowd sweeping
backward like rushes before a blast, men with arms flexed and feet
raised in flight, the glaring yellow sign of the “Gold Belt Dance Hall”
across the way--these were stamped upon her retina, and then she was
jerked violently backward, two strong arms crushed her down upon her
knees against the wall, and she was smothered in the arms of Roy
Glenister.

“My God! Don’t move! We’re in line!”

He crouched over her, his cheek against her hair, his weight forcing her
down into the smallest compass, his arms about her, his body forming a
living shield against the flying bullets. Over them the big man stood,
and the sustained roar of his gun was deafening. In an instant they
heard the thud and felt the jar of lead in the thin boards against which
they huddled. Again the report echoed above their heads, and they saw
the slender man in the street drop his weapon and spin half round as
though hit with some heavy hand. He uttered a cry and, stooping for his
gun, plunged forward, burying his face in the sand.

The man by Glenister’s side shouted curses thickly, and walked towards
his prostrate enemy, firing at every step. The wounded man rolled to his
side, and, raising himself on his elbow, shot twice, so rapidly that the
reports blended--but without checking his antagonist’s approach. Four
more times the relentless assailant fired deliberately, his last missile
sent as he stood over the body which twitched and shuddered at his feet,
its garments muddy and smeared. Then he turned and retraced his steps.
Back within arm’s-length of the two who pressed against the building he
came, and as he went by they saw his coarse and sullen features drawn
and working pallidly, while the breath whistled through his teeth. He
held his course to the door they had just quitted, then as he turned he
coughed bestially, spitting out a mouthful of blood. His knees wavered.
He vanished within the portals and, in the sickly silence that fell,
they heard his hob-nailed boots clumping slowly up the stairs.

Noise awoke and rioted down the thoroughfare. Men rushed forth from
every quarter, and the ghastly object in the dirt was hidden by a
seething mass of miners.

Glenister raised the girl, but her head rolled limply, and she would
have slipped to her knees again had he not placed his arm about her
waist. Her eyes were staring and horror-filled.

“Don’t be frightened,” said he, smiling at her reassuringly; but his own
lips shook and the sweat stood out like dew on him; for they had both
been close to death. There came a surge and swirl through the crowd, and
Dextry swooped upon them like a hawk.

“Be ye hurt? Holy Mackinaw! When I see ’em blaze away I yells at ye fit
to bust my throat. I shore thought you was gone. Although I can’t say
but this killin’ was a sight for sore eyes--so neat an’ genteel--still,
as a rule, in these street brawls it’s the innocuous bystander that has
flowers sent around to his house afterwards.”

“Look at this,” said Glenister. Breast-high in the wall against which
they had crouched, not three feet apart, were bullet holes.

“Them’s the first two he unhitched,” Dextry remarked, jerking his head
towards the object in the street. “Must have been a new gun an’ pulled
hard--throwed him to the right. See!”

Even to the girl it was patent that, had she not been snatched as she
was, the bullet would have found her.

“Come away quick,” she panted, and they led her into a near-by store,
where she sank upon a seat and trembled until Dextry brought her a glass
of whiskey.

“Here, Miss,” he said. “Pretty tough go for a ‘cheechako.’ I’m afraid
you ain’t gettin’ enamoured of this here country a whole lot.”

For half an hour he talked to her, in his whimsical way, of foreign
things, till she was quieted. Then the partners arose to go. Although
Glenister had arranged for her to stop with the wife of the merchant for
the rest of the night, she would not.

“I can’t go to bed. Please don’t leave me! I’m too nervous. I’ll go
_mad_ if you do. The strain of the last week has been too much for me.
If I sleep I’ll see the faces of those men again.”

Dextry talked with his companion, then made a purchase which he laid at
the lady’s feet.

“Here’s a pair of half-grown gum boots. You put ’em on an’ come with us.
We’ll take your mind off of things complete. An’ as fer sweet dreams,
when you get back you’ll make the slumbers of the just seem as restless
as a riot, or the antics of a mountain-goat which nimbly leaps from crag
to crag, and--well, that’s restless enough. Come on!”

As the sun slanted up out of Behring Sea, they marched back towards the
hills, their feet ankle-deep in the soft fresh moss, while the air
tasted like a cool draught and a myriad of earthy odors rose up and
encircled them. Snipe and reed birds were noisy in the hollows and from
the misty tundra lakes came the honking of brant. After their weary
weeks on shipboard, the dewy freshness livened them magically,
cleansing from their memories the recent tragedy, so that the girl
became herself again.

“Where are we going?” she asked, at the end of an hour, pausing for
breath.

“Why, to the Midas, of course,” they said; and one of them vowed
recklessly, as he drank in the beauty of her clear eyes and the grace of
her slender, panting form, that he would gladly give his share of all
its riches to undo what he had done one night on the _Santa Maria_.



CHAPTER V

WHEREIN A MAN APPEARS


In the lives of countries there are crises where, for a breath,
destinies lie in the laps of the gods and are jumbled, heads or tails.
Thus are marked distinctive cycles like the seven ages of a man, and
though, perhaps, they are too subtle to be perceived at the time, yet,
having swung past the shadowy milestones, the epochs disclose
themselves.

Such a period in the progress of the Far Northwest was the nineteenth
day of July, although to those concerned in the building of this new
empire the day appealed only as the date of the coming of the law. All
Nome gathered on the sands as lighters brought ashore Judge Stillman and
his following. It was held fitting that the _Senator_ should be the ship
to safeguard the dignity of the first court and to introduce Justice
into this land of the wild.

The interest awakened by His Honor was augmented by the fact that he was
met on the beach by a charming girl, who flung herself upon him with
evident delight.

“That’s his niece,” said some one. “She came up on the first
boat--name’s Chester--swell looker, eh?”

Another new-comer attracted even more notice than the limb of the law; a
gigantic, well-groomed man, with keen, close-set eyes, and that
indefinable easy movement and polished bearing that come from
confidence, health, and travel. Unlike the others, he did not dally on
the beach nor display much interest in his surroundings; but, with
purposeful frown strode through the press, up into the heart of the
city. His companion was Struve’s partner, Dunham, a middle-aged, pompous
man. They went directly to the offices of Dunham & Struve, where they
found the white-haired junior partner.

“Mighty glad to meet you, Mr. McNamara,” said Struve. “Your name is a
household word in my part of the country. My people were mixed up in
Dakota politics somewhat, so I’ve always had a great admiration for you
and I’m glad you’ve come to Alaska. This is a big country and we need
big men.”

“Did you have any trouble?” Dunham inquired when the three had adjourned
to a private room.

“Trouble,” said Struve, ruefully; “well, I wonder if I did. Miss Chester
brought me your instructions O. K. and I got busy right off. But, tell
me this--how did you get the girl to act as messenger?”

“There was no one else to send,” answered McNamara. “Dunham intended
sailing on the first boat, but he was detained in Washington with me,
and the Judge had to wait for us at Seattle. We were afraid to trust a
stranger for fear he might get curious and examine the papers. That
would have meant--” He moved his hand eloquently.

Struve nodded. “I see. Does she know what was in the documents?”

“Decidedly not. Women and business don’t mix. I hope you didn’t tell her
anything.”

“No; I haven’t had a chance. She seemed to take a dislike to me for some
reason. I haven’t seen her since the day after she got here.”

“The Judge told her it had something to do with preparing the way for
his court,” said Dunham, “and that if the papers were not delivered
before he arrived it might cause a lot of trouble--litigation, riots,
bloodshed, and all that. He filled her up on generalities till the girl
was frightened to death and thought the safety of her uncle and the
whole country depended on her.”

“Well,” continued Struve, “it’s dead easy to hire men to jump claims and
it’s dead easy to buy their rights afterwards, particularly when they
know they haven’t got any--but what course do you follow when owners go
gunning for you?”

McNamara laughed.

“Who did that?”

“A benevolent, silver-haired old Texan pirate by the name of Dextry.
He’s one half owner in the Midas and the other half mountain-lion; as
peaceable, you’d imagine, as a benediction, but with the temperament of
a Geronimo. I sent Galloway out to relocate the claim, and he got his
notices up in the night when they were asleep, but at 6 A.M. he came
flying back to my room and nearly hammered the door down. I’ve seen
fright in varied forms and phases, but he had them all, with some added
starters.

“‘Hide me out, quick!’ he panted.

“‘What’s up?’ I asked.

“‘I’ve stirred up a breakfast of grizzly bear, small-pox, and sudden
death and it don’t set well on my stummick. Let me in.’

“I had to keep him hidden three days, for this gentle-mannered old
cannibal roamed the streets with a cannon in his hand, breathing fire
and pestilence.”

“Anybody else act up?” queried Dunham.

“No; all the rest are Swedes and they haven’t got the nerve to fight.
They couldn’t lick a spoon if they tried. These other men are different,
though. There are two of them, the old one and a young fellow. I’m a
little afraid to mix it up with them, and if their claim wasn’t the best
in the district, I’d say let it alone.”

“I’ll attend to that,” said McNamara.

Struve resumed:

“Yes, gentlemen, I’ve been working pretty hard and also pretty much in
the dark so far. I’m groping for light. When Miss Chester brought in the
papers I got busy instanter. I clouded the title to the richest placers
in the region, but I’m blamed if I quite see the use of it. We’d be
thrown out of any court in the land if we took them to law. What’s the
game--blackmail?”

“Humph!” ejaculated McNamara. “What do you take me for?”

“Well, it does seem small for Alec McNamara, but I can’t see what else
you’re up to.”

“Within a week I’ll be running every good mine in the Nome district.”

McNamara’s voice was calm but decisive, his glance keen and alert, while
about him clung such a breath of power and confidence that it compelled
belief even in the face of this astounding speech.

In spite of himself, Wilton Struve, lawyer, rake, and gentlemanly
adventurer, felt his heart leap at what the other’s daring implied. The
proposition was utterly past belief, and yet, looking into the man’s
purposeful eyes, he believed.

“That’s big--awful big--_too_ big,” the younger man murmured. “Why, man,
it means you’ll handle fifty thousand dollars a day!”

Dunham shifted his feet in the silence and licked his dry lips.

“Of course it’s big, but Mr. McNamara’s the biggest man that ever came
to Alaska,” he said.

“And I’ve got the biggest scheme that ever came north, backed by the
biggest men in Washington,” continued the politician. “Look here!” He
displayed a type-written sheet bearing parallel lists of names and
figures. Struve gasped incredulously.

“Those are my stockholders and that is their share in the venture. Oh,
yes; we’re incorporated--under the laws of Arizona--secret, of course;
it would never do for the names to get out. I’m showing you this only
because I want you to be satisfied who’s behind me.”

“Lord! I’m satisfied,” said Struve, laughing nervously. “Dunham was with
you when you figured the scheme out and he met some of your friends in
Washington and New York. If he says it’s all right, that settles it. But
say, suppose anything went wrong with the company and it leaked out who
those stockholders are?”

“There’s no danger. I have the books where they will be burned at the
first sign. We’d have had our own land laws passed but for Sturtevant of
Nevada, damn him. He blocked us in the Senate. However, my plan is
this.” He rapidly outlined his proposition to the listeners, while a
light of admiration grew and shone in the reckless face of Struve.

“By heavens! you’re a wonder!” he cried, at the close, “and I’m with you
body and soul. It’s dangerous--that’s why I like it.”

“Dangerous?” McNamara shrugged his shoulders. “Bah! Where is the danger?
We’ve got the law--or rather, we _are_ the law. Now, let’s get to work.”

It seemed that the Boss of North Dakota was no sluggard. He discarded
coat and waistcoat and tackled the documents which Struve laid before
him, going through them like a whirlwind. Gradually he infected the
others with his energy, and soon behind the locked doors of Dunham &
Struve there were only haste and fever and plot and intrigue.

       *       *       *       *       *

As Helen Chester led the Judge towards the flamboyant, three-storied
hotel she prattled to him light-heartedly. The fascination of a new land
already held her fast, and now she felt, in addition, security and
relief. Glenister saw them from a distance and strode forward to greet
them.

He beheld a man of perhaps threescore years, benign of aspect save for
the eyes, which were neither clear nor steady, but had the trick of
looking past one. Glenister thought the mouth, too, rather weak and
vacillating; but the clean-shaven face was dignified by learning and
acumen and was wrinkled in pleasant fashion.

“My niece has just told me of your service to her,” the old gentleman
began. “I am happy to know you, sir.”

“Besides being a brave knight and assisting ladies in distress, Mr.
Glenister is a very great and wonderful man,” Helen explained, lightly.
“He owns the Midas.”

“Indeed!” said the old man, his shifting eyes now resting full on the
other with a flash of unmistakable interest. “I hear that is a wonderful
mine. Have you begun work yet?”

“No. We’ll commence sluicing day after to-morrow. It has been a late
spring. The snow in the gulch was deep and the ground thaws slowly.
We’ve been building houses and doing dead work, but we’ve got our men on
the ground, waiting.”

“I am greatly interested. Won’t you walk with us to the hotel? I want to
hear more about these wonderful placers.”

“Well, they _are_ great placers,” said the miner, as the three walked on
together; “nobody knows _how_ great because we’ve only scratched at them
yet. In the first place the ground is so shallow and the gold is so easy
to get, that if nature didn’t safeguard us in the winter we’d never dare
leave our claims for fear of ‘snipers.’ They’d run in and rob us.”

“How much will the Anvil Creek mines produce this summer?” asked the
Judge.

“It’s hard to tell, sir; but we expect to average five thousand a day
from the Midas alone, and there are other claims just as good.”

“Your title is all clear, I dare say, eh?”

“Absolutely, except for one jumper, and we don’t take him seriously. A
fellow named Galloway relocated us one night last month, but he didn’t
allege any grounds for doing so, and we could never find trace of him.
If we had, our title would be as clean as snow again.” He said the last
with a peculiar inflection.

“You wouldn’t use violence, I trust?”

“Sure! Why not? It has worked all right heretofore.”

“But, my dear sir, those days are gone. The law is here and it is the
duty of every one to abide by it.”

“Well, perhaps it is; but in this country we consider a man’s mine as
sacred as his family. We didn’t know what a lock and key were in the
early times and we didn’t have any troubles except famine and hardship.
It’s different now, though. Why, there have been more claims jumped
around here this spring than in the whole length and history of the
Yukon.”

They had reached the hotel, and Glenister paused, turning to the girl as
the Judge entered. When she started to follow, he detained her.

“I came down from the hills on purpose to see you. It has been a long
week--”

“Don’t talk that way,” she interrupted, coldly. “I don’t care to hear
it.”

“See here--what makes you shut me out and wrap yourself up in your
haughtiness? I’m sorry for what I did that night--I’ve told you so
repeatedly. I’ve wrung my soul for that act till there’s nothing left
but repentance.”

“It is not that,” she said, slowly. “I have been thinking it over during
the past month, and now that I have gained an insight into this life I
see that it wasn’t an unnatural thing for you to do. It’s terrible to
think of, but it’s true. I don’t mean that it was pardonable,” she
continued, quickly, “for it wasn’t, and I hate you when I think about
it, but I suppose I put myself into a position to invite such actions.
No; I’m sufficiently broad-minded not to blame you unreasonably, and I
think I could like you in spite of it, just for what you have done for
me; but that isn’t all. There is something deeper. You saved my life and
I’m grateful, but you frighten me, always. It is the cruelty in your
strength, it is something away back in you--lustful, and ferocious, and
wild, and crouching.”

He smiled wryly.

“It is my local color, maybe--absorbed from this country. I’ll try to
change, though, if you want me to. I’ll let them rope and throw and
brand me. I’ll take on the graces of civilization and put away revenge
and ambition and all the rest of it, if it will make you like me any
better. Why, I’ll even promise not to violate the person of our
claim-jumper if I catch him; and Heaven knows _that_ means that Samson
has parted with his locks.”

“I think I could like you if you did,” she said, “but you can’t do it.
You are a savage.”

       *       *       *       *       *

There are no clubs nor marts where men foregather for business in the
North--nothing but the saloon, and this is all and more than a club.
Here men congregate to drink, to gamble, and to traffic.

It was late in the evening when Glenister entered the Northern and
passed idly down the row of games, pausing at the crap-table, where he
rolled the dice when his turn came. Moving to the roulette-wheel, he
lost a stack of whites, but at the faro “lay-out” his luck was better,
and he won a gold coin on the “high-card.” Whereupon he promptly ordered
a round of drinks for the men grouped about him, a formality always
precedent to overtures of general friendship.

As he paused, glass in hand, his eyes were drawn to a man who stood
close by, talking earnestly. The aspect of the stranger challenged
notice, for he stood high above his companions with a peculiar grace of
attitude in place of the awkwardness common in men of great stature.
Among those who were listening intently to the man’s carefully modulated
tones, Glenister recognized Mexico Mullins, the ex-gambler who had given
Dextry the warning at Unalaska. As he further studied the listening
group, a drunken man staggered uncertainly through the wide doors of the
saloon and, gaining sight of the tall stranger, blinked, then approached
him, speaking with a loud voice:

“Well, if ’tain’t ole Alec McNamara! How do, ye ole pirate!”

McNamara nodded and turned his back coolly upon the new-comer.

“Don’t turn your dorsal fin to me; I wan’ to talk to ye.”

McNamara continued his calm discourse till he received a vicious whack
on the shoulder; then he turned for a moment to interrupt his
assailant’s garrulous profanity:

“Don’t bother me. I am engaged.”

“Ye won’ talk to me, eh? Well, I’m goin’ to talk to _you_, see? I guess
you’d listen if I told these people all I know about you. Turn around
here.”

His voice was menacing and attracted general notice. Observing this,
McNamara addressed him, his words dropping clear, concise, and cold:

“Don’t talk to me. You are a drunken nuisance. Go away before something
happens to you.”

Again he turned away, but the drunken man seized and whirled him about,
repeating his abuse, encouraged by this apparent patience.

“Your pardon for an instant, gentlemen.” McNamara laid a large white and
manicured hand upon the flannel sleeve of the miner and gently escorted
him through the entrance to the sidewalk, while the crowd smiled.

As they cleared the threshold, however, he clenched his fist without a
word and, raising it, struck the sot fully and cruelly upon the jaw. His
victim fell silently, the back of his head striking the boards with a
hollow thump; then, without even observing how he lay, McNamara
re-entered the saloon and took up his conversation where he had been
interrupted. His voice was as evenly regulated as his movements,
betraying not a sign of anger, excitement, or bravado. He lit a
cigarette, extracted a note-book, and jotted down certain memoranda
supplied him by Mexico Mullins.

All this time the body lay across the threshold without a sign of life.
The buzz of the roulette-wheel was resumed and the crap-dealer began his
monotonous routine. Every eye was fixed on the nonchalant man at the
bar, but the unconscious creature outside the threshold lay unheeded,
for in these men’s code it behooves the most humane to practise a
certain aloofness in the matter of private brawls.

Having completed his notes, McNamara shook hands gravely with his
companions and strode out through the door, past the bulk that sprawled
across his path, and, without pause or glance, disappeared.

A dozen willing, though unsympathetic, hands laid the drunkard on the
roulette-table, where the bartender poured pitcher upon pitcher of water
over him.

“He ain’t hurt none to speak of,” said a bystander; then added, with
enthusiasm:

“But say! There’s a _man_ in this here camp!”



CHAPTER VI

AND A MINE IS JUMPED


“Who’s your new shift boss?” Glenister inquired of his partner, a few
days later, indicating a man in the cut below, busied in setting a line
of sluices.

“That’s old ‘Slapjack’ Simms, friend of mine from up Dawson way.”

Glenister laughed immoderately, for the object was unusually tall and
loose-jointed, and wore a soiled suit of yellow mackinaw. He had laid
off his coat, and now the baggy, bilious trousers hung precariously from
his angular shoulders by suspenders of alarming frailty. His legs were
lost in gum boots, also loose and cavernous, and his entire costume
looked relaxed and flapping, so that he gave the impression of being
able to shake himself out of his raiment, and to rise like a burlesque
Aphrodite. His face was overgrown with a grizzled tangle that looked as
though it had been trimmed with button-hole scissors, while above the
brush heap grandly soared a shiny, dome-like head.

“Has he always been bald?”

“Naw! He ain’t bald at all. He shaves his nob. In the early days he wore
a long flowin’ mane which was inhabited by crickets, tree-toads, and
such fauna. It got to be a hobby with him finally, so that he growed
superstitious about goin’ uncurried, and would back into a corner with
both guns drawed if a barber came near him. But once Hank--that’s his
real name--undertook to fry some slapjacks, and in givin’ the skillet a
heave, the dough lit among his forest primeval, jest back of his ears,
soft side down. Hank polluted the gulch with langwidge which no man had
ought to keep in himself without it was fumigated. Disreppitableness
oozed out through him like sweat through an ice-pitcher, an’ since then
he’s been known as Slapjack Simms, an’ has kept his head shingled smooth
as a gun bar’l. He’s a good miner, though; ain’t none better--an’ square
as a die.”

Sluicing had begun on the Midas. Long sinuous lengths of canvas hose
wound down the creek bottom from the dam, like gigantic serpents, while
the roll of gravel through the flumes mingled musically with the rush of
waters, the tinkle of tools, and the song of steel on rock. There were
four “strings” of boxes abreast, and the heaving line of shovellers ate
rapidly into the creek bed, while teams with scrapers splashed through
the tail races in an atmosphere of softened profanity. In the big white
tents which sat back from the bluffs, fifty men of the night shift were
asleep; for there is no respite here--no night, no Sunday, no halt,
during the hundred days in which the Northland lends herself to pillage.

The mine lay cradled between wonderful, mossy, willow-mottled mountains,
while above and below the gulch was dotted with tents and huts, and
everywhere, from basin to hill crest, men dug and blasted, punily,
patiently, while their tracks grew daily plainer over the face of this
inscrutable wilderness.

A great contentment filled the two partners as they looked on this
scene. To wrest from reluctant earth her richest treasures, to add to
the wealth of the world, to create--here was satisfaction.

“We ain’t robbin’ no widders an’ orphans doin’ it, neither,” Dextry
suddenly remarked, expressing his partner’s feelings closely. They
looked at each other and smiled with that rare understanding that
exceeds words.

Descending into the cut, the old man filled a gold-pan with dirt taken
from under the feet of the workers, and washed it in a puddle, while the
other watched his dexterous whirling motions. When he had finished, they
poked the stream of yellow grains into a pile, then, with heads
together, guessed its weight, laughing again delightedly, in perfect
harmony and contentment.

“I’ve been waitin’ a turrible time fer this day,” said the elder. “I’ve
suffered the plagues of prospectin’ from the Mexicos to the Circle, an’
yet I don’t begretch it none, now that I’ve struck pay.”

While they spoke, two miners struggled with a bowlder they had
unearthed, and having scraped and washed it carefully, staggered back to
place it on the cleaned bed-rock behind. One of them slipped, and it
crashed against a brace which held the sluices in place. These boxes
stand more than a man’s height above the bed-rock, resting on supporting
posts and running full of water. Should a sluice fall, the rushing
stream carries out the gold which has lodged in the riffles and floods
the bed-rock, raising havoc. Too late the partners saw the string of
boxes sway and bend at the joint. Then, before they could reach the
threatened spot to support it, Slapjack Simms, with a shriek, plunged
flapping down into the cut and seized the flume. His great height stood
him in good stead now, for where the joint had opened, water poured
forth in a cataract. He dived under the breach unhesitatingly and,
stooping, lifted the line as near to its former level as possible,
holding the entire burden upon his naked pate. He gesticulated wildly
for help, while over him poured the deluge of icy, muddy water. It
entered his gaping waistband, bulging out his yellow trousers till they
were fat and full and the seams were bursting, while his yawning
boot-tops became as boiling springs. Meanwhile he chattered forth
profanity in such volume that the ear ached under it as must have ached
the heroic Slapjack under the chill of the melting snow. He was relieved
quickly, however, and emerged triumphant, though blue and puckered, his
wilderness of whiskers streaming like limber stalactites, his boots
loosely “squishing,” while oaths still poured from him in such profusion
that Dextry whispered:

“Ain’t he a ring-tailed wonder? It’s plumb solemn an’ reverent the way
he makes them untamed cuss-words sit up an’ beg. It’s a privilege to be
present. That’s a _gift_, that is.”

“You’d better get some dry clothes,” they suggested, and Slapjack
proceeded a few paces towards the tents, hobbling as though treading on
pounded glass.

“Ow--w!” he yelled. “These blasted boots is full of gravel.”

He seated himself and tugged at his foot till the boot came away with a
sucking sound, then, instead of emptying the accumulation at random, he
poured the contents into Dextry’s empty gold-pan, rinsing it out
carefully. The other boot he emptied likewise. They held a surprising
amount of sediment, because the stream that had emerged from the crack
in the sluices had carried with it pebbles, sand, and all the
concentration of the riffles at this point. Standing directly beneath
the cataract, most of it had dived fairly into his inviting waistband,
following down the lines of least resistance into his boot-legs and
boiling out at the knees.

“Wash that,” he said. “You’re apt to get a prospect.”

With artful passes Dextry settled it in the pan bottom and washed away
the gravel, leaving a yellow, glittering pile which raised a yell from
the men who had lingered curiously.

“He pans forty dollars to the boot-leg,” one shouted.

“How much do you run to the foot, Slapjack?”

“He’s a reg’lar free-milling ledge.”

“No, he ain’t--he’s too thin. He’s nothing but a stringer, but he’ll pay
to work.”

The old miner grinned toothlessly.

“Gentlemen, there ain’t no better way to save fine gold than with
undercurrents an’ blanket riffles. I’ll have to wash these garments of
mine an’ clean up the soapsuds ’cause there’s a hundred dollars in
gold-dust clingin’ to my person this minute.” He went dripping up the
bank, while the men returned to their work singing.

After lunch Dextry saddled his bronco.

“I’m goin’ to town for a pair of gold-scales, but I’ll be back by
supper, then we’ll clean up between shifts. She’d ought to give us a
thousand ounces, the way that ground prospects.” He loped down the
gulch, while his partner returned to the pit, the flashing shovel
blades, and the rumbling undertone of the big workings that so
fascinated him.

It was perhaps four o’clock when he was aroused from his labors by a
shout from the bunk-tent, where a group of horsemen had clustered. As
Glenister drew near, he saw among them Wilton Struve, the lawyer, and
the big, well-dressed tenderfoot of the Northern--McNamara--the man of
the heavy hand. Struve straightway engaged him.

“Say, Glenister, we’ve come out to see about the title to this claim.”

“What about it?”

“Well, it was relocated about a month ago.” He paused.

“Yes. What of that?”

“Galloway has commenced suit.”

“The ground belongs to Dextry and me. We discovered it, we opened it up,
we’ve complied with the law, and we’re going to hold it.” Glenister
spoke with such conviction and heat as to nonplus Struve, but McNamara,
who had sat his horse silently until now, answered:

“Certainly, sir; if your title is good you will be protected, but the
law has arrived in Alaska and we’ve got to let it take its course.
There’s no need of violence--none whatever--but, briefly, the situation
is this: Mr. Galloway has commenced action against you; the court has
enjoined you from working and has appointed me as receiver to operate
the mine until the suit is settled. It’s an extraordinary procedure, of
course, but the conditions are extraordinary in this country. The season
is so short that it would be unjust to the rightful owner if the claim
lay idle all summer--so, to avoid that, I’ve been put in charge, with
instructions to operate it and preserve the proceeds subject to the
court’s order. Mr. Voorhees here is the United States Marshal. He will
serve the papers.”

Glenister threw up his hand in a gesture of restraint.

“Hold on! Do you mean to tell me that any court would recognize such a
claim as Galloway’s?”

“The law recognizes everything. If his grounds are no good, so much the
better for you.”

“You can’t put in a receiver without notice to us. Why, good Lord! we
never heard of a suit being commenced. We’ve never even been served with
a summons and we haven’t had a chance to argue in our own defence.”

“I have just said that this is a remarkable state of affairs and unusual
action had to be taken,” McNamara replied, but the young miner grew
excited.

“Look here--this gold won’t get away. It’s safe in the ground. We’ll
knock off work and let the claim lie idle till the thing is settled. You
can’t really expect us to surrender possession of our mine on the mere
allegation of some unknown man. That’s ridiculous. We won’t do it. Why,
you’ll have to let us argue our case, at least, before you try to put us
off.”

Voorhees shook his head. “We’ll have to follow instructions. The thing
for you to do is to appear before the court to-morrow and have the
receiver dismissed. If your title is as good as you say it is, you won’t
have any trouble.”

“You’re not the only ones to suffer,” added McNamara. “We’ve taken
possession of all the mines below here.” He nodded down the gulch. “I’m
an officer of the court and under bond--”

“How much?”

“Five thousand dollars for each claim.”

“What! Why, heavens, man, the poorest of these mines is producing that
much every day!”

While he spoke, Glenister was rapidly debating what course to follow.

“The place to argue this thing is before Judge Stillman,” said
Struve--but with little notion of the conflict going on within
Glenister. The youth yearned to fight--not with words nor quibbles nor
legal phrases, but with steel and blows. And he felt that the impulse
was as righteous as it was natural, for he knew this process was unjust,
an outrage. Mexico Mullins’s warning recurred to him. And yet--. He
shifted slowly as he talked till his back was to the door of the big
tent. They were watching him carefully, for all their apparent languor
and looseness in saddle; then as he started to leap within and rally his
henchmen, his mind went back to the words of Judge Stillman and his
niece. Surely that old man was on the square. He couldn’t be otherwise
with her beside him, believing in him; and a suspicion of deeper plots
behind these actions was groundless. So far, all was legal, he supposed,
with his scant knowledge of law; though the methods seemed unreasonable.
The men might be doing what they thought to be right. Why be the first
to resist? The men on the mines below had not done so. The title to this
ground was capable of such easy proof that he and Dex need have no
uneasiness. Courts do not rob honest people nowadays, he argued, and
moreover, perhaps the girl’s words were true, perhaps she _would_ think
more of him if he gave up the old fighting ways for her sake. Certainly
armed resistance to her uncle’s first edict would not please her. She
had said he was too violent, so he would show her he could lay his
savagery aside. She might smile on him approvingly, and that was Worth
taking a chance for--anyway it would mean but a few days’ delay in the
mine’s run. As he reasoned he heard a low voice speaking within the open
door. It was Slapjack Simms.

“Step aside, lad. I’ve got the big uncovered.”

Glenister saw the men on horseback snatch at their holsters, and, just
in time, leaped at his foreman, for the old man had moved out into the
open, a Winchester at shoulder, his cheek cuddling the stock, his eyes
cold and narrow. The young man flung the barrel up and wrenched the
weapon from his hands.

“None of that, Hank!” he cried, sharply. “I’ll say when to shoot.” He
turned to look into the muzzles of guns held in the hands of every
horseman--every horseman save one, for Alec McNamara sat unmoved, his
handsome features, nonchalant and amused, nodding approval. It was at
him that Hank’s weapon had been levelled.

“This is bad enough at the best. Don’t let’s make it any worse,” said
he.

Slapjack inhaled deeply, spat with disgust, and looked over his boss
incredulously.

“Well, of all the different kinds of damn fools,” he snorted, “you are
the kindest.” He marched past the marshal and his deputies down to the
cut, put on his coat, and vanished down the trail towards town, not
deigning a backward glance either at the mine or at the man unfit to
fight for.



CHAPTER VII

THE “BRONCO KID’S” EAVESDROPPING


Late in July it grows dark as midnight approaches, so that the many
lights from doorway and window seem less garish and strange than they do
a month earlier. In the Northern there was good business doing. The new
bar fixtures, which had cost a king’s ransom, or represented the one
night’s losings of a Klondike millionaire, shone rich, dark, and
enticing, while the cut glass sparkled with iridescent hues, reflecting,
in a measure, the prismatic moods, the dancing spirits of the crowd that
crushed past, halting at the gambling games, or patronizing the theatre
in the rear. The old bar furniture, brought down by dog team from “Up
River,” was established at the rear extremity of the long building, just
inside the entrance to the dance-hall, where patrons of the drama might,
with a modicum of delay and inconvenience, quaff as deeply of the beaker
as of the ballet.

Now, however, the show had closed, the hall had been cleared of chairs
and canvas, exposing a glassy, tempting surface, and the orchestra had
moved to the stage. They played a rollicking, blood-stirring two-step,
while the floor swam with dancers.

At certain intervals the musicians worked feverishly up to a crashing
crescendo, supported by the voices of the dancers, until all joined at
the top note in a yell, while the drummer fired a .44 Colt into a box of
wet sawdust beside his chair--all in time, all in the swinging spirit of
the tune.

The men, who were mostly young, danced like college boys, while the
women, who were all young and good dancers, floated through the measures
with the ease of rose-leaves on a summer stream. Faces were flushed,
eyes were bright, and but rarely a voice sounded that was not glad. Most
of the noise came from the men, and although one caught, here and there,
a hint of haggard lines about the girlish faces, and glimpsed occasional
eyes that did not smile, yet as a whole the scene was one of genuine
enjoyment.

Suddenly the music ceased and the couples crowded to the bar. The women
took harmless drinks; the men, mostly whiskey. Rarely was the choice of
potations criticised, though occasionally some ruddy eschewer of
sobriety insisted that his lady “take the same,” avowing that “hootch,”
having been demonstrated beneficial in his case, was good for her also.
Invariably the lady accepted without dispute, and invariably the man
failed to note her glance at the bartender, or the silent substitution
by that capable person of ginger-ale for whiskey or of plain water for
gin. In turn, the mixers collected one dollar from each man, flipping to
the girl a metal percentage-check which she added to her store. In the
curtained boxes overhead, men bought bottles with foil about the corks,
and then subterfuge on the lady’s part was idle, but, on the other hand,
she was able to pocket for each bottle a check redeemable at five
dollars.

A stranger, straight from the East, would have remarked first upon the
good music, next upon the good looks of the women, and then upon the
shabby clothes of the men--for some of them were in “mukluk,” others in
sweaters with huge initials and winged emblems, and all were collarless.

Outside in the main gambling-room there were but few women. Men crowded
in dense masses about the faro lay-out, the wheel, craps, the Klondike
game, pangingi, and the card-tables. They talked of business, of home,
of women, bought and sold mines, and bartered all things from hams to
honor. The groomed and clean, the unkempt and filthy jostled shoulder to
shoulder, equally affected by the license of the gold-fields and the
exhilaration of the New. The mystery of the North had touched them all.
The glad, bright wine of adventure filled their veins, and they spoke
mightily of things they had resolved to do, or recounted with simple
diffidence the strange stories of their accomplishment.

The “Bronco Kid,” familiar from Atlin to Nome as the best “bank” dealer
on the Yukon, worked the shift from eight till two. He was a slender man
of thirty, dexterous in movement, slow to smile, soft of voice, and
known as a living flame among women. He had dealt the biggest games of
the early days, and had no enemies. Yet, though many called him friend,
they wondered inwardly.

It was a strong play the Kid had to-night, for Swede Sam, of Dawson,
ventured many stacks of yellow chips, and he was a quick, aggressive
gambler. A Jew sat at the king end with ten neatly creased
one-thousand-dollar bills before him, together with piles of smaller
currency. He adventured viciously and without system, while outsiders
to the number of four or five cut in sporadically with small bets. The
game was difficult to follow; consequently the lookout, from his raised
dais, was leaning forward, chin in hand, while the group was hedged
about by eager on-lookers.

Faro is a closed book to most people, for its intricacies are confusing.
Lucky is he who has never persevered in solving its mysteries nor
speculated upon the “systems” of beating it. From those who have learned
it, the game demands practice, dexterity, and coolness. The dealer must
run the cards, watch the many shifting bets, handle the neatly piled
checks, figure, lightning-like, the profits and losses. It was his
unerring, clock like regularity in this that had won the Kid his
reputation. This night his powers were taxed. He dealt silently,
scowlingly, his long white fingers nervously caressing the cards.

This preoccupation prevented his noticing the rustle and stir of a
new-comer who had crowded up behind him, until he caught the wondering
glances of those in front and saw that the Israelite was staring past
him, his money forgotten, his eyes beady and sharp, his ratlike teeth
showing in a grin of admiration. Swede Sam glared from under his unkempt
shock and felt uncertainly towards the open collar of his flannel shirt
where a kerchief should have been. The men who were standing gazed at
the new-comer, some with surprise, others with a half smile of
recognition.

Bronco glanced quickly over his shoulder, and as he did so the breath
caught in his throat--but for only an instant. A girl stood so close
beside him that the lace of her gown brushed his sleeve. He was
shuffling at the moment and dropped a card, then nodded to her,
speaking quietly, as he stooped to regain the pasteboard:

“Howdy, Cherry?”

She did not answer--only continued to look at the “lay-out.” “What a
woman!” he thought. She was not too tall, with smoothly rounded bust and
hips, and long waist, all well displayed by her perfectly fitting
garments. Her face was oval, the mouth rather large, the eyes of dark,
dark-blue, prominently outlined under thin, silken lids. Her dull-gold
hair was combed low over the ears, and her smile showed rows of
sparkling teeth before it dived into twin dimples. Strangest of all, it
was an innocent face, the face and smile of a school-girl.

The Kid finished his shuffling awkwardly and slid the cards into the
box. Then the woman spoke:

“Let me have your place, Bronco.”

The men gasped, the Jew snickered, the lookout straightened in his
chair.

“Better not. It’s a hard game,” said the Kid, but her voice was
imperious as she commanded him:

“Hurry up. Give me your place.”

Bronco arose, whereupon she settled in his chair, tucked in her skirts,
removed her gloves, and twisted into place the diamonds on her hands.

“What the devil’s this?” said the lookout, roughly. “Are you drunk,
Bronco? Get out of that chair, miss.”

She turned to him slowly. The innocence had fled from her features and
the big eyes flashed warningly. A change had coarsened her like a puff
of air on a still pool. Then, while she stared at him, her lids drooped
dangerously and her lip curled.

“Throw him out, Bronco,” she said, and her tones held the hardness of a
mistress to her slave.

“That’s all right,” the Kid reassured the lookout. “She’s a better
dealer than I am. This is Cherry Malotte.”

Without noticing the stares this evoked, the girl commenced. Her hands,
beautifully soft and white, flashed over the board. She dealt rapidly,
unfalteringly, with the finish of one bred to the cards, handling chips
and coppers with the peculiar mannerisms that spring from long practice.
It was seen that she never looked at her check-rack, but, when a bet
required paying, picked up a stack without turning her head; and they
saw further that she never reached twice, nor took a large pile and
sized it up against its mate, removing the extra disks, as is the
custom. When she stretched forth her hand she grasped the right number
unerringly. This is considered the acme of professional finish, and the
Bronco Kid smiled delightedly as he saw the wonder spread from the
lookout to the spectators and heard the speech of the men who stood on
chairs and tables for sight of the woman dealer.

For twenty minutes she continued, until the place became congested, and
never once did the lookout detect an error.

While she was busy, Glenister entered the front-door and pushed his way
back towards the theatre. He was worried and distrait, his manner
perturbed and unnatural. Silently and without apparent notice he passed
friends who greeted him.

“What ails Glenister to-night?” asked a by-stander. “He acts funny.”

“Ain’t you heard? Why, the Midas has been jumped. He’s in a bad way--all
broke up.”

The girl suddenly ceased without finishing the deck, and arose.

“Don’t stop,” said the Kid, while a murmur of dismay came from the
spectators. She only shook her head and drew on her gloves with a show
of ennui.

Gliding through the crowd, she threaded about aimlessly, the recipient
of many stares though but few greetings, speaking with no one, a certain
dignity serving her as a barrier even here. She stopped a waiter and
questioned him.

“He’s up-stairs in a gallery box.”

“Alone?”

“Yes’m. Anyhow, he was a minute ago, unless some of the rustlers has
broke in on him.”

A moment later Glenister, watching the scene below, was aroused from his
gloomy absorption by the click of the box door and the rustle of silken
skirts.

“Go out, please,” he said, without turning. “I don’t want company.”
Hearing no answer, he began again, “I came here to be alone”--but there
he ceased, for the girl had come forward and laid her two hot hands upon
his cheeks.

“Boy,” she breathed--and he arose swiftly.

“Cherry! When did you come?”

“Oh, _days_ ago,” she said, impatiently, “from Dawson. They told me you
had struck it. I stood it as long as I could--then I came to you. Now,
tell me about yourself. Let me see you first, quick!”

She pulled him towards the light and gazed upward, devouring him
hungrily with her great, languorous eyes.

[Illustration: “WELL,” SHE SAID. “KISS ME!”]

She held to his coat lapels, standing close beside him, her warm breath
beating up into his face.

“Well,” she said, “kiss me!”

He took her wrists in his and loosed her hold, then looked down on her
gravely and said:

“No--that’s all over. I told you so when I left Dawson.”

“All over! Oh no, it isn’t, boy. You think so, but it isn’t--it can’t
be. I love you too much to let you go.”

“Hush!” said he. “There are people in the next box.”

“I don’t care! Let them hear,” she cried, with feminine recklessness.
“I’m proud of my love for you. I’ll tell it to them--to the whole
world.”

“Now, see here, little girl,” he said, quietly, “we had a long talk in
Dawson and agreed that it was best to divide our ways. I was mad over
you once, as a good many other men have been, but I came to my senses.
Nothing could ever result from it, and I told you so.”

“Yes, yes--I know. I thought I could give you up, but I didn’t realize
till you had gone how I wanted you. Oh, it’s been a _torture_ to me
every day for the past two years.” There was no semblance now to the
cold creature she had appeared upon entering the gambling-hall. She
spoke rapidly, her whole body tense with emotion, her voice shaken with
passion. “I’ve seen men and men and men, and they’ve loved me, but I
never cared for anybody in the world till I saw you. They ran after me,
but you were cold. You made me come to you. Perhaps that was it. Anyhow,
I can’t stand it. I’ll give up everything--I’ll do anything just to be
where you are. What do you think of a woman who will beg? Oh, I’ve lost
my pride--I’m a fool--a fool--but I can’t help it.”

“I’m sorry you feel this way,” said Glenister. “It isn’t my fault, and
it isn’t of any use.”

For an instant she stood quivering, while the light died out of her
face; then, with a characteristic change, she smiled till the dimples
laughed in her cheeks. She sank upon a seat beside him and pulled
together the curtains, shutting out the sight below.

“Very well”--then she put his hand to her cheek and cuddled it. “I’m
glad to see you just the same, and you can’t keep me from loving you.”

With his other hand he smoothed her hair, while, unknown to him and
beneath her lightness, she shrank and quivered at his touch like a
Barbary steed under the whip.

“Things are very bad with me,” he said. “We’ve had our mine jumped.”

“Bah! You know what to do. You aren’t a cripple--you’ve got five fingers
on your gun hand.”

“That’s it! They all tell me that--all the old-timers; but I don’t know
what to do. I thought I did--but I don’t. The law has come into this
country and I’ve tried to meet it half-way. They jumped us and put in a
receiver--a big man--by the name of McNamara. Dex wasn’t there and I let
them do it. When the old man learned of it he nearly went crazy. We had
our first quarrel. He thought I was afraid--”

“Not he,” said the girl. “I know him and he knows you.”

“That was a week ago. We’ve hired the best lawyer in Nome--Bill
Wheaton--and we’ve tried to have the injunction removed. We’ve offered
bond in any sum, but the Judge refuses to accept it. We’ve argued for
leave to appeal, but he won’t give us the right. The more I look into it
the worse it seems, for the court wasn’t convened in accordance with
law, we weren’t notified to appear in our own behalf, we weren’t allowed
a chance to argue our own case--nothing. They simply slapped on a
receiver, and now they refuse to allow us redress. From a legal
stand-point, it’s appalling, I’m told; but what’s to be done? What’s the
game? That’s the thing. What are they up to? I’m nearly out of my mind,
for it’s all my fault. I didn’t think it meant anything like this or I’d
have made a fight for possession and stood them off at least. As it is,
my partner’s sore and he’s gone to drinking--first time in twelve years.
He says I gave the claim away, and now it’s up to me and the Almighty to
get it back. If he gets full he’ll drive a four-horse wagon into some
church, or go up and pick the Judge to pieces with his fingers to see
what makes him go round.”

“What’ve they got against you and Dextry--some grudge?” she questioned.

“No, no! We’re not the only ones in trouble; they’ve jumped the rest of
the good mines and put this McNamara in as receiver on all of them, but
that’s small comfort. The Swedes are crazy; they’ve hired all the
lawyers in town, and are murdering more good American language than
would fill Bering Strait. Dex is in favor of getting our friends
together and throwing the receiver off. He wants to kill somebody, but
we can’t do that. They’ve got the soldiers to fall back on. We’ve been
warned that the troops are instructed to enforce the court’s action. I
don’t know what the plot is, for I can’t believe the old Judge is
crooked--the girl wouldn’t let him.”

“Girl?”

Cherry Malotte leaned forward where the light shone on the young man’s
worried face.

“The girl? What girl? Who is she?”

Her voice had lost its lazy caress, her lips had thinned. Never was a
woman’s face more eloquent, mused Glenister as he noted her. Every
thought fled to this window to peer forth, fearful, lustful, hateful, as
the case might be. He had loved to play with her in the former days, to
work upon her passions and watch the changes, to note her features
mirror every varying emotion from tenderness to flippancy, from anger to
delight, and, at his bidding, to see the pale cheeks glow with love’s
fire, the eyes grow heavy, the dainty lips invite kisses. Cherry was a
perfect little spoiled animal, he reflected, and a very dangerous one.

“What girl?” she questioned again, and he knew beforehand the look that
went with it.

“The girl I intend to marry,” he said, slowly, looking her between the
eyes.

He knew he was cruel--he wanted to be--it satisfied the clamor and
turmoil within him, while he also felt that the sooner she knew and the
colder it left her the better. He could not note the effect of the
remark on her, however, for, as he spoke, the door of the box opened and
the head of the Bronco Kid appeared, then retired instantly with
apologies.

“Wrong stall,” he said, in his slow voice. “Looking for another party.”
Nevertheless, his eyes had covered every inch of them--noted the drawn
curtains and the breathless poise of the woman--while his ears had
caught part of Glenister’s speech.

“You won’t marry her,” said Cherry, quietly. “I don’t know who she is,
but I won’t let you marry her.”

She rose and smoothed her skirts.

“It’s time nice people were going now.” She said it with a sneer at
herself. “Take me out through this crowd. I’m living quietly and I don’t
want these beasts to follow me.”

As they emerged from the theatre the morning air was cool and quiet,
while the sun was just rising. The Bronco Kid lighted a cigar as they
passed, nodding silently at their greeting. His eyes followed them,
while his hands were so still that the match burned through to his
fingers-then when they had gone his teeth met and ground savagely
through the tobacco so that the cigar fell, while he muttered:

“So that’s the girl you intend to marry? We’ll see, by God!”



CHAPTER VIII

DEXTRY MAKES A CALL


The water front had a strong attraction for Helen Chester, and rarely
did a fair day pass without finding her in some quiet spot from which
she could watch the shifting life along its edge, the ships at anchor,
and the varied incidents of the surf.

This morning she sat in a dory pulled high up on the beach, bathed in
the bright sunshine, and staring at the rollers, while lines of
concentration wrinkled her brow. The wind had blown for some days till
the ocean beat heavily across the shallow bar, and now, as it became
quieter, longshoremen were launching their craft, preparing to resume
their traffic.

Not until the previous day had the news of her friends’ misfortune come
to her, and although she had heard no hint of fraud, she began to
realize that they were involved in a serious tangle. To the questions
which she anxiously put to her uncle he had replied that their
difficulty arose from a technicality in the mining laws which another
man had been shrewd enough to profit by. It was a complicated question,
he said, and one requiring time to thrash out to an equitable
settlement. She had undertaken to remind him of the service these men
had done her, but, with a smile, he interrupted; he could not allow such
things to influence his judicial attitude, and she must not endeavor to
prejudice him in the discharge of his duty. Recognizing the justice of
this, she had desisted.

For many days the girl had caught scattered talk between the Judge and
McNamara, and between Struve and his associates, but it all seemed
foreign and dry, and beyond the fact that it bore on the litigation over
the Anvil Creek mines, she understood nothing and cared less,
particularly as a new interest had but recently come into her life, an
interest in the form of a man--McNamara.

He had begun with quiet, half-concealed admiration of her, which had
rapidly increased until his attentions had become of a singularly
positive and resistless character.

Judge Stillman was openly delighted, while the court of one like Alec
McNamara could but flatter any girl. In his presence, Helen felt herself
rebelling at his suit, yet as distance separated them she thought ever
more kindly of it. This state of mind contrasted oddly with her feelings
towards the other man she had met, for in this country there were but
two. When Glenister was with her she saw his love lying nakedly in his
eyes and it exercised some spell which drew her to him in spite of
herself, but when he had gone, back came the distrust, the terror of the
brute she felt was there behind it all. The one appealed to her while
present, the other pled strongest while away. Now she was attempting to
analyze her feelings and face the future squarely, for she realized that
her affairs neared a crisis, and this, too, not a month after meeting
the men. She wondered if she would come to love her uncle’s friend. She
did not know. Of the other she was sure--she never could.

Busied with these reflections, she noticed the familiar figure of Dextry
wandering aimlessly. He was not unkempt, and yet his air gave her the
impression of prolonged sleeplessness. Spying her, he approached and
seated himself in the sand against the boat, while at her greeting he
broke into talk as if he was needful only of her friendly presence to
stir his confidential chords into active vibration.

“We’re in turrible shape, miss,” he said. “Our claim’s jumped. Somebody
run in and talked the boy out of it while I was gone, and now we can’t
get ’em off. He’s been tryin’ this here new law game that you-all
brought in this summer. I’ve been drunk--that’s what makes me look so
ornery.”

He said the last, not in the spirit of apology, for rarely does your
frontiersman consider that his self-indulgences require palliation, but
rather after the manner of one purveying news of mild interest, as he
would inform you that his surcingle had broken or that he had witnessed
a lynching.

“What made them jump your claim?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know nothin’ about it, because, as I remarked
previous, I ’ain’t follered the totterin’ footsteps of the law none too
close. Nor do I intend to. I simply draws out of the game fer a spell,
and lets the youngster have his fling; then if he can’t make good, I’ll
take the cards and finish it for him.

“It’s like the time I was ranchin’ with an Englishman up in Montana.
This here party claimed the misfortune of bein’ a younger son, whatever
that is, and is grubstaked to a ranch by his people back home. Havin’
acquired an intimate knowledge of the West by readin’ Bret Harte, and
havin’ assim’lated the secrets of ranchin’ by correspondence school, he
is fitted, ample, to teach us natives a thing or two--and he does it. I
am workin’ his outfit as foreman, and it don’t take long to show me that
he’s a good-hearted feller, in spite of his ridin’-bloomers an’ pinochle
eye-glass. He ain’t never had no actual experience, but he’s got a Henry
Thompson Seton book that tells him all about everything from field-mice
to gorrillys.

“We’re troubled a heap with coyotes them days, and finally this party
sends home for some Rooshian wolf-hounds. I’m fer pizenin’ a sheep
carcass, but he says:

“‘No, no, me deah man; that’s not sportsman-like; we’ll hunt ’em. Ay,
hunt ’em! Only fawncy the sport we’ll have, ridin’ to hounds!’

“‘We will not,’ says I. ‘I ain’t goin’ to do no Simon Legree stunts. It
ain’t man’s size. Bein’ English, you don’t count, but I’m growed up.’

“Nothin’ would do him but those _Uncle Tom’s Cabin_ dogs, however, and
he had ’em imported clean from Berkshire or Sibeery or thereabouts, four
of ’em, great, big, blue ones. They was as handsome and imposin’ as a
set of solid-gold teeth, but somehow they didn’t seem to savvy our play
none. One day the cook rolled a rain bar’l down-hill from the kitchen,
and when them blooded critters saw it comin’ they throwed down their
tails and tore out like rabbits. After that I couldn’t see no good in
’em with a spy-glass.

“‘They ’ain’t got no grit. What makes you think they can fight?’ I asked
one day.

“‘Fight?’ says H’Anglish. ‘My deah man, they’re full-blooded. Cost
seventy pun each. They’re dreadful creatures when they’re
roused--they’ll tear a wolf to pieces like a rag--kill bears--anything.
Oh! Rully, perfectly dreadful!’

“Well, it wasn’t a week later that he went over to the east line with me
to mend a barb wire. I had my pliers and a hatchet and some staples.
About a mile from the house we jumped up a little brown bear that
scampered off when he seen us, but bein’ agin’ a bluff where he couldn’t
get away, he climbed a cotton-wood. H’Anglish was simply frothin’ with
excitement.

“‘What a misfortune! Neyther gun nor hounds.’

“‘I’ll scratch his back and talk pretty to him,’ says I, ‘while you run
back and get a Winchester and them ferocious bull-dogs.’

“‘Wolf-hounds,’ says he, with dignity, ‘full-blooded, seventy pun each.
They’ll rend the poor beast limb from limb. I hate to do it, but it’ll
be good practice for them.’

“‘They may be good renders,’ says I, ‘but don’t forgit the gun.’

“Well, I throwed sticks at the critter when he tried to unclimb the
tree, till finally the boss got back with his dogs. They set up an awful
holler when they see the bear--first one they’d ever smelled, I
reckon--and the little feller crawled up in some forks and watched
things, cautious, while they leaped about, bayin’ most fierce and
blood-curdlin’.

“‘How you goin’ to get him down?’ says I.

“I’ll shoot him in the lower jaw,’ says the Britisher, ‘so he cawn’t
bite the dogs. It’ll give ’em cawnfidence.’

“He takes aim at Mr. Bear’s chin and misses it three times runnin’, he’s
that excited.

“‘Settle down, H’Anglish,’ says I. ‘He ’ain’t got no double chins. How
many shells left in your gun?’

“When he looks he finds there’s only one more, for he hadn’t stopped to
fill the magazine, so I cautions him.

“‘You’re shootin’ too low. Raise her.’

“He raised her all right, and caught Mr. Bruin in the snout. What
followed thereafter was most too quick to notice, for the poor bear let
out a bawl, dropped off his limb into the midst of them ragin’, tur’ble,
seventy-pun hounds, an’ hugged ’em to death, one after another, like he
was doin’ a system of health exercises. He took ’em to his boosum as if
he’d just got back off a long trip, then, droppin’ the last one, he made
at that younger son an’ put a gold fillin’ in his leg. Yes, sir; most
chewed it off. H’Anglish let out a Siberian-wolf holler hisself, an’ I
had to step in with the hatchet and kill the brute though I was most
dead from laughin’.”

“That’s how it is with me an’ Glenister,” the old man concluded. “When
he gets tired experimentin’ with this new law game of hisn, I’ll step in
an’ do business on a common-sense basis.”

“You talk as if you wouldn’t get fair play,” said Helen.

“We won’t,” said he, with conviction. “I look on all lawyers with
suspicion, even to old bald-face--your uncle, askin’ your pardon an’
gettin’ it, bein’ as I’m a friend an’ he ain’t no real relation of
yours, anyhow. No, sir; they’re all crooked.”

Dextry held the Western distrust of the legal profession--comprehensive,
unreasoning, deep.

“Is the old man all the kin you’ve got?” he questioned, when she refused
to discuss the matter.

“He is--in a way. I have a brother, or I hope I have, somewhere. He ran
away when we were both little tads and I haven’t seen him since. I
heard about him, indirectly, at Skagway--three years ago--during the big
rush to the Klondike, but he has never been home. When father died, I
went to live with Uncle Arthur--some day, perhaps, I’ll find my brother.
He’s cruel to hide from me this way, for there are only we two left and
I’ve loved him always.”

She spoke sadly and her mood blended well with the gloom of her
companion, so they stared silently out over the heaving green waters.

“It’s a good thing me an’ the kid had a little piece of money ahead,”
Dextry resumed later, reverting to the thought that lay uppermost in his
mind, “‘cause we’d be up against it right if we hadn’t. The boy couldn’t
have amused himself none with these court proceedings, because they come
high. I call ’em luxuries, like brandied peaches an’ silk undershirts.”

“I don’t trust these Jim Crow banks no more than I do lawyers, neither.
No, sirree! I bought a iron safe an’ hauled it out to the mine. She
weighs eighteen hundred, and we keep our money locked up there. We’ve
got a feller named Johnson watchin’ it now. Steal it? Well, hardly. They
can’t bust her open without a stick of ‘giant’ which would rouse
everybody in five miles, an’ they can’t lug her off bodily--she’s too
heavy. No; it’s safer there than any place I know of. There ain’t no
abscondin’ cashiers an’ all that. To-morrer I’m goin’ back to live on
the claim an’ watch this receiver man till the thing’s settled.”

When the girl arose to go, he accompanied her up through the deep sand
of the lane-like street to the main, muddy thoroughfare of the camp. As
yet, the planked and gravelled pavements, which later threaded the
town, were unknown, and the incessant traffic had worn the road into a
quagmire of chocolate-colored slush, almost axle-deep, with which the
store fronts, show-windows, and awnings were plentifully shot and
spattered from passing teams. Whenever a wagon approached, pedestrians
fled to the shelter of neighboring doorways, watching a chance to dodge
out again. When vehicles passed from the comparative solidity of the
main street out into the morasses that constituted the rest of the town,
they adventured perilously, their horses plunging, snorting, terrified,
amid an atmosphere of profanity. Discouraged animals were down
constantly, and no foot-passenger, even with rubber boots, ventured off
the planks that led from house to house.

To avoid a splashing team, Dextry pulled his companion close in against
the entrance to the Northern saloon, standing before her protectingly.

Although it was late in the afternoon the Bronco Kid had just arisen and
was now loafing preparatory to the active duties of his profession. He
was speaking with the proprietor when Dextry and the girl sought shelter
just without the open door, so he caught a fair though fleeting glimpse
of her as she flashed a curious look inside. She had never been so close
to a gambling-hall before, and would have liked to peer in more
carefully had she dared, but her companion moved forward. At the first
look the Bronco Kid had broken off in his speech and stared at her as
though at an apparition. When she had vanished, he spoke to Reilly:

“Who’s that?”

Reilly shrugged his shoulders, then without further question the Kid
turned back towards the empty theatre and out of the back door.

He moved nonchalantly till he was outside, then with the speed of a colt
ran down the narrow planking between the buildings, turned parallel to
the front street, leaped from board to board, splashed through puddles
of water till he reached the next alley. Stamping the mud from his shoes
and pulling down his sombrero, he sauntered out into the main
thoroughfare.

Dextry and his companion had crossed to the other side and were
approaching, so the gambler gained a fair view of them. He searched
every inch of the girl’s face and figure, then, as she made to turn her
eyes in his direction, he slouched away. He followed, however, at a
distance, till he saw the man leave her, then on up to the big hotel he
shadowed her. A half-hour later he was drinking in the Golden Gate
bar-room with an acquaintance who ministered to the mechanical details
behind the hotel counter.

“Who’s the girl I saw come in just now?” he inquired.

“I guess you mean the Judge’s niece.”

Both men spoke in the dead, restrained tones that go with their
callings.

“What’s her name?”

“Chester, I think. Why? Look good to you, Kid?”

Although the other neither spoke nor made sign, the bartender construed
his silence as acquiescence and continued, with a conscious glance at
his own reflection while he adjusted his diamond scarf-pin: “Well, she
can have _me_! I’ve got it fixed to meet her.”

“_Bah!_ I guess not,” said the Kid, suddenly, with an inflection that
startled the other from his preening. Then, as he went out, the man
mused:

“Gee! Bronco’s got the worst eye in the camp! Makes me creep when he
throws it on me with that muddy look. He acted like he was jealous.”

       *       *       *       *       *

At noon the next day, as he prepared to go to the claim, Dextry’s
partner burst in upon him. Glenister was dishevelled, and his eyes shone
with intense excitement.

“What d’ you think they’ve done now?” he cried, as greeting.

“I dunno. What is it?”

“They’ve broken open the safe and taken our money.”

“What!”

The old man in turn was on his feet, the grudge which he had felt
against Glenister in the past few days forgotten in this common
misfortune.

“Yes, by Heaven, they’ve swiped our money--our tents, tools, teams,
books, hose, and all of our personal property--everything! They threw
Johnson off and took the whole works. I never heard of such a thing. I
went out to the claim and they wouldn’t let me go near the workings.
They’ve got every mine on Anvil Creek guarded the same way, and they
aren’t going to let us come around even when they clean up. They told me
so this morning.”

“But, look here,” demanded Dextry, sharply, “the money in that safe
belongs to us. That’s money we brought in from the States. The court
’ain’t got no right to it. What kind of a damn law is that?”

“Oh, as to law, they don’t pay any attention to it any more,” said
Glenister, bitterly. “I made a mistake in not killing the first man that
set foot on the claim. I was a sucker, and now we’re up against a stiff
game. The Swedes are in the same fix, too. This last order has left them
groggy.”

“I don’t understand it yet,” said Dextry.

“Why, it’s this way. The Judge has issued what he calls an order
enlarging the powers of the receiver, and it authorizes McNamara to take
possession of everything on the claims--tents, tools, stores, and
personal property of all kinds. It was issued last night without notice
to our side, so Wheaton says, and they served it this morning early. I
went out to see McNamara, and when I got there I found him in our
private tent with the safe broken open.”

“‘What does this mean?’ I said. And then he showed me the new order.

“‘I’m responsible to the court for every penny of this money,’ said he,
‘and for every tool on the claim. In view of that I can’t allow you to
go near the workings.’

“‘Not go near the workings?’ said I. ‘Do you mean you won’t let us see
the clean-ups from our own mine? How do we know we’re getting a square
deal if we don’t see the gold weighed?’

“‘I’m an officer of the court and under bond,’ said he, and the smiling
triumph in his eyes made me crazy.

“‘You’re a lying thief,’ I said, looking at him square. ‘And you’re
going too far. You played me for a fool once and made it stick, but it
won’t work twice.’

“He looked injured and aggrieved and called in Voorhees, the marshal. I
can’t grasp the thing at all; everybody seems to be against us, the
Judge, the marshal, the prosecuting attorney--everybody. Yet they’ve
done it all according to law, they claim, and have the soldiers to back
them up.”

“It’s just as Mexico Mullins said,” Dextry stormed; “there’s a deal on
of some kind. I’m goin’ up to the hotel an’ call on the Judge myself. I
’ain’t never seen him nor this McNamara, either. I allus want to look a
man straight in the eyes once, then I know what course to foller in my
dealings.”

“You’ll find them both,” said Glenister, “for McNamara rode into town
behind me.”

The old prospector proceeded to the Golden Gate Hotel and inquired for
Judge Stillman’s room. A boy attempted to take his name, but he seized
him by the scruff of the neck and sat him in his seat, proceeding
unannounced to the suite to which he had been directed. Hearing voices,
he knocked, and then, without awaiting a summons, walked in.

The room was fitted like an office, with desk, table, type-writer, and
law-books. Other rooms opened from it on both sides. Two men were
talking earnestly--one gray-haired, smooth-shaven, and clerical, the
other tall, picturesque, and masterful. With his first glance the miner
knew that before him were the two he had come to see, and that in
reality he had to deal with but one, the big man who shot at him the
level glances.

“We are engaged,” said the Judge, “very busily engaged, sir. Will you
call again in half an hour?”

Dextry looked him over carefully from head to foot, then turned his back
on him and regarded the other. Neither he nor McNamara spoke, but their
eyes were busy and each instinctively knew that here was a foe.

“What do you want?” McNamara inquired, finally.

“I just dropped in to get acquainted. My name is Dextry--Joe
Dextry--from everywhere west of the Missouri--an’ your name is McNamara,
ain’t it? This here, I reckon, is your little French poodle--eh?”
indicating Stillman.

“What do you mean?” said McNamara, while the Judge murmured indignantly.

“Just what I say. However, that ain’t what I want to talk about. I don’t
take no stock in such truck as judges an’ lawyers an’ orders of court.
They ain’t intended to be took serious. They’re all right for children
an’ Easterners an’ non compos mentis people, I s’pose, but I’ve always
been my own judge, jury, an’ hangman, an’ I aim to continue workin’ my
legislatif, executif, an’ judicial duties to the end of the string. You
look out! My pardner is young an’ seems to like the idee of lettin’
somebody else run his business, so I’m goin’ to give him rein and let
him amuse himself for a while with your dinky little writs an’
receiverships. But don’t go too far--you can rob the Swedes, ’cause
Swedes ain’t entitled to have no money, an’ some other crook would get
it if you didn’t, but don’t play me an’ Glenister fer Scandinavians.
It’s a mistake. We’re white men, an’ I’m apt to come romancin’ up here
with one of these an’ bust you so you won’t hold together durin’ the
ceremonies.”

With his last words he made the slightest shifting movement, only a
lifting shrug of the shoulder, yet in his palm lay a six-shooter. He had
slipped it from his trousers band with the ease of long practice and
absolute surety. Judge Stillman gasped and backed against the desk, but
McNamara idly swung his leg as he sat sidewise on the table. His only
sign of interest was a quickening of the eyes, a fact of which Dextry
made mental note.

“Yes,” said the miner, disregarding the alarm of the lawyer, “you can
wear this court in your vest-pocket like a Waterbury, if you want to,
but if you don’t let me alone, I’ll uncoil its main-spring. That’s all.”

He replaced his weapon and, turning, walked out the door.



CHAPTER IX

SLUICE ROBBERS


“We must have money,” said Glenister a few days later. “When McNamara
jumped our safe he put us down and out. There’s no use fighting in this
court any longer, for the Judge won’t let us work the ground ourselves,
even if we give bond, and he won’t grant an appeal. He says his orders
aren’t appealable. We ought to send Wheaton out to ’Frisco and have him
take the case to the higher courts. Maybe he can get a writ of
supersedeas.”

“I don’t rec’nize the name, but if it’s as bad as it sounds it’s sure
horrible. Ain’t there no cure for it?”

“It simply means that the upper court would take the case away from this
one.”

“Well, let’s send him out quick. Every day means ten thousand dollars to
us. It ’ll take him a month to make the round trip, so I s’pose he ought
to leave to-morrow on the _Roanoke_.”

“Yes, but where’s the money to do it with? McNamara has ours. My God!
What a mess we’re in! What fools we’ve been, Dex! There’s a conspiracy
here. I’m beginning to see it now that it’s too late. This man is
looting our country under color of law, and figures on gutting all the
mines before we can throw him off. That’s his game. He’ll work them as
hard and as long as he can, and Heaven only knows what will become of
the money. He must have big men behind him in order to fix a United
States judge this way. Maybe he has the ’Frisco courts corrupted, too.”

“If he has, I’m goin’ to kill him,” said Dextry. “I’ve worked like a dog
all my life, and now that I’ve struck pay I don’t aim to lose it. If
Bill Wheaton can’t win out accordin’ to law, I’m goin’ to proceed
accordin’ to justice.”

During the past two days the partners had haunted the court-room where
their lawyer, together with the counsel for the Scandinavians, had
argued and pleaded, trying every possible professional and
unprofessional artifice in search of relief from the arbitrary rulings
of the court, while hourly they had become more strongly suspicious of
some sinister plot--some hidden, powerful understanding back of the
Judge and the entire mechanism of justice. They had fought with the fury
of men who battle for life, and had grown to hate the lines of
Stillman’s vacillating face, the bluster of the district-attorney, and
the smirking confidence of the clerks, for it seemed that they all
worked mechanically, like toys, at the dictates of Alec McNamara. At
last, when they had ceased, beaten and exhausted, they were too confused
with technical phrases to grasp anything except the fact that relief was
denied them; that their claims were to be worked by the receiver; and,
as a crowning defeat, they learned that the Judge would move his court
to St. Michael’s and hear no cases until he returned, a month later.

Meanwhile, McNamara hired every idle man he could lay hand upon, and
ripped the placers open with double shifts. Every day a stream of
yellow dust poured into the bank and was locked in his vaults, while
those mine-owners who attempted to witness the clean-ups were ejected
from their claims. The politician had worked with incredible swiftness
and system, and a fortnight after landing he had made good his boast to
Struve, and was in charge of every good claim in the district, the
owners were ousted, their appeals argued and denied, and the court gone
for thirty days, leaving him a clear field for his operations. He felt a
contempt for most of his victims, who were slow-witted Swedes, grasping
neither the purport nor the magnitude of his operation, and as to those
litigants who were discerning enough to see its enormity, he trusted to
his organization to thwart them.

The two partners had come to feel that they were beating against a wall,
and had also come squarely to face the proposition that they were
without funds wherewith to continue their battle. It was maddening for
them to think of the daily robbery that they suffered, for the Midas
turned out many ounces of gold at every shift; and more maddening to
realize the receiver’s shrewdness in crippling them by his theft of the
gold in their safe. That had been his crowning stroke.

“We MUST get money quick,” said Glenister. “Do you think we can borrow?”

“Borrow?” sniffed Dextry. “Folks don’t lend money in Alaska.”

They relapsed into a moody silence.

“I met a feller this mornin’ that’s workin’ on the Midas,” the old man
resumed. “He came in town fer a pair of gum boots, an’ he says they’ve
run into awful rich ground--so rich that they have to clean up every
morning when the night shift goes off ’cause the riffles clog with
gold.”

“Think of it!” Glenister growled. “If we had even a part of one of those
clean-ups we could send Wheaton outside.”

In the midst of his bitterness a thought struck him. He made as though
to speak, then closed his mouth; but his partner’s eyes were on him,
filled with a suppressed but growing fire. Dextry lowered his voice
cautiously:

“There’ll be twenty thousand dollars in them sluices to-night at
midnight.”

Glenister stared back while his pulse pounded at something that lay in
the other’s words.

“It belongs to us,” the young man said. “There wouldn’t be anything
wrong about it, would there?”

Dextry sneered. “Wrong! Right! Them is fine an’ soundin’ titles in a
mess like this. What do they mean? I tell you, at midnight to-night Alec
McNamara will have twenty thousand dollars of our money--”

“God! What would happen if they caught us?” whispered the younger,
following out his thought. “They’d never let us get off the claim alive.
He couldn’t find a better excuse to shoot us down and get rid of us. If
we came up before this Judge for trial, we’d go to Sitka for twenty
years.”

“Sure! But it’s our only chance. I’d ruther die on the Midas in a fair
fight than set here bitin’ my hangnails. I’m growin’ old and I won’t
never make another strike. As to bein’ caught--them’s our chances. I
won’t be took alive--I promise you that--and before I go I’ll get my
satisfy. Castin’ things up, that’s about all a man gets in this vale of
tears, jest satisfaction of one kind or another. It ’ll be a fight in
the open, under the stars, with the clean, wet moss to lie down on, and
not a scrappin’-match of freak phrases and law-books inside of a
stinkin’ court-room. The cards is shuffled and in the box, pardner, and
the game is started. If we’re due to win, we’ll win. If we’re due to
lose, we’ll lose. These things is all figgered out a thousand years
back. Come on, boy. Are you game?”

“Am I game?” Glenister’s nostrils dilated and his voice rose a tone. “Am
I game? I’m with you till the big cash-in, and Lord have mercy on any
man that blocks our game to-night.”

“We’ll need another hand to help us,” said Dextry. “Who can we get?”

At that moment, as though in answer, the door opened with the scant
ceremony that friends of the frontier are wont to observe, admitting the
attenuated, flapping, dome-crowned figure of Slapjack Simms, and Dextry
fell upon him with the hunger of a wolf.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was midnight and over the dark walls of the valley peered a multitude
of stars, while away on the southern horizon there glowed a subdued
effulgence as though from hidden fires beneath the Gold God’s caldron,
or as though the phosphorescence of Bering had spread upward into the
skies. Although each night grew longer, it was not yet necessary to
light the men at work in the cuts. There were perhaps two hours in which
it was difficult to see at a distance, but the dawn came early, hence no
provision had been made for torches.

Five minutes before the hour the night-shift boss lowered the gates in
the dam, and, as the rush from the sluices subsided, his men quit work
and climbed the bluff to the mess tent. The dwellings of the Midas, as
has already been explained, sat back from the creek at a distance of a
city block, the workings being thus partially hidden under the brow of
the steep bank.

It is customary to leave a watchman in the pit during the noon and
midnight hours, not only to see that strangers preserve a neutral
attitude, but also to watch the waste-gates and water supply. The night
man of the Midas had been warned of his responsibility, and, knowing
that much gold lay in his keeping, was disposed to gaze on the
curious-minded with the sourness of suspicion. Therefore, as a man
leading a packhorse approached out of the gloom of the creek-trail, his
eyes were on him from the moment he appeared. The road wound along the
gravel of the bars and passed in proximity to the flumes. However, the
wayfarer paid no attention to them, and the watchman detected an
explanatory weariness in his slow gait.

“Some prospector getting in from a trip,” he thought.

The stranger stopped, scratched a match, and, as he undertook to light
his pipe, the observer caught the mahogany shine of a negro’s face. The
match sputtered out and then came impatient blasphemy as he searched for
another.

“Evenin’, sah! You-all oblige me with a match?” He addressed the watcher
on the bank above, and, without waiting a reply, began to climb upward.

No smoker on the trail will deny the luxury of a light to the most
humble, so as the negro gained his level the man reached forth to
accommodate him. Without warning, the black man leaped forward with the
ferocity of an animal and struck the other a fearful blow. The watchman
sank with a faint, startled cry, and the African dragged him out of
sight over the brow of the bank, where he rapidly tied him hand and
foot, stuffing a gag into his mouth. At the same moment two other
figures rounded the bend below and approached. They were mounted and
leading a third saddle-horse, as well as other pack-animals. Reaching
the workings, they dismounted. Then began a strange procedure, for one
man clambered upon the sluices and, with a pick, ripped out the riffles.
This was a matter of only a few seconds; then, seizing a shovel, he
transferred the concentrates which lay in the bottom of the boxes into
canvas sacks which his companion held. As each bag was filled, it was
tied and dumped into the cut. They treated but four boxes in this way,
leaving the lower two-thirds of the flume untouched, for Anvil Creek
gold is coarse and the heart of the clean-up lies where it is thrown in.
Gathering the sacks together, they lashed them upon the pack-animals,
then mounted the second string of sluices and began as before.
Throughout it all they worked with feverish haste and in unbroken
silence, every moment flashing quick glances at the figure of the
lookout who stood on the crest above, half dimmed in the shadow of a
willow clump. Judging by their rapidity and sureness, they were expert
miners.

From the tent came the voices of the night shift at table, and the faint
rattle of dishes, while the canvas walls glowed from the lights within
like great fire-flies hidden in the grass. The foreman, finishing his
meal, appeared at the door of the mess tent, and, pausing to accustom
his eyes to the gloom, peered perfunctorily towards the creek. The
watchman detached himself from the shadow, moving out into plain sight,
and the boss turned back. The two men below were now working on the
sluices which lay close under the bank and were thus hidden from the
tent.

       *       *       *       *       *

McNamara’s description of Anvil Creek’s riches had fired Helen Chester
with the desire to witness a clean-up, so they had ridden out from town
in time for supper at the claim. She had not known whither he led her,
only understanding that provision for her entertainment would be made
with the superintendent’s wife. Upon recognizing the Midas, she had
endeavored to question him as to why her friends had been dispossessed,
and he had answered, as it seemed, straight and true.

The ground was in dispute, he said--another man claimed it--and while
the litigation pended he was in charge for the court, to see that
neither party received injury. He spoke adroitly, and it satisfied her
to have the proposition resolved into such simplicity.

She had come prepared to spend the night and witness the early morning
operation, so the receiver made the most of his opportunity. He showed
her over the workings, explaining the many things that were strange to
her. Not only was he in himself a fascinating figure to any woman, but
wherever he went men regarded him deferentially, and nothing affects a
woman’s judgment more promptly than this obvious sign of power. He spent
the evening with her, talking of his early days and the things he had
done in the West, his story matching the picturesqueness of her
canvas-walled quarters with their rough furnishings of skins and
blankets. Being a keen observer as well as a finished raconteur, he had
woven a spell of words about the girl, leaving her in a state of tumult
and indecision when at last, towards midnight, he retired to his own
tent. She knew to what end all this was working, and yet knew not what
her answer would be when the question came which lay behind it all. At
moments she felt the wonderful attraction of the man, and still there
was some distrust of him which she could not fathom. Again her thoughts
reverted to Glenister, the impetuous, and she compared the two, so
similar in some ways, so utterly opposed in others.

It was when she heard the night shift at their meal that she threw a
silken shawl about her head, stepped into the cool night, and picked her
way down towards the roar of the creek. “A breath of air and then to
bed,” she thought. She saw the tall figure of the watchman and made for
him. He seemed oddly interested in her approach, watching her very
closely, almost as though alarmed. It was doubtless because there were
so few women out here, or possibly on account of the lateness of the
hour. Away with conventions! This was the land of instinct and impulse.
She would talk to him. The man drew his hat more closely about his face
and moved off as she came up. Glenister had been in her thoughts a
moment since, and she now noted that here was another with the same
great, square shoulders and erect head. Then she saw with a start that
this one was a negro. He carried a Winchester and seemed to watch her
carefully, yet with indecision.

To express her interest and to break the silence, she questioned him,
but at the sound of her voice he stepped towards her and spoke roughly.

“What!”

Then he paused, and stammered in a strangely altered and unnatural
voice:

“Yass’m. I’m the watchman.”

She noted two other darkies at work below and was vaguely surprised, not
so much at their presence, as at the manner in which they moved, for
they seemed under stress of some great haste, running hither and yon.
She saw horses standing in the trail and sensed something indefinably
odd and alarming in the air. Turning to the man, she opened her mouth to
speak, when from the rank grass under her feet came a noise which set
her a-tingle, and at which her suspicions leaped full to the solution.
It was the groan of a man. Again he gave voice to his pain, and she knew
that she stood face to face with something sinister. Tales of sluice
robbers had come to her, and rumors of the daring raids into which men
were lured by the yellow sheen--and yet this was incredible. A hundred
men lay within sound of her voice; she could hear their laughter; one
was whistling a popular refrain. A quarter-mile away on every hand were
other camps; a scream from her would bring them all. Nonsense, this was
no sluice robbery--and then the man in the bushes below moaned for the
third time.

“What is that?” she said.

Without reply the negro lowered the muzzle of his rifle till it covered
her breast and at the same time she heard the double click of the
hammer.

“Keep still and don’t move,” he warned. “We’re desperate and we can’t
take any chances, Miss.”

“Oh, you are stealing the gold--”

She was wildly frightened, yet stood still while the lookout anxiously
divided his attention between her and the tents above until his
companions signalled him that they were through and the horses were
loaded. Then he spoke:

“I don’t know what to do with you, but I guess I’ll tie you up.”

“What!” she said.

“I’m going to tie and gag you so you can’t holler.”

“Oh, don’t you _dare_!” she cried, fiercely. “I’ll stand right here till
you’ve gone and I won’t scream. I promise.” She looked up at him
appealingly, at which he dipped his head, so that she caught only a
glimpse of his face, and then backed away.

“All right! Don’t try it, because I’ll be hidden in those bushes yonder
at the bend and I’ll keep you covered till the others are gone.” He
leaped down the bank, ran to the cavalcade, mounted quickly, and the
three lashed their horses into a run, disappearing up the trail around
the sharp curve. She heard the blows of their quirts as they whipped the
packhorses.

They were long out of sight before the girl moved or made sound,
although she knew that none of the three had paused at the bend. She
only stood and gazed, for as they galloped off she had heard the scrap
of a broken sentence. It was but one excited word, sounding through the
rattle of hoofs--her own name--“Helen”; and yet because of it she did
not voice the alarm, but rather began to piece together, bit by bit, the
strange points of this adventure. She recalled the outlines of her
captor with a wrinkle of perplexity. Her fright disappeared entirely,
giving place to intense excitement. “No, no--it can’t be--and yet I
wonder if it _is_!” she cried. “Oh, I wonder if it could be!” She
opened her lips to cry aloud, then hesitated. She started towards the
tents, then paused, and for many moments after the hoof-beats had died
out she stayed undecided. Surely she wished to give the signal, to force
the fierce pursuit. What meant this robbery, this defiance of the law,
of her uncle’s edicts and of McNamara? They were common thieves,
criminals, outlaws, these men, deserving punishment, and yet she
recalled a darker night, when she herself had sobbed and quivered with
the terrors of pursuit and two men had shielded her with their bodies.

She turned and sped towards the tents, bursting in through the canvas
door; instantly every man rose to his feet at sight of her pallid face,
her flashing eyes, and rumpled hair.

“Sluice robbers!” she cried, breathlessly. “Quick! A hold-up! The
watchman is hurt!”

A roar shook the night air, and the men poured out past her, while the
day shift came tumbling forth from every quarter in various stages of
undress.

“Where? Who did it? Where did they go?”

McNamara appeared among them, fierce and commanding, seeming to grasp
the situation intuitively, without explanation from her.

“Come on, men. We’ll run ’em down. Get out the horses. Quick!”

He was mounted even as he spoke, and others joined him. Then turning, he
waved his long arm up the valley towards the mountains. “Divide into
squads of five and cover the hills! Run down to Discovery, one of you,
and telephone to town for Voorhees and a posse.”

As they made ready to ride away, the girl cried:

“Stop! Not that way. They went _down_ the gulch--three negroes.”

She pointed out of the valley, towards the dim glow on the southern
horizon, and the cavalcade rode away into the gloom.



CHAPTER X

THE WIT OF AN ADVENTURESS


Up creek the three negroes fled, past other camps, to where the stream
branched. Here they took to the right and urged their horses along a
forsaken trail to the head-waters of the little tributary and over the
low saddle. They had endeavored to reach unfrequented paths as soon as
possible in order that they might pass unnoticed. Before quitting the
valley they halted their heaving horses, and, selecting a stagnant pool,
scoured the grease paint from their features as best they could. Their
ears were strained for sounds of pursuit, but, as the moments passed and
none came, the tension eased somewhat and they conversed guardedly. As
the morning light spread they crossed the moss-capped summit of the
range, but paused again, and, removing two saddles, hid them among the
rocks. Slapjack left the others here and rode southward down the Dry
Creek Trail towards town, while the partners shifted part of the weight
from the overloaded packmules to the remaining saddle-animals and
continued eastward along the barren comb of hills on foot, leading the
five horses.

“It don’t seem like we’ll get away this easy,” said Dextry, scanning the
back trail. “If we do, I’ll be tempted to foller the business reg’lar.
This grease paint on my face makes me smell like a minstrel man. I bet
we’ll get some bully press notices to-morrow.”

“I wonder what Helen was doing there,” Glenister answered, irrelevantly,
for he had been more shaken by his encounter with her than at his part
in the rest of the enterprise, and his mind, which should have been
busied with the flight, held nothing but pictures of her as she stood in
the half darkness under the fear of his Winchester. “What if she ever
learned who that black ruffian was!” He quailed at the thought.

“Say, Dex, I am going to marry that girl.”

“I dunno if you be or not,” said Dextry. “Better watch McNamara.”

“What!” The younger man stopped and stared. “What do you mean?”

“Go on. Don’t stop the horses. I ain’t blind. I kin put two an’ two
together.”

“You’ll never put those two together. Nonsense! Why, the man’s a rascal.
I wouldn’t let him have her. Besides, it couldn’t be. She’ll find him
out. I love her so much that--oh, my feelings are too big to talk
about.” He moved his hands eloquently. “You can’t understand.”

“Um-m! I s’pose not,” grunted Dextry, but his eyes were level and held
the light of the past.

“He may be a rascal,” the old man continued, after a little; “I’ll put
in with you on that; but he’s a handsome devil, and, as for manners, he
makes you look like a logger. He’s a brave man, too. Them three
qualities are trump-cards and warranted to take most any queen in the
human deck--red, white, or yellow.”

“If he dares,” growled Glenister, while his thick brows came forward and
ugly lines hardened in his face.

In the gray of the early morning they descended the foot-hills into the
wide valley of the Nome River and filed out across the rolling country
to the river bluffs where, cleverly concealed among the willows, was a
rocker. This they set up, then proceeded to wash the dirt from the sacks
carefully, yet with the utmost speed, for there was serious danger of
discovery. It was wonderful, this treasure of the richest ground since
the days of ’49, and the men worked with shining eyes and hands
a-tremble. The gold was coarse, and many ragged, yellow lumps, too large
to pass through the screen, rolled in the hopper, while the aprons
bellied with its weight. In the pans which they had provided there grew
a gleaming heap of wet, raw gold.

Shortly, by divergent routes, the partners rode unnoticed into town, and
into the excitement of the hold-up news, while the tardy still lingered
over their breakfasts. Far out in the roadstead lay the _Roanoke_, black
smoke pouring from her stack. A tug was returning from its last trip to
her.

Glenister forced his lathered horse down to the beach and questioned the
longshoremen who hung about.

“No; it’s too late to get aboard--the last tender is on its way back,”
they informed him. “If you want to go to the ‘outside’ you’ll have to
wait for the fleet. That only means another week, and--there she blows
now.”

A ribbon of white mingled with the velvet from the steamer’s funnel and
there came a slow, throbbing, farewell blast.

Glenister’s jaw clicked and squared.

“Quick! You men!” he cried to the sailors. “I want the lightest dory on
the beach and the strongest oarsmen in the crowd. I’ll be back in five
minutes. There’s a hundred dollars in it for you if we catch that ship.”

He whirled and spurred up through the mud of the streets. Bill Wheaton
was snoring luxuriously when wrenched from his bed by a dishevelled man
who shook him into wakefulness and into a portion of his clothes, with a
storm of excited instructions. The lawyer had neither time nor
opportunity for expostulation, for Glenister snatched a valise and swept
into it a litter of documents from the table.

“Hurry up, man,” he yelled, as the lawyer dived frantically about his
office in a rabbit-like hunt for items. “My Heavens! Are you dead? Wake
up! The ship’s leaving.” With sleep still in his eyes Wheaton was
dragged down the street to the beach, where a knot had assembled to
witness the race. As they tumbled into the skiff, willing hands ran it
out into the surf on the crest of a roller. A few lifting heaves and
they were over the bar with the men at the oars bending the white ash at
every swing.

“I guess I didn’t forget anything,” gasped Wheaton as he put on his
coat. “I got ready yesterday, but I couldn’t find you last night, so I
thought the deal was off.”

Glenister stripped off his coat and, facing the bow, pushed upon the
oars at every stroke, thus adding his strength to that of the oarsmen.
They crept rapidly out from the beach, eating up the two miles that lay
towards the ship. He urged the men with all his power till the sweat
soaked through their clothes and, under their clinging shirts, the
muscles stood out like iron. They had covered half the distance when
Wheaton uttered a cry and Glenister desisted from his work with a
curse. The _Roanoke_ was moving slowly.

The rowers rested, but the young man shouted at them to begin again,
and, seizing a boat-hook, stuck it into the arms of his coat. He waved
this on high while the men redoubled their efforts. For many moments
they hung in suspense, watching the black hull as it gathered speed, and
then, as they were about to cease their effort, a puff of steam burst
from its whistle and the next moment a short toot of recognition reached
them. Glenister wiped the moisture from his brow and grinned at Wheaton.

A quarter of an hour later, as they lay heaving below the ship’s steel
sides, he thrust a heavy buckskin sack into the lawyer’s hand.

“There’s money to win the fight, Bill. I don’t know how much, but it’s
enough. God bless you. Hurry back!”

A sailor cast them a whirling rope, up which Wheaton clambered; then,
tying the gripsack to its end, they sent it after.

“Important!” the young man yelled at the officer on the bridge.
“Government business.” He heard a muffled clang in the engine-room, the
thrash of the propellers followed, and the big ship glided past.

As Glenister dragged himself up the beach, upon landing, Helen Chester
called to him, and made room for him beside her. It had never been
necessary to call him to her side before; and equally unfamiliar was the
abashment, or perhaps physical weariness, that led the young man to sink
back in the warm sand with a sigh of relief. She noted that, for the
first time, the audacity was gone from his eyes.

“I watched your race,” she began. “It was very exciting and I cheered
for you.”

He smiled quietly.

“What made you keep on after the ship started? I should have given
up--and cried.”

“I never give up anything that I want,” he said.

“Have you never been forced to? Then it is because you are a man. Women
have to sacrifice a great deal.”

Helen expected him to continue to the effect that he would never give
her up--it was in accordance with his earlier presumption--but he was
silent; and she was not sure that she liked him as well thus as when he
overwhelmed her with the boldness of his suit. For Glenister it was
delightful, after the perils of the night, to rest in the calm of her
presence and to feel dumbly that she was near. She saw him secretly
caress a fold of her dress.

If only she had not the memory of that one night on the ship. “Still, he
is trying to make amends in the best way he can,” she thought. “Though,
of course, no woman could care for a man who would do such a thing.” Yet
she thrilled at the thought of how he had thrust his body between her
and danger; how, but for his quick, insistent action, she would have
failed in escaping from the pest ship, failed in her mission, and met
death on the night of her landing. She owed him much.

“Did you hear what happened to the good ship _Ohio_?” she asked.

“No; I’ve been too busy to inquire. I was told the health officers
quarantined her when she arrived, that’s all.”

“She was sent to Egg Island with every one aboard. She has been there
more than a month now and may not get away this summer.”

“What a disappointment for the poor devils on her!”

“Yes, and only for what you did, I should be one of them,” Helen
remarked.

“I didn’t do much,” he said. “The fighting part is easy. It’s not half
so hard as to give up your property and lie still while--”

“Did you do that because I asked you to--because I asked you to put
aside the old ways?” A wave of compassion swept over her.

“Certainly,” he answered. “It didn’t come easy, but--”

“Oh, I thank you,” said she. “I know it is all for the best. Uncle
Arthur wouldn’t do anything wrong, and Mr. McNamara is an honorable
man.”

He turned towards her to speak, but refrained. He could not tell her
what he felt certain of. She believed in her own blood and in her
uncle’s friends--and it was not for him to speak of McNamara. The rules
of the game sealed his lips.

She was thinking again, “If only you had not acted as you did.” She
longed to help him now in his trouble as he had helped her, but what
could she do? The law was such a confusing, intricate, perplexing thing.

“I spent last night at the Midas,” she told him, “and rode back early
this morning. That was a daring hold-up, wasn’t it?”

“What hold-up?”

“Why, haven’t you heard the news?”

“No,” he answered, steadily. “I just got up.”

“Your claim was robbed. Three men overcame the watchman at midnight and
cleaned the boxes.”

His simulation of excited astonishment was perfect and he rained a
shower of questions upon her. She noted with approval that he did not
look her in the eye, however. He was not an accomplished liar. Now
McNamara had a countenance of iron. Unconsciously she made comparison,
and the young man at her side did not lose thereby.

“Yes, I saw it all,” she concluded, after recounting the details. “The
negro wanted to bind me so that I couldn’t give the alarm, but his
chivalry prevented. He was a most gallant darky.”

“What did you do when they left?”

“Why, I kept my word and waited until they were out of sight, then I
roused the camp, and set Mr. McNamara and his men right after them down
the gulch.”

“_Down_ the gulch!” spoke Glenister, off his guard.

“Yes, of course. Did you think they went _up_-stream?” She was looking
squarely at him now, and he dropped his eyes. “No, the posse started in
that direction, but I put them right.” There was an odd light in her
glance, and he felt the blood drumming in his ears.

She sent them down-stream! So that was why there had been no pursuit!
Then she must suspect--she must know everything! Glenister was stunned.
Again his love for the girl surged tumultuously within him and demanded
expression. But Miss Chester, no longer feeling sure that she had the
situation in hand, had already started to return to the hotel. “I saw
the men distinctly,” she told him, before they separated, “and I could
identify them all.”

At his own house Glenister found Dextry removing the stains of the
night’s adventure.

“Miss Chester recognized us last night,” he announced.

“How do you know?”

“She told me so just now, and, what’s more, she sent McNamara and his
crowd down the creek instead of up. That’s why we got away so easily.”

“Well, well--ain’t she a brick? She’s even with us now. By-the-way, I
wonder how much we cleaned up, anyhow--let’s weigh it.” Going to the
bed, Dextry turned back the blankets, exposing four moose-skin sacks,
wet and heavy, where he had thrown them.

“There must have been twenty thousand dollars with what I gave Wheaton,”
said Glenister.

At that moment, without warning, the door was flung open, and as the
young man jerked the blankets into place he whirled, snatched the
six-shooter that Dextry had discarded, and covered the entrance.

“Don’t shoot, boy!” cried the new-comer, breathlessly. “My, but you’re
nervous!”

Glenister dropped his gun. It was Cherry Malotte; and, from her heaving
breast and the flying colors in her cheeks, the men saw she had been
running. She did not give them time to question, but closed and locked
the door while the words came tumbling from her:

“They’re on to you, boys--you’d better duck out quick. They’re on their
way up here now.”

“What!”

“Who?”

“Quick! I heard McNamara and Voorhees, the marshal, talking. Somebody
has spotted you for the hold-ups. They’re on their way now, I tell you.
I sneaked out by the back way and came here through the mud. Say, but
I’m a sight!” She stamped her trimly booted feet and flirted her skirt.

“I don’t savvy what you mean,” said Dextry, glancing at his partner
warningly. “We ain’t done nothin’.”

“Well, it’s all right then. I took a long chance so you could make a
get-away if you wanted to, because they’ve got warrants for you for that
sluice robbery last night. Here they are now.” She darted to the window,
the men peering over her shoulder. Coming up the narrow walk they saw
Voorhees, McNamara, and three others.

The house stood somewhat isolated and well back on the tundra, so that
any one approaching it by the planking had an unobstructed view of the
premises. Escape was impossible, for the back door led out into the
ankle-deep puddles of the open prairie; and it was now apparent that a
sixth man had made a circuit and was approaching from the rear.

“My God! They’ll search the place,” said Dextry, and the men looked
grimly in each other’s faces.

Then in a flash Glenister stripped back the blankets and seized the
“pokes,” leaping into the back room. In another instant he returned with
them and faced desperately the candid bareness of the little room that
they lived and slept in. Nothing could be hidden; it was folly to think
of it. There was a loft overhead, he remembered, hopefully, then
realized that the pursuers would search there first of all.

“I told you he was a hard fighter,” said Dextry, as the quick footsteps
grew louder. “He ain’t no fool,

[Illustration: “IN AN INSTANT THE FOUR SACKS WERE DROPPED SOFTLY INTO
THE FEATHERY BOTTOM”]

neither. ’Stead of our bein’ caught in the mountains, I reckon we’ll
shoot it out here. We should have cached that gold somewhere.”

He spun the cylinder of his blackened Colt, while his face grew hard and
vulture-like.

Meanwhile, Cherry Malotte watched the hunted look in Glenister’s face
grow wilder and then stiffen into the stubbornness of a man at bay. The
posse was at the door now, knocking. The three inside stood rigid and
strained. Then Glenister tossed his burden on the bed.

“Go into the back room, Cherry; there’s going to be trouble.”

“Who’s there?” inquired Dextry through the door, to gain time. Suddenly,
without a word, the girl glided to the hot-blast heater, now cold and
empty, which stood in a corner of the room. These stoves, used widely in
the North, are vertical iron cylinders into which coal is poured from
above. She lifted the lid and peered in to find it a quarter full of
dead ashes, then turned with shining eyes and parted lips to Glenister.
He caught the hint, and in an instant the four sacks were dropped softly
into the feathery bottom and the ashes raked over. The daring
manœuvre was almost as quick as the flash of woman’s wit that
prompted it, and was carried through while the answer to Dextry’s
question was still unspoken.

Then Glenister opened the door carelessly and admitted the group of men.

“We’ve got a search-warrant to look through your house,” said Voorhees.

“What are you looking for?”

“Gold-dust from Anvil Creek.”

“All right--search away.”

They rapidly scoured the premises, covering every inch, paying no heed
to the girl, who watched them with indifferent eyes, nor to the old man,
who glared at their every movement. Glenister was carelessly sarcastic,
although he kept his right arm free, while beneath his _sang-froid_ was
a thoroughly trained alertness.

McNamara directed the search with a manner wholly lacking in his former
mock courtesy. It was as though he had been soured by the gall of
defeat. The mask had fallen off now, and his character
showed--insistent, overbearing, cruel. Towards the partners he preserved
a contemptuous silence.

The invaders ransacked thoroughly, while a dozen times the hearts of
Cherry Malotte and her two companions stopped, then lunged onward, as
McNamara or Voorhees approached, then passed the stove. At last Voorhees
lifted the lid and peered into its dark interior. At the same instant
the girl cried out, sharply, flinging herself from her position, while
the marshal jerked his head back in time to see her dash upon Dextry.

“Don’t! Don’t!” She cried her appeal to the old man. “Keep cool. You’ll
be sorry, Dex--they’re almost through.”

The officer had not seen any movement on Dextry’s part, but doubtless
her quick eye had detected signs of violence. McNamara emerged,
glowering, from the back room at that moment.

“Let them hunt,” the girl was saying, while Dextry stared dazedly over
her head. “They won’t find anything. Keep cool and don’t act rash.”

Voorhees’s duties sat uncomfortably upon him at the best, and, looking
at the smouldering eyes of the two men, he became averse to further
search in a powdery household whose members itched to shoot him in the
back.

“It isn’t here,” he reported; but the politician only scowled, then
spoke for the first time directly to the partners:

“I’ve got warrants for both of you and I’m tempted to take you in, but I
won’t. I’m not through yet--not by any means. I’ll get you--get you
both.” He turned out of the door, followed by the marshal, who called
off his guards, and the group filed back along the walk.

“Say, you’re a jewel, Cherry. You’ve saved us twice. You caught Voorhees
just in time. My heart hit my palate when he looked into that stove, but
the next instant I wanted to laugh at Dextry’s expression.”

Impulsively Glenister laid his hands upon her shoulders. At his look and
touch her throat swelled, her bosom heaved, and the silken lids
fluttered until she seemed choked by a very flood of sweet womanliness.
She blushed like a little maid and laughed a timid, broken laugh; then
pulling herself together, the merry, careless tone came into her voice
and her cheeks grew cool and clear.

“You wouldn’t trust me at first, eh? Some day you’ll find that your old
friends are the best, after all.”

And as she left them she added, mockingly:

“Say, you’re a pair of ‘shine’ desperadoes. You need a governess.”



CHAPTER XI

WHEREIN A WRIT AND A RIOT FAIL


A raw, gray day with a driving drizzle from seaward and a leaden rack of
clouds drifting low matched the sullen, fitful mood of Glenister.

During the last month he had chafed and fretted like an animal in leash
for word of Wheaton. This uncertainty, this impotent waiting with folded
hands, was maddening to one of his spirit. He could apply himself to no
fixed duty, for the sense of his wrong preyed on him fiercely, and he
found himself haunting the vicinity of the Midas, gazing at it from
afar, grasping hungrily for such scraps of news as chanced to reach him.
McNamara allowed access to none but his minions, so the partners knew
but vaguely of what happened on their property, even though, under
fiction of law, it was being worked for their protection.

No steps regarding a speedy hearing of the case were allowed, and the
collusion between Judge Stillman and the receiver had become so
generally recognized that there were uneasy mutterings and threats in
many quarters. Yet, although the politician had by now virtually
absorbed all the richest properties in the district and worked them
through his hirelings, the people of Nome as a whole did not grasp the
full turpitude of the scheme nor the system’s perfect working.

Strange to say, Dextry, the fire-eater, had assumed an Oriental patience
quite foreign to his peppery disposition, and spent much of his time in
the hills prospecting.

On this day, as the clouds broke, about noon, close down on the angry
horizon a drift of smoke appeared, shortly resolving itself into a
steamer. She lay to in the offing, and through his glasses Glenister saw
that it was the _Roanoke_. As the hours passed and no boat put off, he
tried to hire a crew, but the longshoremen spat wisely and shook their
heads as they watched the surf.

“There’s the devil of an undertow settin’ along this beach,” they told
him, “and the water’s too cold to drownd in comfortable.” So he laid
firm hands upon his impatience.

Every day meant many dollars to the watcher, and yet it seemed that
nature was resolute in thwarting him, for that night the wind freshened
and daylight saw the ship hugging the lee of Sledge Island, miles to the
westward, while the surf, white as boiling milk, boomed and thundered
against the shore.

Word had gone through the street that Bill Wheaton was aboard with a
writ, or a subpœna, or an alibi, or whatever was necessary to put the
“kibosh” on McNamara, so public excitement grew. McNamara hoarded his
gold in the Alaska Bank, and it was taken for granted that there would
lie the scene of the struggle. No one supposed for an instant that the
usurper would part with the treasure peaceably.

On the third morning the ship lay abreast of the town again and a
life-boat was seen to make off from her, whereupon the idle population
streamed towards the beach.

“She’ll make it to the surf all right, but then watch out.”

“We’d better make ready to haul ’em out,” said another. “It’s mighty
dangerous.” And sure enough, as the skiff came rushing in through the
breakers she was caught.

She had made it past the first line, soaring over the bar on a foamy
roller-crest like a storm-driven gull winging in towards the land. The
wiry figure of Bill Wheaton crouched in the stern while two sailors
fought with their oars. As they gathered for their rush through the last
zone of froth, a great comber rose out of the sea behind them, rearing
high above their heads. The crowd at the surf’s edge shouted. The boat
wavered, sucked back into the ocean’s angry maw, and with a crash the
deluge engulfed them. There remained nothing but a swirling flood
through which the life-boat emerged bottom up, amid a tangle of oars,
gratings, and gear.

Men rushed into the water, and the next roller pounded them back upon
the marble-hard sand. There came the sound of splitting wood, and then a
group swarmed in waist-deep and bore out a dripping figure. It was a
hempen-headed seaman, who shook the water from his mane and grinned when
his breath had come.

A step farther down the beach the by-standers seized a limp form which
the tide rolled to them. It was the second sailor, his scalp split from
a blow of the gunwale. Nowhere was Wheaton.

Glenister had plunged to the rescue first, a heaving-line about his
middle, and although buffeted about he had reached the wreck, only to
miss sight of the lawyer utterly. He had time for but a glance when he
was drawn outward by the undertow till the line at his waist grew taut,
then the water surged over him and he was hurled high up on the beach
again. He staggered dizzily back to the struggle, when suddenly a wave
lifted the capsized cutter and righted it, and out from beneath shot the
form of Wheaton, grimly clutching the life-ropes. They brought him in
choking and breathless.

“I got it,” he said, slapping his streaming breast. “It’s all right,
Glenister. I knew what delay meant so I took a long chance with the
surf.” The terrific ordeal he had undergone had blanched him to the
lips, his legs wabbled uncertainly, and he would have fallen but for the
young man, who thrust an arm about his waist and led him up into the
town.

“I went before the Circuit Court of Appeals in ’Frisco,” he explained
later, “and they issued orders allowing an appeal from this court and
gave me a writ of supersedeas directed against old Judge Stillman. That
takes the litigation out of his hands altogether, and directs McNamara
to turn over the Midas and all the gold he’s got. What do you think of
that? I did better than I expected.”

Glenister wrung his hand silently while a great satisfaction came upon
him. At last this waiting was over and his peaceful yielding to
injustice had borne fruit; had proven the better course after all, as
the girl had prophesied. He could go to her now with clean hands. The
mine was his again. He would lay it at her feet, telling her once more
of his love and the change it was working in him. He would make her see
it, make her see that beneath the harshness his years in the wild had
given him, his love for her was gentle and true and all-absorbing. He
would bid her be patient till she saw he had mastered himself, till he
could come with his soul in harness.

“I am glad I didn’t fight when they jumped us,” he said. “Now we’ll get
our property back and all the money they took out--that is, if McNamara
hasn’t salted it.”

“Yes; all that’s necessary is to file the documents, then serve the
Judge and McNamara. You’ll be back on Anvil Creek to-morrow.”

Having placed their documents on record at the court-house, the two men
continued to McNamara’s office. He met them with courtesy.

“I heard you had a narrow escape this morning, Mr. Wheaton. Too bad!
What can I do for you?”

The lawyer rapidly outlined his position and stated in conclusion:

“I filed certified copies of these orders with the clerk of the court
ten minutes ago, and now I make formal demand upon you to turn over the
Midas to Messrs. Glenister and Dextry, and also to return all the
gold-dust in your safe-deposit boxes in accordance with this writ.” He
handed his documents to McNamara, who tossed them on his desk without
examination.

“Well,” said the politician, quietly, “I won’t do it.”

Had he been slapped in the face the attorney would not have been more
astonished.

“Why--you--”

“I won’t do it, I said,” McNamara repeated, sharply. “Don’t think for a
minute that I haven’t gone into this fight armed for everything. Writs
of supersedeas! Bah!” He snapped his fingers.

“We’ll see whether you’ll obey or not,” said Wheaton; and when he and
Glenister were outside he continued:

“Let’s get to the Judge quick.”

As they neared the Golden Gate Hotel they spied McNamara entering. It
was evident that he had slipped from the rear door of his office and
beaten them to the judicial ear.

“I don’t like that,” said Glenister. “He’s up to something.”

So it appeared, for they were fifteen minutes in gaining access to the
magistrate and then found McNamara with him. Both men were astounded at
the change in Stillman’s appearance. During the last month his weak face
had shrunk and altered until vacillation was betrayed in every line, and
he had acquired the habit of furtively watching McNamara’s slightest
movement. It seemed that the part he played sat heavily upon him.

The Judge examined the papers perfunctorily, and, although his air was
deliberate, his fingers made clumsy work of it. At last he said:

“I regret that I am forced to doubt the authenticity of these
documents.”

“My Heavens, man!” Wheaton cried. “They’re certified copies of orders
from your superior court. They grant the appeal that you have denied us
and take the case out of your hands altogether. Yes--and they order this
man to surrender the mine and everything connected with it. Now, sir, we
want you to enforce these orders.”

Stillman glanced at the silent man in the window and replied:

“You will, of course, proceed regularly and make application in court
in the proper way, but I tell you now that I won’t do anything in the
matter.”

Wheaton stared at him fixedly until the old man snapped out:

“You say they are certified copies. How do I know they are? The
signatures may all be false. Maybe you signed them yourself.”

The lawyer grew very white at this and stammered until Glenister drew
him out of the room.

“Come, come,” he said, “we’ll carry this thing through in open court.
Maybe his nerve will go back on him then. McNamara has him hypnotized,
but he won’t dare refuse to obey the orders of the Circuit Court of
Appeals.”

“He won’t, eh? Well, what do you think he’s doing right now?” said
Wheaton. “I must think. This is the boldest game I ever played in. They
told me things while I was in ’Frisco which I couldn’t believe, but I
guess they’re true. Judges don’t disobey the orders of their courts of
appeal unless there is power back of them.”

They proceeded to the attorney’s office, but had not been there long
before Slapjack Simms burst in upon them.

“Hell to pay!” he panted. “McNamara’s taking your dust out of the bank.”

“What’s that?” they cried.

“I goes into the bank just now for an assay on some quartz samples. The
assayer is busy, and I walk back into his room, and while I’m there in
trots McNamara in a hurry. He don’t see me, as I’m inside the private
office, and I overhear him tell them to get his dust out of the vault
quick.”

“We’ve got to stop that,” said Glenister. “If he takes ours, he’ll take
the Swedes’, too. Simms, you run up to the Pioneer Company and tell them
about it. If he gets that gold out of there, nobody knows what’ll become
of it. Come on, Bill.”

He snatched his hat and ran out of the room, followed by the others.
That the loose-jointed Slapjack did his work with expedition was
evidenced by the fact that the Swedes were close upon their heels as the
two entered the bank. Others had followed, sensing something unusual,
and the space within the doors filled rapidly. At the disturbance the
clerks suspended their work, the barred doors of the safe-deposit vault
clanged to, and the cashier laid hand upon the navy Colt’s at his elbow.
“What’s the matter?” he cried.

“We want Alec McNamara,” said Glenister.

The manager of the bank appeared, and Glenister spoke to him through the
heavy wire netting.

“Is McNamara in there?”

No one had ever known Morehouse to lie. “Yes, sir.” He spoke
hesitatingly, in a voice full of the slow music of Virginia. “He is in
here. What of it?”

“We hear he’s trying to move that dust of ours and we won’t stand for
it. Tell him to come out and not hide in there like a dog.”

At these words the politician appeared beside the Southerner, and the
two conversed softly an instant, while the impatience of the crowd grew
to anger. Some one cried:

“Let’s go in and drag him out,” and the rumble at this was not pleasant.
Morehouse raised his hand.

“Gentlemen, Mr. McNamara says he doesn’t intend to take any of the gold
away.”

“Then he’s taken it already.”

“No, he hasn’t.”

The receiver’s course had been quickly chosen at the interruption. It
was not wise to anger these men too much. Although he had planned to get
the money into his own possession, he now thought it best to leave it
here for the present. He could come back at any time when they were off
guard and get it. Beyond the door against which he stood lay three
hundred thousand dollars--weighed, sacked, sealed, and ready to move out
of the custody of this Virginian whose confidence he had tried so
fruitlessly to gain.

As McNamara looked into the angry eyes of the lean-faced men beyond the
grating, he felt that the game was growing close, and his blood tingled
at the thought. He had not planned on a resistance so strong and swift,
but he would meet it. He knew that they hungered for his destruction and
that Glenister was their leader. He saw further that the man’s hatred
now stared at him openly for the first time. He knew that back of it was
something more than love for the dull metal over which they wrangled,
and then a thought came to him.

“Some of your work, eh, Glenister?” he mocked. “Were you afraid to come
alone, or did you wait till you saw me with a lady?”

At the same instant he opened a door behind him, revealing Helen
Chester. “You’d better not walk out with me, Miss Chester. This man
might--well, you’re safer here, you know. You’ll pardon me for leaving
you.” He hoped he could incite the young man to some rash act or word in
the presence of the girl, and counted on the conspicuous heroism of his
own position, facing the mob single-handed, one against fifty.

“Come out,” said his enemy, hoarsely, upon whom the insult and the sight
of the girl in the receiver’s company had acted powerfully.

“Of course I’ll come out, but I don’t want this young lady to suffer any
violence from your friends,” said McNamara. “I am not armed, but I have
the right to leave here unmolested--the right of an American citizen.”
With that he raised his arms above his head. “Out of my way!” he cried.
Morehouse opened the gate, and McNamara strode through the mob.

It is a peculiar thing that although under fury of passion a man may
fire even upon the back of a defenceless foe, yet no one can offer
violence to a man whose arms are raised on high and in whose glance is
the level light of fearlessness. Moreover, it is safer to face a crowd
thus than a single adversary.

McNamara had seen this psychological trick tried before and now took
advantage of it to walk through the press slowly, eye to eye. He did it
theatrically, for the benefit of the girl, and, as he foresaw, the men
fell away before him--all but Glenister, who blocked him, gun in hand.
It was plain that the persecuted miner was beside himself with passion.
McNamara came within an arm’s-length before pausing. Then he stopped and
the two stared malignantly at each other, while the girl behind the
railing heard her heart pounding in the stillness. Glenister raised his
hand uncertainly, then let it fall. He shook his head, and stepped aside
so that the other brushed past and out into the street.

Wheaton addressed the banker:

“Mr. Morehouse, we’ve got orders and writs of one kind or another from
the Circuit Court of Appeals at ’Frisco directing that this money be
turned over to us.” He shoved the papers towards the other. “We’re not
in a mood to trifle. That gold belongs to us, and we want it.”

Morehouse looked carefully at the papers.

“I can’t help you,” he said. “These documents are not directed to me.
They’re issued to Mr. McNamara and Judge Stillman. If the Circuit Court
of Appeals commands me to deliver it to you I’ll do it, but otherwise
I’ll have to keep this dust here till it’s drawn out by order of the
court that gave it to me. That’s the way it was put in here, and that’s
the way it’ll be taken out.”

“We want it now.”

“Well, I can’t let my sympathies influence me.”

“Then we’ll take it out, anyway,” cried Glenister. “We’ve had the worst
of it everywhere else and we’re sick of it. Come on, men.”

“Stand back!--all of you!” cried Morehouse. “Don’t lay a hand on that
gate. Boys, pick your men.”

He called this last to his clerks, at the same instant whipping from
behind the counter a carbine, which he cocked. The assayer brought into
view a shot-gun, while the cashier and clerks armed themselves. It was
evident that the deposits of the Alaska Bank were abundantly
safeguarded.

“I don’t aim to have any trouble with you-all,” continued the
Southerner, “but that money stays here till it’s drawn out right.”

The crowd paused at this show of resistance, but Glenister railed at
them:

“Come on--come on! What’s the matter with you?” And from the light in
his eye it was evident that he would not be balked.

Helen felt that a crisis was come, and braced herself. These men were in
deadly earnest: the white-haired banker, his pale helpers, and those
grim, quiet ones outside. There stood brawny, sun-browned men, with set
jaws and frowning faces, and yellow-haired Scandinavians in whose blue
eyes danced the flame of battle. These had been baffled at every turn,
goaded by repeated failure, and now stood shoulder to shoulder in their
resistance to a cruel law. Suddenly Helen heard a command from the
street and the quick tramp of men, while over the heads before her she
saw the glint of rifle barrels. A file of soldiers with fixed bayonets
thrust themselves roughly through the crowd at the entrance.

“Clear the room!” commanded the officer.

“What does this mean?” shouted Wheaton.

“It means that Judge Stillman has called upon the military to guard this
gold, that’s all. Come, now, move quick.” The men hesitated, then
sullenly obeyed, for resistance to the blue of Uncle Sam comes only at
the cost of much consideration.

“They’re robbing us with our own soldiers,” said Wheaton, when they were
outside.

“Ay,” said Glenister, darkly. “We’ve tried the law, but they’re forcing
us back to first principles. There’s going to be murder here.”



CHAPTER XII

COUNTERPLOTS


Glenister had said that the Judge would not dare to disobey the mandates
of the Circuit Court of Appeals, but he was wrong. Application was made
for orders directing the enforcement of the writs--steps which would
have restored possession of the Midas to its owners, as well as
possession of the treasure in bank--but Stillman refused to grant them.

Wheaton called a meeting of the Swedes and their attorneys, advising a
junction of forces. Dextry, who had returned from the mountains, was
present. When they had finished their discussion, he said:

“It seems like I can always fight better when I know what the other
feller’s game is. I’m going to spy on that outfit.”

“We’ve had detectives at work for weeks,” said the lawyer for the
Scandinavians; “but they can’t find out anything we don’t know already.”

Dextry said no more, but that night found him busied in the building
adjoining the one wherein McNamara had his office. He had rented a back
room on the top floor, and with the help of his partner sawed through
the ceiling into the loft and found his way thence to the roof through a
hatchway. Fortunately, there was but little space between the two
buildings, and, furthermore, each boasted the square fronts common in
mining-camps, which projected high enough to prevent observation from
across the way. Thus he was enabled, without discovery, to gain the roof
adjoining and to cut through into the loft. He crept cautiously in
through the opening, and out upon a floor of joists sealed on the lower
side, then lit a candle, and, locating McNamara’s office, cut a
peep-hole so that by lying flat on the timbers he could command a
considerable portion of the room beneath. Here, early the following
morning, he camped with the patience of an Indian, emerging in the still
of that night stiff, hungry, and atrociously cross. Meanwhile, there had
been another meeting of the mine-owners, and it had been decided to send
Wheaton, properly armed with affidavits and transcripts of certain court
records, back to San Francisco on the return trip of the _Santa Maria_,
which had arrived in port. He was to institute proceedings for contempt
of court, and it was hoped that by extraordinary effort he could gain
quick action.

At daybreak Dextry returned to his post, and it was midnight before he
crawled from his hiding-place to see the lawyer and Glenister.

“They have had a spy on you all day, Wheaton,” he began, “and they know
you’re going out to the States. You’ll be arrested to-morrow morning
before breakfast.”

“Arrested! What for?”

“I don’t just remember what the crime is--bigamy, or mayhem, or
attainder of treason, or something--anyway, they’ll get you in jail and
that’s all they want. They think you’re the only lawyer that’s wise
enough to cause trouble and the only one they can’t bribe.”

“Lord! What’ll I do? They’ll watch every lighter that leaves the beach,
and if they don’t catch me that way, they’ll search the ship.”

“I’ve thought it all out,” said the old man, to whom obstruction acted
as a stimulant.

“Yes--but how?”

“Leave it to me. Get your things together and be ready to duck in two
hours.”

“I tell you they’ll search the _Santa Maria_ from stem to stern,”
protested the lawyer, but Dextry had gone.

“Better do as he says. His schemes are good ones,” recommended
Glenister, and accordingly the lawyer made preparation.

In the mean time the old prospector had begun at the end of Front Street
to make a systematic search of the gambling-houses. Although it was very
late they were running noisily, and at last he found the man he wanted
playing “Black Jack,” the smell of tar in his clothes, the lilt of the
sea in his boisterous laughter. Dextry drew him aside.

“Mac, there’s only two things about you that’s any good--your silence
and your seamanship. Otherwise, you’re a disreppitable, drunken insect.”

The sailor grinned.

“What is it you want now? If it’s concerning money, or business, or the
growed-up side of life, run along and don’t disturb the carousals of a
sailorman. If it’s a fight, lemme get my hat.”

“I want you to wake up your fireman and have steam on the tug in an
hour, then wait for me below the bridge. You’re chartered for
twenty-four hours, and--remember, not a word.”

“I’m on! Compared to me the Spinks of Egyp’ is as talkative as a
phonograph.”

The old man next turned his steps to the Northern Theatre. The
performance was still in progress, and he located the man he was hunting
without difficulty.

Ascending the stairs, he knocked at the door of one of the boxes and
called for Captain Stephens.

“I’m glad I found you, Cap,” said he. “It saved me a trip out to your
ship in the dark.”

“What’s the matter?”

Dextry drew him to an isolated corner. “Me an’ my partner want to send a
man to the States with you.”

“All right.”

“Well--er--here’s the point,” hesitated the miner, who rebelled at
asking favors. “He’s our law sharp, an’ the McNamara outfit is tryin’ to
put the steel on him.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Why, they’ve swore out a warrant an’ aim to guard the shore to-morrow.
We want you to--”

“Mr. Dextry, I’m not looking for trouble. I get enough in my own
business.”

“But, see here,” argued the other, “we’ve got to send him out so he can
make a pow-wow to the big legal smoke in ’Frisco. We’ve been cold-decked
with a bum judge. They’ve got us into a corner an’ over the ropes.”

“I’m sorry I can’t help you, Dextry, but I got mixed up in one of your
scrapes and that’s plenty.”

“This ain’t no stowaway. There’s no danger to you,” began Dextry, but
the officer interrupted him:

“There’s no need of arguing. I won’t do it.”

“Oh, you _won’t_, eh?” said the old man, beginning to lose his temper.
“Well, you listen to _me_ for a minute. Everybody in camp knows that me
an’ the kid is on the square an’ that we’re gettin’ the bunk passed to
us. Now, this lawyer party must get away to-night or these grafters will
hitch the horses to him on some phony charge so he can’t get to the
upper court. It’ll be him to the bird-cage for ninety days. He’s goin’
to the States, though, an’ he’s goin’--in--your--wagon! I’m talkin’ to
you--man to man. If you don’t take him, I’ll go to the health
inspector--he’s a friend of mine--an’ I’ll put a crimp in you an’ your
steamboat. I don’t want to do that--it ain’t my reg’lar graft by no
means--but this bet goes through as she lays. I never belched up a
secret before. No, sir; I am the human huntin’-case watch, an’ I won’t
open my face unless you press me. But if I should, you’ll see that it’s
time for you to hunt a new job. Now, here’s my scheme.” He outlined his
directions to the sailor, who had fallen silent during the warning. When
he had done, Stephens said:

“I never had a man talk to me like that before, sir--never. You’ve taken
advantage of me, and under the circumstances I can’t refuse. I’ll do
this thing--not because of your threat, but because I heard about your
trouble over the Midas--and because I can’t help admiring your blamed
insolence.” He went back into his stall.

Dextry returned to Wheaton’s office. As he neared it, he passed a
lounging figure in an adjacent doorway.

“The place is watched,” he announced as he entered. “Have you got a back
door? Good! Leave your light burning and we’ll go out that way.” They
slipped quietly into an inky, tortuous passage which led back towards
Second Street. Floundering through alleys and over garbage heaps, by
circuitous routes, they reached the bridge, where, in the swift stream
beneath, they saw the lights from Mac’s tug.

Steam was up, and when the Captain had let them aboard Dextry gave him
instructions, to which he nodded acquiescence. They bade the lawyer
adieu, and the little craft slipped its moorings, danced down the
current, across the bar, and was swallowed up in the darkness to
seaward.

“I’ll put out Wheaton’s light so they’ll think he’s gone to bed.”

“Yes, and at daylight I’ll take your place in McNamara’s loft,” said
Glenister. “There will be doings to-morrow when they don’t find him.”

They returned by the way they had come to the lawyer’s room,
extinguished his light, went to their own cabin and to bed. At dawn
Glenister arose and sought his place above McNamara’s office.

To lie stretched at length on a single plank with eye glued to a crack
is not a comfortable position, and the watcher thought the hours of the
next day would never end. As they dragged wearily past, his bones began
to ache beyond endurance, yet owing to the flimsy structure of the
building he dared not move while the room below was tenanted. In fact,
he would not have stirred had he dared, so intense was his interest in
the scenes being enacted beneath him.

First had come the marshal, who reported his failure to find Wheaton.

“He left his room some time last night. My men followed him in and saw a
light in his window until two o’clock this morning. At seven o’clock we
broke in and he was gone.”

“He must have got wind of our plan. Send deputies aboard the _Santa
Maria_; search her from keel to top-mast, and have them watch the beach
close or he’ll put off in a small boat. You look over the passengers
that go aboard yourself. Don’t trust any of your men for that, because
he may try to slip through disguised. He’s liable to make up like a
woman. You understand--there’s only one ship in port, and--he mustn’t
get away.”

“He won’t,” said Voorhees, with conviction, and the listener overhead
smiled grimly to himself, for at that moment, twenty miles offshore, lay
Mac’s little tug, hove to in the track of the outgoing steamship, and in
her tiny cabin sat Bill Wheaton eating breakfast.

As the morning wore by with no news of the lawyer, McNamara’s uneasiness
grew. At noon the marshal returned with a report that the passengers
were all aboard and the ship about to clear.

“By Heavens! He’s slipped through you,” stormed the politician.

“No, he hasn’t. He may be hidden aboard somewhere among the
coal-bunkers, but I think he’s still ashore and aiming to make a quick
run just before she sails. He hasn’t left the beach since daylight,
that’s sure. I’m going out to the ship now with four men and search her
again. If we don’t bring him off you can bet he’s lying out somewhere in
town and we’ll get him later. I’ve stationed men along the shore for two
miles.”

“I won’t have him get away. If he should reach ’Frisco--Tell your men
I’ll give five hundred dollars to the one that finds him.”

Three hours later Voorhees returned.

“She sailed without him.”

The politician cursed. “I don’t believe it. He tricked you. I know he
did.”

Glenister grinned into a half-eaten sandwich, then turned upon his back
and lay thus on the plank, identifying the speakers below by their
voices.

He kept his post all day. Later in the evening he heard Struve enter.
The man had been drinking.

“So he got away, eh?” he began. “I was afraid he would. Smart fellow,
that Wheaton.”

“He didn’t get away,” said McNamara. “He’s in town yet. Just let me land
him in jail on some excuse! I’ll hold him till snow flies.” Struve sank
into a chair and lit a cigarette with wavering hand.

“This ’s a hell of a game, ain’t it, Mac? D’you s’pose we’ll win?”

The man overhead pricked up his ears.

“Win? Aren’t we winning? What do you call this? I only hope we can lay
hands on Wheaton. He knows things. A little knowledge is a dangerous
thing, but more is worse. Lord! If only I had a _man_ for judge in place
of Stillman! I don’t know why I brought him.”

“That’s right. Too weak. He hasn’t got the backbone of an angleworm. He
ain’t half the man that his niece is. _There’s_ a girl for you! Say!
What’d we do without her, eh? She’s a pippin!” Glenister felt a sudden
tightening of every muscle. What right had that man’s liquor-sodden lips
to speak so of her?

“She’s a brave little woman all right. Just look how she worked
Glenister and his fool partner. It took nerve to bring in those
instructions of yours alone; and if it hadn’t been for her we’d never
have won like this. It makes me laugh to think of those two men stowing
her away in their state-room while they slept between decks with the
sheep, and her with the papers in her bosom all the time. Then, when we
got ready to do business, why, she up and talks them into giving us
possession of their mine without a fight. That’s what I call
reciprocating a man’s affection.”

Glenister’s nails cut into his flesh, while his face went livid at the
words. He could not grasp it at once. It made him sick--physically
sick--and for many moments he strove blindly to beat back the hideous
suspicion, the horror that the lawyer had aroused. His was not a
doubting disposition, and to him the girl had seemed as one pure,
mysterious, apart, angelically incapable of deceit. He had loved her,
feeling that some day she would return his affection without fail. In
her great, unclouded eyes he had found no lurking-place for
double-dealing. Now--God! It couldn’t be that all the time she had
_known_!

He had lost a part of the lawyer’s speech, but peered through his
observation-hole again.

McNamara was at the window gazing out into the dark street, his back
towards the lawyer, who lolled in the chair, babbling garrulously of the
girl. Glenister ground his teeth--a frenzy possessed him to loose his
anger, to rip through the frail ceiling with naked hands and fall
vindictively upon the two men.

“She looked good to me the first time I saw her,” continued Struve. He
paused, and when he spoke again a change had coarsened his features.
“Say, I’m crazy about her, Mac. I tell you, I’m crazy--and she likes
me--I know she does--or, anyway, she would--”

“Do you mean that you’re in love with her?” asked the man at the window,
without shifting his position. It seemed that utter indifference was in
his question, although where the light shone on his hands,
tight-clinched behind his back, they were bloodless.

“Love her? Well--that depends--ha! You know how it is--” he chuckled,
coarsely. His face was gross and bestial. “I’ve got the Judge where I
want him, and I’ll have her--”

His miserable words died with a gurgle, for McNamara had silently leaped
and throttled him where he sat, pinning him to the wall. Glenister saw
the big politician shift his fingers slightly on Struve’s throat and
then drop his left hand to his side, holding his victim writhing and
helpless with his right despite the man’s frantic struggles. McNamara’s
head was thrust forward from his shoulders, peering into the lawyer’s
face. Struve tore ineffectually at the iron arm which was squeezing his
life out, while for endless minutes the other leaned his weight against
him, his idle hand behind his back, his legs braced like stone columns,
as he watched his victim’s struggles abate.

Struve fought and wrenched while his breath caught in his throat with
horrid, sickening sounds, but gradually his eyes rolled farther and
farther back till they stared out of his blackened visage, straight up
towards the ceiling, towards the hole through which Glenister peered.
His struggles lessened, his chin sagged, and his tongue protruded, then
he sat loose and still. The politician flung him out into the room so
that he fell limply upon his face, then stood watching him. Finally,
McNamara passed out of the watcher’s vision, returning with a
water-bucket. With his foot he rolled the unconscious wretch upon his
back, then drenched him. Replacing the pail, he seated himself, lit a
cigar, and watched the return of life into his victim. He made no move,
even to drag him from the pool in which he lay.

Struve groaned and shuddered, twisted to his side, and at last sat up
weakly. In his eyes there was now a great terror, while in place of his
drunkenness was only fear and faintness--abject fear of the great bulk
that sat and smoked and stared at him so fishily. He felt uncertainly of
his throat, and groaned again.

“Why did you do that?” he whispered; but the other made no sign. He
tried to rise, but his knees relaxed; he staggered and fell. At last he
gained his feet and made for the door; then, when his hand was on the
knob, McNamara spoke through his teeth, without removing his cigar.

“Don’t ever talk about her again. She is going to marry me.”

When he was alone he looked curiously up at the ceiling over his head.
“The rats are thick in this shack,” he mused. “Seems to me I heard a
whole swarm of them.”

A few moments later a figure crept through the hole in the roof of the
house next door and thence down into the street. A block ahead was the
slow-moving form of Attorney Struve. Had a stranger met them both he
would not have known which of the two had felt at his throat the clutch
of a strangler, for each was drawn and haggard and swayed as he went.

Glenister unconsciously turned towards his cabin, but at leaving the
lighted streets the thought of its darkness and silence made him
shudder. Not now! He could not bear that stillness and the company of
his thoughts. He dared not be alone. Dextry would be down-town,
undoubtedly, and he, too, must get into the light and turmoil. He licked
his lips and found that they were cracked and dry.

At rare intervals during the past years he had staggered in from a long
march where, for hours, he had waged a bitter war with cold and hunger,
his limbs clumsy with fatigue, his garments wet and stiff, his mind
slack and sullen. At such extreme seasons he had felt a consuming
thirst, a thirst which burned and scorched until his very bones cried
out feverishly. Not a thirst for water, nor a thirst which eaten snow
could quench, but a savage yearning of his whole exhausted system for
some stimulant, for some coursing fiery fluid that would burn and
strangle. A thirst for whiskey--for brandy! Remembering these occasional
ferocious desires, he had become charitable to such unfortunates as were
too weak to withstand similar temptations.

Now with a shock he caught himself in the grip of a thirst as insistent
as though the cold bore down and the weariness of endless heavy miles
wrapped him about. It was no foolish wish to drown his thoughts nor to
banish the grief that preyed upon him, but only thirst! Thirst!--a
crying, trembling, physical lust to quench the fires that burned inside.
He remembered that it had been more than a year since he had tasted
whiskey. Now the fever of the past few hours had parched his every
tissue.

As he elbowed in through the crowd at the Northern, those next him made
room at the bar, for they recognized the hunger that peers thus from
men’s faces. Their manner recalled Glenister to his senses, and he
wrenched himself away. This was not some solitary, snow-banked
road-house. He would not stand and soak himself, shoulder to shoulder
with stevedores and longshoremen. This was something to be done in
secret. He had no pride in it. The man on his right raised a glass, and
the young man strangled a madness to tear it from his hands. Instead, he
hurried back to the theatre and up to a box, where he drew the curtains.

“Whiskey!” he said, thickly, to the waiter. “Bring it to me fast. Don’t
you hear? Whiskey!”

Across the theatre Cherry Malotte had seen him enter and jerk the
curtains together. She arose and went to him, entering without ceremony.

“What’s the matter, boy?” she questioned.

“Ah! I am glad you came. Talk to me.”

“Thank you for your few well-chosen remarks,” she laughed. “Why don’t
you ask me to spring some good, original jokes? You look like the finish
to a six-day go-as-you-please. What’s up?”

She talked to him for a moment until the waiter entered; then, when she
saw what he bore, she snatched the glass from the tray and poured the
whiskey on the floor. Glenister was on his feet and had her by the
wrist.

“What do you mean?” he said, roughly.

“It’s whiskey, boy,” she cried, “and you don’t drink.”

“Of course it’s whiskey. Bring me another,” he shouted at the attendant.

“What’s the matter?” Cherry insisted. “I never saw you act so. You know
you don’t drink. I won’t let you. It’s booze--booze, I tell you, fit
for fools and brawlers. Don’t drink it, Roy. Are you in trouble?”

“I say I’m thirsty--and I will have it! How do you know what it is to
smoulder inside, and feel your veins burn dry?”

“It’s something about that girl,” the woman said, with quiet conviction.
“She’s double-crossed you.”

“Well, so she has--but what of it? I’m thirsty. She’s going to marry
McNamara. I’ve been a fool.” He ground his teeth and reached for the
drink with which the boy had returned.

“McNamara is a crook, but he’s a man, and he never drank a drop in his
life.” The girl said it, casually, evenly, but the other stopped the
glass half-way to his lips.

“Well, what of it? Go on. You’re good at W. C. T. U. talk. Virtue
becomes you.”

She flushed, but continued, “It simply occurred to me that if you aren’t
strong enough to handle your own throat, you’re not strong enough to
beat a man who has mastered his.”

Glenister looked at the whiskey a moment, then set it back on the tray.

“Bring two lemonades,” he said, and with a laugh which was half a sob
Cherry Malotte leaned forward and kissed him.

“You’re too good a man to drink. Now, tell me all about it.”

“Oh, it’s too long! I’ve just learned that the girl is in, hand and
glove, with the Judge and McNamara--that’s all. She’s an advance
agent--their lookout. She brought in their instructions to Struve and
persuaded Dex and me to let them jump our claim. She got us to trust in
the law and in her uncle. Yes, she hypnotized my property out of me and
gave it to her lover, this ward politician. Oh, she’s smooth, with all
her innocence! Why, when she smiles she makes you glad and good and
warm, and her eyes are as honest and clear as a mountain pool, but she’s
wrong--she’s wrong--and--great God! how I love her!” He dropped his face
into his hands.

When she had pled with him for himself a moment before Cherry Malotte
was genuine and girlish but now as he spoke thus of the other woman a
change came over her which he was too disturbed to note. She took on the
subtleness that masked her as a rule, and her eyes were not pleasant.

“I could have told you all that and more.”

“More! What more?” he questioned.

“Do you remember when I warned you and Dextry that they were coming to
search your cabin for the gold? Well, that girl put them on to you. I
found it out afterwards. She keeps the keys to McNamara’s safety vault
where your dust lies, and she’s the one who handles the Judge. It isn’t
McNamara at all.” The woman lied easily, fluently, and the man believed
her.

“Do you remember when they broke into your safe and took that money?”

“Yes.”

“Well, what made them think you had ten thousand in there?”

“I don’t know.”

“I do. Dextry told her.”

Glenister arose. “That’s all I want to hear now. I’m going crazy. My
mind aches, for I’ve never had a fight like this before and it hurts.
You see, I’ve been an animal all these years. When I wanted to drink, I
drank, and what I wanted, I got, because I’ve been strong enough to take
it. This is new to me. I’m going down-stairs now and try to think of
something else--then I’m going home.”

When he had gone she pulled back the curtains, and, leaning her chin in
her hands, with elbows on the ledge, gazed down upon the crowd. The show
was over and the dance had begun, but she did not see it, for she was
thinking rapidly with the eagerness of one who sees the end of a long
and weary search. She did not notice the Bronco Kid beckoning to her nor
the man with him, so the gambler brought his friend along and invaded
her box. He introduced the man as Mr. Champian.

“Do you feel like dancing?” the new-comer inquired.

“No; I’d rather look on. I feel sociable. You’re a society man, Mr.
Champian. Don’t you know anything of interest? Scandal or the like?”

“Can’t say that I do. My wife attends to all that for the family. But I
know there’s lots of it. It’s funny to me, the airs some of these people
assume up here, just as though we weren’t all equal, north of
Fifty-three. I never heard the like.”

“Anything new and exciting?” inquired Bronco, mildly interested.

“The last I heard was about the Judge’s niece, Miss Chester.”

Cherry Malotte turned abruptly, while the Kid slowly lowered the front
legs of his chair to the floor.

“What was it?” she inquired.

“Why, it seems she compromised herself pretty badly with this fellow
Glenister coming up on the steamer last spring. Mighty brazen, according
to my wife. Mrs. Champian was on the same ship and says she was
horribly shocked.”

Ah! Glenister had told her only half the tale, thought the girl. The
truth was baring itself. At that moment Champian thought she looked the
typical creature of the dance-halls, the crafty, jealous, malevolent
adventuress.

“And the hussy masquerades as a lady,” she sneered.

“She _is_ a lady,” said the Kid. He sat bolt upright and rigid, and the
knuckles of his clinched hands were very white. In the shadow they did
not note that his dark face was ghastly, nor did he say more except to
bid Champian good-bye when he left, later on. After the door had closed,
however, the Kid arose and stretched his muscles, not languidly, but as
though to take out the cramp of long tension. He wet his lips, and his
mouth was so dry that the sound caused the girl to look up.

“What are you grinning at?” Then, as the light struck his face, she
started. “My! How you look! What ails you? Are you sick?” No one, from
Dawson down, had seen the Bronco Kid as he looked to-night.

“No. I’m not sick,” he answered, in a cracked voice.

Then the girl laughed harshly.

“Do _you_ love that girl, too? Why, she’s got every man in town crazy.”

She wrung her hands, which is a bad sign in a capable person, and as
Glenister crossed the floor below in her sight she said, “Ah-h--I could
kill him for that!”

“So could I,” said the Kid, and left her without adieu.



CHAPTER XIII

IN WHICH A MAN IS POSSESSED OF A DEVIL.


For a long time Cherry Malotte sat quietly thinking, removed by her
mental stress to such an infinite distance from the music and turmoil
beneath that she was conscious of it only as a formless clamor. She had
tipped a chair back against the door, wedging it beneath the knob so
that she might be saved from interruption, then flung herself into
another seat and stared unseeingly. As she sat thus, and thought, and
schemed, harsh and hateful lines seemed to eat into her face. Now and
then she moaned impatiently, as though fearing lest the strategy she was
plotting might prove futile; then she would rise and pace her narrow
quarters. She was unconscious of time, and had spent perhaps two hours
thus, when amid the buzz of talk in the next compartment she heard a
name which caused her to start, listen, then drop her preoccupation like
a mantle. A man was speaking of Glenister. Excitement thrilled his
voice.

“I never saw anything like it since McMaster’s Night in Virginia City,
thirteen years ago. He’s _right_.”

“Well, perhaps so,” the other replied, doubtfully, “but I don’t care to
back you. I never ‘staked’ a man in my life.”

“Then _lend_ me the money. I’ll pay it back in an hour, but for
Heaven’s sake be quick. I tell you he’s as right as a golden guinea.
It’s the lucky night of his life. Why, he turned over the Black Jack
game in four bets. In fifteen minutes more we can’t get close enough to
a table to send in our money with a messenger-boy--every sport in camp
will be here.”

“I’ll stake you to fifty,” the second man replied, in a tone that showed
a trace of his companion’s excitement.

So Glenister was gambling, the girl learned, and with such luck as to
break the Black Jack game and excite the greed of every gambler in camp.
News of his winnings had gone out into the street, and the sporting men
were coming to share his fortune, to fatten like vultures on the
adversity of their fellows. Those who had no money to stake were
borrowing, like the man next door.

She left her retreat, and, descending the stairs, was greeted by a
strange sight. The dance-hall was empty of all but the musicians, who
blew and fiddled lustily in vain endeavor to draw from the rapidly
swelling crowd that thronged the gambling-room and stretched to the
door. The press was thickest about a table midway down the hall. Cherry
could see nothing of what went on there, for men and women stood ten
deep about it and others perched on chairs and tables along the walls. A
roar arose suddenly, followed by utter silence; then came the clink and
rattle of silver. A moment, and the crowd resumed its laughter and talk.

“All down, boys,” sounded the level voice of the dealer. “The field or
the favorite. He’s made eighteen straight passes. Get your money on the
line.” There ensued another breathless instant wherein she heard the
thud of dice, then followed the shout of triumph that told what the
spots revealed. The dealer payed off. Glenister reared himself head and
shoulders above the others and pushed out through the ring to the
roulette-wheel. The rest followed. Behind the circular table they had
quitted, the dealer was putting away his dice, and there was not a coin
in his rack. Mexico Mullins approached Cherry, and she questioned him.

“He just broke the crap game,” Mullins told her; “nineteen passes
without losing the bones.”

“How much did he win?”

“Oh, he didn’t win much himself, but it’s the people betting with him
that does the damage! They’re gamblers, most of them, and they play the
limit. He took out the Black Jack bank-roll first, $4,000, then cleaned
the ‘Tub.’ By that time the tin horns began to come in. It’s the
greatest run I ever see.”

“Did you get in?”

“Now, don’t you know that I never play anything but ‘bank’? If he lasts
long enough to reach the faro lay-out, I’ll get mine.”

The excitement of the crowd began to infect the girl, even though she
looked on from the outside. The exultant voices, the sudden hush, the
tensity of nerve it all betokened, set her a-thrill. A stranger left the
throng and rushed to the spot where Cherry and Mexico stood talking. He
was small and sandy, with shifting glance and chinless jaw. His eyes
glittered, his teeth shone ratlike through his dry lips, and his voice
was shrill. He darted towards them like some furtive, frightened little
animal, unnaturally excited.

“I guess that isn’t so bad for three bets!” He shook a sheaf of
bank-notes at them.

“Why don’t you stick?” inquired Mullins.

“I am too wise. Ha! I know when to quit. He can’t win steady--he don’t
play any system.”

“Then he has a good chance,” said the girl.

“There he goes now,” the little man cried as the uproar arose. “I told
you he’d lose.” At the voice of the multitude he wavered as though
affected by some powerful magnet.

“But he won again,” said Mexico.

“No! Did he? Lord! I quit too soon!”

He scampered back into the other room, only to return, hesitating, his
money tightly clutched.

“Do you s’pose it’s safe? I never saw a man bet so reckless. I guess I’d
better quit, eh?” He noted the sneer on the woman’s face, and without
waiting a reply dashed off again. They saw him clamorously fight his way
in towards a post at the roulette-table. “Let me through! I’ve got money
and I want to play it!”

“Pah!” said Mullins, disgustedly. “He’s one of them Vermont desperadoes
that never laid a bet till he was thirty. If Glenister loses he’ll hate
him for life.”

“There are plenty of his sort here,” the girl remarked; “his soul would
fit in a flea-track.” She spied the Bronco Kid sauntering back towards
her and joined him. He leaned against the wall, watching the gossamer
thread of smoke twist upward from his cigarette, seemingly oblivious to
the surroundings, and showing no hint of the emotion he had displayed
two hours before.

“This is a big killing, isn’t it?” said the girl.

The gambler nodded, murmuring indifferently.

“Why aren’t you dealing bank? Isn’t this your shift?”

“I quit last night.”

“Just in time to miss this affair. Lucky for you.”

“Yes; I own the place now. Bought it yesterday.”

“Good Heavens! Then it’s _your_ money he’s winning.”

“Sure, at the rate of a thousand a minute.”

She glanced at the long trail of devastated tables behind Glenister and
his followers. At that instant the sound told that the miner had won
again, and it dawned upon Cherry that the gambler beside her stood too
quietly, that his hand and voice were too steady, his glance too cold to
be natural. The next moment approved her instinct.

The musicians, grown tired of their endeavors to lure back the dancers,
determined to join the excitement, and ceased playing. The leader laid
down his violin, the pianist trailed up the key-board with a departing
twitter and quit his stool. They all crossed the hall, headed for the
crowd, some of them making ready to bet. As they approached the Bronco
Kid, his lips thinned and slid apart slightly, while out of his
heavy-lidded eyes there flared unreasoning rage. Stepping forward, he
seized the foremost man and spun him about violently.

“Where are you going?”

“Why, nobody wants to dance, so we thought we’d go out front for a bit.”

“Get back, damn you!” It was his first chance to vent the passion within
him. A glance at his maddened features was sufficient for the musicians,
and they did not delay. By the time they had resumed their duties,
however, the curtains of composure had closed upon the Kid, masking his
emotion again; but from her brief glimpse Cherry Malotte knew that this
man was not of ice, as some supposed. He turned to her and said, “Do you
mean what you said up-stairs?”

“I don’t understand.”

“You said you could kill Glenister.”

“I could.”

“Don’t you love--”

“I _hate_ him,” she interrupted, hoarsely. He gave her a mirthless
smile, and spying the crap-dealer leaving his bankrupt table, called him
over and said:

“Toby, I want you to ‘drive the hearse’ when Glenister begins to play
faro. I’ll deal. Understand?”

“Sure! Going to give him a little ‘work,’ eh?”

“I never dealt a crooked card in this camp,” exclaimed the Kid, “but
I’ll ‘lay’ that man to-night or I’ll kill him! I’ll use a ‘sand-tell,’
see! And I want to explain my signals to you. If you miss the signs
you’ll queer us both and put the house on the blink.”

He rapidly rehearsed his signals in a jargon which to a layman would
have been unintelligible, illustrating them by certain almost
imperceptible shiftings of the fingers or changes in the position of his
hand, so slight as to thwart discovery. Through it all the girl stood by
and followed his every word and motion with eager attention. She needed
no explanation of the terms they used. She knew them all, knew that the
“hearse-driver” was the man who kept the cases, knew all the code of the
“inside life.” To her it was all as an open page, and she memorized more
quickly than did Toby the signs by which the Bronco Kid proposed to
signal what card he had smuggled from the box or held back.

In faro it is customary for the case-keeper to sit on the opposite side
of the table from the dealer, with a device before him resembling an
abacus, or Chinese adding-machine. When a card is removed from the
faro-box by the dealer, the “hearse-driver” moves a button opposite a
corresponding card on his little machine, in order that the players, at
a glance, may tell what spots have been played or are still in the box.
His duties, though simple, are important, for should he make an error,
and should the position of his counters not tally with the cards in the
box on the “last turn,” all bets on the table are declared void. When
honestly dealt, faro is the fairest of all gambling games, but it is
intricate, and may hide much knavery. When the game is crooked, it is
fatal, for out of the ingenuity of generations of card sharks there have
been evolved a multitude of devices with which to fleece the
unsuspecting. These are so carefully masked that none but the initiated
may know them, while the freemasonry of the craft is strong and
discovery unusual.

Instead of using a familiar arrangement like the “needle-tell,” wherein
an invisible needle pricks the dealer’s thumb, thus signalling the
presence of certain cards, the Bronco Kid had determined to use the
“sand-tell.” In other words, he would employ a “straight box,” but a
deck of cards, certain ones of which had been roughened or sand-papered
slightly, so that, by pressing more heavily on the top or exposed card,
the one beneath would stick to its neighbor above, and thus enable him
to deal two with one motion if the occasion demanded. This roughness
would likewise enable him to detect the hidden presence of a marked card
by the faintest scratching sound when he dealt. In this manipulation it
would be necessary, also, to shave the edges of some of the pasteboards
a trifle, so that, when the deck was forced firmly against one side of
the box, there would be exposed a fraction of the small figure in the
left-hand corner of the concealed cards. Long practice in the art of
jugglery lends such proficiency as to baffle discovery and rob the game
of its uncertainty as surely as the player is robbed of his money. It
is, of course, vital that the confederate case-keeper be able to
interpret the dealer’s signs perfectly in order to move the sliding
ebony disks to correspond, else trouble will accrue at the completion of
the hand when the cases come out wrong.

Having completed his instructions, the proprietor went forward, and
Cherry wormed her way towards the roulette-wheel. She wished to watch
Glenister, but could not get near him because of the crowd. The men
would not make room for her. Every eye was glued upon the table as
though salvation lurked in its rows of red and black. They were packed
behind it until the croupier had barely room to spin the ball, and
although he forced them back, they pressed forward again inch by inch,
drawn by the song of the ivory, drunk with its worship, maddened by the
breath of Chance.

Cherry gathered that Glenister was still winning, for a glimpse of the
wheel-rack between the shoulders of those ahead showed that the checks
were nearly out of it.

Plainly it was but a question of minutes, so she backed out and took her
station beside the faro-table where the Bronco Kid was dealing. His face
wore its colorless mask of indifference; his long white hands moved
slowly with the certainty that betokened absolute mastery of his art. He
was waiting. The ex-crap dealer was keeping cases.

The group left the roulette-table in a few moments and surrounded her,
Glenister among the others. He was not the man she knew. In place of the
dreary hopelessness with which he had left her, his face was flushed and
reckless, his collar was open, showing the base of his great, corded
neck, while the lust of the game had coarsened him till he was again the
violent, untamed, primitive man of the frontier. His self-restraint and
dignity were gone. He had tried the new ways, and they were not for him.
He slipped back, and the past swallowed him.

After leaving Cherry he had sought some mental relief by idly risking
the silver in his pocket. He had let the coins lie and double, then
double again and again. He had been indifferent whether he won or lost,
so assumed a reckless disregard for the laws of probability, thinking
that he would shortly lose the money he had won and then go home. He did
not want it. When his luck remained the same, he raised the stakes, but
it did not change--he could not lose. Before he realized it, other men
were betting with him, animated purely by greed and craze of the sport.
First one, then another joined till game after game was closed, and each
moment the crowd had grown in size and enthusiasm so that its fever
crept into him, imperceptibly at first, but ever increasing, till the
mania mastered him.

He paid no attention to Cherry as he took his seat. He had eyes for
nothing but the “lay-out.” She clenched her hands and prayed for his
ruin.

“What’s your limit, Kid?” he inquired.

“One hundred, and two,” the Kid answered, which in the vernacular means
that any sum up to $200 may be laid on one card save only on the last
turn, when the amount is lessened by half.

Without more ado they commenced. The Kid handled his cards smoothly,
surely, paying and taking bets with machine-like calm. The on-lookers
ceased talking and prepared to watch, for now came the crucial test of
the evening. Faro is to other games as war is to jackstraws.

For a time Glenister won steadily till there came a moment when many
stacks of chips lay on the deuce. Cherry saw the Kid “flash” to the
case-keeper, and the next moment he had “pulled two.” The deuce lost. It
was his first substantial gain, and the players paid no attention. At
the end of half an hour the winnings were slightly in favor of the
“house.” Then Glenister said, “This is too slow. I want action.”

“All right,” smiled the proprietor. “We’ll double the limit.”

Thus it became possible to wager $400 on a card, and the Kid began
really to play. Glenister now lost steadily, not in large amounts, but
with tantalizing regularity. Cherry had never seen cards played like
this. The gambler was a revelation to her--his work was wonderful. Ill
luck seemed to fan the crowd’s eagerness, while, to add to its
impatience, the cases came wrong twice in succession, so that those who
would have bet heavily upon the last turn had their money given back.
Cherry saw the confusion of the “hearse-driver” even quicker than did
Bronco. Toby was growing rattled. The dealer’s work was too fast for
him, and yet he could offer no signal of distress for fear of
annihilation at the hands of those crowded close to his shoulder. In the
same way the owner of the game could make no objection to his helper’s
incompetence for fear that some by-stander would volunteer to fill the
man’s part--there were many present capable of the trick. He could only
glare balefully across the table at his unfortunate confederate.

They had not gone far on the next game before Cherry’s quick eye
detected a sign which the man misinterpreted. She addressed him,
quietly, “You’d better brush up your plumes.”

In spite of his anger the Bronco Kid smiled. Humor in him was strangely
withered and distorted, yet here was a thrust he would always remember
and recount with glee in years to come. He feared there were other
faro-dealers present who might understand the hint, but there was none
save Mexico Mullins, whose face was a study--mirth seemed to be
strangling him. A moment later the girl spoke to the case-keeper again.

“Let me take your place; your reins are unbuckled.”

Toby glanced inquiringly at the Kid, who caught Cherry’s reassuring look
and nodded, so he arose and the girl slid into the vacant chair. This
woman would make no errors--the dealer knew that; her keen wits were
sharpened by hate--it showed in her face. If Glenister escaped
destruction to-night it would be because human means could not
accomplish his downfall.

In the mind of the new case-keeper there was but one thought--Roy must
be broken. Humiliation, disgrace, ruin, ridicule were to be his. If he
should be downed, discredited, and discouraged, then, perhaps, he would
turn to her as he had in the by-gone days. He was slipping away from
her--this was her last chance. She began her duties easily, and her
alertness stimulated Bronco till his senses, too, grew sharper, his
observation more acute and lightning-like. Glenister swore beneath his
breath that the cards were bewitched. He was like a drunken man, now as
truly intoxicated as though the fumes of wine had befogged his brain. He
swayed in his seat, the veins of his neck thickened and throbbed, his
features were congested. After a while he spoke.

“I want a bigger limit. Is this some boy’s game? Throw her open.”

The gambler shot a triumphant glance at the girl and acquiesced. “All
right, the limit is the blue sky. Pile your checks to the roof-pole.” He
began to shuffle.

Within the crowded circle the air was hot and fetid with the breath of
men. The sweat trickled down Glenister’s brown skin, dripping from his
jaw unnoticed. He arose and ripped off his coat, while those standing
behind shifted and scuffed their feet impatiently. Besides Roy, there
were but three men playing. They were the ones who had won heaviest at
first. Now that luck was against them they were loath to quit.

Cherry was annoyed by stertorous breathing at her shoulder, and glanced
back to find the little man who had been so excited earlier in the
evening. His mouth was agape, his eyes wide, the muscles about his lips
twitching. He had lost back, long since, the hundreds he had won and
more besides. She searched the figures walling her about and saw no
women. They had been crowded out long since. It seemed as though the
table formed the bottom of a sloping pit of human faces--eager, tense,
staring. It was well she was here, she thought, else this task might
fail. She would help to blast Glenister, desolate him, humiliate him.
Ah, but wouldn’t she!

Roy bet $100 on the “popular” card. On the third turn he lost. He bet
$200 next and lost. He set out a stack of $400 and lost for the third
time. Fortune had turned her face. He ground his teeth and doubled until
the stakes grew enormous, while the dealer dealt monotonously. The spots
flashed and disappeared, taking with them wager after wager. Glenister
became conscious of a raging, red fury which he had hard shift to
master. It was not his money--what if he did lose? He would stay until
he won. He _would_ win. This luck would not, could not, last--and yet
with diabolic persistence he continued to choose the losing cards. The
other men fared better till he yielded to their judgment, when the
dealer took their money also.

Strange to say, the fickle goddess had really shifted her banner at
last, and the Bronco Kid was dealing straight faro now. He was too good
a player to force a winning hand, and Glenister’s ill-fortune became as
phenomenal as his winning had been. The girl who figured in this drama
was keyed to the highest tension, her eyes now on her counters, now
searching the profile of her victim. Glenister continued to lose and
lose and lose, while the girl gloated over his swift-coming ruin. When
at long intervals he won a bet she shrank and shivered for fear he might
escape. If only he would risk it all--everything he had. He would have
to come to her then!

The end was closer than she realized. The throng hung breathless upon
each move of the players, while there was no sound but the noise of
shifting chips and the distant jangle of the orchestra. The lookout sat
far forward upon his perch, his hands upon his knees, his eyes frozen to
the board, a dead cigar clenched between his teeth. Crowded upon his
platform were miners tense and motionless as statues. When a man spoke
or coughed, a score of eyes stared at him accusingly, then dropped to
the table again.

Glenister took from his clothes a bundle of bank-notes, so thick that it
required his two hands to compass it. On-lookers saw that the bills were
mainly yellow. No one spoke while he counted them rapidly, glanced at
the dealer, who nodded, then slid them forward till they rested on the
king. He placed a “copper” on the pile. A great sigh of indrawn breaths
swept through the crowd. The North had never known a bet like this--it
meant a fortune. Here was a tale for one’s grandchildren--that a man
should win opulence in an evening, then lose it in one deal. This final
bet represented more than many of them had ever seen at one time before.
Its fate lay on a single card.

Cherry Malotte’s fingers were like ice and shook till the buttons of her
case-keeper rattled, her heart raced till she could not breathe, while
something rose up and choked her. If Glenister won this bet he would
quit; she felt it. If he lost, ah! what could the Kid there feel, the
man who was playing for a paltry vengeance, compared to her whose hope
of happiness, of love, of life hinged on this wager?

Evidently the Bronco Kid knew what card lay next below, for he offered
her no sign, and as Glenister leaned back he slowly and firmly pushed
the top card out of the box. Although this was the biggest turn of his
life, he betrayed no tremor. His gesture displayed the nine of
diamonds, and the crowd breathed heavily. The king had not won. Would it
lose? Every gaze was welded to the tiny nickelled box. If the face-card
lay next beneath the nine-spot, the heaviest wager in Alaska would have
been lost; if it still remained hidden, on the next turn, the money
would be safe for a moment.

Slowly the white hand of the dealer moved back; his middle finger
touched the nine of diamonds; it slid smoothly out of the box, and there
in its place frowned the king of clubs. At last the silence was broken.

Men spoke, some laughed, but in their laughter was no mirth. It was more
like the sound of choking. They stamped their feet to relieve the grip
of strained muscles. The dealer reached forth and slid the stack of
bills into the drawer at his waist without counting. The case-keeper
passed a shaking hand over her face, and when it came away she saw blood
on her fingers where she had sunk her teeth into her lower lip.
Glenister did not rise. He sat, heavy-browed and sullen, his jaw thrust
forward, his hair low upon his forehead, his eyes bloodshot and dead.

“I’ll sit the hand out if you’ll let me bet the ‘finger,’” said he.

“Certainly,” replied the dealer.

When a man requests this privilege it means that he will call the amount
of his wager without producing the visible stakes, and the dealer may
accept or refuse according to his judgment of the bettor’s
responsibility. It is safe, for no man shirks a gambling debt in the
North, and thousands may go with a nod of the head though never a cent
be on the board.

There were still a few cards in the box, and the dealer turned them,
paying the three men who played. Glenister took no part, but sat bulked
over his end of the table glowering from beneath his shock of hair.

Cherry was deathly tired. The strain of the last hour had been so
intense that she could barely sit in her seat, yet she was determined to
finish the hand. As Bronco paused before the last turn, many of the
by-standers made bets. They were the “case-players” who risked money
only on the final pair, thus avoiding the chance of two cards of like
denomination coming together, in which event (“splits” it is called) the
dealer takes half the money. The stakes were laid at last and the deal
about to start when Glenister spoke. “Wait! What’s this place worth,
Bronco?”

“What do you mean?”

“You own this outfit?” He waved his hand about the room. “Well, what
does it stand you?”

The gambler hesitated an instant while the crowd pricked up its ears,
and the girl turned wondering, troubled eyes upon the miner. What would
he do now?

“Counting bank rolls, fixtures, and all, about a hundred and twenty
thousand dollars. Why?”

“I’ll pick the ace to lose, my one-half interest in the Midas against
your whole damned lay-out!”

There was an absolute hush while the realization of this offer smote the
on-lookers. It took time to realize it. This man was insane. There were
three cards to choose from--one would win, one would lose, and one would
have no action.

Of all those present only Cherry Malotte divined even vaguely the real
reason which prompted the man to do this. It was not “gameness,” nor
altogether a brutish stubbornness which would not let him quit. It was
something deeper. He was desolate and his heart was gone. Helen was lost
to him--worse yet, was unworthy, and she was all he cared for. What did
he want of the Midas with its lawsuits, its intrigues, and--its
trickery? He was sick of it all--of the whole game--and wanted to get
away. If he won, very well. If he lost, the land of the Aurora would
know him no more.

When he put his proposition; the Bronco Kid dropped his eyes as though
debating. The girl saw that he studied the cards in his box intently and
that his fingers caressed the top one ever so softly during the instant
the eyes of the rest were on Glenister. The dealer looked up at last,
and Cherry saw the gleam of triumph in his eye; he could not mask it
from her, though his answering words were hesitating. She knew by the
look that Glenister was a pauper.

“Come on,” insisted Roy, hoarsely. “Turn the cards.”

“You’re on!”

The girl felt that she was fainting. She wanted to scream. The triumph
of this moment stifled her--or was it triumph, after all? She heard the
breath of the little man behind her rattle as though he were being
throttled, and saw the lookout pass a shaking hand to his chin, then wet
his parched lips. She saw the man she had helped to ruin bend forward,
his lean face strained and hard, an odd look of pain and weariness in
his eyes. She never forgot that look. The crowd was frozen in various
attitudes of eagerness, although it had not yet recovered from the
suspense of the last great wager. It knew the Midas and what it meant.
Here lay half of it, hidden beneath a tawdry square of pasteboard. With
maddening deliberation the Kid dealt the top card. Beneath it was the
trey of spades. Glenister said no word nor made a move. Some one
coughed, and it sounded like a gunshot. Slowly the dealer’s fingers
retraced their way. He hesitated purposely and leered at the girl, then
the three-spot disappeared and beneath it lay the ace as the king had
lain on that other wager. It spelled utter ruin to Glenister. He raised
his eyes blindly, and then the deathlike silence of the room was
shattered by a sudden crash. Cherry Malotte had closed her check-rack
violently, at the same instant crying shrill and clear:

“That bet is off! The cases are wrong!”

Glenister half rose, overturning his chair; the Kid lunged forward
across the table, and his wonderful hands, tense and talon-like, thrust
themselves forward as though reaching for the riches she had snatched
away. They worked and writhed and trembled as though in dumb fury, the
nails sinking into the oil-cloth table-cover. His face grew livid and
cruel, while his eyes blazed at her till she shrank from him
affrightedly, bracing herself away from the table with rigid arms.

Reason came slowly back to Glenister, and understanding with it. He
seemed to awake from a nightmare. He could read all too plainly the
gambler’s look of baffled hate as the man sprawled on the table, his
arms spread wide, his eyes glaring at the cowering woman, who shrank
before him like a rabbit before a snake. She tried to speak, but choked.
Then the dealer came to himself, and cried harshly through his teeth one
word:

“Christ!”

He raised his fist and struck the table so violently that chips and
coppers leaped and rolled, and Cherry closed her eyes to lose sight of
his awful grimace. Glenister looked down on him and said:

“I think I understand; but the money was yours, anyhow, so I don’t
mind.” His meaning was plain. The Kid suddenly jerked open the drawer
before him, but Glenister clenched his right hand and leaned forward.
The miner could have killed him with a blow, for the gambler was seated
and at his mercy. The Kid checked himself, while his face began to
twitch as though the nerves underlying it had broken bondage and were
dancing in a wild, ungovernable orgy.

“You have taught me a lesson,” was all that Glenister said, and with
that he pushed through the crowd and out into the cool night air.
Overhead the arctic stars winked at him, and the sea smells struck him,
clean and fresh. As he went homeward he heard the distant, full-throated
plaint of a wolf-dog. It held the mystery and sadness of the North. He
paused, and, baring his thick, matted head, stood for a long time
gathering himself together. Standing so, he made certain covenants with
himself, and vowed solemnly never to touch another card.

At the same moment Cherry Malotte came hurrying to her cottage door,
fleeing as though from pursuit or from some hateful, haunted spot. She
paused before entering and flung her arms outward into the dark in a
wide gesture of despair.

“Why did I do it? Oh! _why_ did I do it? I can’t understand myself.”



CHAPTER XIV

A MIDNIGHT MESSENGER


“My dear Helen, don’t you realize that my official position carries with
it a certain social obligation which it is our duty to discharge?”

“I suppose so, Uncle Arthur; but I would much rather stay at home.”

“Tut, tut! Go and have a good time.”

“Dancing doesn’t appeal to me any more. I left that sort of thing back
home. Now, if you would only come along--”

“No--I’m too busy. I must work to-night, and I’m not in a mood for such
things, anyhow.”

“You’re not well,” his niece said. “I have noticed it for weeks. Is it
hard work or are you truly ill? You’re nervous; you don’t eat; you’re
growing positively gaunt. Why--you’re getting wrinkles like an old man.”
She rose from her seat at the breakfast-table and went to him, smoothing
his silvered head with affection.

He took her cool hand and pressed it to his cheek, while the worry that
haunted him habitually of late gave way to a smile.

“It’s work, little girl--hard and thankless work, that’s all. This
country is intended for young men, and I’m too far along.” His eyes grew
grave again, and he squeezed her fingers nervously as though at the
thought. “It’s a terrible country--this---- I--I--wish we had never seen
it.”

“Don’t say that,” Helen cried, spiritedly. “Why, it’s glorious. Think of
the honor. You’re a United States judge and the first one to come here.
You’re making history--you’re building a State--people will read about
you.” She stooped and kissed him; but he seemed to flinch beneath her
caress.

“Of course I’ll go if you think I’d better,” she said, “though I’m not
fond of Alaskan society. Some of the women are nice, but the others--”
She shrugged her dainty shoulders. “They talk scandal all the time. One
would think that a great, clean, fresh, vigorous country like this would
broaden the women as it broadens the men--but it doesn’t.”

“I’ll tell McNamara to call for you at nine o’clock,” said the Judge as
he arose. So, later in the day she prepared her long unused finery to
such good purpose that when her escort called for her that evening he
believed her the loveliest of women.

Upon their arrival at the hotel he regarded her with a fresh access of
pride, for the function proved to bear little resemblance to a
mining-camp party. The women wore handsome gowns, and every man was in
evening dress. The wide hall ran the length of the hotel and was flanked
with boxes, while its floor was like polished glass and its walls
effectively decorated.

“Oh, how lovely!” exclaimed Helen as she first caught sight of it. “It’s
just like home.”

“I’ve seen quick-rising cities before,” he said, “but nothing like this.
Still, if these Northerners can build a railroad in a month and a city
in a summer, why shouldn’t they have symphony orchestras and Louis
Quinze ballrooms?”

“I know you’re a splendid dancer,” she said.

“You shall be my judge and jury. I’ll sign this card as often as I dare
without the certainty of violence at the hands of these young men, and
the rest of the time I’ll smoke in the lobby. I don’t care to dance with
any one but you.”

After the first waltz he left her surrounded by partners and made his
way out of the ballroom. This was his first relaxation since landing in
the North. It was well not to become a dull boy, he mused, and as he
chewed his cigar he pictured with an odd thrill, quite unusual with him,
that slender, gray-eyed girl, with her coiled mass of hair, her ivory
shoulders, and merry smile. He saw her float past to the measure of a
two-step, and caught himself resenting the thought of another man’s
enjoyment of the girl’s charms even for an instant.

“Hold on, Alec,” he muttered. “You’re too old a bird to lose your head.”
However, he was waiting for her before the time for their next dance.
She seemed to have lost a part of her gayety.

“What’s the matter? Aren’t you enjoying yourself?”

“Oh, yes!” she returned, brightly. “I’m having a delightful time.”

When he came for his third dance, she was more _distraite_ than ever. As
he led her to a seat they passed a group of women, among whom were Mrs.
Champian and others whom he knew to be wives of men prominent in the
town. He had seen some of them at tea in Judge Stillman’s house, and
therefore was astonished when they returned his greeting but ignored
Helen. She shrank slightly, and he realized that there was something
wrong; he could not guess what. Affairs of men he could cope with, but
the subtleties of women were out of his realm.

“What ails those people? Have they offended you?”

“I don’t know what it is. I have spoken to them, but they cut me.”

“Cut _you?_” he exclaimed.

“Yes.” Her voice trembled, but she held her head high. “It seems as
though all the women in Nome were here and in league to ignore me. It
dazes me--I do not understand.”

“Has anybody said anything to you?” he inquired, fiercely. “Any man, I
mean?”

“No, no! The men are kind. It’s the women.”

“Come--we’ll go home.”

“Indeed, we will not,” she said, proudly. “I shall stay and face it out.
I have done nothing to run away from, and I intend to find out what is
the matter.”

When he had surrendered her, at the beginning of the next dance,
McNamara sought for some acquaintance whom he might question. Most of
the men in Nome either hated or feared him, but he espied one that he
thought suited his purpose, and led him into a corner.

“I want you to answer a question. No beating about the bush. Understand?
I’m blunt, and I want you to be.”

“All right.”

“Your wife has been entertained at Miss Chester’s house. I’ve seen her
there. To-night she refuses to speak to the girl. She cut her dead, and
I want to know what it’s about.”

“How should I know?”

“If you don’t know, I’ll ask you to find out.”

The other shook his head amusedly, at which McNamara flared up.

“I say you will, and you’ll make your wife apologize before she leaves
this hall, too, or you’ll answer to me, man to man. I won’t stand to
have a girl like Miss Chester cold-decked by a bunch of mining-camp
swells, and that goes as it lies.” In his excitement, McNamara reverted
to his Western idiom.

The other did not reply at once, for it is embarrassing to deal with a
person who disregards the conventions utterly, and at the same time has
the inclination and force to compel obedience. The boss’s reputation had
gone abroad.

“Well--er--I know about it in a general way, but of course I don’t go
much on such things. You’d better let it drop.”

“Go on.”

“There has been a lot of talk among the ladies about--well, er--the fact
is, it’s that young Glenister. Mrs. Champian had the next state-room to
them--er--him--I should say--on the way up from the States, and she saw
things. Now, as far as I’m concerned, a girl can do what she pleases,
but Mrs. Champian has her own ideas of propriety. From what my wife
could learn, there’s some truth in the story, too, so you can’t blame
her.”

With a word McNamara could have explained the gossip and made this man
put his wife right, forcing through her an elucidation of the silly
affair in such a way as to spare Helen’s feelings and cover the
busy-tongued magpies with confusion. Yet he hesitated. It is a wise
skipper who trims his sails to every breeze. He thanked his informant
and left him. Entering the lobby, he saw the girl hurrying towards him.

“Take me away, quick! I want to go home.”

“You’ve changed your mind?”

“Yes, let us go,” she panted, and when they were outside she walked so
rapidly that he had difficulty in keeping pace with her. She was silent,
and he knew better than to question, but when they arrived at her house
he entered, took off his overcoat, and turned up the light in the tiny
parlor. She flung her wraps over a chair, storming back and forth like a
little fury. Her eyes were starry with tears of anger, her face was
flushed, her hands worked nervously. He leaned against the mantel,
watching her through his cigar smoke.

“You needn’t tell me,” he said, at length. “I know all about it.”

“I am glad you do. I never could repeat what they said. Oh, it was
brutal!” Her voice caught and she bit her lip. “What made me ask them?
Why didn’t I keep still? After you left, I went to those women and faced
them. Oh, but they were brutal! Yet, why should I care?” She stamped her
slippered foot.

“I shall have to kill that man some day,” he said, flecking his cigar
ashes into the grate.

“What man?” She stood still and looked at him.

“Glenister, of course. If I had thought the story would ever reach you,
I’d have shut him up long ago.”

“It didn’t come from him,” she cried, hot with indignation. “He’s a
gentleman. It’s that cat, Mrs. Champian.”

He shrugged his shoulders the slightest bit, but it was eloquent, and
she noted it. “Oh, I don’t mean that he did it intentionally--he’s too
decent a chap for that--but anybody’s tongue will wag to a beautiful
girl! My lady Malotte is a jealous trick.”

“Malotte! Who is she?” Helen questioned, curiously.

He seemed surprised. “I thought every one knew who she is. It’s just as
well that you don’t.”

“I am sure Mr. Glenister would not talk of me.” There was a pause. “Who
is Miss Malotte?”

He studied for a moment, while she watched him. What a splendid figure
he made in his evening clothes! The cosey room with its shaded lights
enhanced his size and strength and rugged outlines. In his eyes was that
admiration which women live for. He lifted his bold, handsome face and
met her gaze.

“I had rather leave that for you to find out, for I’m not much at
scandal. I have something more important to tell you. It’s the most
important thing I have ever said to you, Helen.” It was the first time
he had used that name, and she began to tremble, while her eyes sought
the door in a panic. She had expected this moment, and yet was not
ready.

“Not to-night--don’t say it now,” she managed to articulate.

“Yes, this is a good time. If you can’t answer, I’ll come back
to-morrow. I want you to be my wife. I want to give you everything the
world offers, and I want to make you happy, girl. There’ll be no gossip
hereafter--I’ll shield you from everything unpleasant, and if there is
anything you want in life, I’ll lay it at your feet. I can do it.” He
lifted his massive arms, and in the set of his strong, square face was
the promise that she should have whatever she craved if mortal man could
give it to her--love, protection, position, adoration.

She stammered uncertainly till the humiliation and chagrin she had
suffered this night swept over her again. This town--this crude,
half-born mining-camp--had turned against her, misjudged her cruelly.
The women were envious, clacking scandal-mongers, all of them, who would
ostracize her and make her life in the Northland a misery, make her an
outcast with nothing to sustain her but her own solitary pride. She
could picture her future clearly, pitilessly, and see herself standing
alone, vilified, harassed in a thousand cutting ways, yet unable to run
away, or to explain. She would have to stay and face it, for her life
was bound up here during the next few years or so, or as long as her
uncle remained a judge. This man would free her. He loved her; he
offered her everything. He was bigger than all the rest combined. They
were his playthings, and they knew it. She was not sure that she loved
him, but his magnetism was overpowering, and her admiration intense. No
other man she had ever known compared with him, except Glenister--Bah!
The beast! He had insulted her at first; he wronged her now.

“Will you be my wife, Helen?” the man repeated, softly.

She dropped her head, and he strode forward to take her in his arms,
then stopped, listening. Some one ran up on the porch and hammered
loudly at the door. McNamara scowled, walked into the hall, and flung
the portal open, disclosing Struve.

“Hello, McNamara! Been looking all over for you. There’s the deuce to
pay!” Helen sighed with relief and gathered up her cloak, while the hum
of their voices reached her indistinctly. She was given plenty of time
to regain her composure before they appeared. When they did, the
politician spoke, sourly:

“I’ve been called to the mines, and I must go at once.”

“You bet! It may be too late now. The news came an hour ago, but I
couldn’t find you,” said Struve. “Your horse is saddled at the office.
Better not wait to change your clothes.”

“You say Voorhees has gone with twenty deputies, eh? That’s good. You
stay here and find out all you can.”

“I telephoned out to the Creek for the boys to arm themselves and throw
out pickets. If you hurry you can get there in time. It’s only midnight
now.”

“What is the trouble?” Miss Chester inquired, anxiously.

“There’s a plot on to attack the mines to-night,” answered the lawyer.
“The other side are trying to seize them, and there’s apt to be a
fight.”

“You mustn’t go out there,” she cried, aghast. “There will be
bloodshed.”

“That’s just why I _must_ go,” said McNamara. “I’ll come back in the
morning, though, and I’d like to see you alone. Good-night!” There was a
strange, new light in his eyes as he left her. For one unversed in
woman’s ways he played the game surprisingly well, and as he hurried
towards his office he smiled grimly into the darkness.

“She’ll answer me to-morrow. Thank you, Mr. Glenister,” he said to
himself.

Helen questioned Struve at length, but gained nothing more than that
secret-service men had been at work for weeks and had to-day unearthed
the fact that Vigilantes had been formed. They had heard enough to make
them think the mines would be jumped again to-night, and so had given
the alarm.

“Have you hired spies?” she asked, incredulously.

“Sure. We had to. The other people shadowed us, and it’s come to a point
where it’s life or death to one side or the other. I told McNamara we’d
have bloodshed before we were through, when he first outlined the
scheme--I mean when the trouble began.”

She wrung her hands. “That’s what uncle feared before we left Seattle.
That’s why I took the risks I did in bringing you those papers. I
thought you got them in time to avoid all this.”

Struve laughed a bit, eying her curiously.

“Does Uncle Arthur know about this?” she continued.

“No, we don’t let him know anything more than necessary; he’s not a
strong man.”

“Yes, yes. He’s not well.” Again the lawyer smiled. “Who is behind this
Vigilante movement?”

“We think it is Glenister and his New Mexican bandit partner. At least
they got the crowd together.” She was silent for a time.

“I suppose they really think they own those mines.”

“Undoubtedly.”

“But they don’t, do they?” Somehow this question had recurred to her
insistently of late, for things were constantly happening which showed
there was more back of this great, fierce struggle than she knew. It
was impossible that injustice had been done the mine-owners, and yet
scattered talk reached her which was puzzling. When she strove to follow
it up, her acquaintances adroitly changed the subject. She was baffled
on every side. The three local newspapers upheld the court. She read
them carefully, and was more at sea than ever. There was a disturbing
undercurrent of alarm and unrest that caused her to feel insecure, as
though standing on hollow ground.

“Yes, this whole disturbance is caused by those two. Only for them we’d
be all right.”

“Who is Miss Malotte?”

He answered, promptly: “The handsomest woman in the North, and the most
dangerous.”

“In what way? Who is she?”

“It’s hard to say who or what she is--she’s different from other women.
She came to Dawson in the early days--just came--we didn’t know how,
whence, or why, and we never found out. We woke up one morning and there
she was. By night we were all jealous, and in a week we were most of us
drivelling idiots. It might have been the mystery or, perhaps, the
competition. That was the day when a dance-hall girl could make a
homestake in a winter or marry a millionaire in a month, but she never
bothered. She toiled not, neither did she spin on the waxed floors, yet
Solomon in all his glory would have looked like a tramp beside her.”

“You say she is dangerous?”

“Well, there was the young nobleman, in the winter of ’98, Dane, I
think--fine family and all that--big, yellow-haired boy. He wanted to
marry her, but a faro-dealer shot him. Then there was Rock, of the
mounted police, the finest officer in the service. He was cashiered. She
knew he was going to pot for her, but she didn’t seem to care--and there
were others. Yet, with it all, she is the most generous person and the
most tender-hearted. Why, she has fed every ‘stew bum’ on the Yukon, and
there isn’t a busted prospector in the country who wouldn’t swear by
her, for she has grubstaked dozens of them. I was horribly in love with
her myself. Yes, she’s dangerous, all right--to everybody but
Glenister.”

“What do you mean?”

“She had been across the Yukon to nurse a man with scurvy, and coming
back she was caught in the spring break-up. I wasn’t there, but it seems
this Glenister got her ashore somehow when nobody else would tackle the
job. They were carried five miles down-stream in the ice-pack before he
succeeded.”

“What happened then?”

“She fell in love with him, of course.”

“And he worshipped her as madly as all the rest of you, I suppose,” she
said, scornfully.

“That’s the peculiar part. She hypnotized him at first, but he ran away,
and I didn’t hear of him again till I came to Nome. She followed him,
finally, and last week evened up her score. She paid him back for saving
her.”

“I haven’t heard about it.”

He detailed the story of the gambling episode at the Northern saloon,
and concluded: “I’d like to have seen that ‘turn,’ for they say the
excitement was terrific. She was keeping cases, and at the finish
slammed her case-keeper shut and declared the bet off because she had
made a mistake. Of course they couldn’t dispute her, and she stuck to
it. One of the by-standers told me she lied, though.”

“So, in addition to his other vices, Mr. Glenister is a reckless
gambler, is he?” said Helen, with heat. “I am proud to be indebted to
such a character. Truly this country breeds wonderful species.”

“There’s where you’re wrong,” Struve chuckled. “He’s never been known to
bet before.”

“Oh, I’m tired of these contradictions!” she cried, angrily. “Saloons,
gambling-halls, scandals, adventuresses! Ugh! I hate it! I _hate_ it!
Why did I ever come here?”

“Those things are a part of every new country. They were about all we
had till this year. But it is women like you that we fellows need, Miss
Helen. You can help us a lot.” She did not like the way he was looking
at her, and remembered that her uncle was up-stairs and asleep.

“I must ask you to excuse me now, for it’s late and I am very tired.”

The clock showed half-past twelve, so, after letting him out, she
extinguished the light and dragged herself wearily up to her room. She
removed her outer garments and threw over her bare shoulders a negligée
of many flounces and bewildering, clinging looseness. As she took down
her heavy braids, the story of Cherry Malotte returned to her
tormentingly. So Glenister had saved _her_ life also at risk of his own.
What a very gallant cavalier he was, to be sure! He should bear a coat
of arms--a dragon, an armed knight, and a fainting maiden. “I succor
ladies in distress--handsome ones,” should be the motto on his shield.
“The handsomest woman in the North,” Struve had said. She raised her
eyes to the glass and made a mouth at the petulant, tired reflection
there. She pictured Glenister leaping from floe to floe with the hungry
river surging and snapping at his feet, while the cheers of the crowd on
shore gave heart to the girl crouching out there. She could see him
snatch her up and fight his way back to safety over the plunging
ice-cakes with death dragging at his heels. What a strong embrace he
had! At this she blushed and realized with a shock that while she was
mooning that very man might be fighting hand to hand in the darkness of
a mountain-gorge with the man she was going to marry.

A moment later some one mounted the front steps below and knocked
sharply. Truly this was a night of alarms. Would people never cease
coming? She was worn out, but at the thought of the tragedy abroad and
the sick old man sleeping near by, she lit a candle and slipped
down-stairs to avoid disturbing him. Doubtless it was some message from
McNamara, she thought, as she unchained the door.

As she opened it, she fell back amazed while it swung wide and the
candle flame flickered and sputtered in the night air. Roy Glenister
stood there, grim and determined, his soft, white Stetson pulled low,
his trousers tucked into tan half-boots, in his hand a Winchester rifle.
Beneath his corduroy coat she saw a loose cartridge-belt, yellow with
shells, and the nickelled flash of a revolver. Without invitation he
strode across the threshold, closing the door behind him.

“Miss Chester, you and the Judge must dress quickly and come with me.”

“I don’t understand.”

“The Vigilantes are on their way here to hang him. Come with me to my
house where I can protect you.”

She laid a trembling hand on her bosom and the color died out of her
face, then at a slight noise above they both looked up to see Judge
Stillman leaning far over the banister. He had wrapped himself in a
dressing-gown and now gripped the rail convulsively, while his features
were blanched to the color of putty and his eyes were wide with terror,
though puffed and swollen from sleep. His lips moved in a vain endeavor
to speak.



CHAPTER XV

VIGILANTES


On the morning after the episode in the Northern, Glenister awoke under
a weight of discouragement and desolation. The past twenty-four hours
with their manifold experiences seemed distant and unreal. At breakfast
he was ashamed to tell Dextry of the gambling debauch, for he had dealt
treacherously with the old man in risking half of the mine, even though
they had agreed that either might do as he chose with his interest,
regardless of the other. It all seemed like a nightmare, those tense
moments when he lay above the receiver’s office and felt his belief in
the one woman slipping away, the frenzied thirst which Cherry Malotte
had checked, the senseless, unreasoning lust for play that possessed him
later. This lapse was the last stand of his old, untamed instincts. The
embers of revolt in him were dead. He felt that he would never again
lose mastery of himself, that his passions would never best him
hereafter.

Dextry spoke. “We had a meeting of the ‘Strangles’ last night.” He
always spoke of the Vigilantes in that way, because of his early Western
training.

“What was done?”

“They decided to act quick and do any odd jobs of lynchin’,
claim-jumpin’, or such as needs doin’. There’s a lot of law sharps and
storekeepers in the bunch who figure McNamara’s gang will wipe them off
the map next.”

“It was bound to come to this.”

“They talked of ejectin’ the receiver’s men and puttin’ all us fellers
back on our mines.”

“Good. How many can we count on to help us?”

“About sixty. We’ve kept the number down, and only taken men with so
much property that they’ll have to keep their mouths shut.”

“I wish we might engineer some kind of an encounter with the court crowd
and create such an uproar that it would reach Washington. Everything
else has failed, and our last chance seems to be for the government to
step in; that is, unless Bill Wheaton can do something with the
California courts.”

“I don’t count on him. McNamara don’t care for California courts no
more’n he would for a boy with a pea-shooter--he’s got too much pull at
headquarters. If the ‘Stranglers’ don’t do no good, we’d better go in
an’ clean out the bunch like we was killin’ snakes. If that fails, I’m
goin’ out to the States an’ be a doctor.”

“A doctor? What for?”

“I read somewhere that in the United States every year there is forty
million gallons of whiskey used for medical purposes.”

Glenister laughed. “Speaking of whiskey, Dex--I notice that you’ve been
drinking pretty hard of late--that is, hard for you.”

The old man shook his head. “You’re mistaken. It ain’t hard for me.”

“Well, hard or easy, you’d better cut it out.”

It was some time later that one of the detectives employed by the
Swedes met Glenister on Front Street, and by an almost imperceptible
sign signified his desire to speak with him. When they were alone he
said:

“You’re being shadowed.”

“I’ve known that for a long time.”

“The district-attorney has put on some new men. I’ve fixed the woman who
rooms next to him, and through her I’ve got a line on some of them, but
I haven’t spotted them all. They’re bad ones--‘up-river’ men
mostly--remnants of Soapy Smith’s Skagway gang. They won’t stop at
anything.”

“Thank you--I’ll keep my eyes open.”

A few nights after, Glenister had reason to recall the words of the
sleuth and to realize that the game was growing close and desperate. To
reach his cabin, which sat on the outskirts of the town, he ordinarily
followed one of the plank walks which wound through the confusion of
tents, warehouses, and cottages lying back of the two principal streets
along the water front. This part of the city was not laid out in
rectangular blocks, for in the early rush the first-comers had seized
whatever pieces of ground they found vacant and erected thereon some
kind of buildings to make good their titles. There resulted a formless
jumble of huts, cabins, and sheds, penetrated by no cross streets and
quite unlighted. At night, one leaving the illuminated portion of the
town found this darkness intensified.

Glenister knew his course so well that he could have walked it
blindfolded. Nearing a corner of the warehouse this evening he
remembered that the planking at this point was torn up, so, to avoid the
mud, he leaped lightly across. Simultaneously with his jump he detected
a movement in the shadows that banked the wall at his elbow and saw the
flaming spurt of a revolver-shot. The man had crouched behind the
building and was so close that it seemed impossible to miss. Glenister
fell heavily upon his side and the thought flashed over him, “McNamara’s
thugs have shot me.”

His assailant leaped out from his hiding-place and ran down the walk,
the sound of his quick, soft footfalls thudding faintly out into the
silence. The young man felt no pain, however, so scrambled to his feet,
felt himself over with care, and then swore roundly. He was untouched;
the other had missed him cleanly. The report, coming while he was in the
act of leaping, had startled him so that he had lost his balance,
slipped upon the wet boards, and fallen. His assailant was lost in the
darkness before he could rise. Pursuit was out of the question, so he
continued homeward, considerably shaken, and related the incident to
Dextry.

“You think it was some of McNamara’s work, eh?” Dextry inquired when he
had finished.

“Of course. Didn’t the detective warn me to-day?”

Dextry shook his head. “It don’t seem like the game is that far along
yet. The time is coming when we’ll go to the mat with them people, but
they’ve got the aige on us now, so what could they gain by putting you
away? I don’t believe it’s them, but whoever it is, you’d better be
careful or you’ll be got.”

“Suppose we come home together after this,” Roy suggested, and they
arranged to do so, realizing that danger lurked in the dark corners and
that it was in some such lonely spot that the deed would be tried again.
They experienced no trouble for a time, though on nearing their cabin
one night the younger man fancied that he saw a shadow glide away from
its vicinity and out into the blackness of the tundra, as though some
one had stood at his very door waiting for him, then became frightened
at the two figures approaching. Dextry had not observed it, however, and
Glenister was not positive himself, but it served to give him the
uncanny feeling that some determined, unscrupulous force was bent on his
destruction. He determined to go nowhere unarmed.

A few evenings later he went home early and was busied in writing when
Dextry came in about ten o’clock. The old miner hung up his coat before
speaking, lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply, then, amid mouthfuls of
smoke, began:

“I had my own toes over the edge to-night. I was mistook for you, which
compliment I don’t aim to have repeated.”

Glenister questioned him eagerly.

“We’re about the same height an’ these hats of ours are alike. Just as I
come by that lumber-pile down yonder, a man hopped out an throwed a
‘gat’ under my nose. He was quicker than light, and near blowed my skelp
into the next block before he saw who I was; then he dropped his weepon
and said:

“‘My mistake. Go on.’ I accepted his apology.”

“Could you see who he was?”

“Sure. Guess.”

“I can’t.”

“It was the Bronco Kid.”

“Lord!” ejaculated Glenister. “Do you think he’s after me?”

“He ain’t after nobody else, an’, take my word for it, it’s got nothin’
to do with McNamara nor that gamblin’ row. He’s too game for that.
There’s some other reason.”

This was the first mention Dextry had made of the night at the Northern.

“I don’t know why he should have it in for me--I never did him any
favors,” Glenister remarked, cynically.

“Well, you watch out, anyhow. I’d sooner face McNamara an’ all the
crooks he can hire than that gambler.”

During the next few days Roy undertook to meet the proprietor of the
Northern face to face, but the Kid had vanished completely from his
haunts. He was not in his gambling-hall at night nor on the street by
day. The young man was still looking for him on the evening of the dance
at the hotel, when he chanced to meet one of the Vigilantes, who
inquired of him:

“Aren’t you late for the meeting?”

“What meeting?”

After seeing that they were alone, the other stated:

“There’s an assembly to-night at eleven o’clock. Something important, I
think. I supposed, of course, you knew about it.”

“It’s strange I wasn’t notified,” said Roy. “It’s probably an oversight.
I’ll go along with you.”

Together they crossed the river to the less frequented part of town and
knocked at the door of a large, unlighted warehouse, flanked by a high
board fence. The building faced the street, but was enclosed on the
other three sides by this ten-foot wall, inside of which were stored
large quantities of coal and lumber. After some delay they were
admitted, and, passing down through the dim-lit, high-banked lanes of
merchandise, came to the rear room, where they were admitted again.
This compartment had been fitted up for the warm storage of perishable
goods during the cold weather, and, being without windows, made an ideal
place for clandestine gatherings.

Glenister was astonished to find every man of the organization present,
including Dextry, whom he supposed to have gone home an hour since.
Evidently a discussion had been in progress, for a chairman was
presiding, and the boxes, kegs, and bales of goods had been shoved back
against the walls for seats. On these were ranged the threescore men of
the “Stranglers,” their serious faces lighted imperfectly by scattered
lanterns. A certain constraint seized them upon Glenister’s entrance;
the chairman was embarrassed. It was but momentary, however. Glenister
himself felt that tragedy was in the air, for it showed in the men’s
attitudes and spoke eloquently from their strained faces. He was about
to question the man next to him when the presiding officer continued:

“We will assemble here quietly with our arms at one o’clock. And let me
caution you again not to talk or do anything to scare the birds away.”

Glenister arose. “I came late, Mr. Chairman, so I missed hearing your
plan I gather that you’re out for business, however, and I want to be in
it. May I ask what is on foot?”

“Certainly. Things have reached such a pass that moderate means are
useless. We have decided to act, and act quickly. We have exhausted
every legal resource and now we’re going to stamp out this gang of
robbers in our own way. We will get together in an hour, divide into
three groups of twenty men, each with a leader, then go to the houses
of McNamara, Stillman, and Voorhees, take them prisoners, and--” He
waved his hand in a large gesture.

Glenister made no answer for a moment, while the crowd watched him
intently.

“You have discussed this fully?” he asked.

“We have. It has been voted on, and we’re unanimous.”

“My friends, when I stepped into this room just now I felt that I wasn’t
wanted. Why, I don’t know, because I have had more to do with organizing
this movement than any of you, and because I have suffered just as much
as the rest. I want to know if I was omitted from this meeting
intentionally.”

“This is an embarrassing position to put me in,” said the chairman,
gravely. “But I shall answer as spokesman for these men if they wish.”

“Yes. Go ahead,” said those around the room.

“We don’t question your loyalty, Mr. Glenister, but we didn’t ask you to
this meeting because we know your attitude--perhaps I’d better say
sentiment--regarding Judge Stillman’s niece--er--family. It has come to
us from various sources that you have been affected to the prejudice of
your own and your partner’s interest. Now, there isn’t going to be any
sentiment in the affairs of the Vigilantes. We are going to do justice,
and we thought the simplest way was to ignore you in this matter and
spare all discussion and hard feeling in every quarter.”

“It’s a lie!” shouted the young man, hoarsely. “A damned lie! You
wouldn’t let me in for fear I’d kick, eh? Well, you were right. I will
kick. You’ve hinted about my feelings for Miss Chester. Let me tell you
that she is engaged to marry McNamara, and that she’s nothing to me.
Now, then, let me tell you, further, that you won’t break into her house
and hang her uncle, even if he is a reprobate. No, sir! This isn’t the
time for violence of that sort--we’ll win without it. If we can’t, let’s
fight like men, and not hunt in a pack like wolves. If you want to do
something, put us back on our mines and help us hold them, but, for
God’s sake, don’t descend to assassination and the tactics of the
Mafia!”

“We knew you would make that kind of a talk,” said the speaker, while
the rest murmured grudgingly. One of them spoke up.

“We’ve talked this over in cold blood, Glenister, and it’s a question of
their lives or our liberty. The law don’t enter into it.”

“That’s right,” echoed another at his elbow. “We can’t seize the claims,
because McNamara’s got soldiers to back him up. They’d shoot us down.
You ought to be the last one to object.”

He saw that dispute was futile. Determination was stamped on their faces
too plainly for mistake, and his argument had no more effect on them
than had the pale rays of the lantern beside him, yet he continued:

“I don’t deny that McNamara deserves lynching, but Stillman doesn’t.
He’s a weak old man”--some one laughed derisively--“and there’s a woman
in the house. He’s all she has in the world to depend upon, and you
would have to kill her to get at him. If you _must_ follow this course,
take the others, but leave him alone.”

They only shook their heads, while several pushed by him even as he
spoke. “We’re going to distribute our favors equal,” said a man as he
left. They were actuated by what they called justice, and he could not
sway them. The life and welfare of the North were in their hands, as
they thought, and there was not one to hesitate. Glenister implored the
chairman, but the man answered him:

“It’s too late for further discussion, and let me remind you of your
promise. You’re bound by every obligation that exists for an honorable
man--”

“Oh, don’t think that I’ll give the snap away!” said the other; “but I
warn you again not to enter Stillman’s house.”

He followed out into the night to find that Dextry had disappeared,
evidently wishing to avoid argument. Roy had seen signs of unrest
beneath the prospector’s restraint during the past few days, and
indications of a fierce hunger to vent his spleen on the men who had
robbed him of his most sacred rights. He was of an intolerant,
vindictive nature that would go to any length for vengeance. Retribution
was part of his creed.

On his way home, the young man looked at his watch, to find that he had
but an hour to determine his course. Instinct prompted him to join his
friends and to even the score with the men who had injured him so
bitterly, for, measured by standards of the frontier, they were pirates
with their lives forfeit. Yet, he could not countenance this step. If
only the Vigilantes would be content with making an example--but he knew
they would not. The blood hunger of a mob is easy to whet and hard to
hold. McNamara would resist, as would Voorhees and the
district-attorney, then there would be bloodshed, riot, chaos. The
soldiers would be called out and martial law declared, the streets would
become skirmish-grounds. The Vigilantes would rout them without
question, for every citizen of the North would rally to their aid, and
such men could not be stopped. The Judge would go down with the rest of
the ring, and what would happen to--her?

He took down his Winchester, oiled and cleaned it, then buckled on a
belt of cartridges. Still he wrestled with himself. He felt that he was
being ground between his loyalty to the Vigilantes and his own
conscience. The girl was one of the gang, he reasoned--she had schemed
with them to betray him through his love, and she was pledged to the one
man in the world whom he hated with fanatical fury. Why should he think
of her in this hour? Six months back he would have looked with jealous
eyes upon the right to lead the Vigilantes, but this change that had
mastered him--what was it? Not cowardice, nor caution. No. Yet, being
intangible, it was none the less marked, as his friends had shown him an
hour since.

He slipped out into the night. The mob might do as it pleased elsewhere,
but no man should enter her house. He found a light shining from her
parlor window, and, noting the shade up a few inches, stole close.
Peering through, he discovered Struve and Helen talking. He slunk back
into the shadows and remained hidden for a considerable time after the
lawyer left, for the dancers were returning from the hotel and passed
close by. When the last group had chattered away down the street, he
returned to the front of the house and, mounting the steps, knocked
sharply. As Helen appeared at the door, he stepped inside and closed it
after him.

The girl’s hair lay upon her neck and shoulders in tumbled brown
masses, while her breast heaved tumultuously at the sudden, grim sight
of him. She stepped back against the wall, her wondrous, deep, gray eyes
wide and troubled, the blush of modesty struggling with the pallor of
dismay.

The picture pained him like a knife-thrust. This girl was for his
bitterest enemy--no hope of her was for him. He forgot for a moment that
she was false and plotting, then, recalling it, spoke as roughly as he
might and stated his errand. Then the old man had appeared on the stairs
above, speechless with fright at what he overheard. It was evident that
his nerves, so sorely strained by the events of the past week, were now
snapped utterly. A human soul naked and panic-stricken is no pleasant
sight, so Glenister dropped his eyes and addressed the girl again:

“Don’t take anything with you. Just dress and come with me.”

The creature on the stairs above stammered and stuttered, inquiringly:

“What outrage is this, Mr. Glenister?”

“The people of Nome are up in arms, and I’ve come to save you. Don’t
stop to argue.” He spoke impatiently.

“Is this some r-ruse to get me into your power?”

“Uncle Arthur!” exclaimed the girl, sharply. Her eyes met Glenister’s
and begged him to take no offence.

“I don’t understand this atrocity. They must be mad!” wailed the Judge.
“You run over to the jail, Mr. Glenister, and tell Voorhees to hurry
guards here to protect me. Helen, ’phone to the military post and give
the alarm. Tell them the soldiers must come at once.”

“Hold on!” said Glenister. “There’s no use of doing that--the wires are
cut; and I won’t notify Voorhees--he can take care of himself. I came to
help you, and if you want to escape you’ll stop talking and hurry up.”

“I don’t know what to do,” said Stillman, torn by terror and indecision.
“You wouldn’t hurt an old man, would you? Wait! I’ll be down in a
minute.”

He scrambled up the stairs, tripping on his robe, seemingly forgetting
his niece till she called up to him, sharply:

“Stop, Uncle Arthur! You mustn’t _run away_.” She stood erect and
determined. “You wouldn’t do _that_, would you? This is our house. You
represent the law and the dignity of the government. You mustn’t fear a
mob of ruffians. We will stay here and meet them, of course.”

“Good Lord!” said Glenister. “That’s madness. These men aren’t ruffians;
they are the best citizens of Nome. You don’t realize that this is
Alaska and that they have sworn to wipe out McNamara’s gang. Come
along.”

“Thank you for your good intentions,” she said, “but we have done
nothing to run away from. We will get ready to meet these cowards. You
had better go or they will find you here.”

She moved up the stairs, and, taking the Judge by the arm, led him with
her. Of a sudden she had assumed control of the situation unfalteringly,
and both men felt the impossibility of thwarting her. Pausing at the
top, she turned and looked down.

“We are grateful for your efforts just the same. Good-night.”

“Oh, I’m not going,” said the young man. “If you stick I’ll do the
same.” He made the rounds of the first-floor rooms, locking doors and
windows. As a place of defence it was hopeless, and he saw that he would
have to make his stand up-stairs. When sufficient time had elapsed he
called up to Helen:

“May I come?”

“Yes,” she replied. So he ascended, to find Stillman in the hall, half
clothed and cowering, while by the light from the front chamber he saw
her finishing her toilet.

“Won’t you come with me--it’s our last chance?” She only shook her head.
“Well, then, put out the light. I’ll stand at that front window, and
when my eyes get used to the darkness I’ll be able to see them before
they reach the gate.”

She did as directed, taking her place beside him at the opening, while
the Judge crept in and sat upon the bed, his heavy breathing the only
sound in the room. The two young people stood so close beside each other
that the sweet scent of her person awoke in him an almost irresistible
longing. He forgot her treachery again, forgot that she was another’s,
forgot all save that he loved her truly and purely, with a love which
was like an agony to him. Her shoulder brushed his arm; he heard the
soft rustling of her garment at her breast as she breathed. Some one
passed in the street, and she laid a hand upon him fearfully. It was
very cold, very tiny, and very soft, but he made no move to take it. The
moments dragged along, still, tense, interminable. Occasionally she
leaned towards him, and he stooped to catch her whispered words. At such
times her breath beat warm against his cheek, and he closed his teeth
stubbornly. Out in the night a wolf-dog saddened the air, then came the
sound of others wrangling and snarling in a near-by corral. This is a
chickless land and no cock-crow breaks the midnight peace. The suspense
enhanced the Judge’s perturbation till his chattering teeth sounded like
castanets. Now and then he groaned.

The watchers had lost track of time when their strained eyes detected
dark blots materializing out of the shadows.

“There they come,” whispered Glenister, forcing her back from the
aperture; but she would not be denied, and returned to his side.

As the foremost figures reached the gate, Roy leaned forth and spoke,
not loudly, but in tones that sliced through the silence, sharp, clean,
and without warning.

“Halt! Don’t come inside the fence.” There was an instant’s confusion;
then, before the men beneath had time to answer or take action, he
continued: “This is Roy Glenister talking. I told you not to molest
these people and I warn you again. We’re ready for you.”

The leader spoke. “You’re a traitor, Glenister.”

He winced. “Perhaps I am. You betrayed me first, though; and, traitor or
not, you can’t come into this house.”

There was a murmur at this, and some one said:

“Miss Chester is safe. All we want is the Judge. We won’t hang him, not
if he’ll wear this suit we brought along. He needn’t be afraid. Tar is
good for the skin.”

“Oh, my God!” groaned the limb of the law.

Suddenly a man came running down the planked pavement and into the
group.

“McNamara’s gone, and so’s the marshal and the rest,” he panted. There
was a moment’s silence, and then the leader growled to his men, “Scatter
out and rush the house, boys.” He raised his voice to the man in the
window. “This is your work--you damned turncoat.” His followers melted
away to right and left, vaulted the fence, and dodged into the shelter
of the walls. The click, click of Glenister’s Winchester sounded through
the room while the sweat stood out on him. He wondered if he could do
this deed, if he could really fire on these people. He wondered if his
muscles would not wither and paralyze before they obeyed his command.

Helen crowded past him and, leaning half out of the opening, called
loudly, her voice ringing clear and true:

“Wait! Wait a moment. I have something to say. Mr. Glenister didn’t warn
them. They thought you were going to attack the mines and so they rode
out there before midnight. I am telling you the truth, really. They left
hours ago.” It was the first sign she had made, and they recognized her
to a man.

There were uncertain mutterings below till a new man raised his voice.
Both Roy and Helen recognized Dextry.

“Boys, we’ve overplayed. We don’t want _these_ people--McNamara’s our
meat. Old bald-face up yonder has to do what he’s told, and I’m ag’in’
this twenty-to-one midnight work. I’m goin’ home.” There were some
whisperings, then the original spokesman called for Judge Stillman. The
old man tottered to the window, a palsied, terror-stricken object. The
girl was glad he could not be seen from below.

“We won’t hurt you this time, Judge, but you’ve gone far enough. We’ll
give you another chance, then, if you don’t make good, we’ll stretch you
to a lamppost. Take this as a warning.”

“I--s-shall do my d-d-duty,” said the Judge.

The men disappeared into the darkness, and when they had gone Glenister
closed the window, pulled down the shades, and lighted a lamp. He knew
by how narrow a margin a tragedy had been averted. If he had fired on
these men his shot would have kindled a feud which would have consumed
every vestige of the court crowd and himself among them. He would have
fallen under a false banner, and his life would not have reached to the
next sunset. Perhaps it was forfeit now--he could not tell. The
Vigilantes would probably look upon his part as traitorous; and, at the
very least, he had cut himself off from their support, the only support
the Northland offered him. Henceforth he was a renegade, a pariah, hated
alike by both factions. He purposely avoided sight of Stillman and
turned his back when the Judge extended his hand with expressions of
gratitude. His work was done and he wished to leave this house. Helen
followed him down to the door and, as he opened it, laid her hand upon
his sleeve.

“Words are feeble things, and I can never make amends for all you’ve
done for us.”

“For _us_!” cried Roy, with a break in his voice. “Do you think I
sacrificed my honor, betrayed my friends, killed my last hope,
ostracized myself, for ‘_us_’? This is the last time I’ll trouble you.
Perhaps the last time I’ll see you. No matter what else you’ve done,
however, you’ve taught me a lesson, and I thank you for it. I have found
myself at last. I’m not an Eskimo any longer--I’m a man!”

“You’ve always been that,” she said. “I don’t understand as much about
this affair as I want to, and it seems to me that no one will explain
it. I’m very stupid, I guess; but won’t you come back to-morrow and tell
it to me?”

“No,” he said, roughly. “You’re not of my people. McNamara and his are
no friends of mine, and I’m no friend of theirs.” He was half down the
steps before she said, softly:

“Good-night, and God bless you--friend.”

She returned to the Judge, who was in a pitiable state, and for a long
time she labored to soothe him as though he were a child. She undertook
to question him about the things which lay uppermost in her mind and
which this night had half revealed, but he became fretful and irritated
at the mention of mines and mining. She sat beside his bed till he dozed
off, puzzling to discover what lay behind the hints she had heard, till
her brain and body matched in absolute weariness. The reflex of the
day’s excitement sapped her strength till she could barely creep to her
own couch, where she rolled and sighed--too tired to sleep at once. She
awoke finally, with one last nervous flicker, before complete oblivion
took her. A sentence was on her mind--it almost seemed as though she had
spoken it aloud:

“The handsomest woman in the North ... but Glenister ran away.”



CHAPTER XVI

IN WHICH THE TRUTH BEGINS TO BARE ITSELF


It was nearly noon of the next day when Helen awoke to find that
McNamara had ridden in from the Creek and stopped for breakfast with the
Judge. He had asked for her, but on hearing the tale of the night’s
adventure would not allow her to be disturbed. Later, he and the Judge
had gone away together.

Although her judgment approved the step she had contemplated the night
before, still the girl now felt a strange reluctance to meet McNamara.
It is true that she knew no ill of him, except that implied in the
accusations of certain embittered men; and she was aware that every
strong and aggressive character makes enemies in direct proportion to
the qualities which lend him greatness. Nevertheless, she was aware of
an inner conflict that she had not foreseen. This man who so confidently
believed that she would marry him did not dominate her consciousness.

She had ridden much of late, taking long, solitary gallops beside the
shimmering sea that she loved so well, or up the winding valleys into
the foot-hills where echoed the roar of swift waters or glinted the
flash of shovel blades. This morning her horse was lame, so she
determined to walk. In her early rambles she had looked timidly askance
at the rough men she met till she discovered their genuine respect and
courtesy. The most unkempt among them were often college-bred, although,
for that matter, the roughest of the miners showed abundant
consideration for a woman. So she was glad to allow the men to talk to
her with the fine freedom inspired by the new country and its wide
spaces. The wilderness breeds a chivalry all its own.

Thus there seemed to be no danger abroad, though they had told the girl
of mad dogs which roamed the city, explaining that the hot weather
affects powerfully the thick-coated, shaggy “malamoots.” This is the
land of the dog, and whereas in winter his lot is to labor and shiver
and starve, in summer he loafs, fights, grows fat, and runs mad with the
heat.

Helen walked far and, returning, chose an unfamiliar course through the
outskirts of the town to avoid meeting any of the women she knew,
because of that vivid memory of the night before. As she walked swiftly
along she thought that she heard faint cries far behind her. Looking up,
she noted that it was a lonely, barren quarter and that the only figure
in sight was a woman some distance away. A few paces farther on the
shouts recurred--more plainly this time, and a gunshot sounded. Glancing
back, she saw several men running, one bearing a smoking revolver, and
heard, nearer still, the snarling hubbub of fighting dogs. In a flash
the girl’s curiosity became horror, for, as she watched, one of the dogs
made a sudden dash through the now subdued group of animals and ran
swiftly along the planking on which she stood. It was a handsome
specimen of the Eskimo malamoot--tall, gray, and coated like a wolf,
with the speed, strength, and cunning of its cousin. Its head hung low
and swung from side to side as it trotted, the motion flecking foam and
slaver. The creature had scattered the pack, and now, swift, menacing,
relentless, was coming towards Helen. There was no shelter near, no
fence, no house, save the distant one towards which the other woman was
making her way. The men, too far away to protect her, shouted hoarse
warnings.

Helen did not scream nor hesitate--she turned and ran, terror-stricken,
towards the distant cottage. She was blind with fright and felt an utter
certainty that the dog would attack her before she could reach safety.
Yes--there was the quick patter of his pads close up behind her; her
knees weakened; the sheltering door was yet some yards away. But a
horse, tethered near the walk, reared and snorted as the flying pair
drew near. The mad creature swerved, leaped at the horse’s legs, and
snapped in fury. Badly frightened at this attack, the horse lunged at
his halter, broke it, and galloped away; but the delay had served for
Helen, weak and faint, to reach the door. She wrenched at the knob. It
was locked. As she turned hopelessly away, she saw that the other woman
was directly behind her, and was, in her turn, awaiting the mad animal’s
onslaught, but calmly, a tiny revolver in her hand.

“Shoot!” screamed Helen. “Why don’t you shoot?” The little gun spoke,
and the dog spun around, snarling and yelping. The woman fired several
times more before it lay still, and then remarked, calmly, as she
“broke” the weapon and ejected the shells:

“The calibre is too small to be good for much.”

Helen sank down upon the steps.

“How well you shoot!” she gasped. Her eyes were on the gray bundle whose
death agonies had thrust it almost to her feet. The men had run up and
were talking excitedly, but after a word with them the woman turned to
Helen.

“You must come in for a moment and recover yourself,” she said, and led
her inside.

It was a cosey room in which the girl found herself--more than
that--luxurious. There was a piano with scattered music, and many of the
pretty, feminine things that Helen had not seen since leaving home. The
hostess had stepped behind some curtains for an instant and was talking
to her from the next room.

“That is the third mad dog I have seen this month. Hydrophobia is
becoming a habit in this neighborhood.” She returned, bearing a tiny
silver tray with decanter and glasses.

“You’re all unstrung, but this brandy will help you--if you don’t object
to a swallow of it. Then come right in here and lie down for a moment
and you’ll be all right.” She spoke with such genuine kindness and
sympathy that Helen flashed a grateful glance at her. She was tall,
slender, and with a peculiar undulating suggestion in her movements, as
though she had been bred to the clinging folds of silken garments. Helen
watched the charm of her smile, the friendly solicitude of her
expression, and felt her heart warm towards this one kind woman in Nome.

“You’re very good,” she answered; “but I’m all right now. I was badly
frightened. It was wonderful, your saving me.” She followed the other’s
graceful motion as she placed her burden on the table, and in doing so
gazed squarely at a photograph of Roy Glenister.

“Oh--!” Helen exclaimed, then paused as it flashed over her who this
girl was. She looked at her quickly. Yes, probably men would consider
the woman beautiful, with that smile. The revelation came with a shock,
and she arose, trying to mask her confusion.

“Thank you so much for your kindness. I’m quite myself now and I must
go.”

Her change of face could not escape the quick perceptions of one
schooled by experience in the slights of her sex. Times without number
Cherry Malotte had marked that subtle, scornful change in other women,
and reviled herself for heeding it. But in some way this girl’s manner
hurt her worst of all. She betrayed no sign, however, save a widening of
the eyes and a certain fixity of smile as she answered:

“I wish you would stay until you are rested, Miss--” She paused with
out-stretched hand.

“Chester. My name is Helen Chester. I’m Judge Stillman’s niece,” hurried
the other, in embarrassment.

Cherry Malotte withdrew her proffered hand and her face grew hard and
hateful.

“Oh! So you are Miss Chester--and I--saved you!” She laughed harshly.

Helen strove for calmness. “I’m sorry you feel that way,” she said,
coolly. “I appreciate your service to me.” She moved towards the door.

“Wait a moment. I want to talk to you.” Then, as Helen paid no heed, the
woman burst out, bitterly: “Oh, don’t be afraid! I know you are
committing an unpardonable sin by talking to me, but no one will see
you, and in your code the crime lies in being discovered. Therefore,
you’re quite safe. That’s what makes me an outcast--I was found out. I
want you to know, however, that, bad as I am, I’m better than you, for
I’m loyal to those that like me, and I don’t betray my friends.”

“I don’t pretend to understand you,” said Helen, coldly.

“Oh yes, you do! Don’t assume such innocence. Of course it’s your rôle,
but you can’t play it with me.” She stepped in front of her visitor,
placing her back against the door, while her face was bitter and
mocking. “The little service I did you just now entitles me to a
privilege, I suppose, and I’m going to take advantage of it to tell you
how badly your mask fits. Dreadfully rude of me, isn’t it? You’re in
with a fine lot of crooks, and I admire the way you’ve done your share
of the dirty work, but when you assume these scandalized, supervirtuous
airs it offends me.”

“Let me out!”

“I’ve done bad things,” Cherry continued, unheedingly, “but I was forced
into them, usually, and I never, deliberately, tried to wreck a man’s
life just for his money.”

“What do you mean by saying that I have betrayed my friends and wrecked
anybody’s life?” Helen demanded, hotly.

“Bah! I had you sized up at the start, but Roy couldn’t see it. Then
Struve told me what I hadn’t guessed. A bottle of wine, a woman, and
that fool will tell all he knows. It’s a great game McNamara’s playing
and he did well to get you in on it, for you’re clever, your nerve is
good, and your make-up is great for the part. I ought to know, for I’ve
turned a few tricks myself. You’ll pardon this little burst of
feeling--professional pique. I’m jealous of your ability, that’s all.
However, now that you realize we’re in the same class, don’t look down
on me hereafter.” She opened the door and bowed her guest out with
elaborate mockery.

Helen was too bewildered and humiliated to make much out of this vicious
and incoherent attack except the fact that Cherry Malotte accused her of
a part in this conspiracy which every one seemed to believe existed.
Here again was that hint of corruption which she encountered on all
sides. This might be merely a woman’s jealousy--and yet she said Struve
had told her all about it--that a bottle of wine and a pretty face would
make the lawyer disclose everything. She could believe it from what she
knew and had heard of him. The feeling that she was groping in the dark,
that she was wrapped in a mysterious woof of secrecy, came over her
again as it had so often of late. If Struve talked to that other woman,
why wouldn’t he talk to her? She paused, changing her direction towards
Front Street, revolving rapidly in her mind as she went her course of
action. Cherry Malotte believed her to be an actress. Very well--she
would prove her judgment right.

She found Struve busy in his private office, but he leaped to his feet
on her entrance and came forward, offering her a chair.

“Good-morning, Miss Helen. You have a fine color, considering the night
you passed. The Judge told me all about the affair; and let me state
that you’re the pluckiest girl I know.”

She smiled grimly at the thought of what made her cheeks glow, and
languidly loosened the buttons of her jacket.

“I suppose you’re very busy, you lawyer man?” she inquired.

“Yes--but not too busy to attend to anything you want.”

“Oh, I didn’t come on business,” she said, lightly. “I was out walking
and merely sauntered in.”

“Well, I appreciate that all the more,” he said, in an altered tone,
twisting his chair about. “I’m more than delighted.” She judged she was
getting on well from the way his professionalism had dropped off.

“Yes, I get tired of talking to uncle and Mr. McNamara. They treat me as
though I were a little girl.”

“When do you take the fatal step?”

“What step do you mean?”

“Your marriage. When does it occur? You needn’t hesitate,” he added.
“McNamara told me about it a month ago.”

He felt his throat gingerly at the thought, but his eyes brightened when
she answered, lightly:

“I think you are mistaken. He must have been joking.”

For some time she led him on adroitly, talking of many things, in a way
to make him wonder at her new and flippant humor. He had never dreamed
she could be like this, so tantalizingly close to familiarity, and yet
so maddeningly aloof and distant. He grew bolder in his speech.

“How are things going with us?” she questioned, as his warmth grew
pronounced. “Uncle won’t talk and Mr. McNamara is as close-mouthed as
can be, lately.”

He looked at her quickly. “In what respect?”

She summoned up her courage and walked past the ragged edge of
uncertainty.

“Now, don’t you try to keep me in short dresses, too. It’s getting
wearisome. I’ve done my part and I want to know what the rest of you are
doing.” She was prepared for any answer.

“What do you want to know?” he asked, cautiously.

“Everything. Don’t you think I can hear what people are saying?”

“Oh, that’s it! Well, don’t you pay any attention to what people say.”

She recognized her mistake and continued, hurriedly:

“Why shouldn’t I? Aren’t we all in this together? I object to being used
and then discarded. I think I’m entitled to know how the scheme is
working. Don’t you think I can keep my mouth shut?”

“Of course,” he laughed, trying to change the subject of their talk; but
she arose and leaned against the desk near him, vowing that she would
not leave the office without piercing some part of this mystery. His
manner strengthened her suspicion that there _was_ something behind it
all. This dissipated, brilliant creature knew the situation thoroughly;
and yet, though swayed by her efforts, he remained chained by caution.
She leaned forward and smiled at him.

“You’re just like the others, aren’t you? You won’t give me any
satisfaction at all.”

“Give, give, give,” said Struve, cynically. “That’s always the woman’s
cry. Give me this--give me that. Selfish sex! Why don’t you offer
something in return? Men are traders, women usurers. You are curious,
hence miserable. I can help you, therefore I should do it for a smile.
You ask me to break my promises and risk my honor on your caprice. Well,
that’s woman-like, and I’ll do it. I’ll put myself in your power, but I
won’t do it gratis. No, we’ll trade.”

“It isn’t curiosity,” she denied, indignantly. “It is my due.”

“No; you’ve heard the common talk and grown suspicious, that’s all. You
think I know something that will throw a new light or a new shadow on
everything you have in the world, and you’re worked up to such a
condition that you can’t take your own people’s word; and, on the other
hand, you can’t go to strangers, so you come to me. Suppose I told you I
had the papers you brought to me last spring in that safe and that they
told the whole story--whether your uncle is unimpeachable or whether he
deserved hanging by that mob. What would you do, eh? What would you give
to see them? Well, they’re there and ready to speak for themselves. If
you’re a woman you won’t rest till you’ve seen them. Will you trade?”

“Yes, yes! Give them to me,” she cried, eagerly, at which a wave of
crimson rushed up to his eyes and he rose abruptly from his chair. He
made towards her, but she retreated to the wall, pale and wide-eyed.

“Can’t you see,” she flung at him, “that I _must_ know?”

He paused. “Of course I can, but I want a kiss to bind the bargain--to
apply on account.” He reached for her hand with his own hot one, but she
pushed him away and slipped past him towards the door.

“Suit yourself,” said he, “but if I’m not mistaken, you’ll never rest
till you’ve seen those papers. I’ve studied you, and I’ll place a bet
that you can’t marry McNamara nor look your uncle in the eye till you
know the truth. You might do either if you _knew_ them to be crooks, but
you couldn’t if you only suspected it--that’s the woman. When you get
ready, come back; I’ll show you proof, because I don’t claim to be
anything but what I am--Wilton Struve, bargainer of some mean ability.
When they come to inscribe my headstone I hope they can carve thereon
with truth, ‘He got value received.’”

“You’re a panther,” she said, loathingly.

“Graceful and elegant brute, that,” he laughed. “Affectionate and full
of play, but with sharp teeth and sharper claws. To follow out the idea,
which pleases me, I believe the creature owes no loyalty to its fellows
and hunts alone. Now, when you’ve followed this conspiracy out and
placed the blame where it belongs, won’t you come and tell me about it?
That door leads into an outer hall which opens into the street. No one
will see you come or go.”

As she hurried away she wondered dazedly why she had stayed to listen so
long. What a monster he was! His meaning was plain, had always been so
from the first day he laid eyes upon her, and he was utterly
conscienceless. She had known all this; and yet, in her proud, youthful
confidence, and in her need, every hour more desperate and urgent, to
know the truth, she had dared risk herself with him. Withal, the man was
shrewd and observant and had divined her mental condition with
remarkable sagacity. She had failed with him; but the girl now knew that
she could never rest till she found an answer to her questions. She
_must_ kill this suspicion that ate into her so. She thought tenderly of
her uncle’s goodness to her, clung with despairing faith to the last of
her kin. The blood ties of the Chesters were close and she felt in dire
need of that lost brother who was somewhere in this mysterious
land--need of some one in whom ran the strain that bound her to the weak
old man up yonder. There was McNamara; but how could he help her, how
much did she know of him, this man who was now within the darkest shadow
of her new suspicions?

Feeling almost intolerably friendless and alone, weakened both by her
recent fright and by her encounter with Struve, Helen considered as
calmly as her emotions would allow and decided that this was no day in
which pride should figure. There were facts which it was imperative she
should know, and immediately; therefore, a few minutes later, she
knocked at the door of Cherry Malotte. When the girl appeared, Helen was
astonished to see that she had been crying. Tears burn hottest and leave
plainest trace in eyes where they come most seldom. The younger girl
could not guess the tumult of emotion the other had undergone during her
absence, the utter depths of self-abasement she had fathomed, for the
sight of Helen and her fresh young beauty had roused in the adventuress
a very tempest of bitterness and jealousy. Whether Helen Chester were
guilty or innocent, how could Glenister hesitate between them? Cherry
had asked herself. Now she stared at her visitor inhospitably and
without sign.

“Will you let me come in?” Helen asked her. “I have something to say to
you.”

When they were inside, Cherry Malotte stood and gazed at her visitor
with inscrutable eyes and stony face.

“It isn’t easy for me to come back,” Helen began, “but I felt that I
had to. If you can help me, I hope you will. You said that you knew a
great wrong was being done. I have suspected it, but I didn’t know, and
I’ve been afraid to doubt my own people. You said I had a part in
it--that I’d betrayed my friends. Wait a moment,” she hurried on, at the
other’s cynical smile. “Won’t you tell me what you know and what you
think my part has been? I’ve heard and seen things that make me
think--oh, they make me afraid to think, and yet I can’t find the
_truth!_ You see, in a struggle like this, people will make all sorts of
allegations, but do they _know_, have they any proof, that my uncle has
done wrong?”

“Is that all?”

“No. You said Struve told you the whole scheme. I went to him and tried
to cajole the story out of him, but--” She shivered at the memory.

“What success did you have?” inquired the listener, oddly curious for
all her cold dislike.

“Don’t ask me. I hate to think of it.”

Cherry laughed cruelly. “So, failing there, you came back to me, back
for another favor from the waif. Well, Miss Helen Chester, I don’t
believe a word you’ve said and I’ll tell you nothing. Go back to the
uncle and the rawboned lover who sent you, and inform them that I’ll
speak when the time comes. They think I know too much, do they?--so
they’ve sent you to spy? Well, I’ll make a compact. You play your game
and I’ll play mine. Leave Glenister alone and I’ll not tell on McNamara.
Is it a bargain?”

“No, no, no! Can’t you _see_? That’s not it. All I want is the truth of
this thing.”

“Then go back to Struve and get it. He’ll tell you; I won’t. Drive your
bargain with him--you’re able. You’ve fooled better men--now, see what
you can do with him.”

Helen left, realizing the futility of further effort, though she felt
that this woman did not really doubt her, but was scourged by jealousy
till she deliberately chose this attitude.

Reaching her own house, she wrote two brief notes and called in her Jap
boy from the kitchen.

“Fred, I want you to hunt up Mr. Glenister and give him this note. If
you can’t find him, then look for his partner and give the other to
him.” Fred vanished, to return in an hour with the letter for Dextry
still in his hand.

“I don’ catch dis feller,” he explained. “Young mans say he gone, come
back mebbe one, two, ’leven days.”

“Did you deliver the one to Mr. Glenister?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Was there an answer?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Well, give it to me.”

The note read:

     “DEAR MISS CHESTER,--A discussion of a matter so familiar to us
     both as the Anvil Creek controversy would be useless. If your
     inclination is due to the incidents of last night, pray don’t
     trouble yourself. We don’t want your pity. I am,

RIGHT
“Your servant,

“ROY GLENISTER.”



As she read the note, Judge Stillman entered, and it seemed to the girl
that he had aged a year for every hour in the last twelve, or else the
yellow afternoon light limned the sagging hollows and haggard lines of
his face most pitilessly. He showed in voice and manner the nervous
burden under which he labored.

“Alec has told me about your engagement, and it lifts a terrible load
from me. I’m mighty glad you’re going to marry him. He’s a wonderful
man, and he’s the only one who can save us.”

“What do you mean by that? What are we in danger of?” she inquired,
avoiding discussion of McNamara’s announcement.

“Why, that mob, of course. They’ll come back. They said so. But Alec can
handle the commanding officer at the post, and, thanks to him, we’ll
have soldiers guarding the house hereafter.”

“Why--they won’t hurt us--”

“Tut, tut! I know what I’m talking about. We’re in worse danger now than
ever, and if we don’t break up those Vigilantes there’ll be
bloodshed--that’s what. They’re a menace, and they’re trying to force me
off the bench so they can take the law into their own hands again.
That’s what I want to see you about. They’re planning to kill Alec and
me--so he says--and we’ve got to act quick to prevent murder. Now, this
young Glenister is one of them, and he knows who the rest are. Do you
think you could get him to talk?”

“I don’t think I quite understand you,” said the girl, through whitening
lips.

“Oh yes, you do. I want the names of the ring-leaders, so that I can
jail them. You can worm it out of that fellow if you try.”

Helen looked at the old man in a horror that at first was dumb. “You ask
this of me?” she demanded, hoarsely, at last.

“Nonsense,” he said, irritably. “This isn’t any time for silly scruples.
It’s life or death for me, maybe, and for Alec, too.” He said the last
craftily, but she stormed at him:

“It’s infamous! You’re asking me to betray the very man who saved us not
twelve hours ago. He risked his life for us.”

“It isn’t treachery at all, it’s protection. If we don’t get them,
they’ll get us. I wouldn’t punish that young fellow, but I want the
others. Come, now, you’ve got to do it.”

But she said “No” firmly, and quietly went to her own room, where,
behind the locked door, she sat for a long time staring with unseeing
eyes, her hands tight clenched in her lap. At last she whispered:

“I’m afraid it’s true. I’m afraid it’s true.”

She remained hidden during the dinner-hour, and pleaded a headache when
McNamara called in the early evening. Although she had not seen him
since he left her the night before, bearing her tacit promise to wed
him, yet how could she meet him now with the conviction growing on her
hourly that he was a master-rogue? She wrestled with the thought that he
and her uncle, her own uncle who stood in the place of a father, were
conspirators. And yet, at memory of the Judge’s cold-blooded request
that she should turn traitress, her whole being was revolted. If he
could ask a thing like that, what other heartless, selfish act might he
not be capable of? All the long, solitary evening she kept her room, but
at last, feeling faint, slipped down-stairs in search of Fred, for she
had eaten nothing since her late breakfast.

Voices reached her from the parlor, and as she came to the last step
she froze there in an attitude of listening. The first sentence she
heard through the close-drawn curtains banished all qualms at
eavesdropping. She stood for many breathless minutes drinking in the
plot that came to her plainly from within, then turned, gathered up her
skirts, and tiptoed back to her room. Here she made haste madly, tearing
off her house clothes and donning others.

She pressed her face to the window and noted that the night was like a
close-hung velvet pall, without a star in sight. Nevertheless, she wound
a heavy veil about her hat and face before she extinguished the light
and stepped into the hall. Hearing McNamara’s “Good-night” at the
front-door, she retreated again while her uncle slowly mounted the
stairs and paused before her chamber. He called her name softly, but
when she did not answer continued on to his own room. When he was safely
within she descended quietly, went out, and locked the front-door behind
her, placing the key in her bosom. She hurried now, feeling her way
through the thick gloom in a panic, while in her mind was but one
frightened thought:

“I’ll be too late. I’ll be too late.”



CHAPTER XVII

THE DRIP OF WATER IN THE DARK


Even after Helen had been out for some time she could barely see
sufficiently to avoid collisions. The air, weighted by a low-hung roof
of clouds, was surcharged with the electric suspense of an impending
storm, and seemed to sigh and tremble at the hint of power in leash. It
was that pause before the conflict wherein the night laid finger upon
its lips.

As the girl neared Glenister’s cabin she was disappointed at seeing no
light there. She stumbled towards the door, only to utter a
half-strangled cry as two men stepped out of the gloom and seized her
roughly. Something cold and hard was thrust violently against her cheek,
forcing her head back and bruising her. She struggled and cried out.

“Hold on--it’s a woman!” ejaculated the man who had pinioned her arms,
loosing his hold till only a hand remained on her shoulder. The other
lowered the weapon he had jammed to her face and peered closely.

“Why, Miss Chester,” he said. “What are you doing here? You came near
getting hurt.”

“I am bound for the Wilsons’, but I must have lost my way in the
darkness. I think you have cut my face.” She controlled her fright
firmly.

“That’s too bad,” one said. “We mistook you for--” And the other broke
in, sharply, “You’d better run along. We’re waiting for some one.”

Helen hastened back by the route she had come, knowing that there was
still time, and that as yet her uncle’s emissaries had not laid hands
upon Glenister. She had overheard the Judge and McNamara plotting to
drag the town with a force of deputies, seizing not only her two
friends, but every man suspected of being a Vigilante. The victims were
to be jailed without bond, without reason, without justice, while the
mechanism of the court was to be juggled in order to hold them until
fall, if necessary. They had said that the officers were already busy,
so haste was a crying thing. She sped down the dark streets towards the
house of Cherry Malotte, but found no light nor answer to her knock. She
was distracted now, and knew not where to seek next among the thousand
spots which might hide the man she wanted. What chance had she against
the posse sweeping the town from end to end? There was only one; he
might be at the Northern Theatre. Even so, she could not reach him, for
she dared not go there herself. She thought of Fred, her Jap boy, but
there was no time. Wasted moments meant failure.

Roy had once told her that he never gave up what he undertook. Very
well, she would show that even a girl may possess determination. This
was no time for modesty or shrinking indecision, so she pulled the veil
more closely about her face and took her good name into her hands. She
made rapidly towards the lighted streets which cast a skyward glare, and
from which, through the breathless calm, arose the sound of carousal.
Swiftly she threaded the narrow alleys in search of the theatre’s rear
entrance, for she dared not approach from the front. In this way she
came into a part of the camp which had lain hidden from her until now,
and of the existence of which she had never dreamed.

The vices of a city, however horrible, are at least draped scantily by
the mantle of convention, but in a great mining-camp they stand naked
and without concealment. Here there were rows upon rows of criblike
houses clustered over tortuous, ill-lighted lanes, like blow-flies
swarming to an unclean feast. From within came the noise of ribaldry and
debauch. Shrill laughter mingled with coarse, maudlin songs, till the
clinging night reeked with abominable revelry. The girl saw painted
creatures of every nationality leaning from windows or beckoning from
doorways, while drunken men collided with her, barred her course,
challenged her, and again and again she was forced to slip from their
embraces. At last the high bulk of the theatre building loomed a short
distance ahead. Panting and frightened, she tried the door with weak
hands, to find it locked. From behind it rose the blare of brass and the
sound of singing. She accosted a man who approached her through the
narrow alley, but he had cruised from the charted course in search of
adventure and was not minded to go in quest of doormen; rather, he chose
to sing a chantey, to the bibulous measures of which he invited her to
dance with him, so she slipped away till he had teetered past. He was
some long-shoreman in that particular epoch of his inebriety where life
had no burden save the dissipation of wages.

Returning, she pounded on the door, possessed of the sense that the man
she sought was here, till at last it was flung open, framing the
silhouette of a shirt-sleeved, thick-set youth, who shouted:

“What ’n ’ell do you want to butt in for while the show’s on? Go round
front.” She caught a glimpse of disordered scenery, and before he could
slam the door in her face thrust a silver dollar into his hand, at the
same time wedging herself into the opening. He pocketed the coin and the
door clicked to behind her.

“Well, speak up. The act’s closin’.” Evidently he was the directing
genius of the performance, for at that moment the chorus broke into full
cry, and he said, hurriedly:

“Wait a minute. There goes the finally,” and dashed away to tend his
drops and switches. When the curtain was down and the principals had
sought their dressing-rooms he returned.

“Do you know Mr. Glenister?” she asked.

“Sure. I seen him to-night. Come here.” He led her towards the
footlights, and, pulling back the edge of the curtain, allowed her to
peep past him out into the dance-hall. She had never pictured a place
like this, and in spite of her agitation was astonished at its gaudy
elegance. The gallery was formed of a continuous row of compartments
with curtained fronts, in which men and women were talking, drinking,
singing. The seats on the lower floor were disappearing, and the canvas
cover was rolling back, showing the polished hardwood underneath, while
out through the wide folding-doors that led to the main gambling-room
she heard a brass-lunged man calling the commencement of the dance.
Couples glided into motion while she watched.

“I don’t see him,” said her guide. “You better walk out front and help
yourself.” He indicated the stairs which led up to the galleried boxes
and the steps leading down on to the main floor, but she handed him
another coin, begging him to find Glenister and bring him to her.
“Hurry; hurry!” she implored.

The stage-manager gazed at her curiously, remarking, “My! You spend your
money like it had been left to you. You’re a regular pie-check for me.
Come around any time.”

She withdrew to a dark corner and waited interminably till her messenger
appeared at the head of the gallery stairs and beckoned to her. As she
drew near he said, “I told him there was a thousand-dollar filly
flaggin’ him from the stage door, but he’s got a grouch an’ won’t stir.
He’s in number seven.” She hesitated, at which he said, “Go on--you’re
in right;” then continued, reassuringly: “Say, pal, if he’s your
white-haired lad, you needn’t start no roughhouse, ’cause he don’t flirt
wit’ these dames none whatever. Naw! Take it from me.”

She entered the door her counsellor indicated to find Roy lounging back
watching the dancers. He turned inquiringly--then, as she raised her
veil, leaped to his feet and jerked the curtains to.

“Helen! What are you doing here?”

“You must go away quickly,” she gasped. “They’re trying to arrest you.”

“They! Who? Arrest me for what?”

“Voorhees and his men--for riot, or something about last night.”

“Nonsense,” he said. “I had no part in it. You know that.”

“Yes, yes--but you’re a Vigilante, and they’re after you and all your
friends. Your house is guarded and the town is alive with deputies.
They’ve planned to jail you on some pretext or other and hold you
indefinitely. Please go before it’s too late.”

“How do you know this?” he asked, gravely.

“I overheard them plotting.”

“Who?”

“Uncle Arthur and Mr. McNamara.” She faced him squarely as she said it,
and therefore saw the light flame up in his eyes as he cried:

“And you came here to save me--came _here_ at the risk of your good
name?”

“Of course. I would have done the same for Dextry.” The gladness died
away, leaving him listless.

“Well, let them come. I’m done, I guess. I heard from Wheaton to-night.
He’s down and out, too--some trouble with the ’Frisco courts about
jurisdiction over these cases. I don’t know that it’s worth while to
fight any longer.”

“Listen,” she said. “You must go. I am sure there is a terrible wrong
being done, and you and I must stop it. I have seen the truth at last,
and you’re in the right. Please hide for a time at least.”

“Very well. If you have taken sides with us there’s some hope left.
Thank you for the risk you ran in warning me.”

She had moved to the front of the compartment and was peering forth
between the draperies when she stifled a cry.

“Too late! Too late! There they are. Don’t part the curtains. They’ll
see you.”

Pushing through the gambling-hall were Voorhees and four others,
seemingly in quest of some one.

“Run down the back stairs,” she breathed, and pushed him through the
door. He caught and held her hand with a last word of gratitude. Then he
was gone. She drew down her veil and was about to follow when the door
opened and he reappeared.

“No use,” he remarked, quietly. “There are three more waiting at the
foot.” He looked out to find that the officers had searched the crowd
and were turning towards the front stairs, thus cutting off his retreat.
There were but two ways down from the gallery and no outside windows
from which to leap. As they had made no armed display, the presence of
the officers had not interrupted the dance.

Glenister drew his revolver, while into his eyes came the dancing
glitter that Helen had seen before, cold as the glint of winter
sunlight.

“No, not that--for God’s sake!” she shuddered, clasping his arm.

“I must for your sake, or they’ll find you here, and that’s worse than
ruin. I’ll fight it out in the corridors so that you can escape in the
confusion. Wait till the firing stops and the crowd gathers.” His hand
was on the knob when she tore it loose, whispering hoarsely:

“They’ll kill you. Wait! There’s a better way. Jump.” She dragged him to
the front of the box and pulled aside the curtains. “It isn’t high and
they won’t see you till it’s too late. Then you can run through the
crowd.”

He grasped her idea, and, slipping his weapon back into its holster,
laid hold of the ledge before him and lowered himself down over the
dancers. He swung out unhesitatingly, and almost before he had been
observed had dropped into their midst. The gallery was but twice the
height of a man’s head from the floor, so he landed on his feet and had
drawn his Colt’s even while the men at the stairs were shouting at him
to halt.

At sight of the naked weapons there was confusion, wherein the commands
of the deputies mingled with the shrieks of the women, the crash of
overturned chairs, and the sound of tramping feet, as the crowd divided
before Glenister and swept back against the wall in the same ominous way
that a crowd in the street had once divided on the morning of Helen’s
arrival. The trombone player, who had sunk low in his chair with closed
eyes, looked out suddenly at the disturbance, and his alarm was blown
through the horn in a startled squawk. A large woman whimpered, “Don’t
shoot,” and thrust her palms to her ears, closing her eyes tightly.

Glenister covered the deputies, from whose vicinity the by-standers
surged as though from the presence of lepers.

“Hands up!” he cried, sharply, and they froze into motionless attitudes,
one poised on the lowest step of the stairs, the other a pace forward.
Voorhees appeared at the head of the flight and rushed down a few steps
only to come abruptly into range and to assume a like rigidity, for the
young man’s aim shifted to him.

“I have a warrant for you,” the officer cried, his voice loud in the
hush.

“Keep it,” said Glenister, showing his teeth in a smile in which there
was no mirth. He backed diagonally across the hall, his boot-heels
clicking in the silence, his eyes shifting rapidly up and down the
stairs where the danger lay.

From her station Helen could see the whole tableau, all but the men on
the stairs, where her vision was cut off. She saw the dance girls
crouched behind their partners or leaning far out from the wall with
parted lips, the men eager yet fearful, the bartender with a
half-polished glass poised high. Then a quick movement across the hall
suddenly diverted her absorbed attention. She saw a man rip aside the
drapery of the box opposite and lean so far out that he seemed in peril
of falling. He undertook to sight a weapon at Glenister, who was just
passing from his view. At her first glance Helen gasped--her heart gave
one fierce lunge, and she cried out.

The distance across the pit was so short that she saw his every line and
lineament clearly; it was the brother she had sought these years and
years. Before she knew or could check it the blood call leaped forth.

“Drury!” she cried, aloud, at which he whipped his head about, while
amazement and some other emotion she could not gauge spread slowly over
his features. For a long moment he stared at her without movement or
sign while the drama beneath went on, then he drew back into his retreat
with the dazed look of one doubting his senses, yet fearful of putting
them to the test. For her part, she saw nothing except her brother
vanishing slowly into the shadows as though stricken at her glance, the
curtains closing before his livid face--and then pandemonium broke loose
at her feet.

Glenister, holding his enemies at bay, had retreated to the double doors
leading to the theatre. His coup had been executed so quickly and with
such lack of turmoil that the throng outside knew nothing of it till
they saw a man walk backward through the door. As he did so he reached
forth and slammed the wide wings shut before his face, then turned and
dashed into the press. Inside the dance-hall loud sounds arose as the
officers clattered down the stairs and made after their quarry. They
tore the barrier apart in time to see, far down the saloon, an eddying
swirl as though some great fish were lashing through the lily-pads of a
pond, and then the swinging doors closed behind Glenister.

Helen made her way from the theatre as she had come, unobserved and
unobserving, but she walked in a dream. Emotions had chased each other
too closely to-night to be distinguishable, so she went mechanically
through the narrow alley to Front Street and thence to her home.

Glenister, meanwhile, had been swallowed up by the darkness, the night
enfolding him without sign or trace. As he ran he considered what course
to follow--whether to carry the call to his comrades in town or to make
for the Creek and Dextry. The Vigilantes might still distrust him, and
yet he owed them warning. McNamara’s men were moving so swiftly that
action must be speedy to forestall them. Another hour and the net would
be closed, while it seemed that whichever course he chose they would
snare one or the other--either the friends who remained in town, or Dex
and Slapjack out in the hills. With daylight those two would return and
walk unheeding into the trap, while if he bore the word to them first,
then the Vigilantes would be jailed before dawn. As he drew near Cherry
Malotte’s house he saw a light through the drawn curtains. A heavy
raindrop plashed upon his face, another followed, and then he heard the
patter of falling water increasing swiftly. Before he could gain the
door the storm had broken. It swept up the street with tropical
violence, while a breath sighed out of the night, lifting the litter
from underfoot and pelting him with flying particles. Over the roofs the
wind rushed with the rising moan of a hurricane while the night grew
suddenly noisy ahead of the tempest.

He entered the door without knocking, to find the girl removing her
coat. Her face gladdened at sight of him, but he checked her with quick
and cautious words, his speech almost drowned by the roar outside.

“Are you alone?” She nodded, and he slipped the bolt behind him, saying:

“The marshals are after me. We just had a ‘run in’ at the Northern, and
I’m on the go. No--nothing serious yet, but they want the Vigilantes,
and I must get them word. Will you help me?” He rapidly recounted the
row of the last ten minutes while she nodded her quick understanding.

“You’re safe here for a little while,” she told him, “for the storm will
check them. If they should come, there’s a back door leading out from
the kitchen and a side entrance yonder. In my room you’ll find a French
window. They can’t corner you very well.”

“Slapjack and Dex are out at the shaft house--you know--that quartz
claim on the mountain above the Midas.” He hesitated. “Will you lend me
your saddle-horse? It’s a black night and I may kill him.”

“What about these men in town?”

“I’ll warn them first, then hit for the hills.”

She shook her head. “You can’t do it. You can’t get out there before
daylight if you wait to rouse these people, and McNamara has probably
telephoned the mines to send a party up to the quartz claim after Dex.
He knows where the old man is as well as you do, and they’ll raid him
before dawn.”

“I’m afraid so, but it’s all I can offer. Will you give me the horse?”

“No! He’s only a pony, and you’d founder him in the tundra. The mud is
knee-deep. I’ll go myself.”

“Good Heavens, girl, in such a night! Why, it’s worth your life! Listen
to it! The creeks will be up and you’ll have to swim. No, I can’t let
you.”

“He’s a good little horse, and he’ll take me through.” Then, coming
close, she continued: “Oh, boy! Can’t you see that I want to help? Can’t
you see that I--I’d _die_ for you if it would do any good?” He gazed
gravely into her wide blue eyes and said, awkwardly: “Yes, I know. I’m
sorry things are--as they are--but you wouldn’t have me lie to you,
little woman?”

“No. You’re the only true man I ever knew. I guess that’s why I love
you. And I do love you, oh, so much! I want to be good and worthy to
love you, too.”

She laid her face against his arm and caressed him with clinging
tenderness, while the wind yelled loudly about the eaves and the windows
drummed beneath the rain. His heavy brows knit themselves together as
she whispered:

“I love you! I love you! I love you!” with such an agony of longing in
her voice that her soft accents were sharply distinguishable above the
turmoil. The growing wildness seemed a part of the woman’s passion,
which whipped and harried her like a willow in a blast.

“Things are fearfully jumbled,” he said, finally. “And this is a bad
time to talk about them. I wish they might be different. No other girl
would do what you have offered to-night.”

“Then why do you think of that woman?” she broke in, fiercely. “She’s
bad and false. She betrayed you once; she’s in the play now; you’ve told
me so yourself. Why don’t you be a man and forget her?”

“I can’t,” he said, simply. “You’re wrong, though, when you think she’s
bad. I found to-night that she’s good and brave and honest. The part she
played was played innocently, I’m sure of that, in spite of the fact
that she’ll marry McNamara. It was she who overheard them plotting and
risked her reputation to warn me.”

Cherry’s face whitened, while the shadowy eagerness that had rested
there died utterly. “She came into that dive alone? She did that?” He
nodded, at which she stood thinking for some time, then continued:
“You’re honest with me, Roy, and I’ll be the same with you. I’m tired of
deceit, tired of everything. I tried to make you think she was bad, but
in my own heart I knew differently all the time. She came here to-day
and humbled herself to get the truth, humbled herself to _me_, and I
sent her away. She suspected, but she didn’t know, and when she asked
for information I insulted her. That’s the kind of a creature I am. I
sent her back to Struve, who offered to tell her the whole story.”

“What does that renegade want?”

“Can’t you guess?”

“Why, I’d rather--” The young man ground his teeth, but Cherry hastened.

“You needn’t worry; she won’t see him again. She loathes the ground he
walks on.”

“And yet he’s no worse than that other scoundrel. Come, girl, we have
work to do; we must act, and act quickly.” He gave her his message to
Dextry, then she went to her room and slipped into a riding-habit. When
she came out he asked: “Where is your rain-coat? You’ll be drenched in
no time.”

“I can’t ride with it. I’ll be thrown, anyway, and I don’t want to be
all bound up. Water won’t hurt me.”

She thrust her tiny revolver into her dress, but he took it and upon
examination shook his head.

“If you need a gun you’ll need a good one.” He removed the belt from his
own waist and buckled his Colt’s about her.

“But you!” she objected.

“I’ll get another in ten minutes.” Then, as they were leaving, he said:
“One other request, Cherry. I’ll be in hiding for a time, and I must get
word to Miss Chester to keep watch of her uncle, for the big fight is on
at last and the boys will hang him sure if they catch him. I owe her
this last warning. Will you send it to her?”

“I’ll do it for your sake, not for her--no, no; I don’t mean that. I’ll
do the right thing all round. Leave it here and I’ll see that she gets
it to-morrow. And--Roy--be careful of yourself.” Her eyes were starry
and in their depths lurked neither selfishness nor jealousy now, only
that mysterious glory of a woman who makes sacrifice.

Together they scurried back to the stable, and yet, in that short
distance, she would have been swept from her feet had he not seized her.
They blew in through the barn door, streaming and soaked by the blinding
sheets that drove scythelike ahead of the wind. He struck a light, and
the pony whinnied at recognition of his mistress. She stroked the little
fellow’s muzzle while Glenister cinched on her saddle. Then, when she
was at last mounted, she leaned forward:

“Will you kiss me once, Roy, for the last time?”

He took her rain-wet face between his hands and kissed her upon the lips
as he would have saluted a little maid. As he did so, unseen by both of
them, a face was pressed for an instant against the pane of glass in the
stable wall.

“You’re a brave girl and may God bless you,” he said, extinguishing the
light. He flung the door wide and she rode out into the storm. Locking
the portal, he plunged back towards the house to write his hurried note,
for there was much to do and scant time for its accomplishment, despite
the helping hand of the hurricane. He heard the voice of Bering as it
thundered on the Golden Sands, and knew that the first great storm of
the fall had come. Henceforth he saw that the violence of men would
rival the rising elements, for the deeds of this night would stir their
passions as Æolus was rousing the hate of the sea.

He neglected to bolt the house door as he entered, but flung off his
dripping coat and, seizing pad and pencil, scrawled his message. The
wind screamed about the cabin, the lamp flared smokily, and Glenister
felt a draught suck past him as though from an open door at his back as
he wrote:

     “I can’t do anything more. The end has come and it has brought the
     hatred and bloodshed that I have been trying to prevent. I played
     the game according to your rules, but they forced me back to first
     principles in spite of myself, and now I don’t know what the finish
     will be. To-morrow will tell. Take care of your uncle, and if you
     should wish to communicate with me, go to Cherry Malotte. She is a
     friend to both of us.

              “Always your servant,      ROY GLENISTER.”



As he sealed this he paused, while he felt the hair on his neck rise and
bristle and a chill race up his spine. His heart fluttered, then pounded
onward till the blood thumped audibly at his ear-drums and he found
himself swaying in rhythm to its beat. The muscles of his back cringed
and rippled at the proximity of some hovering peril, and yet an
irresistible feeling forbade him to turn. A sound came from close behind
his chair--the drip, drip, drip of water. It was not from the caves, nor
yet from a faulty shingle. His back was to the kitchen door, through
which he had come, and, although there were no mirrors before him, he
felt a menacing presence as surely as though it had touched him. His
ears were tuned to the finest pin-pricks of sound, so that he heard the
faint, sighing “squish” of a sodden shoe upon which a weight had
shifted. Still something chained him to his seat. It was as though his
soul laid a restraining hand upon his body, waiting for the instant.

He let his hand seek his hip carelessly, but remembered where his gun
was. Mechanically, he addressed the note in shaking characters, while
behind him sounded the constant drip, drip, drip that he knew came from
saturated garments. For a long moment he sat, till he heard the stealthy
click of a gun-lock muffled by finger pressure. Then he set his face and
slowly turned to find the Bronco Kid standing behind him as though risen
from the sea, his light clothes wet and clinging, his feet centred in a
spreading puddle. The dim light showed the convulsive fury of his
features above the levelled weapon, whose hammer was curled back like
the head of a striking adder, his eyes gleaming with frenzy. Glenister’s
mouth was powder dry, but his mind was leaping riotously like dust
before a gale, for he divined himself to be in the deadliest peril of
his life. When he spoke the calmness of his voice surprised himself.

“What’s the matter, Bronco?” The Kid made no reply, and Roy repeated,
“What do you want?”

“That’s a hell of a question,” the gambler said, hoarsely. “I want you,
of course, and I’ve got you.”

“Hold up! I am unarmed. This is your third try, and I want to know
what’s back of it.”

“_Damn_ the talk!” cried the faro-dealer, moving closer till the light
shone on his features, which commenced to twitch. He raised the revolver
he had half lowered. “There’s reason enough, and you know it.”

Glenister looked him fairly between the eyes, gripping himself with firm
hands to stop the tremor he felt in his bones. “You can’t kill me,” he
said. “I am too good a man to murder. You might shoot a crook, but you
can’t kill a brave man when he’s unarmed. You’re no assassin.” He
remained rigid in his chair, however, moving nothing but his lips,
meeting the other’s look unflinchingly. The Kid hesitated an instant,
while his eyes, which had been fixed with the glare of hatred, wavered a
moment, betraying the faintest sign of indecision. Glenister cried out,
exultantly:

“Ha! I knew it. Your neck cords quiver.”

The gambler grimaced. “I can’t do it. If I could, I’d have shot you
before you turned. But you’ll have to fight, you dog. Get up and draw.”

Roy refused. “I gave Cherry my gun.”

“Yes, and more too,” the man gritted. “I saw it all.”

Even yet Glenister had made no slightest move, realizing that a
feather’s weight might snap the gambler’s nervous tension and bring the
involuntary twitch that would put him out swifter than a whip is
cracked.

“I have tried it before, but murder isn’t my game.” The Kid’s eye caught
the glint of Cherry’s revolver where she had discarded it. “There’s a
gun--get it.”

“It’s no good. You’d carry the six bullets and never feel them. I don’t
know what this is all about, but I’ll fight you whenever I’m heeled
right.”

“Oh, you black-hearted hound,” snarled the Kid. “I want to shoot, but
I’m afraid. I used to be a gentleman and I haven’t lost it all, I guess.
But I won’t wait the next time. I’ll down you on sight, so you’d better
get ironed in a hurry.” He backed out of the room into the semi-darkness
of the kitchen, watching with lynxlike closeness the man who sat so
quietly under the shaded light. He felt behind him for the outer
door-knob and turned it to let in a white sheet of rain, then vanished
like a storm wraith, leaving a parched-lipped man and a zigzag trail of
water, which gleamed in the lamplight like a pool of blood.



CHAPTER XVIII

WHEREIN A TRAP IS BAITED


Glenister did not wait long after his visitor’s departure, but
extinguished the light, locked the door, and began the further
adventures of this night. The storm welcomed him with suffocating
violence, sucking the very breath from his lips, while the rain beat
through till his flesh was cold and aching. He thought with a pang of
the girl facing this tempest, going out to meet the thousand perils of
the night. And it remained for him to bear his part as she bore hers,
smilingly.

The last hour had added another and mysterious danger to his full
measure. Could the Kid be jealous of Cherry? Surely not. Then what else?

The tornado had driven his trailers to cover, evidently, for the streets
were given over to its violence, and Roy encountered no hostile sign as
he was buffeted from house to house. He adventured cautiously and yet
with haste, finding certain homes where the marshals had been before him
peopled now only by frightened wives and children. A scattered few of
the Vigilantes had been taken thus, while the warring elements had
prevented their families from spreading the alarm or venturing out for
succor. Those whom he was able to warn dressed hurriedly, took their
rifles, and went out into the drifting night, leaving empty cabins and
weeping women. The great fight was on.

Towards daylight the remnants of the Vigilantes straggled into the big
blank warehouse on the sand-spit, and there beneath the smoking glare of
lanterns cursed the name of McNamara. As dawn grayed the ragged eastern
sky-line, Dextry and Slapjack blew in through the spindrift, bringing
word from Cherry and lifting a load from Glenister’s mind.

“There’s a game girl,” said the old miner, as he wrung out his clothes.
“She was half gone when she got to us, and now she’s waiting for the
storm to break so that she can come back.”

“It’s clearing up to the east,” Slapjack chattered. “D’you know, I’m
gettin’ so rheumatic that ice-water don’t feel comfortable to me no
more.”

“Uriatic acid in the blood,” said Dextry. “What’s our next move?” he
asked of his partner. “When do we hang this politician? Seems like we’ve
got enough able-bodied piano-movers here to tie a can onto the whole
outfit, push the town site of Nome off the map, and start afresh.”

“I think we had better lie low and watch developments,” the other
cautioned. “There’s no telling what may turn up during the day.”

“That’s right. Stranglers is like spirits--they work best in the dark.”

       *       *       *       *       *

As the day grew, the storm died, leaving ramparts of clouds hanging
sullenly above the ocean’s rim, while those skilled in weather prophecy
foretold the coming of the equinoctial. In McNamara’s office there was
great stir and the coming of many men. The boss sat in his chair
smoking countless cigars, his big face set in grim lines, his hard eyes
peering through the pall of blue at those he questioned. He worked the
wires of his machine until his dolls doubled and danced and twisted at
his touch. After a gusty interview he had dismissed Voorhees with a
merciless tongue-lashing, raging bitterly at the man’s failure.

“You’re not fit to herd sheep. Thirty men out all night and what do you
get? A dozen mullet-headed miners. You bag the mud-hens and the big game
runs to cover. I wanted Glenister, but you let him slip through your
fingers--now it’s war. What a mess you’ve made! If I had even _one_
helper with a brain the size of a flaxseed, this game would be a gift,
but you’ve bungled every move from the start. Bah! Put a spy in the
bull-pen with those prisoners and make them talk. Offer them anything
for information. Now get out!”

He called for a certain deputy and questioned him regarding the night’s
quest, remarking, finally:

“There’s treachery somewhere. Those men were warned.”

“Nobody came near Glenister’s house except Miss Chester,” the man
replied.

“What?”

“The Judge’s niece. We caught her by mistake in the dark.”

Later, one of the men who had been with Voorhees at the Northern asked
to see the receiver and told him:

“The chief won’t believe that I saw Miss Chester in the dance-hall last
night, but she was there with Glenister. She must have put him wise to
our game or he wouldn’t have known we were after him.”

His hearer made no comment, but, when alone, rose and paced the floor
with heavy tread while his face grew savage and brutal.

“So that’s the game, eh? It’s man to man from now on. Very well,
Glenister, I’ll have your life for that, and then--you’ll pay, Miss
Helen.” He considered carefully. A plot for a plot. If he could not swap
intrigue with these miners and beat them badly, he deserved to lose. Now
that the girl gave herself to their cause he would use her again and see
how well she answered. Public opinion would not stand too great a
strain, and, although he had acted within his rights last night, he
dared not go much further. Diplomacy, therefore, must serve. He must
force his enemies beyond the law and into his trap. She had passed the
word once; she would do so again.

He hurried to Stillman’s house and stormed into the presence of the
Judge. He told the story so artfully that the Judge’s astonished
unbelief yielded to rage and cowardice, and he sent for his niece. She
came down, white and silent, having heard the loud voices. The old man
berated her with shrewish fury, while McNamara stood silent. The girl
listened with entire self-control until her uncle made a reference to
Glenister that she found intolerable.

“Hush! I will not listen!” she cried, passionately. “I warned him
because you would have sacrificed him after he had saved our lives. That
is all. He is an honest man, and I am grateful to him. That is the only
foundation for your insult.”

McNamara, with apparent candor, broke in:

“You thought you were doing right, of course, but your action will have
terrible consequences. Now we’ll have riot, bloodshed, and Heaven knows
what. It was to save all this that I wanted to break up their
organization. A week’s imprisonment would have done it, but now they’re
armed and belligerent and we’ll have a battle to-night.”

“No, no!” she cried. “There mustn’t be any violence.”

“There is no use trying to check them. They are rushing to their own
destruction. I have learned that they plan to attack the Midas to-night,
and I’ll have fifty soldiers waiting for them there. It is a shame, for
they are decent fellows, blinded by ignorance and misled by that young
miner. This will be the blackest night the North has ever seen.”

With this McNamara left the house and went in search of Voorhees,
remarking to himself: “Now, Miss Helen--send your warning--the sooner
the better. If I know those Vigilantes, it will set them crazy, and yet
not crazy enough to attack the Midas. They will strike for me, and when
they hit my poor, unguarded office, they’ll think hell has moved North.”

“Mr. Marshal,” said he to his tool, “I want you to gather forty men
quietly and to arm them with Winchesters. They must be fellows who won’t
faint at blood--you know the kind. Assemble them at my office after
dark, one at a time, by the back way. It must be done with absolute
secrecy. Now, see if you can do this one thing and not get balled up. If
you fail, I’ll make you answer to me.”

“Why don’t you get the troops?” ventured Voorhees.

“If there’s one thing I want to avoid, it’s soldiers, either here or at
the mines. When they step in, we step out, and I’m not ready for that
just yet.” The receiver smiled sinisterly.

Helen meanwhile had fled to her room, and there received Glenister’s
note through Cherry Malotte’s messenger. It rekindled her worst fears
and bore out McNamara’s prophecy. The more she read of it the more
certain she grew that the crisis was only a question of hours, and that
with darkness, Tragedy would walk the streets of Nome. The thought of
the wrong already done was lost in the lonely girl’s terror of the crime
about to happen, for it seemed to her she had been the instrument to set
these forces in motion, that she had loosed this swift-speeding
avalanche of greed, hatred, and brutality. And when the crash should
come--the girl shuddered. It must not be. She would shriek a warning
from the house-tops even at cost of her uncle, of McNamara, and of
herself. And yet she had no proof that a crime existed. Although it all
lay clear in her own mind, the certainty of it arose only from her
intuition. If only she were able to take a hand--if only she were not a
woman. Then Cherry Malotte’s words anent Struve recurred to her, “A
bottle of wine and a woman’s face.” They brought back the lawyer’s
assurance that those documents she had safeguarded all through the long
spring-time journey really contained the proof. If they did, then they
held the power to check this impending conflict. Her uncle and the boss
would not dare continue if threatened with exposure and prosecution. The
more she thought of it, the more urgent seemed the necessity to prevent
the battle of to-night. There was a chance here, at least, and the only
one.

Adding to her mental torment was the constant vision of that face in
the curtains at the Northern. It was her brother, yet what mystery
shrouded this affair, also? What kept him from her? What caused him to
slink away like a thief discovered? She grew dizzy and hysterical.

       *       *       *       *       *

Struve turned in his chair as the door to his private office opened,
then leaped to his feet at sight of the gray-eyed girl standing there.

“I came for the papers,” she said.

“I knew you would.” The blood went out of his cheeks, then surged back
up to his eyes. “It’s a bargain, then?”

She nodded. “Give them to me first.”

He laughed unpleasantly. “What do you take me for? I’ll keep my part of
the bargain if you’ll keep yours. But this is no place, nor time.
There’s riot in the air, and I’m busy preparing for to-night. Come back
to-morrow when it’s all over.”

But it was the terror of to-night’s doings that led her into his power.

“I’ll never come back,” she said. “It is my whim to know to-day--yes, at
once.”

He meditated for a time. “Then to-day it shall be. I’ll shirk the fight,
I’ll sacrifice what shreds of duty have clung to me, because the fever
for you is in my bones, and it seems to me I’d do murder for it. That’s
the kind of a man I am, and I have no pride in myself because of it. But
I’ve always been that way. We’ll ride to the Sign of the Sled. It’s a
romantic little road-house ten miles from here, perched high above the
Snake River trail. We’ll take dinner there together.”

“But the papers?”

“I’ll have them with me. We’ll start in an hour.”

“In an hour,” she echoed, lifelessly, and left him.

He chuckled grimly and seized the telephone. “Central--call the Sled
road-house--seven rings on the Snake River branch. Hello! That you,
Shortz? This is Struve. Anybody at the house? Good. Turn them away if
they come and say that you’re closed. None of your business. I’ll be out
about dark, so have dinner for two. Spread yourself and keep the place
clear. Good-bye.”

Strengthened by Glenister’s note, Helen went straight to the other woman
and this time was not kept waiting nor greeted with sneers, but found
Cherry cloaked in a shy dignity, which she clasped tightly about
herself. Under her visitor’s incoherence she lost her diffidence,
however, and, when Helen had finished, remarked, with decision: “Don’t
go with him. He’s a bad man.”

“But I _must_. The blood of those men will be on me if I don’t stop this
tragedy. If those papers tell the tale I think they do, I can call off
my uncle and make McNamara give back the mines. You said Struve told you
the whole scheme. Did you see the _proof_?”

“No, I have only his word, but he spoke of those documents repeatedly,
saying they contained his instructions to tie up the mines in order to
give a foot-hold for the lawsuits. He bragged that the rest of the gang
were in his power and that he could land them in the penitentiary for
conspiracy. That’s all.”

“It’s the only chance,” said Helen. “They are sending soldiers to the
Midas to lie in ambush, and you must warn the Vigilantes.” Cherry paled
at this and ejaculated:

“Good Lord! Roy said he’d lead an attack to-night.” The two stared at
each other.

“If I succeed with Struve I can stop it all--all of this injustice and
crime--everything.”

“Do you realize what you’re risking?” Cherry demanded. “That man is an
animal. You’ll have to kill him to save yourself, and he’ll never give
up those proofs.”

“Yes, he will,” said Helen, fiercely, “and I defy him to harm me. The
Sign of the Sled is a public road-house with a landlord, a telephone,
and other guests. Will you warn Mr. Glenister about the troops?”

“I will, and bless you for a brave girl. Wait a moment.” Cherry took
from the dresser her tiny revolver. “Don’t hesitate to use this. I want
you to know also that I’m sorry for what I said yesterday.”

As she hurried away, Helen realized with a shock the change that the
past few months had wrought in her. In truth, it was as Glenister had
said, his Northland worked strangely with its denizens. What of that
shrinking girl who had stepped out of the sheltered life, strong only in
her untried honesty, to become a hunted, harried thing, juggling with
honor and reputation, in her heart a half-formed fear that she might
kill a man this night to gain her end? The elements were moulding her
with irresistible hands. Roy’s contact with the primitive had not
roughened him more quickly than had hers.

She met her appointment with Struve, and they rode away together, he
talkative and elated, she silent and icy.

Late in the afternoon the cloud banks to the eastward assumed alarming
proportions. They brought with them an early nightfall, and when they
broke let forth a tempest which rivalled that of the previous night.
During the first of it armed men came sifting into McNamara’s office
from the rear and were hidden throughout the building. Whenever he
descried a peculiarly desperate ruffian the boss called him aside for
private instruction and gave minute description of a wide-shouldered,
erect youth in white hat and half-boots. Gradually he set his trap with
the men Voorhees had raked from the slums, and when it was done smiled
to himself. As he thought it over he ceased to regret the miscarriage of
last night’s plan, for it had served to goad his enemies to the point he
desired, to the point where they would rush to their own undoing. He
thought with satisfaction of the rôle he would play in the United States
press when the sensational news of this night’s adventure came out. A
court official who dared to do his duty despite a lawless mob. A
receiver who turned a midnight attack into a rout and shambles. That is
what they would say. What if he did exceed his authority thereafter?
What if there were a scandal? Who would question? As to soldiers--no,
decidedly no. He wished no help of soldiers at this time.

The sight of a ship in the offing towards dark caused him some
uneasiness, for, notwithstanding the assurance that the course of
justice in the San Francisco courts had been clogged, he knew Bill
Wheaton to be a resourceful lawyer and a determined man. Therefore, it
relieved him to note the rising gale, which precluded the possibility of
interference from that source. Let them come to-morrow if they would.
By that time some of the mines would be ownerless and his position
strengthened a hundredfold.

He telephoned the mines to throw out guards, although he reasoned that
none but madmen would think of striking there in the face of the warning
which he knew must have been transmitted through Helen. Putting on his
rain-coat he sought Stillman.

“Bring your niece over to my place to-night. There’s trouble in the air
and I’m prepared for it.”

“She hasn’t returned from her ride yet. I’m afraid she’s caught in the
storm.” The Judge gazed anxiously into the darkness.

       *       *       *       *       *

During all the long day the Vigilantes lay in hiding, impatient at their
idleness and wondering at the lack of effort made towards their
discovery, not dreaming that McNamara had more cleverly hidden plans
behind. When Cherry’s note of warning came they gathered in the back
room and gave voice to their opinions.

“There’s only one way to clear the atmosphere,” said the chairman.

“You bet,” chorussed the others. “They’ve garrisoned the mines, so let’s
go through the town and make a clean job of it. Let’s hang the whole
outfit to one post.”

This met with general approval, Glenister alone demurring. Said he: “I
have reasoned it out differently, and I want you to hear me through
before deciding. Last night I got word from Wheaton that the California
courts are against us. He attributes it to influence, but, whatever the
reason, we are cut off from all legal help either in this court or on
appeal. Now, suppose we lynch these officials to-night--what do we
gain? Martial law in two hours, our mines tied up for another year, and
who knows what else? Maybe a corrupter court next season. Suppose, on
the other hand, we fail--and somehow I feel that we will, for that boss
is no fool. What then? Those of us who don’t find the morgue will end in
jail. You say we can’t meet the soldiers. I say we can and must. We must
carry this row to them. We must jump it past the courts of Alaska, past
the courts of California, and up to the White House, where there’s one
honest man, at least. We must do something to wake up the men in
Washington. We must get out of politics, for McNamara can beat us there.
Although he’s a strong man he can’t corrupt the President. We have one
shot left, and it must reach the Potomac. When Uncle Sam takes a hand
we’ll get a square deal, so I say let us strike at the Midas to-night
and take her if we can. Some of us will go down, but what of it?”

Following this harangue, he outlined a plan which in its unique daring
took away their breaths, and as he filled in detail after detail they
brightened with excitement and that love of the long chance which makes
gamblers of those who thread the silent valleys or tread the edge of
things. His boldness stirred them and enthusiasm did the rest.

“All I want for myself,” he said, “is the chance to run the big risk.
It’s mine by right.”

Dextry spoke, breathlessly, to Slapjack in the pause which ensued:

“Ain’t he a heller?”

“We’ll go you,” the miners chimed to a man. And the chairman added:
“Let’s have Glenister lead this forlorn hope. I am willing to stand or
fall on his judgment.” They acquiesced without a dissenting voice, and
with the firm hands of a natural leader the young man took control.

“Let’s hurry up,” said one. “It’s a long ‘mush’ and the mud is
knee-deep.”

“No walking for us,” said Roy. “We’ll go by train.”

“By train? How can we get a train?”

“Steal it,” he answered, at which Dextry grinned delightedly at his
loose-jointed companion, and Slapjack showed his toothless gums in
answer, saying:

“He sure is.”

A few more words and Glenister, accompanied by these two, slipped out
into the whirling storm, and a half-hour later the rest followed. One by
one the Vigilantes left, the blackness blotting them up an arm’s-length
from the door, till at last the big, bleak warehouse echoed hollowly to
the voice of the wind and water.

Over in the eastern end of town, behind dark windows upon which the
sheeted rain beat furiously, other armed men lay patiently
waiting--waiting some word from the bulky shadow which stood with folded
arms close against a square of gray, while over their heads a wretched
old man paced back and forth, wringing his hands, pausing at every turn
to peer out into the night and to mumble the name of his sister’s
child.



CHAPTER XIX

DYNAMITE


Early in the evening Cherry Malotte opened her door to find the Bronco
Kid on her step. He entered and threw off his rubber coat. Knowing him
well, she waited for his disclosure of his errand. His sallow skin was
without trace of color, his eyes were strangely tired, deep lines had
gathered about his lips, while his hands kept up constant little nervous
explorations as though for days and nights he had not slept and now
hovered on the verge of some hysteria. He gave her the impression of a
smouldering mine with the fire eating close up to the powder. She judged
that his body had been racked by every passion till now it hung jaded
and weary, yielding only to the spur of his restless, revengeful spirit.

After a few objectless remarks, he began, abruptly:

“Do you love Roy Glenister?” His voice, like his manner, was jealously
eager, and he watched her carefully as she replied, without quibble or
deceit:

“Yes, Kid; and I always shall. He is the only true man I have ever
known, and I’m not ashamed of my feelings.”

For a long time he studied her, and then broke into rapid speech,
allowing her no time for interruption.

“I’ve held back and held back because I’m no talker. I can’t be, in my
business; but this is my last chance, and I want to put myself right
with you. I’ve loved you ever since the Dawson days, not in the way
you’d expect from a man of my sort, perhaps, but with the kind of love
that a woman wants. I never showed my hand, for what was the use? That
man outheld me. I’d have quit faro years back only I wouldn’t leave this
country as long as you were a part of it, and up here I’m only a
gambler, fit for nothing else. I’d made up my mind to let you have him
till something happened a couple of months ago, but now it can’t go
through. I’ll have to down him. It isn’t concerning you--I’m not a
welcher. No, it’s a thing I can’t talk about, a thing that’s made me
into a wolf, made me skulk and walk the alleys like a dago. It’s put
murder into my heart. I’ve tried to assassinate him. I tried it here
last night--but--I was a gentleman once--till the cards came. He knows
the answer now, though, and he’s ready for me--so one of us will go out
like a candle when we meet. I felt that I had to tell you before I cut
him down or before he got me.”

“You’re talking like a madman, Kid,” she replied, “and you mustn’t turn
against him now. He has troubles enough. I never knew you cared for me.
What a tangle it is, to be sure. You love me, I love him, he loves that
girl, and she loves a crook. Isn’t that tragedy enough without your
adding to it? You come at a bad time, too, for I’m half insane. There’s
something dreadful in the air to-night--”

“I’ll have to kill him,” the man muttered, doggedly, and, plead or
reason as she would, she could get nothing from him except those words,
till at last she turned upon him fiercely.

“You say you love me. Very well--let’s see if you do. I know the kind of
a man you are and I know what this feud will mean to him, coming just at
this time. Put it aside and I’ll marry you.”

The gambler rose slowly to his feet. “You do love him, don’t you?” She
bowed her face, and he winced, but continued: “I wouldn’t make you my
wife that way. I didn’t mean it that way.”

At this she laughed bitterly. “Oh, I see. Of course not. How foolish of
me to expect it of a man like you. I understand what you mean now, and
the bargain will stand just the same, if that is what you came for. I
wanted to leave this life and be good, to go away and start over and
play the game square, but I see it’s no use. I’ll pay. I know how
relentless you are, and the price is low enough. You can have me--and
that--marriage talk--I’ll not speak of again. I’ll stay what I am for
his sake.”

“Stop!” cried the Kid. “You’re wrong. I’m not that kind of a sport.” His
voice broke suddenly, its vehemence shaking his slim body. “Oh, Cherry,
I love you the way a man ought to love a woman. It’s one of the two good
things left in me, and I want to take you away from here where we can
both hide from the past, where we can start new, as you say.”

“You would marry me?” she asked.

“In an hour, and give my heart’s blood for the privilege; but I can’t
stop this thing, not even if your own dear life hung upon it. I _must_
kill that man.”

She approached him and laid her arms about his neck, every line of her
body pleading, but he refused steadfastly, while the sweat stood out
upon his brow.

She begged: “They’re all against him, Kid.] He’s fighting a hopeless
fight. He laid all he had at that girl’s feet, and I’ll do the same for
you.”

The man growled savagely. “He got his reward. He took all she had--”

“Don’t be a fool. I guess I know. You’re a faro-dealer, but you haven’t
any right to talk like that about a good woman, even to a bad one like
me.”

Into his dark eyes slowly crept a hungry look, and she felt him begin to
tremble the least bit. He undertook to speak, paused, wet his lips, then
carefully chose these words:

“Do you mean--that he did not--that she is--a good girl?”

“Absolutely.”

He sat down weakly and passed a shaking hand over his face, which had
begun to twitch and jerk again as it had on that night when his
vengeance was thwarted.

“I may as well tell you that I know she’s more than that. She’s honest
and high-principled. I don’t know why I’m saying this, but it was on my
mind and I was half distracted when you came. She’s in danger to-night,
though--at this minute. I don’t dare to think of what may have happened,
for she’s risked everything to make reparation to Roy and his friends.”

“What?”

“She’s gone to the Sign of the Sled alone with Struve.”

“Struve!” shouted the gambler, leaping to his feet. “Alone with Struve
on a night like this?” He shook her fiercely, crying: “What for? Tell me
quick!”

She recounted the reasons for Helen’s adventure, while the man’s face
became terrible.

“Oh, Kid, I am to blame for letting her go. Why did I do it? I’m
afraid--afraid.”

“The Sign of the Sled belongs to Struve, and the fellow who runs it is a
rogue.” The Bronco looked at the clock, his eyes bloodshot and dull like
those of a goaded, fly-maddened bull. “It’s eight o’clock now--ten
miles--two hours. Too late!”

“What ails you?” she questioned, baffled by his strange demeanor. “You
called _me_ the one woman just now, and yet--”

He swung towards her heavily. “She’s my sister.”

“Your--sister? Oh, I--I’m glad. I’m glad--but don’t stand there like a
wooden man, for you’ve work to do. Wake up. Can’t you hear? She’s in
peril!” Her words whipped him out of his stupor so that he drew himself
somewhat under control. “Get into your coat. Hurry! Hurry! My pony will
take you there.” She snatched his garment from the chair and held it for
him while the life ran back into his veins. Together they dashed out
into the storm as she and Roy had done, and as he flung the saddle on
the buckskin, she said:

“I understand it all now. You heard the talk about her and Glenister;
but it’s wrong. I lied and schemed and intrigued against her, but it’s
over now. I guess there’s a little streak of good in me somewhere, after
all.”

He spoke to her from the saddle. “It’s more than a streak, Cherry, and
you’re my kind of people.” She smiled wanly back at him under the
lantern-light.

“That’s left-handed, Kid. I don’t want to be your kind. I want to be his
kind--or your sister’s kind.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Upon leaving the rendezvous, Glenister and his two friends slunk through
the night, avoiding the life and lights of the town, while the wind
surged out of the voids to seaward, driving its wet burden through their
flapping slickers, pelting their faces as though enraged at its failure
to wash away the purposes written there. Their course brought them to a
cabin at the western outskirts of the city, where they paused long
enough to adjust something beneath the brims of their hats.

Past them ran the iron rails of the narrow-gauged road which led out
across the quaking tundra to the mountains and the mines. Upon this
slender trail of steel there rolled one small, ungainly teapot of an
engine which daily creaked and clanked back and forth at a snail’s pace,
screaming and wailing its complaint of the two high-loaded flat-cars
behind. The ties beneath it were spiked to planks laid lengthwise over
the semi-liquid road-bed, in places sagging beneath the surface till the
humpbacked, short-waisted locomotive yawed and reeled and squealed like
a drunken fish-wife. At night it panted wearily into the board station
and there sighed and coughed and hissed away its fatigue as the coals
died and the breath relaxed in its lungs.

Early to bed and early to rise was perforce the motto of its grimy crew,
who lived near by. To-night they were just retiring when stayed by a
summons at their door. The engineer opened it to admit what appeared to
his astonished eyes to be a Krupp cannon propelled by a man in
yellow-oiled clothes and white cotton mask. This weapon assumed the
proportions of a great, one-eyed monster, which stared with baleful
fixity at his vitals, giving him a cold and empty feeling. Away back
beyond this Cyclops of the Sightless Orb were two other strangers
likewise equipped.

The fireman arose from his chair, dropping an empty shoe with a thump,
but, being of the West, without cavil or waste of wind, he stretched his
hands above his head, balancing on one foot to keep his unshod member
from the damp floor. He had unbuckled his belt, and now, loosened by the
movement, his overalls seemed bent on sinking floorward in an ecstasy of
abashment at the intrusion, whereupon with convulsive grip he hugged
them to their duty, one hand and foot still elevated as though in the
grand hailing-sign of some secret order. The other man was new to the
ways of the North, so backed to the limit of his quarters, laid both
hands protectingly upon his middle, and doubled up, remarking, fervidly:

“Don’t point that damn thing at my stomach.”

“Ha, ha!” laughed the fireman, with unnatural loudness. “Have your joke,
boys.”

“This ain’t no joke,” said the foremost figure, its breath bellying out
the mask at its mouth.

“Sure it is,” insisted the shoeless one. “Must be--we ain’t got anything
worth stealing.”

“Get into your clothes and come along. We won’t hurt you.” The two
obeyed and were taken to the sleeping engine and there instructed to
produce a full head of steam in thirty minutes or suffer a premature
taking off and a prompt elision from the realms of applied mechanics. As
stimulus to their efforts two of the men stood over them till the engine
began to sob and sigh reluctantly. Through the gloom that curtained the
cab they saw other dim forms materializing and climbing silently on to
the cars behind; then, as the steam-gauge touched the mark, the word was
given and the train rumbled out from its shelter, its shrill plaint at
curb and crossing whipped away and drowned in the storm.

Slapjack remained in the cab, gun in lap, while Dextry climbed back to
Glenister. He found the young man in good spirits, despite the
discomfort of his exposed position, and striving to light his pipe
behind the shelter of his coat.

“Is the dynamite aboard?” the old man questioned.

“Sure. Enough to ballast a battle-ship.”

As the train crept out of the camp and across the river bridge, its only
light or glimmer the sparks that were snatched and harried by the blast,
the partners seated themselves on the powder cases and conversed
guardedly, while about them sounded the low murmur of the men who risked
their all upon this cry to duty, who staked their lives and futures upon
this hazard of the hills, because they thought it right.

“We’ve made a good fight, whether we win or lose to-night,” said Dextry.

Roy replied, “_My_ fight is made and won.”

“What does that mean?”

“My hardest battle had nothing to do with the Midas or the mines of
Anvil. I fought and conquered myself.”

“Awful wet night for philosophy,” the first remarked. “It’s apt to sour
on you like milk in a thunder-storm. S’pose you put overalls an’ gum
boots on some of them Boston ideas an’ lead ’em out where I can look ’em
over an’ find out what they’re up to.”

“I mean that I was a savage till I met Helen Chester and she made a man
of me. It took sixty days, but I think she did a good job. I love the
wild things just as much as ever, but I’ve learned that there are duties
a fellow owes to himself, and to other people, if he’ll only stop and
think them out. I’ve found out, too, that the right thing is usually the
hardest to do. Oh, I’ve improved a lot.”

“Gee! but you’re popular with yourself. I don’t see as it helps your
looks any. You’re as homely as ever--an’ what good does it do you after
all? She’ll marry that big guy.”

“I know. That’s what rankles, for he’s no more worthy of her than I am.
She’ll do what’s right, however, you may depend upon that, and perhaps
she’ll change him the way she did me. Why, she worked a miracle in my
attitude towards life--my manner--”

“Oh, your manners are good enough as they lay,” interrupted the other.
“You never did eat with your knife.”

“I don’t believe in hara-kiri,” Glenister laughed.

“No, when it comes to intimacies with decorum, you’re right on the job
along with any of them Easterners. I watched you close at them ’Frisco
hotels last winter, and, say--you know as much as a horse. Why, you was
wise to them tablewares and pickle-forks equal to a head-waiter, and it
give me confidence just to be with you. I remember putting milk and
sugar in my consommé the first time. It was pale and in a cup and looked
like tea--but not you. No, sir! You savvied plenty and squeezed a lemon
into yours--to clean your fingers, I reckon.”

Roy slapped his partner’s wet back, for he was buoyant and elated. The
sense of nearing danger pulsed through him like wine.

“That wasn’t just what I meant, but it goes. Say, if we win back our
mine, we’ll hit for New York next--eh?”

“No, I don’t aim to mingle with no higher civilization than I got in
’Frisco. I use that word ‘higher’ like it was applied to meat. Not that
I wouldn’t seem apropos. I’m stylish enough for Fifth Avenue or
anywheres, but I like the West. Speakin’ of modes an’ styles, when I get
all lit up in that gray woosted suit of mine, I guess I make the jaded
sight-seers set up an’ take notice--eh? Somethin’ doin’ every minute in
the cranin’ of necks--what? Nothin’ gaudy, but the acme of neatness an’
form, as the feller said who sold it to me.”

Their common peril brought the friends together again, into that close
bond which had been theirs without interruption until this recent change
in the younger had led him to choose paths at variance with the old
man’s ideas; and now they spoke, heart to heart, in the half-serious,
half-jesting ways of old, while beneath each whimsical irony was that
mutual love and understanding which had consecrated their partnership.

Arriving at the end of the road, the Vigilantes debouched and went into
the darkness of the cañon behind their leader, to whom the trails were
familiar. He bade them pause finally, and gave his last instructions.

“They are on the alert, so you want to be careful. Divide into two
parties and close in from both sides, creeping as near to the pickets as
possible without discovery. Remember to wait for the last blast. When it
comes, cut loose and charge like Sioux. Don’t shoot to kill at first,
for they’re only soldiers and under orders, but if they stand--well,
every man must do his work.”

Dextry appealed to the dim figures forming the circle.

“I leave it to you, gents, if it ain’t better for me to go inside than
for the boy. I’ve had more experience with giant powder, an’ I’m so
blamed used up an’ near gone it wouldn’t hurt if they did get me, while
he’s right in his prime--”

Glenister stopped him. “I won’t yield the privilege. Come now--to your
places, men.”

They melted away to each side while the old prospector paused to wring
his partner’s hand.

“I’d ruther it was me, lad, but if they get you--God help ’em!” He
stumbled after the departing shadows, leaving Roy alone. With his naked
fingers, Glenister ripped open the powder cases and secreted the
contents upon his person. Each cartridge held dynamite enough to
devastate a village, and he loaded them inside his pockets, inside his
shirt, and everywhere that he had room, till he was burdened and cased
in an armor one-hundredth part of which could have blown him from the
face of the earth so utterly as to leave no trace except, perhaps, a pit
ripped out of the mountain-side. He looked to his fuses and saw that
they were wrapped in oiled paper, then placed them in his hat. Having
finished, he set out, walking with difficulty under the weight he
carried.

That his choice of location had been well made was evidenced by the fact
that the ground beneath his feet sloped away to a basin out of which
bubbled a spring. It furnished the drinking supply of the Midas, and he
knew every inch of the crevice it had worn down the mountain, so felt
his way cautiously along. At the bottom of the hill where it ran out
upon the level it had worn a considerable ditch through the soil, and
into this he crawled on hands and knees. His bulging clothes
handicapped him so that his gait was slow and awkward, while the rain
had swelled the streamlet till it trickled over his calves and up to his
wrists, chilling him so that his muscles cramped and his very bones
cried out with it. The sharp schist cut into his palms till they were
shredded and bleeding, while his knees found every jagged bit of
bed-rock over which he dragged himself. He could not see an arm’s-length
ahead without rising, and, having removed his slicker for greater
freedom of movement, the rain beat upon his back till he was soaked and
sodden and felt streamlets cleaving downward between his ribs. Now and
again he squatted upon his haunches, straining his eyes to either side.
The banks were barely high enough to shield him. At last he came to a
bridge of planks spanning the ditch and was about to rear himself for
another look when he suddenly flattened into the stream bed, half
damming the waters with his body. It was for this he had so carefully
wrapped his fuses. A man passed over him so close above that he might
have touched him. The sentry paused a few paces beyond and accosted
another, then retraced his steps over the bridge. Evidently this was the
picket-line, so Roy wormed his way forward till he saw the blacker
blackness of the mine buildings, then drew himself dripping out from the
bank. He had run the gauntlet safely.

Since evicting the owners, the receiver had erected substantial houses
in place of the tents he had found on the mine. They were of frame and
corrugated-iron, sheathed within and suited to withstand a moderate
exposure. The partners had witnessed the operation from a distance, but
knew nothing about the buildings from close examination.

A thrill of affection for this place warmed the young man. He loved this
old mine. It had realized the dream of his boyhood, and had answered the
hope he had clung to during his long fight against the Northland. It had
come to him when he was disheartened, bringing cheer and happiness, and
had yielded itself like a bride. Now it seemed a crime to ravage it.

He crept towards the nearest wall and listened. Within was the sound of
voices, though the windows were dark, showing that the inhabitants were
on the alert. Beneath the foundations he made mysterious preparations,
then sought out the office building and cook-house, doing likewise. He
found that back of the seeming repose of the Midas there was a strained
expectancy.

Although suspense had lengthened the time out of all calculation, he
judged he had been gone from his companions at least an hour and that
they must be in place by now. If they were not--if anything failed at
this eleventh hour--well, those were the fortunes of war. In every
enterprise, however carefully planned, there comes a time when chance
must take its turn.

He made his way inside the blacksmith-shop and fumbled for a match. Just
as he was about to strike it he heard the swish of oiled clothes
passing, and waited for some time. Then, igniting his punk and hiding it
under his coat, he opened the door to listen. The wind had died down now
and the rain sang musically upon the metal roofs.

He ran swiftly from house to house, and, when he had done, at the apices
of the triangle he had traced three glowing coals were sputtering.

The final bolt was launched at last. He stepped down into the ditch and
drew his .45, while to his tautened senses it seemed that the very hills
leaned forth in breathless pause, that the rain had ceased, and the
whole night hushed its thousand voices. He found his lower jaw set so
stiffly that the muscles ached. Levelling his weapon at the eaves of the
bunk-house, he pulled trigger rapidly--the bang, bang, bang, six times
repeated, sounding dull and dead beneath the blanket of mist that
overhung. A shout sounded behind him, and then the shriek of a
Winchester ball close over his head. He turned in time to see another
shot stream out of the darkness, where a sentry was firing at the flash
of his gun, then bent himself double and plunged down the ditch.

With the first impact overhead the men poured forth from their quarters
armed and bristling, to be greeted by a volley of gunshots, the thud of
bullets, and the dwindling whine of spent lead. They leaped from shelter
to find themselves girt with a fitful hoop of fire, for the “Stranglers”
had spread in the arc of a circle and now emptied their rifles towards
the centre. The defenders, however, maintained surprising order
considering the suddenness of their attack, and ran to join the
sentries, whose positions could be determined by the nearer flashes. The
voice of a man in authority shouted loud commands. No demonstration came
from the outer voids, nothing but the wicked streaks that stabbed the
darkness. Then suddenly, behind McNamara’s men, the night glared luridly
as though a great furnace-door had opened and then clanged shut, while
with it came a hoarse thudding roar that silenced the rifle play. They
saw the cook-house disrupt itself and disintegrate into a thousand
flying timbers and twisted sheets of tin which soared upward and
outward over their heads and into the night. As the rocking hills ceased
echoing, the sound of the Vigilantes’ rifles recurred like the cracking
of dry sticks, then everywhere about the defenders the earth was lashed
by falling débris while the iron roofs rang at the fusillade.

The blast had come at their very elbows, and they were too dazed and
shaken by it to grasp its significance. Then, before they could realize
what it boded, the depths lit up again till the raindrops were outlined
distinct and glistening like a gossamer veil of silver, while the office
building to their left was ripped and rended and the adjoining walls
leaped out into sudden relief, their shattered windows looking like
ghostly, sightless eyes. The curtain of darkness closed heavier than
velvet, and the men cowered in their tracks, shielding themselves behind
the nearest objects or behind one another’s bodies, waiting for the sky
to vomit over them its rain of missiles. Their backs were to the
Vigilantes now, their faces to the centre. Many had dropped their
rifles. The thunder of hoofs and the scream of terrified horses came
from the stables. The cry of a maddened beast is weird and calculated to
curdle the blood at best, but with it arose a human voice, shrieking
from pain and fear of death. A wrenched and doubled mass of zinc had
hurtled out of the heavens and struck some one down. The choking
hoarseness of the man’s appeal told the story, and those about him broke
into flight to escape what might follow, to escape this danger they
could not see but which swooped out of the blackness above and against
which there was no defence. They fled only to witness another and
greater light behind them by which they saw themselves running,
falling, grovelling. This time they were hurled from their balance by a
concussion which dwarfed the two preceding ones. Some few stood still,
staring at the rolling smoke-bank as it was revealed by the explosion,
their eyes gleaming white, while others buried their faces in their
hollowed arms as if to shut out the hellish glare, or to shield
themselves from a blow.

Out in the heart of the chaos rang a voice loud and clear:

“Beware the next blast!”

At the same instant the girdle of sharp-shooters rose up smiting the air
with their cries and charged in like madmen through the rain of
detritus. They fired as they came, but it was unnecessary, for there was
no longer a fight. It was a rout. The defenders, feeling they had
escaped destruction only by a happy chance in leaving the bunk-house the
instant they did, were not minded to tarry here where the heavens fell
upon their heads. To augment their consternation, the horses had broken
from their stalls and were plunging through the confusion. Fear swept
over the men--blind, unreasoning, contagious--and they rushed out into
the night, colliding with their enemies, overrunning them in the panic
to quit this spot. Some dashed off the bluff and fell among the pits and
sluices. Others ran up the mountain-side, and cowered in the brush like
quail.

As the “Stranglers” assembled their prisoners near the ruins, they heard
wounded men moaning in the darkness, so lit torches and searched out the
stricken ones. Glenister came running through the smoke pall, revolver
in hand, crying:

“Has any one seen McNamara?” No one had, and when they were later
assembled to take stock of their injuries he was greeted by Dextry’s
gleeful announcement:

“That’s the deuce of a fight. We ’ain’t got so much as a cold sore among
us.”

“We have captured fourteen,” another announced, “and there may be more
out yonder in the brush.”

Glenister noted with growing surprise that not one of the prisoners
lined up beneath the glaring torches wore the army blue. They were
miners all, or thugs and ruffians gathered from the camp. Where, he
wondered, were the soldiers.

“Didn’t you have troops from the barracks to help you?” he asked.

“Not a troop. We haven’t seen a soldier since we went to work.”

At this the young leader became alarmed. Had this whole attack
miscarried? Had this been no clash with the United States forces, after
all? If so, the news would never reach Washington, and instead of
accomplishing his end, he and his friends had thrust themselves into the
realms of outlawry, where the soldiers could be employed against them
with impunity, where prices would rest upon their heads. Innocent blood
had been shed, court property destroyed. McNamara had them where he
wanted them at last. They were at bay.

The unwounded prisoners were taken to the boundaries of the Midas and
released with such warnings as the imagination of Dextry could conjure
up; then Glenister assembled his men, speaking to them plainly.

“Boys, this is no victory. In fact, we’re worse off than we were
before, and our biggest fight is coming. There’s a chance to get away
now before daylight and before we’re recognized, but if we’re seen here
at sunup we’ll have to stay and fight. Soldiers will be sent against us,
but if we hold out, and the struggle is fierce enough, it may reach to
Washington. This will be a different kind of fighting now, though. It
will be warfare pure and simple. How many of you will stick?”

“All of us,” said they, in unison, and, accordingly, preparations for a
siege were begun. Barricades were built, ruins removed, buildings
transformed into block-houses, and all through the turbulent night the
tired men labored till ready to drop, led always by the young giant, who
seemed without fatigue.

It was perhaps four hours after midnight when a man sought him out.

“Somebody’s callin’ you on the Assay Office telephone--says it’s life or
death.”

Glenister hurried to the building, which had escaped the shock of the
explosions, and, taking down the receiver, was answered by Cherry
Malotte.

“Thank God, you’re safe,” she began. “The men have just come in and the
whole town is awake over the riot. They say you’ve killed ten people in
the fight--is it true?”

He explained to her briefly that all was well, but she broke in:

“Wait, wait! McNamara has called for troops and you’ll all be shot. Oh,
what a terrible night it has been! I haven’t been to bed. I’m going mad.
Now, listen, carefully--yesterday Helen went with Struve to the Sign of
the Sled and she hasn’t come back.”

The man at the end of the wire cried out at this, then choked back his
words to hear what followed. His free hand began making strange, futile
motions as though he traced patterns in the air.

“I can’t raise the road-house on the wire and--something dreadful has
happened, I know.”

“What made her go?” he shouted.

“To save you,” came Cherry’s faint reply. “If you love her, ride fast to
the Sign of the Sled or you’ll be too late. The Bronco Kid has gone
there--”

At that name Roy crashed the instrument to its hook and burst out of the
shanty, calling loudly to his men.

“What’s up?”

“Where are you going?”

“To the Sign of the Sled,” he panted.

“We’ve stood by you, Glenister, and you can’t quit us like this,” said
one, angrily. “The trail to town is good, and we’ll take it if you do.”
Roy saw they feared he was deserting, feared that he had heard some
alarming rumor of which they did not know.

“We’ll let the mine go, boys, for I can’t ask you to do what I refuse to
do myself, and yet it’s not fear that’s sending me. There’s a woman in
danger and I _must_ go. She courted ruin to save us all, risked her
honor to try and right a wrong--and--I’m afraid of what has happened
while we were fighting here. I don’t ask you to stay till I come
back--it wouldn’t be square, and you’d better go while you have a
chance. As for me--I gave up the old claim once--I can do it again.” He
swung himself to the horse’s back, settled into the saddle, and rode out
through the lane of belted men.



CHAPTER XX

IN WHICH THREE GO TO THE SIGN OF THE SLED AND BUT TWO RETURN


As Helen and her companion ascended the mountain, scarred and swept by
the tempest of the previous night, they heard, far below, the swollen
torrent brawling in its bowlder-ridden bed, while behind them the angry
ocean spread southward to a blood-red horizon. Ahead, the bleak
mountains brooded over forbidding valleys; to the west a suffused sun
glared sullenly, painting the high-piled clouds with the gorgeous hues
of a stormy sunset. To Helen the wild scene seemed dyed with the colors
of flame and blood and steel.

“That rain raised the deuce with the trails,” said Struve, as they
picked their way past an unsightly “slip” whence a part of the
overhanging mountain, loosened by the deluge, had slid into the gulch.
“Another storm like that would wash out these roads completely.”

Even in the daylight it was no easy task to avoid these danger spots,
for the horses floundered on the muddy soil. Vaguely the girl wondered
how she would find her way back in the darkness, as she had planned. She
said little as they approached the road-house, for the thoughts within
her brain had begun to clamor too wildly; but Struve, more arrogant
than ever before, more terrifyingly sure of himself, was loudly
garrulous. As they drew nearer and nearer, the dread that possessed the
girl became of paralyzing intensity. If she should fail--but she vowed
she would not, could not, fail.

They rounded a bend and saw the Sign of the Sled cradled below them
where the trail dipped to a stream which tumbled from the comb above
into the river twisting like a silver thread through the distant valley.
A peeled flag-pole topped by a spruce bough stood in front of the
tavern, while over the door hung a sled suspended from a beam. The house
itself was a quaint structure, rambling and amorphous, from whose sod
roof sprang blooming flowers, and whose high-banked walls were pierced
here and there with sleepy windows. It had been built by a homesick
foreigner of unknown nationality whom the army of “mushers” who paid for
his clean and orderly hospitality had dubbed duly and as a matter of
course a “Swede.” When travel had changed to the river trail, leaving
the house lonesome and high as though left by a receding wave, Struve
had taken it over on a debt, and now ran it for the convenience of a
slender traffic, mainly stampeders, who chose the higher route towards
the interior. His hireling spent the idle hours in prospecting a hungry
quartz lead and in doing assessment work on near-by claims.

Shortz took the horses and answered his employer’s questions curtly,
flashing a curious look at Helen. Under other conditions the girl would
have been delighted with the place, for this was the quaintest spot she
had found in the north country. The main room held bar and gold-scales,
a rude table, and a huge iron heater, while its walls and ceiling were
sheeted with white cloth so cunningly stitched and tacked that it seemed
a cavern hollowed from chalk. It was filled with trophies of the hills,
stuffed birds and animals, skins and antlers, from which depended, in
careless confusion, dog harness, snow-shoes, guns, and articles of
clothing. A door to the left led into the bunk-room where travellers had
been wont to sleep in tiers three deep. To the rear was a kitchen and
cache, to the right a compartment which Struve called the art gallery.
Here, free reign had been allowed the original owner’s artistic fancies,
and he had covered the place with pictures clipped from gazettes of
questionable repute till it was a bewildering arrangement of pink ladies
in tights, pugilists in scanty trunks, prize bull-dogs, and other less
moral characters of the sporting world.

“This is probably the worst company you were ever in,” Struve observed
to Helen, with a forced attempt at lightness.

“Are there no guests here?” she asked him, her anxiety very near the
surface.

“Travel is light at this time of the year. They’ll come in later,
perhaps.”

A fire was burning in this pink room where the landlord had begun
spreading the table for two, and its warmth was grateful to the girl.
Her companion, thoroughly at his ease, stretched himself on a
fur-covered couch and smoked.

“Let me see the papers, now, Mr. Struve,” she began, but he put her off.

“No, not now. Business must wait on our dinner. Don’t spoil our little
party, for there’s time enough and to spare.”

She arose and went to the window, unable to sit still. Looking down the
narrow gulch she saw that the mountains beyond were indistinct for it
was growing dark rapidly. Dense clouds had rolled up from the east. A
rain-drop struck the glass before her eyes, then another and another,
and the hills grew misty behind the coming shower. A traveller with a
pack on his back hurried around the corner of the building and past her
to the door. At his knock, Struve, who had been watching Helen through
half-shut eyes, arose and went into the other room.

“Thank Heaven, some one has come,” she thought. The voices were deadened
to a hum by the sod walls, till that of the stranger raised itself in
such indignant protest that she distinguished his words.

“Oh, I’ve got money to pay my way. I’m no deadhead.”

Shortz mumbled something back.

“I don’t care if you are closed. I’m tired and there’s a storm coming.”

This time she heard the landlord’s refusal and the miner’s angry
profanity. A moment later she saw the traveller plodding up the trail
towards town.

“What does that mean?” she inquired, as the lawyer re-entered.

“Oh, that fellow is a tough, and Shortz wouldn’t let him in. He’s
careful whom he entertains--there are so many bad men roaming the
hills.”

The German came in shortly to light the lamp, and, although she asked no
further questions, Helen’s uneasiness increased. She half listened to
the stories with which Struve tried to entertain her and ate little of
the excellent meal that was shortly served to them. Struve, meanwhile,
ate and drank almost greedily, and the shadowy, sinister evening crept
along. A strange cowardice had suddenly overtaken the girl; and if, at
this late hour, she could have withdrawn, she would have done so gladly
and gone forth to meet the violence of the tempest. But she had gone too
far for retreat; and realizing that, for the present, apparent
compliance was her wisest resource, she sat quiet, answering the man
with cool words while his eyes grew brighter, his skin more flushed, his
speech more rapid. He talked incessantly and with feverish gayety,
smoking numberless cigarettes and apparently unconscious of the flight
of time. At last he broke off suddenly and consulted his watch, while
Helen remembered that she had not heard Shortz in the kitchen for a long
time. Suddenly Struve smiled on her peculiarly, with confident cunning.
As he leered at her over the disorder between them he took from his
pocket a flat bundle which he tossed to her.

“Now for the bargain, eh?”

“Ask the man to remove these dishes,” she said, as she undid the parcel
with clumsy fingers.

“I sent him away two hours ago,” said Struve, arising as if to come to
her. She shrank back, but he only leaned across, gathered up the four
corners of the tablecloth, and, twisting them together, carried the
whole thing out, the dishes crashing and jangling as he threw his burden
recklessly into the kitchen. Then he returned and stood with his back to
the stove, staring at her while she perused the contents of the papers,
which were more voluminous than she had supposed.

For a long time the girl pored over the documents. The purport of the
papers was only too obvious; and, as she read, the proof of her uncle’s
guilt stood out clear and damning. There was no possibility of mistake;
the whole wretched plot stood out plain, its darkest infamies revealed.

In spite of the cruelty of her disillusionment, Helen was nevertheless
exalted with the fierce ecstasy of power, with the knowledge that
justice would at last be rendered. It would be her triumph and her
expiation that she, who had been the unwitting tool of this miserable
clique, would be the one through whom restitution was made. She arose
with her eyes gleaming and her lips set.

“It is here.”

“Of course it is. Enough to convict us all. It means the penitentiary
for your precious uncle and your lover.” He stretched his chin upward at
the mention as though to free his throat from an invisible clutch. “Yes,
your lover particularly, for he’s the real one. That’s why I brought you
here. He’ll marry you, but I’ll be the best man.” The timbre of his
voice was unpleasant.

“Come, let us go,” she said.

“Go,” he chuckled, mirthlessly. “That’s a fine example of unconscious
humor.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, first, no human being could find his way down to the coast in
this tempest; second--but, by-the-way, let me explain something in those
papers while I think of it.” He spoke casually and stepped forward,
reaching for the package, which she was about to give up, when something
prompted her to snatch it behind her back; and it was well she did, for
his hand was but a few inches away. He was no match for her quickness,
however, and she glided around the table, thrusting the papers into the
front of her dress. The sudden contact with Cherry’s revolver gave her a
certain comfort. She spoke now with determination.

“I intend to leave here at once. Will you bring my horse? Very well, I
shall do it myself.”

She turned, but his indolence vanished like a flash, and springing in
front of the door he barred her way.

“Hold on, my lady. You ought to understand without my saying any more.
Why did I bring you here? Why did I plan this little party? Why did I
send that man away? Just to give you the proof of my complicity in a
crime, I suppose. Well, hardly. You won’t leave here to-night. And when
you do, you won’t carry those papers--my own safety depends on that and
I am selfish, so don’t get me started. Listen!” They caught the wail of
the night crying as though hungry for sacrifice. “No, you’ll stay here
and--”

He broke off abruptly, for Helen had stepped to the telephone and taken
down the receiver. He leaped, snatched it from her, and then, tearing
the instrument loose from the wall, raised it above his head, dashed it
upon the floor, and sprang towards her, but she wrenched herself free
and fled across the room. The man’s white hair was wildly tumbled, his
face was purple, and his neck and throat showed swollen, throbbing
veins. He stood still, however, and his lips cracked into his
ever-present, cautious smile.

“Now, don’t let’s fight about this. It’s no use, for I’ve played to
win. You have your proof--now I’ll have my price;--or else I’ll take it.
Think over which it will be, while I lock up.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Far down the mountain-side a man was urging a broken pony recklessly
along the trail. The beast was blown and spent, its knees weak and
bending, yet the rider forced it as though behind him yelled a thousand
devils, spurring headlong through gully and ford, up steep slopes and
down invisible ravines. Sometimes the animal stumbled and fell with its
master, sometimes they arose together, but the man was heedless of all
except his haste, insensible to the rain which smote him blindingly, and
to the wind which seized him savagely upon the ridges, or gasped at him
in the gullies with exhausted malice. At last he gained the plateau and
saw the road-house light beneath, so drove his heels into the flanks of
the wind-broken creature, which lunged forward gamely. He felt the pony
rear and drop away beneath him, pawing and scrambling, and instinctively
kicked his feet free from the stirrups, striving to throw himself out of
the saddle and clear of the thrashing hoofs. It seemed that he turned
over in the air before something smote him and he lay still, his gaunt,
dark face upturned to the rain, while about him the storm screamed
exultantly.

       *       *       *       *       *

The moment Struve disappeared into the outer room Helen darted to the
window. It was merely a single sash, nailed fast and immovable, but
seizing one of the little stools beside the stove she thrust it through
the glass, letting in a smother of wind and water. Before she could
escape, Struve bounded into the room, his face livid with anger, his
voice hoarse and furious.

But as he began to denounce her he paused in amazement, for the girl had
drawn Cherry’s weapon and levelled it at him. She was very pale and her
breast heaved as from a swift run, while her wondrous gray eyes were lit
with a light no man had ever seen there before, glowing like two jewels
whose hearts contained the pent-up passion of centuries. She had altered
as though under the deft hand of a master-sculptor, her nostrils growing
thin and arched, her lips tight pressed and pitiless, her head poised
proudly. The rain drove in through the shattered window, over and past
her, while the cheap red curtain lashed and whipped her as though in
gleeful applause. Her bitter abhorrence of the man made her voice sound
strangely unnatural as she commanded:

“Don’t dare to stop me.” She moved towards the door, motioning him to
retreat before her, and he obeyed, recognizing the danger of her
coolness. She did not note the calculating treachery of his glance,
however, nor fathom the purposes he had in mind.

       *       *       *       *       *

Out on the rain-swept mountain the prostrate rider had regained his
senses and now was crawling painfully towards the road-house. Seen
through the dark he would have resembled some misshapen, creeping
monster, for he dragged himself, reptile-like, close to the ground. But
as he came closer the man heard a cry which the wind seemed guarding
from his ear, and, hearing it, he rose and rushed blindly forward,
staggering like a wounded beast.

Helen watched her captive closely as he backed through the door before
her, for she dared not lose sight of him until free. The middle room was
lighted by a glass lamp on the bar and its rays showed that the
front-door was secured by a large iron bolt. She thanked Heaven there
was no lock and key.

Struve had retreated until his back was to the counter, offering no
word, making no move, but the darting brightness of his eyes showed that
he was alert and planning. But when the door behind Helen, urged by the
wind through the broken casement, banged to, the man made his first
lightning-like sign. He dashed the lamp to the floor, where it burst
like an egg-shell, and darkness leaped into the room as an animal
pounces. Had she been calmer or had time for an instant’s thought Helen
would have hastened back to the light, but she was midway to her liberty
and actuated by the sole desire to break out into the open air, so
plunged forward. Without warning, she was hurled from her feet by a body
which came out of the darkness upon her. She fired the little gun, but
Struve’s arms closed about her, the weapon was wrenched from her hand,
and she found herself fighting against him, breast to breast, with the
fury of desperation. His wine-burdened breath beat into her face and she
felt herself bound to him as though by hoops, while the touch of his
cheek against hers turned her into a terrified, insensate animal, which
fought with every ounce of its strength and every nerve of its body. She
screamed once, but it was not like the cry of a woman. Then the struggle
went on in silence and utter blackness, Struve holding her like a
gorilla till she grew faint and her head began to whirl, while darting
lights drove past her eyes and there was the roar of a cataract in her
ears. She was a strong girl, and her ripe young body, untried until this
moment, answered in every fibre, so that she wrestled with almost a
man’s strength and he had hard shift to hold her. But so violent an
encounter could not last. Helen felt herself drifting free from the
earth and losing grip of all things tangible, when at last they tripped
and fell against the inner door. This gave way, and at the same moment
the man’s strength departed as though it were a thing of darkness and
dared not face the light that streamed over them. She tore herself from
his clutch and staggered into the supper-room, her loosened hair falling
in a gleaming torrent about her shoulders, while he arose from his knees
and came towards her again, gasping:

“I’ll show you who’s master here--”

Then he ceased abruptly, cringingly, and threw up an arm before his face
as if to ward off a blow. Framed in the window was the pallid visage of
a man. The air rocked, the lamp flared, and Struve whirled completely
around, falling back against the wall. His eyes filled with horror and
shifted down where his hand had clutched at his breast, plucking at one
spot as if tearing a barb from his bosom. He jerked his head towards the
door at his elbow in quest of a retreat, a shudder ran over him, his
knees buckled and he plunged forward upon his face, his arm still
doubled under him.

It had happened like a flash of light, and although Helen felt, rather
than heard, the shot and saw her assailant fall, she did not realize the
meaning of it till a drift of powder smoke assailed her nostrils. Even
so, she experienced no shock nor horror of the sight. On the contrary, a
savage joy at the spectacle seized her and she stood still, leaning
slightly forward, staring at it almost gloatingly, stood so till she
heard her name called, “Helen, little sister!” and, turning, saw her
brother in the window.

That which he witnessed in her face he had seen before in the faces of
men locked close with a hateful death and from whom all but the most
elemental passions had departed--but he had never seen a woman bear the
marks till now. No artifice nor falsity was there, nothing but the
crudest, intensest feeling, which many people live and die without
knowing. There are few who come to know the great primitive, passionate
longings. But in this black night, fighting in defence of her most
sacred self, this girl’s nature had been stripped to its purely savage
elements. As Glenister had predicted, Helen at last had felt and yielded
to irresistibly powerful impulse.

Glancing backward at the creature sprawled by the door, Helen went to
her brother, put her arms about his neck, and kissed him.

“He’s dead?” the Kid asked her.

She nodded and tried to speak, but began to shiver and sob instead.

“Unlock the door,” he begged her. “I’m hurt, and I must get in.”

When the Kid had hobbled into the room, she pressed him to her and
stroked his matted head, regardless of his muddy, soaking garments.

“I must look at him. He may not be badly hurt,” said the Kid.

“Don’t touch him!” She followed, nevertheless, and stood near by while
her brother examined his victim. Struve was breathing, and, discovering
this, the others lifted him with difficulty to the couch.

“Something cracked in here--ribs, I guess,” the Kid remarked, gasping
and feeling his own side. He was weak and pale, and the girl led him
into the bunk-room, where he could lie down. Only his wonderful
determination had sustained him thus far, and now the knowledge of his
helplessness served to prevent Helen’s collapse.

The Kid would not hear of her going for help till the storm abated or
daylight came, insisting that the trails were too treacherous and that
no time could be saved by doing so. Thus they waited for the dawn. At
last they heard the wounded man faintly calling. He spoke to Helen
hoarsely. There was no malice, only fear, in his tones:

“I said this was my madness--and I got what I deserved, but I’m going to
die. O God--I’m going to die and I’m afraid.” He moaned till the Bronco
Kid hobbled in, glaring with unquenched hatred.

“Yes, you’re going to die and I did it. Be game, can’t you? I sha’n’t
let her go for help until daylight.”

Helen forced her brother back to his couch, and returned to help the
wounded man, who grew incoherent and began to babble.

A little later, when the Kid seemed stronger and his head clearer, Helen
ventured to tell him of their uncle’s villany and of the proof she held,
with her hope of restoring justice. She told him of the attack planned
that very night and of the danger which threatened the miners. He
questioned her closely and, realising the bearing of her story, crept
to the door, casting the wind like a hound.

“We’ll have to risk it,” said he. “The wind is almost gone and it’s not
long till daylight.”

She pleaded to go alone, but he was firm. “I’ll never leave you again,
and, moreover, I know the lower trail quite well. We’ll go down the
gulch to the valley and reach town that way. It’s farther but it’s not
so dangerous.”

“You can’t ride,” she insisted.

“I can if you’ll tie me into the saddle. Come, get the horses.”

It was still pitchy dark and the rain was pouring, but the wind only
sighed weakly as though tired by its violence when she helped the Bronco
into his saddle. The effort wrenched a groan from him, but he insisted
upon her tying his feet beneath the horse’s belly, saying that the trail
was rough and he could take no chance of falling again; so, having
performed the last services she might for Struve, she mounted her own
animal and allowed it to pick its way down the steep descent behind her
brother, who swayed and lurched drunkenly in his seat, gripping the horn
before him with both hands.

       *       *       *       *       *

They had been gone perhaps a half-hour when another horse plunged
furiously out of the darkness and halted before the road-house door. Its
rider, mud-stained and dishevelled, flung himself in mad haste to the
ground and bolted in through the door. He saw the signs of confusion in
the outer room, chairs upset and broken, the table wedged against the
stove, and before the counter a shattered lamp in a pool of oil. He
called loudly, but, receiving no answer, snatched a light which he
found burning and ran to the door at his left. Nothing greeted him but
the empty tiers of bunks. Turning, he crossed to the other side and
burst through. Another lamp was lighted beside the couch where Struve
lay, breathing heavily, his lids half closed over his staring eyes. Roy
noted the pool of blood at his feet and the broken window; then, setting
down his lamp, he leaned over the man and spoke to him.

When he received no answer he spoke again loudly. Then, in a frenzy,
Glenister shook the wounded man cruelly, so that he cried out in terror:

“I’m dying--oh, I’m dying.” Roy raised the sick man up and thrust his
own face before his eyes.

“This is Glenister. I’ve come for Helen--where is she?” A spark of
recognition flickered into the dull stare.

“You’re too late--I’m dying--and I’m afraid.”

His questioner shook Struve again. “Where is she?” he repeated, time
after time, till by very force of his own insistence he compelled
realization in the sufferer.

“The Kid took her away. The Kid shot me,” and then his voice rose till
it flooded the room with terror. “The Kid shot me and I’m dying.” He
coughed blood to his lips, at which Roy laid him back and stood up. So
there was no mistake, after all, and he had arrived too late. This was
the Kid’s revenge. This was how he struck. Lacking courage to face a
man’s level eyes, he possessed the foulness to prey upon a woman. Roy
felt a weakening physical sickness sweep over him till his eye fell upon
a sodden garment which Helen had removed from her brother’s shoulders
and replaced with a dry one. He snatched it from the floor and in a
sudden fury felt it come apart in his hands like wet tissue-paper.

He found himself out in the rain, scanning the trampled soil by light of
his lamp, and discerned tracks which the drizzle had not yet erased. He
reasoned mechanically that the two riders could have no great start of
him, so strode out beyond the house to see if they had gone farther into
the hills. There were no tracks here, therefore they must have doubled
back towards town. It did not occur to him that they might have left the
beaten path and followed down the little creek to the river; but,
replacing the light where he had found it, he remounted and lashed his
horse into a stiff canter up towards the divide that lay between him and
the city. The story was growing plainer to him, though as yet he could
not piece it all together. Its possibilities stabbed him with such
horror that he cried out aloud and beat his steed into faster time with
both hands and feet. To think of those two ruffians fighting over this
girl as though she were the spoils of pillage! He must overtake the
Kid--he _would_! The possibility that he might not threw him into such
ungovernable mental chaos that he was forced to calm himself. Men went
mad that way. He could not think of it. That gasping creature in the
road-house spoke all too well of the Bronco’s determination. And yet,
who of those who had known the Kid in the past would dream that his
vileness was so utter as this?

Away to the right, hidden among the shadowed hills, his friends rested
themselves for the coming battle, waiting impatiently his return, and
timing it to the rising sun. Down in the valley to his left were the
two he followed, while he, obsessed and unreasoning, now cursing like a
madman, now grim and silent, spurred southward towards town and into the
ranks of his enemies.



CHAPTER XXI

THE HAMMER-LOCK


Day was breaking as Glenister came down the mountain. With the first
light he halted to scan the trail, and having no means of knowing that
the fresh tracks he found were not those of the two riders he followed,
he urged his lathered horse ahead till he became suddenly conscious that
he was very tired and had not slept for two days and nights. The
recollection did not reassure the young man, for his body was a weapon
which must not fail in the slightest measure now that there was work to
do. Even the unwelcome speculation upon his physical handicap offered
relief, however, from the agony which fed upon him whenever he thought
of Helen in the gambler’s hands. Meanwhile, the horse, groaning at his
master’s violence, plunged onward towards the roofs of Nome, now growing
gray in the first dawn.

It seemed years since Roy had seen the sunlight, for this night,
burdened with suspense, had been endlessly long. His body was faint
beneath the strain, and yet he rode on and on, tired, dogged, stony, his
eyes set towards the sea, his mind a storm of formless, whirling
thoughts, beneath which was an undeviating, implacable determination.

He knew now that he had sacrificed all hope of the Midas, and likewise
the hope of Helen was gone; in fact, he began to realize dimly that from
the beginning he had never had the possibility of winning her, that she
had never been destined for him, and that his love for her had been sent
as a light by which he was to find himself. He had failed everywhere, he
had become an outlaw, he had fought and gone down, certain only of his
rectitude and the mastery of his unruly spirit. Now the hour had come
when he would perform his last mission, deriving therefrom that
satisfaction which the gods could not deny. He would have his vengeance.

The scheme took form without conscious effort on his part and embraced
two things--the death of the gambler and a meeting with McNamara. Of the
former, he had no more doubt than that the sun rising there would sink
in the west. So well confirmed was this belief that the details did not
engage his thought; but on the result of the other encounter he
speculated with some interest. From the first McNamara had been a riddle
to him, and mystery breeds curiosity. His blind, instinctive hatred of
the man had assumed the proportions of a mania; but as to what the
outcome would be when they met face to face, fate alone could tell.
Anyway, McNamara should never have Helen--Roy believed his mission
covered that point as well as her deliverance from the Bronco Kid. When
he had finished--he would pay the price. If he had the luck to escape,
he would go back to his hills and his solitude; if he did not, his
future would be in the hands of his enemies.

He entered the silent streets unobserved, for the mists were heavy and
low. Smoke columns arose vertically in the still air. The rain had
ceased, having beaten down the waves which rumbled against the beach,
filling the streets with their subdued thunder. A ship, anchored in the
offing, had run in from the lee of Sledge Island with the first lull,
while midway to the shore a tender was rising and falling, its oars
flashing like the silvered feelers of a sea insect crawling upon the
surface of the ocean.

He rode down Front Street heedless of danger, heedless of the comment
his appearance might create, and, unseen, entered his enemy’s
stronghold. He passed a gambling-hall, through the windows of which came
a sickly yellow gleam. A man came out unsteadily and stared at the
horseman, then passed on.

Glenister’s plan was to go straight to the Northern and from there to
track down its owner relentlessly, but in order to reach the place his
course led him past the office of Dunham & Struve. This brought back to
his mind the man dying out there ten miles at his back. The scantiest
humanity demanded that assistance be sent at once. Yet he dared not give
word openly, thus betraying his presence, for it was necessary that he
maintain his liberty during the next hour at all hazards. He suddenly
thought of an expedient and reined in his horse, which stopped with
wide-spread legs and dejected head while he dismounted and climbed the
stairs to leave a note upon the door. Some one would see the message
shortly and recognize its urgency.

In dressing for the battle at the Midas on the previous night he had
replaced his leather boots with “mukluks,” which are waterproof, light,
and pliable footgear made from the skin of seal and walrus. He was thus
able to move as noiselessly as though in moccasins. Finding neither
pencil nor paper in his pocket, he tried the outer door of the office,
to find it unlocked. He stepped inside and listened, then moved towards
a table on which were writing materials, but in doing so heard a rustle
in Struve’s private office. Evidently his soft soles had not disturbed
the man inside. Roy was about to tiptoe out as he had come when the
hidden man cleared his throat. It is in these involuntary sounds that
the voice retains its natural quality more distinctly even than in
speaking. A strange eagerness grew in Glenister’s face and he approached
the partition stealthily. It was of wood and glass, the panes clouded
and opaque to a height of some six feet; but stepping upon a chair he
peered into the room beyond. A man knelt in a litter of papers before
the open safe, its drawers and compartments removed and their contents
scattered. The watcher lowered himself, drew his gun, and laid soft hand
upon the door-knob, turning the latch with firm fingers. His vengeance
had come to meet him.

       *       *       *       *       *

After lying in wait during the long night, certain that the Vigilantes
would spring his trap, McNamara was astounded at news of the battle at
the Midas and of Glenister’s success. He stormed and cursed his men as
cowards. The Judge became greatly exercised over this new development,
which, coupled with his night of long anxiety, reduced him to a pitiful
hysteria.

“They’ll blow _us_ up next. Great Heavens! Dynamite! Oh, that is
barbarous. For Heaven’s sake, get the soldiers out, Alec.”

“Ay, we can use them now.” Thereupon McNamara roused the commanding
officer at the post and requested him to accoutre a troop and have them
ready to march at daylight, then bestirred the Judge to start the wheels
of his court and invoke this military aid in regular fashion.

“Make it all a matter of record,” he said. “We want to keep our skirts
clear from now on.”

“But the towns-people are against us,” quavered Stillman. “They’ll tear
us to pieces.”

“Let ’em try. Once I get my hand on the ringleader, the rest may riot
and be damned.”

Although he had made less display than had the Judge, the receiver was
no less deeply worried about Helen, of whom no news came. His jealousy,
fanned to red heat by the discovery of her earlier defection, was
enhanced fourfold by the thought of this last adventure. Something told
him there was treachery afoot, and when she did not return at dawn he
began to fear that she had cast in her lot with the rioters. This
aroused a perfect delirium of doubt and anger till he reasoned further
that Struve, having gone with her, must also be a traitor. He recognized
the menace in this fact, knowing the man’s venality, so began to reckon
carefully its significance. What could Struve do? What proof had he?
McNamara started, and, seizing his hat, hurried straight to the lawyer’s
office and let himself in with the key he carried. It was light enough
for him to decipher the characters on the safe lock as he turned the
combination, so he set to work scanning the endless bundles within,
hoping that after all the man had taken with him no incriminating
evidence. Once the searcher paused at some fancied sound, but when
nothing came of it drew his revolver and laid it before him just inside
the safe door and close beneath his hand, continuing to run through the
documents while his uneasiness increased. He had been engaged so for
some time when he heard the faintest creak at his back, too slight to
alarm and just sufficient to break his tension and cause him to jerk his
head about. Framed in the open door stood Roy Glenister watching him.

McNamara’s astonishment was so genuine that he leaped to his feet, faced
about, and prompted by a secretive instinct swung to the safe door as
though to guard its contents. He had acted upon the impulse before
realizing that his weapon was inside and that now, although the door was
not locked, it would require that one dangerous, yes, fatal, second to
open it.

The two men stared at each other for a time, silent and malignant, their
glances meeting like blades; in the older man’s face a look of defiance,
in the younger’s a dogged and grim-purposed enmity. McNamara’s first
perturbation left him calm, alert, dangerous; whereas the continued
contemplation of his enemy worked in Glenister to destroy his composure,
and his purpose blazed forth unhidden.

He stood there unkempt and soiled, the clean sweep of jaw and throat
overgrown with a three days’ black stubble, his hair wet and matted, his
whole left side foul with clay where he had fallen in the darkness. A
muddy red streak spread downward from a cut above his temple, beneath
his eyes were sagging folds, while the flicker at his mouth corners
betrayed the high nervous pitch to which he was keyed.

“I have come for the last act, McNamara; now we’ll have it out, man to
man.”

The politician shrugged his shoulders. “You have the drop on me. I am
unarmed.” At which the miner’s face lighted fiercely and he chuckled.

“Ah, that’s almost too good to be true. I have dreamed about such a
thing and I have been hungry to feel your throat since the first time I
saw you. It’s grown on me till shooting wouldn’t satisfy me. Ever had
the feeling? Well, I’m going to choke the life out of you with my bare
hands.”

McNamara squared himself.

“I wouldn’t advise you to try it. I have lived longer than you and I was
never beaten, but I know the feeling you speak about. I have it now.”

His eyes roved rapidly up and down the other’s form, noting the lean
thighs and close-drawn belt which lent the appearance of spareness,
belied only by the neck and shoulders. He had beaten better men, and he
reasoned that if it came to a physical test in these cramped quarters
his own great weight would more than offset any superior agility the
miner might possess. The longer he looked the more he yielded to his
hatred of the man before him, and the more cruelly he longed to satisfy
it.

“Take off your coat,” said Glenister. “Now turn around. All right! I
just wanted to see if you were lying about your gun.”

“I’ll kill you,” cried McNamara.

Glenister laid his six-shooter upon the safe and slipped off his own wet
garment. The difference was more marked now and the advantage more
strongly with the receiver. Though they had avoided allusion to it, each
knew that this fight had nothing to do with the Midas and each realized
whence sprang their fierce enmity. And it was meet that they should
come together thus. It had been the one certain and logical event which
they had felt inevitably approaching from long back. And it was fitting,
moreover, that they should fight alone and unwitnessed, armed only with
the weapons of the wilderness, for they were both of the far, free
lands, were both of the fighter’s type, and had both warred for the
first, great prize.

They met ferociously. McNamara aimed a fearful blow, but Glenister met
him squarely, beating him off cleverly, stepping in and out, his arms
swinging loosely from his shoulders like whalebone withes tipped with
lead. He moved lightly, his footing made doubly secure by reason of his
soft-soled mukluks. Recognizing his opponent’s greater weight, he
undertook merely to stop the headlong rushes and remain out of reach as
long as possible. He struck the politician fairly in the mouth so that
the man’s head snapped back and his fists went wild, then, before the
arms could grasp him, the miner had broken ground and whipped another
blow across; but McNamara was a boxer himself, so covered and blocked
it. The politician spat through his mashed lips and rushed again,
sweeping his opponent from his feet. Again Glenister’s fist shot forward
like a lump of granite, but the other came on head down and the blow
finished too high, landing on the big man’s brow. A sudden darting agony
paralyzed Roy’s hand, and he realized that he had broken the metacarpal
bones and that henceforth it would be useless. Before he could recover,
McNamara had passed under his extended arm and seized him by the middle,
then, thrusting his left leg back of Roy’s, he whirled him from his
balance, flinging him clear and with resistless force. It seemed that a
fatal fall must follow, but the youth squirmed catlike in the air,
landing with set muscles which rebounded like rubber. Even so, the
receiver was upon him before he could rise, reaching for the young man’s
throat with his heavy hands. Roy recognized the fatal “strangle hold,”
and, seizing his enemy’s wrists, endeavored to tear them apart, but his
left hand was useless, so with a mighty wrench he freed himself, and,
locked in each other’s arms, the men strained and swayed about the
office till their neck veins were bursting, their muscles paralyzed.

Men may fight duels calmly, may shoot or parry or thrust with cold
deliberation; but when there comes the jar of body to body, the sweaty
contact of skin to skin, the play of iron muscles, the painful gasp of
exhaustion--then the mind goes skittering back into its dark recesses
while every venomous passion leaps forth from its hiding-place and joins
in the horrid war.

They tripped across the floor, crashing into the partition, which split,
showering them with glass. They fell and rolled in it; then, by consent,
wrenched themselves apart and rose, eye to eye, their jaws hanging,
their lungs wheezing, their faces trickling blood and sweat. Roy’s left
hand pained him excruciatingly, while McNamara’s macerated lips had
turned outward in a hideous pout. They crouched so for an instant,
cruel, bestial--then clinched again. The office-fittings were wrecked
utterly and the room became a litter of ruins. The men’s garments fell
away till their breasts were bare and their arms swelled white and
knotted through the rags. They knew no pain, their bodies were insensate
mechanisms.

Gradually the older man’s face was beaten into a shapeless mass by the
other’s cunning blows, while Glenister’s every bone was wrenched and
twisted under his enemy’s terrible onslaughts. The miner’s chief effort,
it is true, was to keep his feet and to break the man’s embraces. Never
had he encountered one whom he could not beat by sheer strength till he
met this great, snarling creature who worried him hither and yon as
though he were a child. Time and again Roy beat upon the man’s face with
the blows of a sledge. No rules governed this solitary combat; the men
were deaf to all but the roaring in their ears, blinded to all but hate,
insensible to everything but the blood mania. Their trampling feet
caused the building to rumble and shake as though some monster were
running amuck.

Meanwhile a bareheaded man rushed out of the store beneath, bumping into
a pedestrian who had paused on the sidewalk, and together they scurried
up the stairs. The dory which Roy had seen at sea had shot the breakers,
and now its three passengers were tracking through the wet sand towards
Front Street, Bill Wheaton in the lead. He was followed by two rawboned
men who travelled without baggage. The city was awakening with the sun
which reared a copper rim out of the sea. Judge Stillman and Voorhees
came down from the hotel and paused to gaze through the mists at a
caravan of mule teams which trotted into the other end of the street
with jingle and clank. The wagons were blue with soldiers, the early
golden rays slanting from their Krags, and they were bound for the
Midas.

Out of the fogs which clung so thickly to the tundra there came two
other horses, distorted and unreal, on one a girl, on the other a figure
of pain and tragedy, a grotesque creature that swayed stiffly to the
motion of its steed, its face writhed into lines of suffering, its
hands clutching cantle and horn.

It was as though Fate, with invisible touch, were setting her stage for
the last act of this play, assembling the principals close to the Golden
Sands where first they had made entrance.

The man and the girl came face to face with the Judge and marshal, who
cried out upon seeing them, but as they reined in, out from the stairs
beside them a man shot amid clatter and uproar.

“Give me a hand--quick!” he shouted to them.

“What’s up?” inquired the marshal.

“It’s murder! McNamara and Glenister!” He dashed back up the steps
behind Voorhees, the Judge following, while muffled cries came from
above.

The gambler turned towards the three men who were hurrying from the
beach, and, recognizing Wheaton, called to him: “Untie my feet! Cut the
ropes! Quick!”

“What’s the trouble?” the lawyer asked, but on hearing Glenister’s name
bounded after the Judge, leaving one of his companions to free the
rider. They could hear the fight now, and all crowded towards the door,
Helen with her brother, in spite of his warning to stay behind.

She never remembered how she climbed those stairs, for she was borne
along by that hypnotic power which drags one to behold a catastrophe in
spite of his will. Reaching the room, she stood appalled; for the group
she had joined watched two raging things that rushed at each other with
inhuman cries, ragged, bleeding, fighting on a carpet of débris. Every
loose and breakable thing had been ground to splinters as though by iron
slugs in a whirling cylinder.

To this day, from Dawson to the Straits, from Unga to the Arctics, men
tell of the combat wherever they foregather at flaring camp-fires or in
dingy bunk-houses; and although some scout the tale, there are others
who saw it and can swear to its truth. These say that the encounter was
like the battle of bull moose in the rutting season, though more
terrible, averring that two men like these had never been known in the
land since the days of Vitus Bering and his crew; for their rancor had
swollen till at feel of each other’s flesh they ran mad and felt
superhuman strength. It is true, at any rate, that neither was conscious
of the filling room, nor the cries of the crowd, even when the marshal
forced himself through the wedged door and fell upon the nearest, which
was Glenister. He came at an instant when the two had paused at
arm’s-length, glaring with rage-drunken eyes, gasping the labored breath
back into their lungs.

With a fling of his long arms the young man hurled the intruder aside so
violently that his head struck the iron safe and he collapsed
insensible. Then, without apparent notice of the interruption, the fight
went on. It was seen during this respite that McNamara’s mouth was
running water as though he were deathly sick, while every retch brought
forth a groan. Helen heard herself crying: “Stop them! Stop them!” But
no one seemed capable of interference. She heard her brother muttering
and his breath coming heavily like that of the fighters, his body
swaying in time to theirs. The Judge was ashy, imbecile, helpless.

McNamara’s distress was patent to his antagonist, who advanced upon him
with the hunger of promised victory; but the young man’s muscles obeyed
his commands sluggishly, his ribs seemed broken, his back was weak, and
on the inner side of his legs the flesh was quivering. As they came
together the boss reached up his right hand and caught the miner by the
face, burying thumb and fingers crablike into his cheeks, forcing his
slack jaws apart, thrusting his head backward, while he centred every
ounce of his strength in the effort to maim. Roy felt the flesh giving
way and flung himself backward to break the hold, whereupon the other
summoned his wasting energy and plunged towards the safe, where lay the
revolver. Instinct warned Glenister of treachery, told him that the man
had sought this last resource to save himself, and as he saw him turn
his back and reach for the weapon, the youth leaped like a panther,
seizing him about the waist, grasping McNamara’s wrist with his right
hand. For the first time during the combat they were not face to face,
and on the instant Roy realized the advantage given him through the
other’s perfidy, realized the wrestler’s hold that was his, and knew
that the moment of victory was come.

The telling takes much time, but so quickly had these things happened
that the footsteps of the soldiers had not yet reached the door when the
men were locked beside the safe.

Of what happened next many garbled accounts have gone forth, for of all
those present, none but the Bronco Kid knew its significance and ever
recounted the truth concerning it. Some claim that the younger man was
seized with a fear of death which multiplied his enormous strength,
others that the power died in his adversary as reward for his treason;
but it was not so.

No sooner had Roy encompassed McNamara’s waist from the rear than he
slid his damaged hand up past the other’s chest and around the back of
his neck, thus bringing his own left arm close under his enemy’s left
armpit, wedging the receiver’s head forward, while with his other hand
he grasped the politician’s right wrist close to the revolver, thus
holding him in a grasp which could not be broken. Now came the test. The
two bodies set themselves rocklike and rigid. There was no lunging
about. Calling up the final atom of his strength, Glenister bore
backward with his right arm and it became a contest for the weapon
which, clutched in the two hands, swayed back and forth or darted up and
down, the fury of resistance causing it to trace formless patterns in
the air with its muzzle. McNamara shook himself, but he was close
against the safe and could not escape, his head bowed forward by the
lock of the miner’s left arm, and so he strained till the breath clogged
in his throat. Despite the grievous toil his right hand moved back
slightly. His feet shifted a bit, while the blood seemed bursting from
his eyes, but he found that the long fingers encircling his wrist were
like gyves weighted with the strength of the hills and the irresistible
vigor of youth which knew no defeat. Slowly, inch by inch, the great
man’s arm was dragged back, down past his side, while the strangling
labor of his breath showed at what awful cost. The muzzle of the gun
described a semicircle and the knotted hands began to travel towards the
left, more rapidly now, across his broad back. Still he struggled and
wrenched, but uselessly. He strove to fire the weapon, but his fingers
were woven about it so that the hammer would not work. Then the miner
began forcing upward.

The white skin beneath the men’s strips of clothing was stretched over
great knots and ridges which sunk and swelled and quivered. Helen,
watching in silent terror, felt her brother sinking his fingers into her
shoulder and heard him panting, his face ablaze with excitement, while
she became conscious that he had repeated time and again:

“It’s the hammer-lock--the hammer-lock.”

By now McNamara’s arm was bent and cramped upon his back, and then they
saw Glenister’s shoulder dip, his elbow come closer to his side, and his
body heave in one final terrific effort as though pushing a heavy
weight. In the silence something snapped like a stick. There came a
deafening report and the scream of a strong man overcome with agony.
McNamara went to his knees and sagged forward on to his face as though
every bone in his huge bulk had turned to water, while his master reeled
back against the opposite wall, his heels dragging in the litter,
bringing up with outflung arms as though fearful of falling, swaying,
blind, exhausted, his face blackened by the explosion of the revolver,
yet grim with the light of victory.

Judge Stillman shouted, hysterically:

“Arrest that man, quick! Don’t let him go!”

It was the miner’s first realization that others were there. Raising his
head he stared at the faces close against the partition, then groaned
the words:

“I beat the traitor and--and--I broke him with--my hands!”



CHAPTER XXII

THE PROMISE OF DREAMS


Soldiers seized the young man, who made no offer at resistance, and the
room became a noisy riot. Crowds surged up from below, clamoring,
questioning, till some one at the head of the stairs shouted down:

“They’ve got Roy Glenister. He’s killed McNamara,” at which a murmur
arose that threatened to become a cheer.

Then one of the receiver’s faction called: “Let’s hang him. He killed
ten of our men last night.” Helen winced, but Stillman, roused to a sort
of malevolent courage, quieted the angry voices.

“Officer, hold these people back. I’ll attend to this man. The law’s in
my hands and I’ll make him answer.”

McNamara reared himself groaning from the floor, his right arm swinging
from the shoulder strangely loose and distorted, with palm twisted
outward, while his battered face was hideous with pain and defeat. He
growled broken maledictions at his enemy.

Roy, meanwhile, said nothing, for as the savage lust died in him he
realized that the whirling faces before him were the faces of his
enemies, that the Bronco Kid was still at large, and that his vengeance
was but half completed. His knees were bending, his limbs were like
leaden bars, his chest a furnace of coals. As he reeled down the lane of
human forms, supported by his guards, he came abreast of the girl and
her companion and paused, clearing his vision slowly.

“Ah, there you are!” he said, thickly, to the gambler, and began to
wrestle with his captors, baring his teeth in a grimace of painful
effort; but they held him as easily as though he were a child and drew
him forward, his body sagging limply, his face turned back over his
shoulder.

They had him near the door when Wheaton barred their way, crying: “Hold
up a minute--it’s all right, Roy--”

“Ay, Bill--it’s all right. We did our--best, but we were done by a
damned blackguard. Now he’ll send me up--but I don’t care. I broke
him--with my naked hands. Didn’t I, McNamara?” He mocked unsteadily at
the boss, who cursed aloud in return, glowering like an evil mask, while
Stillman ran up dishevelled and shrilly irascible.

“Take him away, I tell you! Take him to jail.”

But Wheaton held his place while the room centred its eyes upon him,
scenting some unexpected dénouement. He saw it, and in concession to a
natural vanity and dramatic instinct, he threw back his head and stuffed
his hands into his coat-pockets while the crowd waited. He grinned
insolently at the Judge and the receiver.

“This will be a day of defeats and disappointments to you, my friends.
That boy won’t go to jail because you will wear the shackles yourselves.
Oh, you played a shrewd game, you two, with your senators, your
politics, and your pulls; but it’s our turn now, and we’ll make you
dance for the mines you gutted and the robberies you’ve done and the men
you’ve ruined. Thank Heaven there’s _one_ honest court and I happened to
find it.” He turned to the strangers who had accompanied him from the
ship, crying, “Serve those warrants,” and they stepped forward.

The uproar of the past few minutes had brought men running from every
direction till, finding no room on the stairs, they had massed in the
street below while the word flew from lip to lip concerning this closing
scene of their drama, the battle at the Midas, the great fight
up-stairs, and the arrest by the ’Frisco deputies. Like Sindbad’s genie,
a wondrous tale took shape from the rumors. Men shouldered one another
eagerly for a glimpse of the actors, and when the press streamed out,
greeted it with volleys of questions. They saw the unconscious marshal
borne forth, followed by the old Judge, now a palsied wretch, slinking
beside his captor, a very shell of a man at whom they jeered. When
McNamara lurched into view, an image of defeat and chagrin, their voices
rose menacingly. The pack was turning and he knew it, but, though racked
and crippled, he bent upon them a visage so full of defiance and
contemptuous malignity that they hushed themselves, and their final
picture of him was that of a big man downed, but unbeaten to the last.
They began to cry for Glenister, so that when he loomed in the doorway,
a ragged, heroic figure, his heavy shock low over his eyes, his unshaven
face aggressive even in its weariness, his corded arms and chest bare
beneath the fluttering streamers, the street broke into wild cheering.
Here was a man of their own, a son of the Northland who labored and
loved and fought in a way they understood, and he had come into his due.

But Roy, dumb and listless, staggered up the street, refusing the help
of every man except Wheaton. He heard his companion talking, but grasped
only that the attorney gloated and gloried.

“We have whipped them, boy. We have whipped them at their own game.
Arrested in their very door-yards--cited for contempt of court--that’s
what they are. They disobeyed those other writs, and so I got them.”

“I broke his arm,” muttered the miner.

“Yes, I saw you do it! Ugh! it was an awful thing. I couldn’t prove
conspiracy, but they’ll go to jail for a little while just the same, and
we have broken the ring.”

“It snapped at the shoulder,” the other continued, dully, “just like a
shovel handle. I felt it--but he tried to kill me and I had to do it.”

The attorney took Roy to his cabin and dressed his wounds, talking
incessantly the while, but the boy was like a sleep-walker, displaying
no elation, no excitement, no joy of victory. At last Wheaton broke out:

“Cheer up! Why, man, you act like a loser. Don’t you realize that we’ve
won? Don’t you understand that the Midas is yours? And the whole world
with it?”

“Won?” echoed the miner. “What do you know about it, Bill? The
Midas--the world--what good are they? You’re wrong. I’ve lost--yes--I’ve
lost everything she taught me, and by some damned trick of Fate she was
there to see me do it. Now, go away; I want to sleep.”

He sank upon the bed with its tangle of blankets and was unconscious
before the lawyer had covered him over.

There he lay like a dead man till late in the afternoon, when Dextry and
Slapjack came in from the hills, answering Wheaton’s call, and fell upon
him hungrily. They shook Roy into consciousness with joyous riot,
pommelling him with affectionate roughness till he rose and joined with
them stiffly. He bathed and rubbed the soreness from his muscles,
emerging physically fit. They made him recount his adventures to the
tiniest detail, following his description of the fight with absorbed
interest till Dextry broke into mournful complaint:

“I’d have give my half of the Midas to see you bust him. Lord, I’d have
screeched with soopreme delight at that.”

“Why didn’t you gouge his eyes out when you had him crippled?”
questioned Slapjack, vindictively. “I’d ’a’ done it.”

Dextry continued: “They tell me that when he was arrested he swore in
eighteen different languages, each one more refreshin’ly repulsive an’
vig’rous than the precedin’. Oh, I have sure missed a-plenty to-day,
partic’lar because my own diction is gettin’ run down an’ skim-milky of
late, showin’ sad lack of new idees. Which I might have assim’lated
somethin’ robustly original an’ expressive if I’d been here. No, sir; a
nose-bag full of nuggets wouldn’t have kept me away.”

“How did it sound when she busted?” insisted the morbid Simms, but
Glenister refused to discuss his combat.

“Come on, Slap,” said the old prospector, “let’s go down-town. I’m so
het up I can’t set still, an’ besides, mebbe we can get the story the
way it really happened, from somebody who ain’t bound an’ gagged an’
chloroformed by such unbecomin’ modesties. Roy, don’t never go into
vawdyville with them personal episodes, because they read about as
thrillin’ as a cook-book. Why, say, I’ve had the story of that fight
from four different fellers already, none of which was within four
blocks of the scrimmage, an’ they’re all diff’rent an’ all better ’n
your account.”

Now that Glenister’s mind had recovered some of its poise he realized
what he had done.

“I was a beast, an animal,” he groaned, “and that after all my striving.
I wanted to leave that part behind, I wanted to be worthy of her love
and trust even though I never won it, but at the first test I am found
lacking. I have lost her confidence, yes--and what is worse, infinitely
worse, I have lost my own. She’s always seen me at my worst,” he went
on, “but I’m not that kind at bottom, not that kind. I want to do what’s
right, and if I have another chance I will, I _know_ I will. I’ve been
tried too hard, that’s all.”

Some one knocked, and he opened the door to admit the Bronco Kid and
Helen.

“Wait a minute, old man,” said the Kid. “I’m here as a friend.” The
gambler handled himself with difficulty, offering in explanation:

“I’m all sewed up in bandages of one kind or another.”

“He ought to be in bed now, but he wouldn’t let me come alone, and I
could not wait,” the girl supplemented, while her eyes avoided
Glenister’s in strange hesitation.

“He wouldn’t _let_ you. I don’t understand.”

“I’m her brother,” announced the Bronco Kid. “I’ve known it for a long
time, but I--I--well, you understand I couldn’t let her know. All I can
say is, I’ve gambled square till the night I played you, and I was as
mad as a dervish then, blaming you for the talk I’d heard. Last night I
learned by chance about Struve and Helen and got to the road-house in
time to save her. I’m sorry I didn’t kill him.” His long white fingers
writhed about the arm of his chair at the memory.

“Isn’t he dead?” Glenister inquired.

“No. The doctors have brought him in and he’ll get well. He’s like half
the men in Alaska--here because the sheriffs back home couldn’t shoot
straight. There’s something else. I’m not a good talker, but give me
time and I’ll manage it so you’ll understand. I tried to keep Helen from
coming on this errand, but she said it was the square thing and she
knows better than I. It’s about those papers she brought in last spring.
She was afraid you might consider her a party to the deal, but you
don’t, do you?” He glared belligerently, and Roy replied, with fervor:

“Certainly not. Go on.”

“Well, she learned the other day that those documents told the whole
story and contained enough proof to break up this conspiracy and convict
the Judge and McNamara and all the rest, but Struve kept the bundle in
his safe and wouldn’t give it up without a price. That’s why she went
away with him---- She thought it was right, and--that’s all. But it
seems Wheaton had succeeded in another way. Now, I’m coming to the
point. The Judge and McNamara are arrested for contempt of court and
they’re as good as convicted; you have recovered your mine, and these
men are disgraced. They will go to jail--”

“Yes, for six months, perhaps,” broke in the other, hotly, “but what
does that amount to? There never was a bolder crime consummated nor one
more cruelly unjust. They robbed a realm and pillaged its people, they
defiled a court and made Justice a wanton, they jailed good men and sent
others to ruin; and for this they are to suffer--how? By a paltry fine
or a short imprisonment, perhaps, by an ephemeral disgrace and the loss
of their stolen goods. Contempt of court is the accusation, but you
might as well convict a murderer for breach of the peace. We’ve thrown
them off, it’s true, and they won’t trouble us again, but they’ll never
have to answer for their real infamy. That will go unpunished while
their lawyers quibble over technicalities and rules of court. I guess
it’s true that there isn’t any law of God or man north of Fifty-three;
but if there is justice south of that mark, those people will answer for
conspiracy and go to the penitentiary.”

“You make it hard for me to say what I want to. I am almost sorry we
came, for I am not cunning with words, and I don’t know that you’ll
understand,” said the Bronco Kid, gravely. “We looked at it this way;
you have had your victory, you have beaten your enemies against odds,
you have recovered your mine, and they are disgraced. To men like them
that last will outlive and outweigh all the rest; but the Judge is our
uncle and our blood runs in his veins. He took Helen when she was a baby
and was a father to her in his selfish way, loving her as best he knew
how. And she loves him.”

“I don’t quite understand you,” said Roy.

And then Helen spoke for the first time eagerly, taking a packet from
her bosom as she began:

“This will tell the whole wretched story, Mr. Glenister, and show the
plot in all its vileness. It’s hard for me to betray my uncle, but this
proof is yours by right to use as you see fit, and I can’t keep it.”

“Do you mean that this evidence will show all that? And you’re going to
give it to me because you think it is your duty?”

“It belongs to you. I have no choice. But what I came for was to plead
and to ask a little mercy for my uncle, who is an old, old man, and very
weak. This will kill him.”

He saw that her eyes were swimming while the little chin quivered ever
so slightly and her pale cheeks were flushed. There rose in him the old
wild desire to take her in his arms, a yearning to pillow her head on
his shoulder and kiss away the tears, to smooth with tender caress the
wavy hair, and bury his face deep in it till he grew drunk with the
madness of her. But he knew at last for whom she really pleaded.

So he was to forswear this vengeance, which was no vengeance after all,
but in verity a just punishment. They asked him--a man--a man’s man--a
Northman--to do this, and for what? For no reward, but on the contrary
to insure himself lasting bitterness. He strove to look at the
proposition calmly, clearly, but it was difficult. If only by freeing
this other villain as well as her uncle he would do a good to her, then
he would not hesitate. Love was not the only thing. He marvelled at his
own attitude; this could not be his old self debating thus. He had asked
for another chance to show that he was not the old Roy Glenister; well,
it had come, and he was ready.

Roy dared not look at Helen any more, for this was the hardest moment he
had ever lived.

“You ask this for your uncle, but what of--of the other fellow? You must
know that if one goes free so will they both; they can’t be separated.”

“It’s almost too much to ask,” the Kid took up, uncertainly. “But don’t
you think the work is done? I can’t help but admire McNamara, and
neither can you--he’s been too good an enemy to you for
that--and--and--he loves Helen.”

“I know--I know,” said Glenister, hastily, at the same time stopping an
unintelligible protest from the girl. “You’ve said enough.” He
straightened his slightly stooping shoulders and looked at the unopened
package wearily, then slipped the rubber band from it, and, separating
the contents, tore them up--one by one--tore them into fine bits without
hurry or ostentation, and tossed the fragments away, while the woman
began to sob softly, the sound of her relief alone disturbing the
silence. And so he gave her his enemy, making his offer gamely,
according to his code.

“You’re right--the work is done. And now, I’m very tired.”

They left him standing there, the glory of the dying day illumining his
lean, brown features, the vision of a great loneliness in his weary
eyes.

He did not rouse himself till the sky before him was only a curtain of
steel, pencilled with streaks of soot that lay close down above the
darker sea. Then he sighed and said, aloud:

“So this is the end, and I gave him to her with these hands”--he held
them out before him curiously, becoming conscious for the first time
that the left one was swollen and discolored and fearfully painful. He
noted it with impersonal interest, realizing its need of medical
attention--so left the cabin and walked down into the city. He
encountered Dextry and Simms on the way, and they went with him, both
flowing with the gossip of the camp.

“Lord, but you’re the talk of the town,” they began. “The curio hunters
have commenced to pull Struve’s office apart for souvenirs, and the
Swedes want to run you for Congress as soon as ever we get admitted as a
State. They say that at collar-an’-elbow holts you could lick any of
them Eastern senators and thereby rastle out a lot of good legislation
for us cripples up here.”

“Speakin’ of laws goes to show me that this here country is gettin’ too
blamed civilized for a white man,” said Simms, pessimistically, “and now
that this fight is ended up it don’t look like there would be anything
doin’ fit to claim the interest of a growed-up person for a long while.
I’m goin’ west.”

“West! Why, you can throw a stone into Bering Strait from here,” said
Roy, smiling.

“Oh, well, the world’s round. There’s a schooner outfittin’ for
Sibeery--two years’ cruise. Me an’ Dex is figgerin’ on gettin’ out
towards the frontier fer a spell.”

“Sure!” said Dextry. “I’m beginnin’ to feel all cramped up hereabouts
owin’ to these fillymonarch orchestras an’ French restarawnts and such
discrepancies of scenery. They’re puttin’ a pavement on Front Street and
there’s a shoe-shinin’ parlor opened up. Why, I’d like to get where I
could stretch an’ holler without disturbin’ the pensiveness of some dude
in a dress suit. Better come along, Roy; we can sell out the Midas.”

“I’ll think it over,” said the young man.

The night was bright with a full moon when they left the doctor’s
office. Roy, in no mood for the exuberance of his companions, parted
from them, but had not gone far before he met Cherry Malotte. His head
was low and he did not see her till she spoke.

“Well, boy, so it’s over at last!”

Her words chimed so perfectly with his thoughts that he replied: “Yes,
it’s all over, little girl.”

“You don’t need my congratulations--you know me too well for that. How
does it feel to be a winner?”

“I don’t know. I’ve lost.”

“Lost what?”

“Everything--except the gold-mine.”

“Everything except--I see. You mean that she--that you have asked her
and she won’t?” He never knew the cost at which she held her voice so
steady.

“More than that. It’s so new that it hurts yet, and it will continue to
hurt for a long time, I suppose--but to-morrow I am going back to my
hills and my valleys, back to the Midas and my work, and try to begin
all over. For a time I’ve wandered in strange paths, seeking new gods,
as it were, but the dazzle has died out of my eyes and I can see true
again. She isn’t for me, although I shall always love her. I’m sorry I
can’t forget easily, as some do. It’s hard to look ahead and take an
interest in things. But what about you? Where shall you go?”

“I don’t know. It doesn’t really matter--now.” The dusk hid her white,
set face and she spoke monotonously. “I am going to see the Bronco Kid.
He sent for me. He’s ill.”

“He’s not a bad sort,” said Roy. “And I suppose he’ll make a new start,
too.”

“Perhaps,” said she, gazing far out over the gloomy ocean. “It all
depends.” After a moment, she added, “What a pity that we can’t all
sponge off the slate and begin afresh and--forget.”

“It’s part of the game,” said he. “I don’t know why it’s so, but it is.
I’ll see you sometimes, won’t I?”

“No, boy--I think not.”

“I believe I understand,” he murmured; “and perhaps it’s better so.” He
took her two soft hands in his one good right and kissed them. “God
bless you and keep you, dear, brave little Cherry.”

She stood straight and still as he melted into the shadows, and only the
moonlight heard her pitiful sob and her hopeless whisper:

“Good-bye, my boy, my boy.”

He wandered down beside the sea, for his battle was not yet won, and
until he was surer of himself he could not endure the ribaldry and
rejoicing of his fellows. A welcome lay waiting for him in every public
place, but no one there could know the mockery of it, no one could gauge
the desolation that was his.

The sand, wet, packed, and hard as a pavement, gave no sound to his
careless steps; and thus it was that he came silently upon the one woman
as she stood beside the silver surf. Had he seen her first he would have
slunk past in the landward shadows; but, recognizing his tall form, she
called and he came, while it seemed that his lungs grew suddenly
constricted, as though bound about with steel hoops. The very pleasure
of her sight pained him. He advanced eagerly, and yet with hesitation,
standing stiffly aloof while his heart fluttered and his tongue grew
dumb. At last she saw his bandages and her manner changed abruptly.
Coming closer she touched them with caressing fingers.

“It’s nothing--nothing at all,” he said, while his voice jumped out of
all control. “When are you--going away?”

“I do not know--not for some time.”

He had supposed she would go to-morrow with her uncle and--the other, to
be with them through their travail.

With warm impetuosity she began: “It was a noble thing you did to-day.
Oh, I am glad and proud.”

“I prefer you to think of me in that way, rather than as the wild beast
you saw this morning, for I was mad, perfectly mad with hatred and
revenge, and every wild impulse that comes to a defeated man. You see, I
had played and lost, played and lost, again and again, till there was
nothing left. What mischance brought you there? It was a terribly brutal
thing, but you can’t understand.”

“But I _can_ understand. I do. I know all about it now. I know the wild
rage of desperation; I know the exultation of victory; I know what hate
and fear are now. You told me once that the wilderness had made you a
savage, and I laughed at it just as I did when you said that my contact
with big things would teach me the truth, that we’re all alike, and that
those motives are in us all. I see now that you were right and I was
very simple. I learned a great deal last night.”

“I have learned much also,” said he. “I wish you might teach me more.”

“I--I--don’t think I could teach you any more,” she hesitated.

He moved as though to speak, but held back and tore his eyes away from
her.

“Well,” she inquired, gazing at him covertly.

“Once, a long time ago, I read a Lover’s Petition, and ever since
knowing you I have made the constant prayer that I might be given the
purity to be worthy the good in you, and that you might be granted the
patience to reach the good in me--but it’s no use. But at least I’m glad
we have met on common ground, as it were, and that you understand, in a
measure. The prayer could not be answered; but through it I have found
myself and--I have known you. That last is worth more than a king’s
ransom to me. It is a holy thing which I shall reverence always, and
when you go you will leave me lonely except for its remembrance.”

“But I am not going,” she said. “That is--unless--”

Something in her voice swept his gaze back from the shimmering causeway
that rippled seaward to the rising moon. It brought the breath into his
throat, and he shook as though seized by a great fear.

“Unless--what?”

“Unless you want me to.”

“Oh, God! don’t play with me!” He flung out his hand as though to stop
her while his voice died out to a supplicating hoarseness. “I can’t
stand that.”

“Don’t you see? Won’t you see?” she asked. “I was waiting here for the
courage to go to you since you have made it so very hard for me--my
pagan.” With which she came close to him, looking upward into his face,
smiling a little, shrinking a little, yielding yet withholding, while
the moonlight made of her eyes two bottomless, boundless pools, dark
with love, and brimming with the promise of his dreams.

THE END


Typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber:

courage and our Colts=> courage and our Colt’s {pg 30}

The Colts may go=> The Colt’s may go {pg 30}

buckled his Colts=> buckled his Colt’s {pg 231}





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