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Title: The Winds of Chance

Author: Rex Beach

Release Date: February, 2004  [EBook #5062]
[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule]
[This file was first posted on April 12, 2002]

Edition: 10

Language: English

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THE WINDS OF CHANCE

By REX BEACH

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






CHAPTER I


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Two hundred dollars."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pierce had intended merely to risk a dollar or two, but now there
came to him a thrilling thought. That notice at Healy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER II


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ran his chanson.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Wat you scare' 'bout, you?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Went partners with them?'

"No, they--" Phillips' face clouded, he hesitated briefly. "I
merely lived with them and helped them with their outfit from time
to time. We're at Sheep Camp now, and I share their tent whenever
I'm there. I'm about ready to pull out and go it alone." "Right!
And don't hook up with anybody." The old man spoke with feeling.
"Look at me. I'm nesting with a dodo--darned gray-whiskered
milliner! He's so ornery I have to hide the ax every time I see
him. I just yearn to put him out of his misery, but I dassent. Of
course he has his points--everybody has; he's a game old rooster
and he loves me. That's all that saves him."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER III


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

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

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

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

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

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

"Why, yes!"

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

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

"Perhaps your partner--"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"A woman!" Pierce breathed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You're--all alone?"

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

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

"I met her at Lake Marsh."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Does your husband, Count--"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Perhaps I shall meet him."

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

"Why don't you send him home?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How many do you think will come?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Speak out. What's wrong?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER IV


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

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

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

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

"Hear! Hear!" yelled the mob.

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

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

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

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

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

"Produce them," ordered the chairman.

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

"A woman?"

"Yes, sir. I brought her across."

"What is her name?"

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

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

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

His question was greeted by a general laugh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Hear! Hear!" came the cry.

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

"Right! Let's make an example!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What makes them think you did the stealing?"

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

"Are you broke?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Shame!"

"Hang on to him!"

"Stretch him up!"

"Dirty ingrate!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Phillips made a hasty examination, then nodded.

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

"Guilty!" came with a roar.

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

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




CHAPTER V


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"ONE!" roared the mob.

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

"TWO!"

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

"THREE!"

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

"FOUR!"

"FIVE!"

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

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

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

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

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

The former speaker bent forward abristle with defiance.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Old Tom?"

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

"He was tired out."

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

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

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

"Here lies the body of a thief."




CHAPTER VI


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But--"

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

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

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

"So they didn't hang you?"

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

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

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

"In ten minutes."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Fifteen! No more."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What have you bought?"

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

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

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

"I want it."

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

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

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

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

He pinched himself to ascertain if he were dreaming.

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

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

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

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

"Got any rooms?"

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

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

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

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

"Any other hotels?"

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

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

"Oh, none."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Gone to supper."

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Roll one for me," said the Countess.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Kirby?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There was a ripple of laughter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER VII


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Why, it's Broad!"

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

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

"What's wrong?" demanded the woman.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Where's our stuff?"

"At the Crossing."

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

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

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

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

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

"Right!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Go to it, sister!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Are you going to keep hands off?"

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

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

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




CHAPTER VIII


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You couldn't tell me anything!"

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

"I whip-sawed before you was born!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Did what?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It ain't raining," Tom declared.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Cut her in two."

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

"Every blame' thing," Linton agreed.

Side by side they set off heavily through the woods.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Very well," the Countess told him.

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

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

"I hope she has a safe voyage."

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

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

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

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

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

The partners straightened themselves stiffly and removed their
caps.

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

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

"But--why? What for?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER IX


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

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

"Who is that?" she cried.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What?" she queried, when he hesitated.

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

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

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

He shook his head.

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh no!"

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

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

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

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

"What are some of them?" he inquired.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"The wind has made a fool of me."

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

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

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

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

"You have never told me your name."

"Hilda."

"May I--call you that?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Wet?"

"Naw!"

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

"Unh-hunh!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jerry, likewise, struggled with his tears.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER X


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"This way--two weeks."

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

"This way--two minutes."

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

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

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

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

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

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

Phillips smiled frankly. "I'm not sure I want to go through. I'm
in charge of a big outfit and I'm looking for a pilot and a
professional crew. I'm a perfect dub at this sort of thing."

'Poleon nodded. "Dere's no use risk it if you 'ain't got to, dat's
fac'. I don' lost no boats yet, but--sometam's I bus' 'em up
pretty bad." He grinned cheerily. "Dese new-comer get scare' easy
an' forget to row, den dey say 'Poleon she's bum pilot. You seen
de canon yet?" When Pierce shook his head the speaker turned back
and led the way out to the rim.

It was an impressive spectacle that Phillips beheld. Perhaps a
hundred feet directly beneath him the river whirled and leaped;
cross-currents boiled out from projecting irregularities in the
walls; here and there the waters tumbled madly and flung wet arms
aloft, while up out of the gorge came a mighty murmur, redoubled
by the echoing cliffs. A log came plunging through and it moved
with the speed of a torpedo. Phillips watched it, fascinated.

"Look! Dere's a boat!" 'Poleon cried. In between the basalt jaws
appeared a skiff with two rowers, and a man in the stern. The
latter was braced on wide-spread legs and he held his weight upon
a steering-sweep. Down the boat came at a galloping gait,
threshing over waves and flinging spray head-high; it bucked and
it dove, it buried its nose and then lifted it, but the oarsman
continued to maintain it on a steady course.

"Bravo!" Doret shouted, waving his cap. To Pierce he said: "Dat's
good pilot an' he knows swif' water. But dere's lot of feller here
who ain't so good. Dey tak' chance for beeg money. Wal, w'at you
t'ink of her? She's dandy, eh?"

"It's an--inferno," Phillips acknowledged. "You earn all the money
you get for running it."

"You don' care for 'im, w'at?"

"I do not. I don't mind taking a chance, but--what chance would a
fellow have in there? Why, he'd never come up."

"Dat's right."

Phillips stared at his companion curiously. "You must need money
pretty badly."

The giant shook his head in vigorous denial. "No! Money? Pouf! She
come, she go. But, you see--plenty people drowned if somebody don'
tak' dem t'rough, so--I stay. Dis winter I build myse'f nice cabin
an' do li'l trappin'. Nex' summer I pilot again."

"Aren't you going to Dawson?" Pierce was incredulous; he could not
understand this fellow.

Doret's expression changed; a fleeting sadness settled in his
eyes. "I been dere," said he. "I ain't care much for seein' beeg
city. I'm lonesome feller." After a moment he exclaimed, more
brightly: "Now we go, I see if I can hire crew to row your boats."

"How does she look to you?" Lucky Broad inquired, when Pierce and
his companion appeared. He and Bridges had not taken the trouble
to acquaint themselves with the canon, but immediately upon
landing had begun to stow away their freight and to lash a
tarpaulin over it.

"Better go up and see for yourself," the young man suggested.

Lucky shook his head. "Not me," he declared. "I can hear all I
want to. Listen to it! I got a long life ahead of me and I'm going
to nurse it."

Kid Bridges was of like mind, for he said: "Sure! We was a coupla
brave guys in Dyea, but what's the good of runnin' up to an
undertaker and giving him your measurements? He'll get a tape-line
on you soon enough."

"Then you don't intend to chance it?" Pierce inquired.

Broad scowled at the questioner. "Say! I wouldn't walk down that
place if it was froze."

"Nor me," the other gambler seconded. "Not for a million dollars
would I tease the embalmer that way. Not for a million. Would you,
Lucky?"

Broad appeared to weigh the figures carefully; then he said,
doubtfully: "I'm a cheap guy. I might risk it once--for five
hundred thousand, cash. But that's rock bottom; I wouldn't take a
nickel less."

Doret had been listening with some amusement; now he said, "You
boys got wide pay-streak, eh?"

Bridges nodded without shame. "Wider'n, a swamp, and yeller'n
butter."

"Wal, I see w'at I can do." The pilot walked up the bank in search
of a crew.

In the course of a half-hour he was back again and with him came
the Countess Courteau. Calling Pierce aside, the woman said,
swiftly: "We can't get a soul to help us; everybody's in a rush.
We'll have to use our own men."

"Broad and Bridges are the best we have," he told her, "but they
refuse."

"You're not afraid, are you?"

Now Pierce was afraid and he longed mightily to admit that he was,
but he lacked the courage to do so. He smiled feebly and shrugged,
whereupon the former speaker misread his apparent indifference and
flashed him a smile.

"Forgive me," she said, in a low voice. "I know you're not." She
hurried down to the water's edge and addressed the two gamblers in
a business-like tone: "We've no time to lose. Which one of you
wants to lead off with Doret and Pierce?"

The men exchanged glances. It was Broad who finally spoke. "We
been figuring it would please us better to walk," he said, mildly.

"Suit yourselves," the Countess told them, coolly. "But it's a
long walk from here to Dawson." She turned back to Pierce and
said: "You've seen the canon. There's nothing so terrible about
it, is there?"

Phillips was conscious that 'Poleon Doret's eyes were dancing with
laughter, and anger at his own weakness flared up in him. "Why,
no!" he lied, bravely. "It will be a lot of fun."

Kid Bridges leveled a sour look at the speaker. "Some folks have
got low ideas of entertainment," said he. "Some folks is
absolutely depraved that way. You'd probably enjoy a broken arm--
it would feel so good when it got well."

The Countess Courteau's lip was curled contemptuously when she
said: "Listen! I'm not going to be held up. There's a chance, of
course, but hundreds have gone through. I can pull an oar. Pierce
and I will row the first boat."

Doret opened his lips to protest, but Broad obviated the necessity
of speech by rising from his seat and announcing: "Deal the cards!
I came in on no pair; I don't aim to be raised out ahead of the
draw-not by a woman."

Mr. Bridges was both shocked and aggrieved by his companion's
words. "You going to tackle it?" he asked, incredulously.

Lucky made a grimace of intense abhorrence in Pierce's direction.
"Sure! I don't want to miss all this fun I hear about."

"When you get through, if you do, which you probably won't,"
Bridges told him, with a bleak and cheerless expression, "set a
gill-net to catch me. I'll be down on the next trip."

"Good for you!" cried the Countess.

"It ain't good for me," the man exclaimed, angrily. "It's the
worst thing in the world for me. I'm grand-standing and you know
it. So's Lucky, but there wouldn't be any living with him if he
pulled it off and I didn't."

Doret chuckled. To Pierce he said, in a low voice: "Plenty feller
mak' fool of demse'f on dat woman. I know all 'bout it. But she
'ain't mak' fool of herse'f, you bet."

"How do you mean?" Pierce inquired, quickly.

'Poleon eyed him shrewdly. "Wal, tak' you. You're scare', ain't
you? But you sooner die so long she don't know it. Plenty oder
feller jus' lak' dat." He walked to the nearest skiff, removed his
coat, and began to untie his boots.

Lucky Broad joined the pilot, then looked on uneasily at these
preparations. "What's the idea?" he inquired. "Are you too hot?"

'Poleon grinned at him and nodded. Very reluctantly Broad stripped
off his mackinaw, then seated himself and tugged at his footgear.
He paused, after a moment, and addressed himself to Bridges.

"It's no use, Kid. I squawk!" he said.

"Beginning to weaken, eh?"

"Sure! I got a hole in my sock-look! Somebody 'll find me after
I've been drowned a week or two, and what'll they say?"

"Pshaw! You won't come up till you get to St. Michael's, and
you'll be spoiled by that time." Kid Bridges tried to smile, but
the result was a failure. "You'll be swelled up like a dead horse,
and so'll I. They won't know us apart."

When Pierce had likewise stripped down and taken his place at the
oars, Broad grumbled: "The idea of calling me 'Lucky'! It ain't in
the cards." He spat on his hands and settled himself in his seat,
then cried, "Well, lead your ace!"

As the little craft moved out into the stream, Pierce Phillips
noticed that the Kirby scow, which had run the Courteau boats a
close race all the way from Linderman, was just pulling into the
bank. Lines had been passed ashore and, standing on the top of the
cargo, he could make out the figure of Rouletta Kirby.

In spite of a strong steady stroke the rowboat seemed to move
sluggishly; foam and debris bobbed alongside and progress appeared
to be slow, but when the oarsmen lifted their eyes they discovered
that the shores were running past with amazing swiftness. Even as
they looked, those shores rose abruptly and closed in, there came
a mounting roar, then the skiff was sucked in between high, rugged
walls. Unseen hands reached forth and seized it, unseen forces
laid hold of it and impelled it forward; it began to plunge and to
wallow; spray flew and wave-crests climbed over the gunwales.

Above the tumult 'Poleon was urging his crew to greater efforts.
"Pull hard!" he shouted. "Hi! Hi! Hi!" He swayed in unison to
their straining bodies. "Mak' dose oar crack," he yelled. "By Gar,
dat's goin' some!"

The fellow's teeth were gleaming, his face was alight with an
exultant recklessness, he cast defiance at the approaching
terrors. He was alert, watchful; under his hands the stout ash
steering-oar bent like a bow; he flung his whole strength into the
battle with the waters. Soon the roar increased until it drowned
his shouts and forced him to pantomime his orders. The boat was
galloping through a wild smother of ice-cold spray and the
reverberating cliffs were streaming past like the unrolling
scenery on a painted canvas panorama.

It was a hellish place; it echoed to a demoniac din and it was a
tremendous sensation to brave it, for the boat did not glide nor
slip down the descent; it went in a succession of jarring leaps;
it lurched and twisted; it rolled and plunged as if in a demented
effort to unseat its passengers and scatter its cargo. To the
occupants it seemed as if its joints were opening, as if the
boards themselves were being wrenched loose from the ribs to which
they were nailed. The men were drenched, of course, for they
traveled in a cloud of spume; their feet were ankle-deep in cold
water, and every new deluge caused them to gasp.

How long it lasted Pierce Phillips never knew; the experience was
too terrific to be long lived. It was a nightmare, a hideous
phantasmagoria of frightful sensations, a dissolving stereopticon
of bleak, scudding walls, of hydrophobic boulders frothing madly
as the flood crashed over them, of treacherous whirlpools, and of
pursuing breakers that reached forth licking tongues of
destruction. Then the river opened, the cliffs fell away, and the
torrent spewed itself out into an expanse of whirlpools--a lake of
gyrating funnels that warred with one another and threatened to
twist the keel from under the boat.

'Poleon swung close in to the right bank, where an eddy raced up
against the flood; some one flung a rope from the shore and drew
the boat in.

"Wal! I never had no better crew," cried the pilot. "Wat you t'ink
of 'im, eh?" He smiled down at the white-lipped oarsmen, who
leaned forward, panting and dripping.

"Is--that all of it?" Lucky Broad inquired, weakly.

"Mais non! Look! Dere's Wite 'Orse."

Doret indicated a wall of foam and spray farther down the river.
Directly across the expanse of whirlpools stood a village named
after the rapids. "You get plenty more bimeby."

"You're wrong. I got plenty right now," Broad declared.

"I'm glad the Countess didn't come," said Phillips.

When the men had wrung out their clothes and put on their boots
they set out along the back trail over the bluffs.

Danny Royal was not an imaginative person. He possessed, to be
sure, the superstitions of the average horseman and gambler, and
he believed strongly in hunches, but he was not fanciful and he
put no faith in dreams and portents. It bothered him exceedingly,
therefore, to discover that he was weighed down by an
unaccountable but extremely oppressive sense of apprehension. How
or why it had come to obsess him he could not imagine, but for
some reason Miles Canon and the stormy waters below it had assumed
terrible potentialities and he could not shake off the conviction
that they were destined to prove his undoing. This feeling he had
allowed to grow until now a fatalistic apathy had settled upon him
and his usual cheerfulness was replaced by a senseless
irritability. He suffered explosions of temper quite as surprising
to the Kirbys, father and daughter, as to himself. On the day of
his arrival he was particularly ugly, wherefore Rouletta was
impelled to remonstrate with him.

"What ails you, Danny?" she inquired. "You'll have our men
quitting."

"I wish they would," he cried. "Boatmen! They don't know as much
about boats as me and Sam."

"They do whatever they're told."

Royal acknowledged this fact ungraciously. "Trouble is we don't
know what to tell 'em to do. All Sam knows is 'gee' and 'haw,' and
I can't steer anything that don't wear a bridle. Why, if this
river wasn't fenced in with trees we'd have taken the wrong road
and been lost, long ago."

Rouletta nodded thoughtfully. "Father is just as afraid of water
as you are. He won't admit it, but I can tell. It has gotten on
his nerves and--I've had hard work to keep him from drinking."

"Say! Don't let him get started on THAT!" Danny exclaimed,
earnestly. "That WOULD be the last touch."

"Trust me. I--"

But Kirby himself appeared at that moment, having returned from a
voyage of exploration. Said he: "There's a good town below. I had
a chance to sell the outfit."

"Going to do it?" Danny could not conceal his eagerness.

The elder man shook his gray head. "Hardly. I'm no piker."

"I wish you and Danny would take the portage and trust the pilot
to run the rapids," Rouletta said.

Kirby turned his expressionless face upon first one then the other
of his companions. "Nervous?" he inquired of Royal.

The latter silently admitted that he was.

"Go ahead. You and Letty cross afoot--"

"And you?"

"Oh, I'm going to stick!" "Father--" the girl began, but old Sam
shook his head.

"No. This is my case bet, and I'm going to watch it."

Royal's weazened face puckered until it resembled more than ever a
withered apple. "Then I'll stick, too," he declared. "I never laid
down on you yet, Sam."

"How about you, Letty?"

The girl smiled. "Why, I wouldn't trust you boys out of my sight
for a minute. Something would surely happen."

Kirby stooped and kissed his daughter's cheek. "You've always been
our mascot, and you've always brought us luck. I'd go to hell in a
paper suit if you were along. You're a game kid, too, and I want
you to be like that, always. Be a thoroughbred. Don't weaken, no
matter how bad things break for you. This cargo of rum is worth
the best claim in Dawson, and it'll put us on our feet again. All
I want is one more chance. Double and quit--that's us."

This was an extraordinarily long speech for "One-armed" Kirby; it
showed that he was deeply in earnest.

"Double and quit?" breathed the girl. "Do you mean it, dad?"

He nodded: "I'm going to leave you heeled. I don't aim to take my
eyes off this barge again till she's in Dawson."

Rouletta's face was transformed; there was a great gladness in her
eyes--a gladness half obscured by tears. "Double and quit. Oh--
I've dreamed of--quitting--so often! You've made me very happy,
dad."

Royal, who knew this girl's dreams as well as he knew his own,
felt a lump in his throat. He was a godless little man, but
Rouletta Kirby's joys were holy things to him, her tears
distressed him deeply, therefore he walked away to avoid the sight
of them. Her slightest wish had been his law ever since she had
mastered words enough to voice a request, and now he, too, was
happy to learn that Sam Kirby was at last ready to mold his future
in accordance with her desires. Letty had never liked their mode
of life; she had accepted it under protest, and with the passing
years her unspoken disapproval had assumed the proportions of a
great reproach. She had never put that disapproval into words--she
was far too loyal for that--but Danny had known. He knew her
ambitions and her possibilities, and he had sufficient vision to
realize something of the injustice she suffered at her father's
hands. Sam loved his daughter as few parents love a child, but he
was a strange man and he showed his affection in characteristic
ways. It pleased Royal greatly to learn that the old man had
awakened to the wrong he did, and that this adventure would serve
to close the story, as all good stories close, with a happy
ending.

In spite of these cheering thoughts, Danny was unable wholly to
shake off his oppressive forebodings, and as he paused on the
river-bank to stare with gloomy fascination at the jaws of the
gorge they returned to plague him. The sound that issued out of
that place was terrifying, the knowledge that it frightened him
enraged the little man.

It was an unpropitious moment for any one to address Royal;
therefore, when he heard himself spoken to, he whirled with a
scowl upon his face. A tall French-Canadian, just back from the
portage, was saying:

"M'sieu', I ain't good hand at mix in 'noder feller's bizneses,
but--dat pilot you got she's no good."

Royal looked the stranger over from head to foot. "How d'you
know?" he inquired, sharply.

"Biccause--I'm pilot myse'f."

"Oh, I see! You're one of the GOOD ones." Danny's air was surly,
his tone forbidding.

"Yes."

"Hate yourself, don't you? I s'pose you want his job. Is that it?
No wonder--five hundred seeds for fifteen minutes' work. Soft
graft, I call it." The speaker laughed unpleasantly. "Well, what
does a GOOD pilot charge?"

"Me?" The Canadian shrugged indifferently. "I charge you one
t'ousan' dollar."

Royal's jaw dropped. "The devil you say!" he exclaimed.

"I don't want de job--your scow's no good--but I toss a coin wit'
you. One t'ousan' dollar or--free trip."

"Nothing doing," snapped the ex-horseman.

"Bien! Now I give you li'l AD-vice. Hol' hard to de right in lower
end dis canon. Dere's beeg rock dere. Don't touch 'im or you goin'
spin lak' top an' mebbe you go over W'ite 'Orse sideways. Dat's
goin' smash you, sure."

Royal broke out, peevishly: "Another hot tip, eh? Everybody's got
some feed-box information--especially the ones you don't hire.
Well, I ain't scared--"

"Oh yes, you are!" said the other man. "Everybody is scare' of dis
place."

"Anyhow, I ain't scared a thousand dollars' worth. Takes a lot to
scare me that much. I bet this place is as safe as a chapel and I
bet our scow goes through with her tail up. Let her bump; she'll
finish with me on her back and all her weights. I built her and I
named her."

Danny watched the pilot as he swung down to the stony shore and
rejoined Pierce Phillips; then he looked on in fascination while
they removed their outer garments, stepped into a boat with Kid
Bridges, and rowed away into the gorge.

"It's--got my goat!" muttered the little jockey.




CHAPTER XI


Although scows larger than the Rouletta had run Miles Canon and
the rapids below in safety, perhaps none more unwieldy had ever
done so. Royal had built his barge stoutly, to be sure, but of
other virtues the craft had none. When loaded she was so clumsy,
so obstinate, so headstrong that it required unceasing effort to
hold her on a course; as for rowing her, it was almost impossible.
She took the first swooping rush into the canon, strange to say,
in very good form, and thereafter, by dint of herculean efforts,
Royal and his three men managed to hold her head down-stream.
Sweeping between the palisades, she galloped clumsily onward,
wallowing like a hippopotamus. Her long pine sweeps, balanced and
bored to receive thick thole-pins, rose and fell like the stiff
legs of some fat, square-bodied spider; she reared her bluff bow;
then she dove, shrouding herself in spray.

It was a journey to terrify experienced rivermen; doubly
terrifying was it to Royal and Kirby, who knew nothing whatever of
swift water and to whom its perils were magnified a thousandfold.

In spite of his apprehension, which by now had quickened into
panic, Danny rose to the occasion with real credit. His face was
like paper, his eyes were wide and strained; nevertheless, he kept
his gaze fixed upon the pilot and strove to obey the latter's
directions implicitly. Now with all his strength he heaved upon
his sweep; now he backed water violently; at no time did he trust
himself to look at the cliffs which were scudding past, nor to
contemplate the tortuous turns in the gorge ahead. That would have
been too much for him. Even when his clumsy oar all but grazed a
bastion, or when a jagged promontory seemed about to smash his
craft, he refused to cease his frantic labors or to more than lift
his eyes. He saw that Rouletta Kirby was very pale, and he tried
to shout a word of encouragement to her, but his cry was thin and
feeble, and it failed to pierce the thunder of the waters. Danny
hoped the girl was not as frightened as he, nor as old Sam--the
little man would not have wished such a punishment upon his worst
enemy.

Kirby, by reason of his disability, of course, was prevented from
lending any active help with the boat and was forced to play a
purely passive part. That it was not to his liking any one could
have seen, for, once the moorings were slipped, he did not open
his lips; he merely stood beside Rouletta, with the fingers of his
right hand sunk into her shoulder, his gray face grayer than ever.
Together they swayed as the deck beneath them reeled and pitched.

"Look! We're nearly through!" the girl cried in his ear, after
what seemed an interminable time.

Kirby nodded. Ahead he could see the end of the canon and what
appeared to be freer water; out into this open space the torrent
flung itself. The scow was riding the bore, that ridge of water
upthrust by reason of the pressure from above; between it and the
exit from the chute was a rapidly dwindling expanse of tossing
waves. Kirby was greatly relieved, but he could not understand why
those rollers at the mouth of the gorge should rear themselves so
high and should foam so savagely.

The bluffs ended, the narrow throat vomited the river out, and the
scow galloped from shadow into pale sunlight.

The owner of the outfit drew a deep breath, his clutching fingers
relaxed their nervous hold. He saw that Danny was trying to make
himself heard and he leaned forward to catch the fellow's words,
when suddenly the impossible happened. The deck beneath his feet
was jerked backward and he was flung to his knees. Simultaneously
there came a crash, the sound of rending, splintering wood, and
over the stern of the barge poured an icy deluge that all but
swept father and daughter away. Rouletta screamed, then she called
the name of Royal.

"Danny! Danny!" she cried, for both she and old Sam had seen a
terrible thing.

The blade of Royal's sweep had been submerged at the instant of
the collision and, as a consequence, the force of that rushing
current had borne it forward, catapulting the man on the other end
overboard as cleanly, as easily as a school-boy snaps a paper
pellet from the end of a pencil. Before their very eyes the Kirbys
saw their lieutenant, their lifelong friend and servitor, picked
up and hurled into the flood.

"Danny!" shrieked the girl. The voice of the rapids had changed
its tone now, for a cataract was drumming upon the after-deck and
there was a crashing and a smashing as the piles of boxes came
tumbling down. The scow drove higher upon the reef, its bow rose
until it stood at a sharp incline, and meanwhile wave after wave
cut like a broach over the stern, which steadily sank deeper. Then
the deck tilted drunkenly and an avalanche of case-goods was
spilled over the side.

Sam Kirby found himself knee-deep in ice water; a roller came
curling down upon him, but with a frantic clutch he laid hold of
his daughter. He sank the steel hook that did service as a left
hand into a pile of freight and hung on, battling to maintain his
footing. With a great jarring and jolting the Rouletta rose from
the deluge, hung balanced for a moment or two, and then, relieved
of a portion of her cargo, righted herself and swung broadside to
the stream as if upon a pivot; finally she was carried free.
Onward she swept, turning end for end, pounding, staggering, as
other rocks from below bit into her bottom.

The river was very low at this season, and the Rouletta, riding
deep because half filled, found obstacles she would otherwise have
cleared. She was out of the crooked channel now and it was
impossible to manage her, so in a crazy succession of loops and
swoops she gyrated down toward that tossing mane of spray that
marked the White Horse.

With eyes of terror Sam Kirby scanned the boiling expanse through
which the barge was drifting, but nowhere could he catch sight of
Danny Royal. He turned to shout to his pilot, only to discover
that he also was missing and that the steering-sweep was smashed.

"God! HE'S gone!" cried the old man. It was true; that inundation
succeeding the mishap had swept the after-deck clean, and now the
scow was not only rudderless, but it lacked a man of experience to
direct its course.

Rouletta Kirby was tugging at her father's arm. She lifted a
white, horrified face to his and exclaimed: "Danny! I saw him--
go!"

Her father's dead face was twitching; he nodded silently. Then he
pointed at the cataract toward which they were being carried. He
opened his lips to say something, but one of the crew came running
back, shouting hoarsely and waving his arms.

"We're going over," the fellow clamored. "We'll all be drowned!"

Kirby felled him with a blow from his artificial hand; then, when
the man scrambled to his feet, his employer ordered:

"Get busy! Do what you can!"

For himself, he took Royal's sweep and struggled with it. But he
was woefully ignorant of how to apply his strength and had only
the faintest idea what he ought to do.

Meanwhile the thunder of the White Horse steadily increased.

 Having brought the last of the Courteau boats through the canon,
'Poleon Doret piloted the little flotilla across to the town of
White Horse and there collected his money, while Pierce Phillips
and the other men pitched camp.

The labor of making things comfortable for the night did not
prevent Lucky Broad from discussing at some length the exciting
incidents of the afternoon.

"I hope her Highness got an eyeful of me shooting the chutes,"
said he, "for that's my farewell trip--positively my last
appearance in any water act."

"Mighty decent of you and the Kid to volunteer," Pierce told him.

"It sure was," the other agreed. "Takes a coupla daredevils like
him and me to pull that kind of a bonehead play."

Mr. Bridges, who was within hearing distance, shrugged with an
assumption of careless indifference. "It takes more 'n a little
lather to scare me," he boasted. "I'm a divin' Venus and I ate it
up!"

"You--liar!" Lucky cried. "Why, every quill on your head was
standing up and you look five years older 'n you did this morning!
You heard the undertaker shaking out your shroud all the way down-
-you know you did. I never seen a man as scared as you was!" When
Bridges accepted the accusation with a grin, the speaker ran on,
in a less resentful tone: "I don't mind saying it hardened my
arteries some. It made me think of all my sins and follies; I
remembered all the bets I'd overlooked. Recollect that pioneer we
laid for four hundred at Dyea?"

The Kid nodded. "Sure! I remember him easy. He squawked so loud
you gave him back half of it."

"And all the time he had a thousand sewed in his shirt! Wasted
opportunities like that lay heavy on a man when he hears the
angels tuning up and smells the calla-lilies."

Bridges agreed in all seriousness, and went on to say: "Lucky, if
I gotta get out of this country the way I got into it I'm going to
let you bury me in Dawson. Look at them rapids ahead of us! Why,
the guy that laid out this river was off his nut!"

"You're talking sense. We'll stick till they build a railroad up
to us or else we'll let 'em pin a pair of soft-pine overcoats on
the two of us. The idea of us calling ourselves wiseacres and
doing circus stunts like this! We're suckers! We'll be working in
the mines next. I bet I'll see you poulticed onto a pick-handle
before we get out."

"Not me! I've raised my last blister, and if ever I get another
callous it'll be from layin' abed. Safe and sane, that's me. I--"

Bridges' words were cut short by an exclamation from Doret, who
had approached, in company with the Countess Courteau.

"Hallo!" the French Canadian broke in. "Dere comes dat beeg
barge."

Out from the lower end of the gorge the Kirby craft had emerged;
it was plunging along with explosions of white foam from beneath
its bow and with its sweeps rising and falling rhythmically. To
Doret's companions it seemed that the scow had come through
handily enough and was in little further danger, but 'Poleon, for
some reason or other, had blazed into excitement. Down the bank he
leaped; then he raised his voice and sent forth a loud cry. It was
wasted effort, for it failed to carry. Nevertheless, the warning
note in his voice brought his hearers running after him.

"What's the matter?" Pierce inquired.

The pilot paid no heed; he began waving his cap in long sweeps,
cursing meanwhile in a patois which the others could not
understand.

Even while they stared at the Rouletta she drove head on into an
expanse of tumbling breakers, then--the onlookers could not
believe their eyes--she stopped dead still, as if she had come to
the end of a steel cable or as if she had collided with an
invisible wall. Instantly her entire after part was smothered in
white. Slowly her bow rose out of the chaos until perhaps ten feet
of her bottom was exposed, then she assumed a list.

The Countess uttered a strangled exclamation. "Oh--h! Did you see?
There's a man overboard!"

Her eyes were quick, but others, too, had beheld a dark bundle
picked up by some mysterious agency and flung end over end into
the waves.

The Rouletta's deck-load was dissolving; a moment or two and she
turned completely around, then drifted free.

"Why--they brought the GIRL along!" cried the Countess, in growing
dismay. "Sam Kirby should have had better sense. He ought to be
hung--"

From the tents and boats along the bank, from the village above,
people were assembling hurriedly, a babel of oaths, of shouts
arose.

'Poleon found his recent employer plucking at his sleeve.

"There's a woman out there--Kirby's girl," she was crying. "Can't
you do something?"

"Wait!" He flung off her grasp and watched intently.

Soon the helpless scow was abreast of the encampment, and in spite
of the frantic efforts of her crew to propel her shoreward she
drifted momentarily closer to the cataract below. Manifestly it
was impossible to row out and intercept the derelict before she
took the plunge, and so, helpless in this extremity, the audience
began to stream down over the rounded boulders which formed the
margin of the river. On the opposite bank another crowd was
keeping pace with the wreck. As they ran, these people shouted at
one another and gesticulated wildly. Their faces were white, their
words were meaningless, for it was a spectacle tense with imminent
disaster that they beheld; it turned them sick with apprehension.

Immediately above White Horse the current gathers itself for the
final plunge, and although, at the last moment, the Rouletta
seemed about to straighten herself out and take the rapids head
on, some malign influence checked her swing and she lunged over
quarteringly to the torrent.

A roar issued from the throats of the beholders; the craft
reappeared, and then, a moment later, was half hidden again in the
smother. It could be seen that she was completely awash and that
those galloping white-maned horses were charging over her. She was
buffeted about as by battering-rams; the remainder of her cargo
was being rapidly torn from her deck. Soon another shout arose,
for human figures could be seen still clinging to her.

Onward the scow went, until once again she fetched up on a reef or
a rock which the low stage of the river had brought close to the
surface; there she hung.

'Poleon Doret had gone into action ere this. Having satisfied
himself that some of the Rouletta's crew remained alive, he cast
loose the painter of the nearest skiff and called to Phillips, who
was standing close by:

"Come on! We goin' get dose people!"

Now Pierce had had enough rough water for one day; it seemed to
him that there must be other men in this crowd better qualified by
training than he to undertake this rescue. But no one stepped
forward, and so he obeyed Doret's order. As he slipped out of his
coat and kicked off his boots, he reflected, with a sinking
feeling of disappointment, that his emotions were not by any means
such as a really courageous man would experience. He was
completely lacking in enthusiasm for this enterprise, for it
struck him as risky, nay, foolhardy, insane, to take a boat over
that cataract in an attempt to snatch human beings out from the
very midst of those threshing breakers. It seemed more than likely
that all hands would be drowned in the undertaking, and he could
not summon the reckless abandon necessary to face that likelihood
with anything except the frankest apprehension. He was surprised
at himself, for he had imagined that when his moment came, if ever
it did, that he, Phillips, would prove to be a rather exceptional
person; instead he discovered that he was something of a coward.
The unexpectedness of this discovery astonished the young man.
Being deeply and thoroughly frightened, it was nothing less than
the abhorrence at allowing that fright to become known which
stiffened his determination. In his own sight he dwindled to very
small proportions; then came the realization that Doret was having
difficulty in securing volunteers to go with them, and he was
considerably heartened at finding he was not greatly different
from the rest of these people.

"Who's goin' he'p us?" the Frenchman was shouting. "Come now, you
stout fellers. Dere's lady on dat scow. 'Ain't nobody got nerve?"

It was a tribute to the manhood of the North that after a brief
hesitation several men offered themselves. At the last moment,
however, Broad and Bridges elbowed the others aside, saying:
"Here, you! That's our boat and we know how she handles."

Into the skiff they piled and hurriedly stripped down; then, in
obedience to Doret's command, they settled themselves at the
forward oars, leaving Pierce to set the stroke.

'Poleon stood braced in the stern, like a gondolier, and when
willing hands had shot the boat out into the current he leaned his
weight upon the after oars; beneath his and Pierce's efforts the
ash blades bent. Out into the hurrying flood the four men sent
their craft; then, with a mighty heave, the pilot swung its bow
down-stream and helped to drive it directly at the throat of the
cataract.

There came a breath-taking plunge during which the rescuing skiff
and its crew were hidden from the view of those on shore; out into
sight they lunged again and, in a cloud of spray, went galloping
through the stampeding waves. At risk of capsizing they turned
around and, battling furiously against the current, were swept
down, stern first, upon the stranded barge. Doret's face was
turned back over his shoulder, he was measuring distance, gauging
with practised eye the whims and vagaries of the tumbling torrent;
when he flung himself upon the oars Pierce Phillips felt his own
strength completely dwarfed by that of the big pilot. 'Poleon's
hands inclosed his in a viselike grasp; he wielded the sweeps as
if they were reeds, and with them he wielded Phillips.

Two people only were left upon the Rouletta, that sidewise plunge
having carried the crew away. Once again Sam Kirby's artificial
hand had proved its usefulness, and without its aid it is doubtful
if either he or his daughter could have withstood the deluge. For
a second time he had sunk that sharp steel hook into the solid
wood and had managed, by virtue of that advantage, to save himself
and his girl. Both of them were half drowned; they were well-nigh
frozen, too; now, however, finding themselves in temporary
security, Kirby had broached one of the few remaining cases of
bottled goods. As the rowboat came close its occupants saw him
press a drink upon his daughter, then gulp one for himself.

It was impossible either to lay the skiff alongside the wreck with
any degree of care or to hold her there; as a matter of fact, the
two hulls collided with a crash, Kid Bridges' oar snapped off
short and the side of the lighter boat was smashed in. Water
poured over the rescuers. For an instant it seemed that they were
doomed, but, clawing fiercely at whatever they could lay hands
upon, they checked their progress long enough for the castaways to
obey Doret's shout of command. The girl flung herself into
Pierce's arms; her father followed, landing in a heap amidships.
Even as they jumped the skiff was torn away and hurried onward by
the flood. Sam Kirby raised himself to his knees and turned his
ashen face to Rouletta.

"Hurt you any, kid?" he inquired.

The girl shook her head. She was very white, her teeth were
chattering, her wet dress clung tightly to her figure.

Staring fixedly at the retreating barge the old man cried: "All
gone! All gone!" Then, bracing himself with his good hand, he
brandished his steel hook at the rapids and heaped curses upon
them.

A half-mile below the wreck 'Poleon Doret brought his crippled
skiff into an eddy, and there the crowd, which had kept pace with
it down the river-bank, lent willing assistance in effecting a
landing.

As Kirby stepped ashore he shook hands with the men who had
jeopardized their lives for him and his daughter; hi a cheerless,
colorless voice he said, "It looks to me like you boys had a drink
coming." From his coat pocket he drew a bottle of whisky; with a
blow of that artificial hand he struck off its neck and then
proffered it to Doret. "Drink hearty!" said he. "It's all that's
left of a good outfit!"




CHAPTER XII


A chilly twilight had fallen by the time the castaways arrived at
the encampment above the rapids. Kirby and his daughter were
shaking from the cold. The Countess Courteau hurried on ahead to
start a fire in her tent, and thither she insisted upon taking
Rouletta, while her men attended to the father's comfort.

On the way up there had been considerable speculation among those
who knew Sam Kirby best, for none of them had ever seen the old
fellow in quite such a frame of mind as now. His misfortune had
crushed him; he appeared to be numbed by the realization of his
overwhelming loss; gone entirely was that gambler's nonchalance
for which he was famous. The winning or the losing of large sums
of money had never deeply stirred the old sporting-man; the turn
of a card, the swift tattoo of horses' hoofs, often had meant far
more to him in dollars and cents than the destruction of that
barge-load of liquor; he had seen sizable fortunes come and go
without a sign of emotion, and yet to-night he was utterly
unnerved.

With a man of less physical courage such an ordeal as he had
undergone might well have excused a nervous collapse, but Kirby
had no nerves; he had, times without number, proved himself to be
a man of steel, and so it greatly puzzled his friends to see him
shaken and broken.

He referred often to Danny Royal's fate, speaking in a dazed and
disbelieving manner, but through that daze ran lightning-bolts of
blind, ferocious rage--rage at the river, rage at this hostile,
sinister country and at the curse it had put upon him. Over and
over, through blue lips and chattering teeth, he reviled the
rapids; more than once he lifted the broken-necked bottle to his
lips. Of thanksgiving, of gratitude at his own and his daughter's
deliverance, he appeared to have none, at least for the time
being.

Rouletta's condition was pitiable enough, but she was concerned
less with it than with her father's extraordinary behavior, and
when the Countess undertook to procure for her dry clothing she
protested:

"Please don't trouble. I'll warm up a bit; then I must go back to
dad."

"My dear, you're chilled through--you'll die in those wet things,"
the older woman told her.

Miss Kirby shook her head and, in a queer, strained, apprehensive
voice, said: "You don't understand. He's had a drink; if he gets
started--" She shivered wretchedly and hid her white face in her
hands, then moaned: "Oh, what a day! Danny's gone! I saw him
drown--"

"There, there!" The Countess comforted her as best she could.
"You've had a terrible experience, but you mustn't think of it
just yet. Now let me help you."

Finding that the girl's fingers were stiff and useless, the
Countess removed the wet skirt and jacket, wrung them out, and
hung them up. Then she produced some dry undergarments, but Miss
Kirby refused to put them on.

"You'll need what few things you have," said she, "and--I'll soon
warm up. There's no telling what dad will do. I must keep an eye
on him."

"You give yourself too much concern. He's chilled through and it's
natural that he should take a drink. My men will give him
something dry to wear, and meanwhile--"

Rouletta interrupted with a shake of her head, but the Countess
gently persisted:

"Don't take your misfortune too hard. The loss of your outfit
means nothing compared with your safety. It was a great tragedy,
of course, but you and your father were saved. You still have him
and he has you."

"Danny knew what was coming," said the girl, and tears welled into
her eyes, then slowly overflowed down her white cheeks. "But he
faced it. He was game. He was a good man at heart. He had his
faults, of course, but he loved dad and he loved me; why, he used
to carry me out to see the horses before I could walk; he was my
friend, my playmate, my pal. He'd have done murder for me!"
Through her tears Rouletta looked up. "It's hard for you to
believe that I know, after what he did to you, but--you know how
men are on the trail. Nothing matters. He was angry when you
outwitted him, and so was father, for that matter, but I told them
it served us right and I forbade them to molest you further."

"You did that? Then it's you I have to thank." The Countess smiled
gravely. "I could never understand why I came off so easily."

"I'm glad I made them behave. You've more than repaid--" Rouletta
paused, she strained her ears to catch the sound of voices from
the neighboring tents. "I don't hear father," said she. "I wonder
if he could have gone?"

"Perhaps the men have put him to bed--"

But Miss Kirby would not accept this explanation. "I'm afraid--"
Again she listened apprehensively. "Once he gets a taste of liquor
there's no handling him; he's terrible. Even Danny couldn't do
anything with him; sometimes even I have failed." Hurriedly she
took down her sodden skirt and made as if to draw it on.

"Oh, child, you MUSTN'T! You simply must NOT go out this way. Wait
here. I'll find him for you and make sure he's all right."

The half-clad girl smiled miserably. "Thank you," said she. But
when the Countess had stepped out into the night she finished
dressing herself. Her clothing, of course, was as wet as ever, for
the warmth of the tent in these few moments had not even heated it
through; nevertheless, her apprehension was so keen that she was
conscious of little bodily discomfort.

"You were right," the Countess announced when she returned. "He
slipped into some borrowed clothes and went up-town. He told the
boys he couldn't sit still. But you mustn't follow--at least in
that dress-"

"Did he--drink any more?"

"I'm afraid he did."

Heedless of the elder woman's restraining hands, Rouletta Kirby
made for the tent opening. "Please don't stop me," she implored.
"There's no time to lose and--I'll dry out in time."

"Let me go for you."

"No, no!"

"Then may I go along?"

Again the girl shook her head. "I can handle him better alone.
He's a strange man, a terrible man, when he's this way. I--hope
I'm not too late."

Rouletta's wet skirts slatted about her ankles as she ran; it was
a windy, chilly night, and, in spite of the fact that it was a
steep climb to the top of the low bluff, she was chilled to the
bone when she came panting into the sprawling cluster of
habitations that formed the temporary town of White Horse. Tents
were scattered over a dim, stumpy clearing, lights shone through
trees that were still standing, a meandering trail led past a
straggling row of canvas-topped structures, and from one of these
issued the wavering, metallic notes of a phonograph, advertising
the place as a house of entertainment.

Sam Kirby was at the bar when his daughter discovered him, and her
first searching look brought dismay to the girl. Pushing her way
through the crowd, she said, quietly:

"Father!"

"Hello!" he exclaimed, in surprise. "What are you doing here?"

"I want to speak to you."

"Now, Letty," he protested, when she had drawn him aside, "haven't
you been through enough for one day? Run back to the Countess'
camp where I left you."

"Don't drink any more," she implored. with an agony of dread in
her face.

Kirby's bleak countenance set itself in stony lines. "I've got
to," said he. "I'm cold--frozen to the quick. I need something to
warm me up."

Letty could smell the whisky on his breath, she could see a new
light in his eyes and already she sensed rather than observed a
subtle change in his demeanor.

"Oh, dad!" she quavered; then she bowed her head weakly upon his
arm and her shoulders shook.

Kirby laid a gentle hand upon her, then exclaimed, in surprise:
"Why, kid, you're still wet! Got those same clothes on, haven't
you?" He raised his voice to the men he had just left. "Want to
see the gamest girl in the world? Well, here she is. You saw how
she took her medicine to-day? Now listen to this: she's wet
through, but she came looking for her old dad--afraid he'd get
into trouble!"

Disregarding the crowd and the appreciative murmur her father's
praise evoked, Rouletta begged, in a low, earnest voice: "Please,
dear, come away. Please--you know why. Come away--won't you--for
my sake?"

Kirby stirred uneasily. "I tell you I'm cold," he muttered, but
stopped short, staring. "Yes, and I see Danny. I see him as he
went overboard. Drowned! I'll never get him out of my sight. I
can't seem to understand that he's gone, but--everything's gone,
for that matter. Everything!"

"Oh no, dad. Why, you're here and I'm here! We've been broke
before."

Kirby smiled again, but cheerlessly. "Oh, we ain't exactly broke;
I've got the bank-roll on me and it 'll pull us through. We've had
bad luck for a year or two, but it's bound to change. You cheer
up--and come over to the stove. What you need is to warm up while
I get you a little drink."

Rouletta gazed up into the gray face above her. "Dad, look at me."
She took his hand. "Haven't we had enough trouble for one day?"

The gambler was irritated at this persistence and he showed it.
"Don't be foolish," he cried, shortly. "I know what I need and I
know what I can stand. These men are friends of mine, and you
needn't be uneasy. Now, kid, you let me find a place for you to
spend the night."

"Not until you're ready to go along."

"All right, stick around for a little while. I Won't be long." Old
Sam drew a bench up beside the stove and seated the girl upon it.
"I'm all broke up and I've just got to keep moving," he explained,
more feelingly. Then he returned to the bar.

Realizing that he was completely out of hand and that further
argument was futile, Rouletta Kirby settled herself to wait. In
spite of her misery, it never occurred to her to abandon her
father to his own devices, even for an hour--she knew him too well
to run that risk. But her very bones were frozen and she shivered
wretchedly as she held her shoes up to the stove. Although the
fire began slowly to dry her outer garments, the clothes next to
her flesh remained cold and clammy. Even so, their chill was as
nothing to the icy dread that paralyzed the very core of her
being.

Pierce Phillips told himself that this had been a wonderful day--
an epoch-making day--for him. Lately he had been conscious that
the North was working a change in him, but the precise extent of
that change, even the direction it was taking, had not been
altogether clear; now, however, he thought he understood.

He had been quite right, that first hour in Dyea, when he told
himself that Life lay just ahead of him--just over the Chilkoot.
Such, indeed, had proved to be the case. Yes, and it had welcomed
him with open arms; it had ushered him into a new and wondrous
world. His hands had fallen to men's tasks, experience had come to
him by leaps and bounds. In a rush he had emerged from groping
boyhood into full maturity; physically, mentally, morally, he had
grown strong and broad and brown. Having abandoned himself to the
tides of circumstance, he had been swept into a new existence
where Adventure had rubbed shoulders with him, where Love had
smiled into his eyes. Danger had tested his mettle, too, and to-
day the final climax had come. What roused his deepest
satisfaction now was the knowledge that he had met that climax
with credit. To-night it seemed to him that he had reached full
manhood, and in the first flush of realization he assured himself
that he could no longer drift with the aimless current of events,
but must begin to shape affairs to his own ends.

More than once of late he had pondered a certain thought, and now,
having arrived at a decision, he determined to act upon it. Ever
since that stormy evening at Linderman his infatuation for Hilda
had increased, but, owing to circumstances, he had been thwarted
in enjoying its full delights. During the daylight hours of their
trip, as matter of fact, the two had never been alone together
even for a quarter of an hour; they had scarcely had a word in
confidence, and in consequence he had been forced to derive what
comfort he could from a chance look, a smile, some inflection of
her voice. Even at night, after camp was pitched, it had been
little better, for the thin walls of her canvas shelter afforded
little privacy, and, being mindful of appearances, he had never
permitted himself to be alone with her very long at a time--only
long enough, in fact, to make sure that his happiness was not all
a dream. A vibrant protestation now and then, a secret kiss or
two, a few stolen moments of delirium, that was as far as his
love-affair had progressed. Not yet had he and Hilda arrived at a
definite understanding; never had they thoroughly talked out the
subject that engrossed them both, never had they found either time
or opportunity in which to do more than sigh and whisper and hold
hands, and as a result the woman remained almost as much of a
mystery to Pierce as she had been at the moment of her first
surrender.

It was an intolerable situation, and so, under the spell of his
buoyant spirits, he determined to make an end of it once for all.

The Countess recognized his step when he came to her tent and she
spoke to him. Mistaking her greeting for permission to enter, he
untied the strings and stepped inside, only to find her unprepared
for his reception. She had made her shelter snug, a lively fire
was burning, the place was fragrant of pine boughs, and a few deft
feminine touches here and there had transformed it into a boudoir.
Hilda had removed her jacket and waist and was occupied in combing
her hair, but at Pierce's unexpected entrance she hurriedly
gathered the golden shower about her bare shoulders and voiced a
protest at his intrusion. He stood smiling down at her and refused
to withdraw.

Never had Phillips seen such an alluring picture. Now that her
hair was undone, its length and its profusion surprised him, for
it completely mantled her, and through it the snowy whiteness of
her bare arms, folded protectingly across her rounded breasts, was
dazzling. The sight put him in a conquering mood; he strode
forward, lifted her into his embrace, then smothered her gasping
protest with his lips. For a long moment they stood thus. Finally
the woman freed herself, then chided him breathlessly, but the
fragrance of her hair had gone to his brain; he continued to hold
her tight, meanwhile burying his face in the golden cascade.

Roughly, masterfully, he rained kisses upon her. He devoured her
with his caresses, and the heat of his ardor melted her resistance
until, finally, she surrendered, abandoning herself wholly to his
passion.

When, after a time, she flung back her head and pushed him away,
her face, her neck, her shoulders were suffused with a coral
pinkness and her eyes were misty.

"You must be careful!" she whispered in a tone that was less of a
remonstrance than an invitation. "Remember, we're making
shadowgraphs for our neighbors. That's the worst of a tent at
night--one silhouettes one's very thoughts."

"Then put out the light," he muttered, thickly; but she slipped
away, and her moist lips mocked him in silent laughter.

"The idea! What in the world has come over you? Why, you're the
most impetuous boy--"

"Boy!" Pierce grimaced his dislike of the word. "Don't be
motherly; don't treat me as if I had rompers on. You're positively
maddening to-night. I never saw you like this. Why, your hair"--he
ran his hands through that silken shower once more and pressed it
to his face--"it's glorious!"

The Countess slipped into a combing-jacket; then she seated
herself on the springy couch of pine branches over which her fur
robe was spread, and deftly caught up her long runaway tresses,
securing them in place with a few mysterious twists and expert
manipulations.

"Boy, indeed!" he scoffed, flinging himself down beside her.
"That's over with, long ago."

"Oh, I don't feel motherly," she asserted, still suffused with
that telltale flush. "Not in the way you mean. But you'll always
be a boy to me--and to every other woman who learns to care for
you."

"Every other woman?" Pierce's eyes opened. "What a queer speech.
There aren't going to be any OTHER women." He looked on while she
lighted a cigarette, then after a moment he inquired, "What do you
mean?"

She answered him with another question. "Do you think I'm the only
woman who will love you?"

"Why--I haven't given it any thought! What's the difference, as
long as you're the only one _I_ care for? And I do love you, I
worship--"

"But there WILL be others," she persisted, "There are bound to be.
You're that kind."

"Really?"

The Countess nodded her head with emphasis. "I can read men; I can
see the color of their souls. You have the call."

"What call?" Pierce was puzzled.

"The--well, the sex-call, the sex appeal."

"Indeed? Am I supposed to feel flattered at that?"

"By no means; you're not a cad. Men who possess that attraction
are spoiled sooner or later. You don't realize that you have it,
and that's what makes you so nice, but--I felt it from the first,
and when you feel it you'll probably become spoiled, too, like the
others." This amused Phillips, but the woman was in sober earnest.
"I mean what I say. You're the kind who cause women to make fools
of themselves--old or young, married or single. When a girl has
it--she's lost."

"I'm not sure I understand. At any rate, you haven't made a fool
of yourself."

"No?" The Countess smiled vaguely, questioningly. She opened her
lips to say more, but changed her mind and in an altered tone
declared, "My dear boy, if you understood fully what I'm driving
at you'd be insufferable." Laying her warm hand over his, she
continued: "You resent what you call my 'motherly way,' but if I
were sixteen and you were forty it would be just the same. Women
who are afflicted with that sex appeal become men's playthings;
the man who possesses it always remains a 'boy' to the woman who
loves him--a bad boy, a dangerous boy, perhaps, but a boy,
nevertheless. She may, and probably will, adore him fiercely,
passionately, jealously, but at the same time she will hover him
as a hen hovers her chick. He will be both son and lover to her."

He had listened closely, but now he stirred uneasily. "I don't
follow you," he said. "And it isn't exactly pleasant for a fellow
to be told that he's a baby Don Juan, to be called a male vampire
in knee-pants--especially by the woman he's going to marry."
Disregarding her attempt to speak, he went on: "What you said
about other women--the way you said it--sounded almost as if--
well, as if you expected there would be such, and didn't greatly
care. You didn't mean it that way, I hope. You do care, don't you,
dear? You do love me?" The face Phillips turned upon the Countess
Courteau was earnest, worried.

Her fingers tightened over his hand. When she spoke there was a
certain listlessness, a certain fatigue in her tone. "Do you need
to ask that after--what happened just now? Of course I care. I
care altogether too much. That's the whole trouble. You see, the
thing has run away with me, Pierce; it has carried me off my feet,
and--that's precisely the point I'm trying to make."

He slipped an arm about her waist and drew her close. "I knew it
wasn't merely an animal appeal that stirred you. I knew it was
something bigger and more lasting than that."

"Even yet you don't understand," she declared. "The two may go
together and--" But without allowing her to finish he said,
vibrantly:

"Whatever it is, you seem to find it an obstacle, an objection.
Why struggle against the inevitable? You ARE struggling--I've seen
you fighting something ever since that first night when truth came
to us out of the storm. But, Hilda dear, I adore you. You're the
most wonderful creature in the world! You're a goddess! I feel
unworthy to touch the hem of your garments, but I know--that you
are mine! Nothing else matters. Think of the miracle, the wonder
of it! It's like a beautiful dream. I've had doubts about myself,
and that's why I've let matters drift. You see, I was a sort of
unknown quantity, but now I know that I've found myself. To-day I
went through hell and--I came out a man. I'm going to play a man's
part right along after this." He urged her eagerly. "We've a hard
trip ahead of us before we reach Dawson; winter may overtake us
and delay us. We can't continue in this way. Why wait any longer?"

"You mean--?" the woman inquired, faintly.

"I mean this--marry me here, to-morrow."

"No, no! Please--" The Countess freed herself from Pierce's
embrace.

"Why not? Are you afraid of me?" She shook her head silently.

"Then why not to-morrow instead of next month? Are you afraid of
yourself?"

"No, I'm afraid of-what I must tell you."

Phillips' eyes were dim with desire, he was ablaze with yearning;
in a voice that shook he said: "Don't tell me anything. I won't
hear it!" Then, after a brief struggle with himself, he continued,
more evenly: "That ought to prove to you that I've grown up. I
couldn't have said it three months ago, but I've stepped out of--
of the nursery into a world of big things and big people, and I
want you. I dare say you've lived--a woman like you must have had
many experiences, many obstacles to overcome; but--I might not
understand what they were even if you told me, for I'm pretty
green. Anyhow, I'm sure you're good. I wouldn't believe you if you
told me you weren't. It's no credit to me that I haven't
confessions of my own to make, for I'm like other men and it
merely so happens that I've had no chance to-soil myself. The
credit is due to circumstance."

"Everything is due to circumstance," the woman said. "Our lives
are haphazard affairs; we're blown by chance--"

"We'll take a new start to-morrow and bury the past, whatever it
is."

"You make it absolutely necessary for me to speak," the Countess
told him. Her tone again had a touch of weariness in it, but
Pierce did not see this. "I knew I'd have to, sooner or later, but
it was nice to drift and to dream--oh, it was pleasant--so I bit
down on my tongue and I listened to nothing but the song in my
heart." She favored Pierce with that shadowy, luminous smile he
had come to know. "It was a clean, sweet song and it meant a great
deal to me." When he undertook to caress her she drew away, then
sat forward with her heels tucked close into the pine boughs, her
chin upon her knees. It was her favorite attitude of meditation;
wrapped thus in the embrace of her own arms, she appeared to gain
the strength and the determination necessary to go on.

"I'm not a weak woman," she began, staring at the naked candle-
flame which gave light to the tent. "It wasn't weakness that
impelled me to marry a man I didn't love; it was the determination
to get ahead and the ambition to make something worth while out of
myself--a form of selfishness, perhaps, but I tell you all women
are selfish. Anyhow, he seemed to promise better things and to
open a way whereby I could make something out of my life. Instead
of that he opened my eyes and showed me the world as it is, not as
I had imagined it to be. He was--no good. You may think I was
unhappy over that, but I wasn't. Really, he didn't mean much to
me. What did grieve me, though, was the death of my illusions. He
was mercenary--the fault of his training, I dare say--but he had
that man-call I spoke about. It's really a woman-call. He was
weak, worthless, full of faults, mean in small things, but he had
an attraction and it was impossible to resist mothering him. Other
women felt it and yielded to it, so finally we went our separate
ways. I've seen nothing of him for some time now, but he keeps in
touch with me and--I've sent him a good deal of money. When he
learns that I have prospered in a big way he'll undoubtedly turn
up again."

Pierce weighed the significance of these words; then he smiled.
"Dear, it's all the more reason why we should be married at once.
I'd dare him to annoy you then."

"My boy, don't you understand? I can't marry you, being still
married to him."

Phillips recoiled; his face whitened. Dismay, reproach, a shocked
surprise were in the look he turned upon his companion.

"Still married!" he gasped. "Oh--Hilda!"

She nodded and lowered her eyes. "I supposed you knew--until I got
to telling you, and then it was too late."

Pierce rose; his lips now were as colorless as his cheeks. "I'm
surprised, hurt," he managed to say. "How should I know? Why, this
is wretched--rotten! People will say that I've got in a mess with
a married woman. That's what it looks like, too." His voice broke
huskily. "How could you do it, when I meant my love to be clean,
honorable? How could you let me put myself, and you, in such a
position?"

"You see!" The woman continued to avoid his eye. "You haven't
grown up. You haven't the least understanding."

"I understand this much," he cried, hotly, "that you've led me to
make something worse than a cad of myself. Look here! There are
certain things which no decent fellow goes in for--certain things
he despises in other men--and that's one of them." He turned as if
to leave, then he halted at the tent door and battled with
himself. After a moment, during which the Countess Courteau
watched him fixedly, he whirled, crying:

"Well, the damage is done. I love you. I can't go along without
you. Divorce that man. I'll wait."

"I'm not sure I have legal grounds for a divorce. I'm not sure
that I care to put the matter to a test--as yet."

"WHAT?" Pierce gazed at her, trying to understand. "Say that over
again!"

"You think you've found yourself, but--have you? I know men pretty
well and I think I know you. You've changed--yes, tremendously--
but what of a year, two years from now? You've barely tasted life
and this is your first intoxication."

"Do you love me, or do you not?" he demanded.

"I love you as you are now. I may hate you as you will be to-
morrow. I've had my growth; I've been through what you're just
beginning--we can't change together."

"Then will you promise to marry me afterward?"

The Countess shook her head. "It's a promise that would hold only
me. Why ask it?"

"You're thinking of no one but yourself," he protested, furiously.
"Think of me. I've given you all I have, all that's best and
finest in me. I shall never love another woman--"

"Not in quite the way you love me, perhaps, but the peach ripens
even after its bloom has been rubbed off. You HAVE given me what
is best and finest, your first love, and I shall cherish it."

"Will you marry me?" he cried, hoarsely. She made a silent
refusal.

"Then I can put but one interpretation upon your actions."

"Don't be too hasty in your judgment. Can't you see? I was weak. I
was tired. Then you came, like a draught of wine, and--I lost my
head. But I've regained it. I dreamed my dream, but it's daylight
now and I'm awake. I know that you believe me a heartless, selfish
woman. Maybe I am, but I've tried to think for you, and to act on
that good impulse. I tell you I would have been quite incapable of
it before I knew you. A day, a month, a year of happiness! Most
women of my age and experience would snatch at it, but I'm looking
farther ahead than that. I can't afford another mistake. Life fits
me, but you--why, you're bursting your seams."

"You've puzzled me with a lot of words," the young man said, with
ever-growing resentment, "but what do they all amount to? You
amused yourself with me and you're ready enough to continue so
long as I pour my devotion at your feet. Well, I won't do it. If
you loved me truly you wouldn't refuse to marry me. Isn't that so?
True love isn't afraid, it doesn't quibble and temporize and split
hairs the way you do. No, it steps out boldly and follows the
light. You've had your fun, you've--broken my heart." Phillips'
voice shook and he swallowed hard. "I'm through; I'm done. I shall
never love another woman as I love you, but if what you said about
that sex-call is true, I--I'll play the game as you played it." He
turned blindly and with lowered head plunged out of the tent into
the night.

The Countess listened to the sounds of his departing footsteps;
then, when they had ceased, she rose wearily and flung out her
arms. There was a real and poignant distress in her eyes.

"Boy! Boy!" she whispered. "It was sweet, but--there had to be an
end."

For a long time she stood staring at nothing; then she roused
herself with a shiver, refilled the stove, and seated herself
again, dropping her chin upon her knees as she did instinctively
when in deep thought.

"If only I were sure," she kept repeating to herself. "But he has
the call and--I'm too old."




CHAPTER XIII


Rouletta Kirby could not manage to get warm. The longer she sat
beside the stove the colder she became. This was not strange, for
the room was draughty, people were constantly coming in and going
out, and when the door was opened the wind caused the canvas walls
of the saloon to bulge and its roof to slap upon the rafters. The
patrons were warmly clad in mackinaw, flannel, and fur. To them
the place was comfortable enough, but to the girl who sat swathed
in sodden undergarments it was like a refrigerator. More than once
she regretted her heedless refusal of the Countess Courteau's
offer of a change; several times, in fact, she was upon the point
of returning to claim it, but she shrank from facing that wintry
wind, so low had her vitality fallen. Then, too, she reasoned that
it would be no easy task to find the Countess at this hour of the
night, for the beach was lined with a mile of tents, all more or
less alike. She pictured the search, herself groping her way from
one to another, and mumbling excuses to surprised occupants. No,
it was better to stay here beside the fire until her clothes dried
out.

She would have reminded her father of her discomfort and claimed
his assistance only for the certainty that he would send her off
to bed, which was precisely what she sought to prevent. Her
presence irritated him; nevertheless, she knew that his safety lay
in her remaining. Sam Kirby sober was in many ways the best of
fathers; he was generous, he was gentle, he was considerate. Sam
Kirby drunk was another man entirely--a thoughtless, wilful, cruel
man, subject to vagaries of temper that were as mysterious to the
girl who knew him so well as they were dangerous to friend and foe
alike. He was drunk now, or in that peculiar condition that passed
with him for drunkenness. Intoxication in his case was less a
condition of body than a frame of mind, and it required no
considerable amount of liquor to work the change. Whisky, even in
small quantities, served to suspend certain of his mental
functions; it paralyzed one lobe of his brain, as it were, while
it aroused other faculties to a preternatural activity and awoke
sleeping devils in him. The more he drank the more violent became
his destructive mood, the more firmly rooted became his tendencies
and proclivities for evil. The girl well knew that this was an
hour when he needed careful watching and when to leave him
unguarded, even temporarily, meant disaster. Rouletta clenched her
chattering teeth and tried to ignore the chills that raced up and
down her body.

White Horse, at this time, was purely a make-shift camp, hence it
had no facilities for gambling. The saloons themselves were little
more than liquor caches which had been opened overnight for the
purpose of reaping quick profits; therefore such games of chance
as went on were for the most part between professional gamblers
who happened to be passing through and who chose to amuse
themselves in that way.

After perhaps an hour, during which a considerable crowd had come
and gone, Sam Kirby broke away from the group with which he had
been drinking and made for the door. As he passed Rouletta he
paused to say:

"I'm going to drift around a bit, kid, and see if I can't stir up
a little game."

"Where are we going to put up for the night?" his daughter
inquired.

"I don't know yet; it's early. Want to turn in?"

Rouletta shook her head.

"I'll find a place somewhere. Now you stick here where it's nice
and warm. I'll be back by and by."

With sinking heart the girl watched him go. After a moment she
rose and followed him out into the night. She was surprised to
discover that the mud under foot had frozen and that the north
wind bore a burden of fine, hard snow particles. Keeping well out
of sight, she stumbled to another saloon door, and then, after
shivering wretchedly outside for a while, she stole in and crept
up behind the stove.

She was very miserable indeed by this time, and as the evening
wore slowly on her misery increased. After a while her father
began shaking dice with some strangers, and the size of their
wagers drew an audience of interested bystanders.

Rouletta realized that she should not have exposed herself anew to
the cold, for now her sensations had become vaguely alarming. She
could not even begin to get warm, except now and then when a
burning fever replaced her chill; she felt weak and ill inside;
the fingers she pressed to her aching temples were like icicles.
Eventually--she had lost all track of time--her condition became
intolerable and she decided to risk her father's displeasure by
interrupting him and demanding that he secure for both of them a
lodging-place at once.

There were several bank-notes of large denomination on the plank
bar-top and Sam Kirby was watching a cast of dice when his
daughter approached; therefore he did not see her. Nor did he turn
his head when she laid a hand upon his arm.

Now women, especially pretty women, were common enough sights in
Alaskan drinking-places. So it was not strange that Rouletta's
presence had occasioned neither comment nor curiosity. More than
once during the last hour or two men had spoken to her with easy
familiarity, but they had taken no offense when she had turned her
back. It was quite natural, therefore, that the fellow with whom
Kirby was gambling should interpret her effort to claim attention
as an attempt to interrupt the game, and that he should misread
the meaning of her imploring look. There being considerable money
at stake, he frowned down at her, then with an impatient gesture
he brushed her aside.

"None of that, sister!" he warned her. "You get out of here."

Sam Kirby was in the midst of a discussion with the proprietor,
across the bar, and because there was a deal of noise in the place
he did not hear his daughter's low-spoken protest.

"Oh, I mean it!" The former speaker scowled at Rouletta. "You
dolls make me sick, grabbing at every nickel you see. Beat it,
now! There's plenty of young suckers for you to trim. If you can't
respect an old man with gray hair, why--" The rest of his remark
caused the girl's eyes to widen and the chattering voices to fall
silent.

Sam Kirby turned, the dice-box poised in his right hand.

"Eh? What's that?" he queried, vaguely.

"I'm talking to this pink-faced gold-digger--"

"Father!" Rouletta exclaimed.

"I'm just telling her--"

The fellow repeated his remark, whereupon understanding came to
Kirby and his expression slowly altered. Surprise, incredulity,
gave place to rage; his eyes began to blaze.

"You said that to--her?" he gasped, in amazement. "To my kid?"
There was a moment of tense silence during which the speaker
appeared to be numbed by the insult, then, "By God!" Sam placed
the dice-box carefully upon the bar. His movement was deliberate,
but he kept his flaming gaze fixed upon the object of his wrath,
and into his lean, ashen countenance came such demoniac fury as to
appal those who saw it.

Rouletta uttered a faint moan and flung herself at her father;
with a strength born of terror she clung to his right wrist. In
this she was successful, despite old Sam's effort to shake her
off, but she could not imprison both his arms. Kirby stepped
forward, dragging the girl with him; he raised that wicked
artificial left hand and brought it sweeping downward, and for a
second time that day the steel shaft met flesh and bone. His
victim spun upon his heels, then, with outflung arms and an
expression of shocked amazement still upon his face, he crashed
backward to the floor.

Kirby strode to him; before other hands could come to Rouletta's
assistance and bear him out of reach he twice buried his heavy
hobnailed boot in the prostrate figure. He presented a terrible
exhibition of animal ferocity, for he was growling oaths deep in
his throat and in his eyes was the light of murder. He fought for
liberty with which to finish his task, and those who restrained
him found that somehow he had managed to draw an ivory-handled
six-shooter from some place of concealment. Nor could they wrench
the weapon away from him.

"He insulted my kid--my girl Letty!" Kirby muttered, hoarsely.

When the fallen man had been lifted to his feet and hurried out of
the saloon old Sam tried his best to follow, but his captors held
him fast. They pleaded with him, they argued, they pacified him as
well as they could. It was a long time, however, before they dared
trust him alone with Rouletta, and even then they turned watchful
eyes in his direction.

"I didn't want anything to happen." The girl spoke listlessly.

Kirby began to rumble again, but she interrupted him. "It wasn't
the man's fault. It was a perfectly natural mistake on his part,
and I've learned to expect such things. I--I'm sick, dad. You must
find a place for me, quick."

Sam agreed readily enough. The biting cold of the wind met them at
the door. Rouletta, summoning what strength she could, trudged
along at his side. It did not take them long to canvass the town
and to discover that there were no lodgings to be had. Rouletta
halted finally, explaining through teeth that chattered:

"I--I'm frozen! Take me back where there's a stove--back to the
saloon--anywhere. Only do it quickly."

"Pshaw! It isn't cold," Kirby protested, mildly.

The nature of this remark showed more plainly than anything he had
said or done during the evening that the speaker was not himself.
It signified such a dreadful change in him, it marked so surely
the extent of his metamorphosis, that Rouletta's tears came.

"Looks like we'd have to make the best of it and stay awake till
morning," the father went on, dully.

"No, no! I'm too sick," the girl sobbed, "and too cold. Leave me
where I can keep warm; then go find the Countess and--ask her to
put me up."

Returning to their starting-point, Kirby saw to his daughter's
comfort as best he could, after which he wandered out into the
night once more. His intentions were good, but he was not a little
out of patience with Letty and still very angry with the man who
had affronted her; rage at the insult glowed within his disordered
brain and he determined, before he had gone very far, that his
first duty was to right that wrong. Probably the miscreant was
somewhere around, or, if not, he would soon make his appearance.
Sam decided to postpone his errand long enough to look through the
other drinking-places and to settle the score.

No one, on seeing him thus, would have suspected that he was
drunk; he walked straight, his tongue was obedient, and he was
master of his physical powers to a deceptive degree; only in his
abnormally alert and feverish eyes was there a sign that his brain
was completely crazed.

Rouletta waited for a long while, and steadily her condition grew
worse. She became light-headed, and frequently lost herself in a
sort of painful doze. She did not really sleep, however, for her
eyes were open and staring; her wits wandered away on nightmare
journeys, returning only when the pains became keener. Her fever
was high now; she was nauseated, listless; her chest ached and her
breathing troubled her when she was conscious enough to think. Her
surroundings became unreal, too, the faces that appeared and
disappeared before her were the faces of dream figures.

Unmindful of his daughter's need, heedless of the passage of time,
Sam Kirby loitered about the saloons and waited patiently for the
coming of a certain man. After a time he bought some chips and sat
in a poker game, but he paid less attention to the spots on his
cards than to the door through which men came and went. These
latter he eyed with the unblinking stare of a serpent.

Pierce Phillips' life was ruined. He was sure of it. Precisely
what constituted a ruined life, just how much such a one differed
from a successful life, he had only the vaguest idea, but his own,
at the moment, was tasteless, spoiled. Dire consequences were
bound to follow such a tragedy as this, so he told himself, and he
looked forward with gloomy satisfaction to their realization;
whatever they should prove to be, however terrible the fate that
was to overtake him, the guilt, the responsibility therefor, lay
entirely upon the heartless woman who had worked the evil, and he
earnestly hoped they would be brought home to her.

Yes, the Countess Courteau was heartless, wicked, cruel. Her
unsuspected selfishness, her lack of genuine sentiment, her cool,
calculating caution, were shocking. Pierce had utterly misread her
at first; that was plain.

That he was really hurt, deeply distressed, sorely aggrieved, was
true enough, for his love--infatuation, if you will--was perfectly
genuine and exceedingly vital. Nothing is more real, more vital,
than a normal boy's first infatuation, unless it be the first
infatuation of a girl; precisely wherein it differs from the
riper, less demonstrative affection that comes with later years
and wider experience is not altogether plain. Certainly it is more
spontaneous, more poignant; certainly it has in it equal
possibilities for good or evil. How deep or how disfiguring the
scar it leaves depends entirely upon the healing process. But, for
that matter, the same applies to every heart affair.

Had Phillips been older and wiser he would not have yielded so
readily to despair; experience would have taught him that a
woman's "No" is not a refusal; wisdom would have told him that the
absolute does not exist. But, being neither experienced nor wise,
he mistook the downfall of his castle for the wreck of the
universe, and it never occurred to him that he could salvage
something, or, if need be, rebuild upon the same foundations.

What he could neither forget nor forgive at this moment was the
fact that Hilda had not only led him to sacrifice his honor, or
its appearance, but also that when he had managed to reconcile
himself to that wrong she had lacked the courage to meet him half-
way. There were but two explanations of her action: either she was
weak and cowardly or else she did not love him. Neither afforded
much consolation.

In choosing a course of conduct no man is strong enough to divorce
himself entirely from his desires, to follow the light of pure
reason, for memories, impulses, yearnings are bound to bring
confusion. Although Pierce told himself that he must renounce this
woman--that he had renounced her--nevertheless he recalled with a
thrill the touch of her bare arms and the perfume of her streaming
golden hair as he had buried his face in it, and the keenness of
those memories caused him to cry out. The sex-call had been
stronger than he had realized; therefore, to his present grief was
added an inescapable, almost irresistible feeling of physical
distress--a frenzy of balked desire--which caused him to waver
irresolutely, confusing the issue dreadfully.

For a long time he wandered through the night, fighting his animal
and his spiritual longings, battling with irresolution, striving
to reconcile himself to the crash that had overwhelmed him. More
than once he was upon the point of rushing back to the woman and
pouring out the full tide of his passion in a desperate attempt to
sweep away her doubts and her apprehensions. What if she should
refuse to respond? He would merely succeed in making himself
ridiculous and in sacrificing what little appearance of dignity he
retained. Thus pride prevented, uncertainty paralyzed him.

Some women, it seemed to him, not bad in themselves, were born to
work evil, and evidently Hilda was one of them. She had done her
task well in this instance, for she had thoroughly blasted his
life! He would pretend to forget, but nevertheless he would see to
it that she was undeceived, and that the injury she had done him
remained an ever-present reproach to her. That would be his
revenge. Real forgetfulness, of course, was out of the question.
How could he assume such an attitude? As he pondered the question
he remembered that there were artificial aids to oblivion. Ruined
men invariably took to drink. Why shouldn't he attempt to drown
his sorrows? After all, might there not be real and actual relief
in liquor? After consideration he decided to try it.

From a tent saloon near by came the sounds of singing and of
laughter, and thither he turned his steps. When he entered the
place a lively scene greeted him. Somehow or other a small
portable organ had been secured, and at this a bearded fellow in a
mackinaw coat was seated. He was playing a spirited accompaniment
for two women, sisters, evidently, who sang with the loud abandon
of professional "coon shouters." Other women were present, and
Phillips recognized them as members of that theatrical troupe he
had seen at Sheep Camp--as those "actresses" to whom Tom Linton
had referred with such elaborate sarcasm. All of them, it
appeared, were out for a good time, and in consequence White Horse
was being treated to a free concert.

The song ended in a burst of laughter and applause, the men at the
bar pounded with their glasses, and there was a general exodus in
that direction. One of the sisters flung herself enthusiastically
upon the volunteer organist and dragged him with her. There was
much hilarity and a general atmosphere of license and unrestraint.

Phillips looked on moodily; he frowned, his lip curled. All the
world was happy, it seemed, while he nursed a broken heart. Well,
that was in accord with the scheme of things--life was a mad,
topsy-turvy affair at best, and there was nothing stable about any
part of it. He felt very grim, very desperate, very much abused
and very much outside of all this merriment.

Men were playing cards at the rear of the saloon, and among the
number was Sam Kirby. The old gambler showed no signs of his
trying experience of the afternoon; in fact, it appeared to have
been banished utterly from his mind. He was drinking, and even
while Pierce looked on he rapped sharply with his iron hand to
call the bartender's attention. Meanwhile he scanned intently the
faces of all new-comers.

When the crowd had surged back to the organ Pierce found a place
at the bar and called for a drink of whisky--the first he had ever
ordered. This was the end he told himself.

He poured the glass nearly full, then he gulped the liquor down.
It tasted much as it smelled, hence he derived little enjoyment
from the experience. As he stripped a bill from his sizable roll
of bank-notes the bartender eyed him curiously and seemed upon the
point of speaking, but Pierce turned his shoulder.

After perhaps five minutes the young man acknowledged a vague
disappointment; if this was intoxication there was mighty little
satisfaction in it, he decided, and no forgetfulness whatever. He
was growing dizzy, to be sure, but aside from that and from the
fact that his eyesight was somewhat uncertain he could feel no
unusual effect. Perhaps he expected too much; perhaps, also, he
had drunk too sparingly. Again he called for the bottle, again he
filled his glass, again he carelessly displayed his handful of
paper currency.

Engaged thus, he heard a voice close to his ear; it said:

"Hello, man!"

Pierce turned to discover that a girl was leaning with elbows upon
the plank counter at his side and looking at him. Her chin was
supported upon her clasped fingers; she was staring into his face.

She eyed him silently for a moment, during which he returned her
unsmiling gaze. She dropped her eyes to the whisky-glass, then
raised them again to his.

"Can you take a drink like that and not feel it?" she inquired.

"No. I want to feel it; that's why I take it," he said, gruffly.

"What's the idea?"

"Idea? Well, it's my own idea--my own business."

The girl took no offense; she maintained her curious observation
of him; she appeared genuinely interested in acquainting herself
with a man who could master such a phenomenal quantity of liquor.
There was mystification in her tone when she said:

"But--I saw you come in alone. And now you're drinking alone."

"Is that a reproach? I beg your pardon." Pierce swept her a
mocking bow. "What will you have?"

Without removing her chin from its resting-place, the stranger
shook her head shortly, so he downed his beverage as before. The
girl watched him interestedly as he paid for it.

"That's more money than I've seen in a month," said she. "I
wouldn't be so free and easy with it, if I were you."

"No? Why not?"

She merely shrugged, and continued to study him with that same
disconcerting intentness--she reminded him of a frank and curious
child.

Pierce noticed now that she was a very pretty girl, and quite
appropriately dressed, under the circumstances. She wore a boy's
suit, with a short skirt over her knickerbockers, and, since she
was slim, the garments added to her appearance of immaturity. Her
face was oval in outline, and it was of a perfectly uniform olive
tint; her eyes were large and black and velvety, their lashes were
long, their lids were faintly smudged with a shadowy under-
coloring that magnified their size and intensified their
brilliance. Her hair was almost black, nevertheless it was of fine
texture; a few unruly strands had escaped from beneath her fur cap
and they clouded her brow and temples. At first sight she appeared
to be foreign, and of that smoky type commonly associated with the
Russian idea of beauty, but she was not foreign, not Russian; nor
were her features predominantly racial.

"What's your name?" she asked, suddenly.

Pierce told her. "And yours?" he inquired.

"Laure."

"Laure what?"

"Just Laure--for the present."

"Humph! You're one of this--theatrical company, I presume." He
indicated the singers across the room.

"Yes. Morris Best hired us to work in his place at Dawson."

"I remember your outfit at Sheep Camp. Best was nearly crazy--"

"He's crazier now than ever." Laure smiled for the first time and
her face lit up with mischief. "Poor Morris! We lead him around by
his big nose. He's deathly afraid he'll lose us, and we know it,
so we make his life miserable." She turned serious abruptly, and
with a candor quite startling said, "I like you."

"Indeed!" Pierce was nonplussed.

The girl nodded. "You looked good to me when you came in. Are you
going to Dawson?"

"Of course. Everybody is going to Dawson."

"I suppose you have partners?"

"No!" Pierce's face darkened. "I'm alone--very much alone." He
undertook to speak in a hollow, hopeless tone.

"Big outfit?"

"None at all. But I have enough money for my needs and--I'll
probably hook up with somebody." Now there was a brave but
cheerless resignation in his words.

Laure pondered for a moment; even more carefully than before she
studied her companion. That the result satisfied her she made
plain by saying:

"Morris wants men. I can get him to hire you. Would you like to
hook up with us?"

"I don't know. It doesn't much matter. Will you have something to
drink now?"

"Why should I? They don't give any percentage here. Wait! I'll see
Morris and tell you what he says." Leaving Pierce, the speaker
hurried to a harassed little man of Hebraic countenance who was
engaged in the difficult task of chaperoning this unruly
aggregation of talent. To him she said:

"I've found a man for you, Morris."

"Man?"

"To go to Dawson with us. That tall, good-looking fellow at the
bar."

Mr. Best was bewildered. "What ails you?" he queried. "I don't
want any men, and you know it."

"You want this fellow, and you're going to hire him."

"Am I? What makes you think so?"

"Because it's--him or me," Laure said, calmly.

Mr. Best was both surprised and angered at this cool announcement.
"You mean, I s'pose, that you'll quit," he said, belligerently.

"I mean that very thing. The man has money--"

Best's anger disappeared as if by magic; his tone became
apologetic. "Oh! Why didn't you say so? If he'll pay enough, and
if you want him, why, of course--"

Laure interrupted with an unexpected dash of temper. "He isn't
going to pay you anything: you're going to pay him--top wages,
too. Understand?"

The unhappy recipient of this ultimatum raised his hands in a
gesture of despair. "Himmel! There's no understanding you girls!
There's no getting along with you, either. What's on your mind,
eh? Are you after him or his coin?"

"I--don't know." Laure was gazing at Phillips with a peculiar
expression. "I'm not sure. Maybe I'm after both. Will you be good
and hire him, or--"

"Oh, you've got me!" Best declared, with frank resentment. "If you
want him, I s'pose I'll have to get him for you, but"--he muttered
an oath under his breath--"you'll ruin me. Oy! Oy! I'll be glad
when you're all in Dawson and at work."

After some further talk the manager approached Phillips and made
himself known. "Laure tells me you want to join our troupe," he
began.

"I'll see that he pays you well," the girl urged. "Come on."

Phillips' thoughts were not quite clear, but, even so, the
situation struck him as grotesquely amusing. "I'm no song-and-
dance man," he said, with a smile. "What would you expect me to
do? Play a mandolin?"

"I don't know exactly," Best replied. "Maybe you could help me
ride herd on these Bernhardts." He ran a hand through his thin
black hair, thinner now by half than when he left the States. "If
you could do that, why--you could save my reason."

"He wants you to be a Simon Legree," Laure explained.

The manager seconded this statement by a nod of his head. "Sure!
Crack the whip over 'em. Keep 'em in line. Don't let 'em get
married. I thought I was wise to hire good-lookers, but--I was
crazy. They smile and they make eyes and the men fight for 'em.
They steal 'em away. I've had a dozen battles and every time I've
been licked. Already four of my girls are gone. If I lose four
more I can't open; I'll be ruined. Oy! Such a country! Every day a
new love-affair; every day more trouble--"

Laure threw back her dark head and laughed in mischievous delight.
"It's a fact," she told Pierce. "The best Best gets is the worst
of it. He's not our manager, he's our slave; we have lots of fun
with him." Stepping closer to the young man, she slipped her arm
within his and, looking up into his face, said, in a low voice: "I
knew I could fix it, for I always have my way. Will you go?" When
he hesitated she repeated: "Will you go with me or--shall I go
with you?"

Phillips started. His brain was fogged and he had difficulty in
focusing his gaze upon the eager, upturned face of the girl;
nevertheless, he appreciated the significance of this audacious
inquiry and there came to him the memory of his recent
conversation with the Countess Courteau. "Why do you say that?" he
queried, after a moment. "Why do you want me to go?"

Laure's eyes searched his; there was an odd light in them, and a
peculiar intensity which he dimly felt but scarcely understood. "I
don't know," she confessed. She was no longer smiling, and,
although her gaze remained hypnotically fixed upon his, she seemed
to be searching her own soul. "I don't know," she said again, "but
you have a--call."

In spite of this young woman's charms, and they were numerous
enough, Phillips was not strongly drawn to her; resentment, anger,
his rankling sense of injury, all these left no room for other
emotions. That she was interested in him he still had sense enough
to perceive; her amazing proposal, her unmistakable air of
proprietorship, showed that much, and in consequence a sort of
malicious triumph arose within him. Here, right at hand, was an
agency of forgetfulness, more potent by far than the one to which
he had first turned. Dangerous? Yes. But his life was ruined. What
difference, then, whether oblivion came from alcohol or from the
drug of the poppy? Deliberately he shut his ears to inner
warnings; he raised his head defiantly.

"I'll go," said he.

"We leave at daylight," Best told him.




CHAPTER XIV


With 'Poleon Doret to be busy was to be contented, and these were
busy times for him. His daily routine, with trap and gun, had made
of him an early riser and had bred in him a habit of greeting the
sun with a song. It was no hardship for him, therefore, to cook
his breakfast by candle-light, especially now that the days were
growing short. On the morning after his rescue of Sam Kirby and
his daughter 'Poleon washed his dishes and cut his wood; then,
finding that there was still an hour to spare before the light
would be sufficient to run Miles Canon, he lit his pipe and
strolled up to the village. The ground was now white, for
considerable snow had fallen during the night; the day promised to
be extremely short and uncomfortable. 'Poleon, however, was
impervious to weather of any sort; his good humor was not dampened
in the least.

Even at this hour the saloons were well patronized, for not only
was the camp astir, but also the usual stale crowd of all-night
loiterers was not yet sufficiently intoxicated to go to bed. As
'Poleon neared the first resort, the door opened and a woman
emerged. She was silhouetted briefly against the illumination from
within, and the pilot was surprised to recognize her as Rouletta
Kirby. He was upon the point of speaking to her when she collided
blindly with a man who had preceded him by a step or two.

The fellow held the girl for an instant and helped her to regain
her equilibrium, exclaiming, with a laugh: "Say! What's the matter
with you, sister? Can't you see where you're going?" When Rouletta
made no response the man continued in an even friendlier tone,
"Well, I can see; my eyesight's good, and it tells me you're about
the best-looking dame I've run into to-night." Still laughing, he
bent his head as if to catch the girl's answer. "Eh? I don't get
you. Who d'you say you're looking for?"

'Poleon was frankly puzzled. He resented this man's tone of easy
familiarity and, about to interfere, he was restrained by
Rouletta's apparent indifference. What ailed the girl? It was too
dark to make out her face, but her voice, oddly changed and
unnatural, gave him cause for wonderment. Could it be--'Poleon's
half-formed question was answered by the stranger who cried, in
mock reproach: "Naughty! Naughty! You've had a little too much,
that's what's the matter with you. Why, you need a guardeen."
Taking Rouletta by the shoulders, the speaker turned her about so
that the dim half-light that filtered through the canvas wall of
the tent saloon shone full upon her face.

'Poleon saw now that the girl was indeed not herself; there was a
childish, vacuous expression upon her face; she appeared to be
dazed and to comprehend little of what the man was saying. This
was proved by her blank acceptance of his next insinuating words:
"Say, it's lucky I stumbled on to you. I been up all night and so
have you. S'pose we get better acquainted. What?"

Rouletta offered no objection to this proposal; the fellow slipped
an arm about her and led her away, meanwhile pouring a
confidential murmur into her ear. They had proceeded but a few
steps when 'Poleon Doret strode out of the gloom and laid a heavy
hand upon the man.

"My frien'," he demanded, brusquely, "w'ere you takin' dis lady?"

"Eh?" The fellow wheeled sharply. "What's the idea? What is she to
you?"

"She ain't not'in' to me. But I seen you plenty tams an'--you
ain't no good."

Rouletta spoke intelligibly for the first time: "I've no place to
go--no place to sleep. I'm very--tired."

"There you've got it," the girl's self-appointed protector
grinned. "Well, I happen to have room for her in my tent." As
Doret's fingers sank deeper into his flesh the man's anger rose;
he undertook to shake off the unwelcome grasp. "You leggo! You
mind your own business--"

"Dis goin' be my biznesse," 'Poleon announced. "Dere's somet'ing
fonny 'bout dis--"

"Don't get funny with me. I got as much right to her as you have--
" 'Poleon jerked the man off his feet, then flung him aside as if
he were unclean. His voice was hoarse with disgust when he cried:

"Get out! Beat it! By Gar! You ain't fit for touch decent gal. You
spik wit' her again, I tear you in two piece!"

Turning to Rouletta he said, "Mam'selle, you lookin' for your
papa, eh?"

Miss Kirby was clasping and unclasping her fingers, her face was
strained, her response came in a mutter so low that 'Poleon barely
caught it:

"Danny's gone--gone--Dad, he's--No use fighting it--It's the
drink--and there's nothing I can do."

It was 'Poleon's turn to take the girl by the shoulders and wheel
her about for a better look at her face. A moment later he led her
back into the saloon. She was so oddly obedient, so docile, so
unquestioning, that he realized something was greatly amiss. He
laid his hand against her flushed cheek and found it to be burning
hot, whereupon he hastily consulted the nearest bystanders. They
agreed with him that the girl was indeed ill--more than that, she
was half delirious.

"Sacre! Wat's she doin' roun' a saloon lak dis?" he indignantly
demanded. "How come she's gettin' up biffore daylight, eh?"

It was the bartender who made plain the facts: "She 'ain't been to
bed at all, Frenchy. She's been up all night, ridin' herd on old
Sam Kirby. He's drinkin', understand? He tried to get some place
for her to stay, along about midnight, but there wasn't any. She's
been settin' there alongside of the stove for the last few hours
and I been sort of keepin' an eye on her for Sam's sake."

Doret breathed an oath. "Dat's nice fader she's got! I wish I let
'im drown."

"Oh, he ain't exactly to blame. He's on a bender--like to of
killed a feller in here. Somebody'd ought to take care of this
girl till he sobers up."

During this conference Rouletta stood quivering, her face a blank,
completely indifferent to her surroundings. 'Poleon made her sit
down, and but for her ceaseless whispering she might have been in
a trance.

Doret's indignation mounted as the situation became plain to him.

"Fine t'ing!" he angrily declared. "Wat for you fellers leave dis
seeck gal settin' up, eh? Me, I come jus' in tam for catch a
loafer makin' off wit' her." Again he swore savagely. "Dere's some
feller ain't wort' killin'. Wal, I got good warm camp; I tak' her
dere, den I fin' dis fader."

"Sam won't be no good to you. What she needs is a doctor, and she
needs him quick," the bartender averred.

"Eh bien! I fin' him, too! Mam'selle"--'Poleon turned to the girl-
-"you're bad seeck, dat's fac'. You care for stop in my tent?" The
girl stared up at him blankly, uncomprehendingly; then, drawn
doubtless by the genuine concern in his troubled gaze, she raised
her hand and placed it in his. She left it there, the small
fingers curling about his big thumb like those of a child. "Poor
li'l bird!" The woodsman's brow puckered, a moisture gathered in
his eyes. "Dis is hell, for sure. Come, den, ma petite, I fin' a
nes' for you." He raised her to her feet; then, removing his heavy
woolen coat, he placed it about her frail shoulders. When she was
snugly buttoned inside of it he led her out into the dim gray
dawn; she went with him obediently.

As they breasted the swirling snowflakes Doret told himself that,
pending Sam Kirby's return to sanity, this sick girl needed a
woman's care quite as much as a doctor's; naturally his thoughts
turned to the Countess Courteau. Of all the women in White Horse,
the Countess alone was qualified to assume charge of an innocent
child like this, and he determined to call upon her as soon as he
had summoned medical assistance.

When, without protest, Rouletta followed him into his snug living-
quarters, Doret thought again of the ruffian from whom he had
rescued her and again he breathed a malediction. The more fully he
became aware of the girl's utter helplessness the angrier he grew,
and the more criminal appeared her father's conduct. White Horse
made no pretense at morality; it was but a relay station, a
breathing-point where the mad rush to the Klondike paused; there
was neither law nor order here; the women who passed through were,
for the most part, shameless creatures; the majority of the men
were unruly, unresponsive to anything except an appeal to their
animal appetites. Sympathy, consideration, chivalry had all but
vanished in the heat of the great stampede. That Sam Kirby should
have abandoned his daughter to such as these was incredible,
criminal. Mere intoxication did not excuse it, and 'Poleon vowed
he would give the old man a piece of his mind at the first
opportunity.

His tent was still warm; a few sticks of dry spruce caused the
little stove to grow red; he helped Rouletta to lie down upon his
bed, then he drew his blankets over her.

"You stay here li'l while, eh?" He rested a comforting hand upon
her shoulder. "'Poleon goin' find your papa now. Bimeby you goin'
feel better."

He was not sure that she understood him, for she continued to
mutter under her breath and began to roll her head as if in pain.
Then he summoned all the persuasiveness he could. "Dere now,
you're safe in 'Poleon's house; he mak' you well dam' queeck."

A good many people were stirring when the pilot climbed once more
to the stumpy clearing where the village stood, and whomsoever he
met he questioned regarding Sam Kirby; it did not take him long to
discover the latter's whereabouts. But 'Poleon's delay, brief as
it had been, bore tragic consequences. Had he been a moment or two
earlier he might have averted a catastrophe of far-reaching
effect, one that had a bearing upon many lives.

The Gold Belt Saloon had enjoyed a profitable all-night patronage;
less than an hour previously Morris Best had rounded up the last
of his gay song-birds and put an end to their carnival. The poker
game, however, was still in progress at the big round table.
Already numerous early risers were hurrying in to fortify
themselves against the raw day just breaking, and among these
last-named, by some evil whim of fate, chanced to be the man for
whom Sam Kirby had so patiently waited. The fellow had not come
seeking trouble--no one who knew the one-armed gambler's
reputation sought trouble with him--but, learning that Kirby was
still awake and in a dangerous mood, he had entered the Gold Belt
determined to protect himself in case of eventualities.

Doret was but a few seconds behind the man, but those few seconds
were fateful. As the pilot stepped into the saloon he beheld a
sight that was enough to freeze him motionless. The big kerosene
lamps, swung from the rafter braces above, shed over the interior
a peculiar sickly radiance, yellowed now by reason of the pale
morning light outside. Beneath one of the lamps a tableau was set.
Sam Kirby and the man he had struck the night before were facing
each other in the center of the room, and Doret heard the gambler
cry:

"I've been laying for you!"

Kirby's usually impassive face was a sight; it was fearfully
contorted; it was the countenance of a maniac. His words were loud
and uncannily distinct, and the sound of them had brought a
breathless hush over the place. At the moment of Doret's entrance
the occupants of the saloon seemed petrified; they stood rooted in
their tracks as if the anger in that menacing voice had halted
them in mid-action. 'Poleon, too, turned cold, for it seemed to
him that he had opened the door upon a roomful of wax figures
posed in theatric postures. Then in the flash of an eye the scene
dissolved into action, swift and terrifying.

What happened was so unexpected, it came with such a lack of
warning, that few of the witnesses, even though they beheld every
move, were able later to agree fully upon details. Whether Kirby
actually fired the first shot, or whether his attempt to do so
spurred his antagonist to lightning quickness, was long a matter
of dispute. In a flash the room became a place of deafening
echoes. Shouts of protest, yells of fright, the crash of
overturning furniture, the stamp of fleeing feet mingled with the
loud explosion of gunshots--pandemonium.

Fortunately the troupe of women who had been here earlier were
gone and the tent was by no means crowded. Even so, there were
enough men present to raise a mighty turmoil. Some of them took
shelter behind the bar, others behind the stove and the tables;
some bolted headlong for the door; still others hurled themselves
bodily against the canvas walls and ripped their way out.

The duel was over almost as quickly as it had begun. Sam Kirby's
opponent reeled backward and fetched up against the bar; above the
din his hoarse voice rose:

"He started it! You saw him! Tried to kill me!"

He waved a smoking pistol-barrel at the gambler, who had sunk to
his knees. Even while he was shouting out his plea for
justification Kirby slid forward upon his face and the fingers of
his outstretched hand slowly unloosed themselves from his gun.

It had been a shocking, a sickening affair; the effect of it had
been intensified by reason of its unexpectedness, and now,
although it was over, excitement gathered fury. Men burst forth
from their places of concealment and made for the open air; the
structure vomited its occupants out into the snow.

'Poleon Doret had been swept aside, then borne backward ahead of
that stampede, and at length found himself wedged into a corner.
He heard the victor repeating: "You saw him. Tried to kill me!"
The speaker turned a blanched face and glaring eyes upon those
witnesses who still remained. "He's Sam Kirby. I had to get him or
he'd have got me." He pressed a hand to his side, then raised it;
it was smeared with blood. In blank stupefaction the man stared at
this phenomenon.

Doret was the first to reach that motionless figure sprawled face
down upon the floor; it was he who lifted the gray head and spoke
Kirby's name. A swift examination was enough to make quite sure
that the old man was beyond all help. Outside, curiosity had done
its work and the human tide was setting back into the wrecked
saloon. When 'Poleon rose with the body in his arms he was
surrounded by a clamorous crowd. Through it he bore the limp
figure to the cloth-covered card-table, and there, among the
scattered emblems of Sam Kirby's calling, 'Poleon deposited his
burden. By those cards and those celluloid disks the old gambler
had made his living; grim fitness was in the fact that they should
carpet his bier.

When 'Poleon Doret had forced his way by main strength out of the
Gold Belt Saloon, he removed his cap and, turning his face to the
wind, he breathed deeply of the cool, clean air. His brow was
moist; he let the snowflakes fall upon it the while he shut his
eyes and strove to think. Engaged thus, he heard Lucky Broad
address him.

With the speaker was Kid Bridges; that they had come thither on
the run was plain, for they were panting.

"What's this about Kirby?" Lucky gasped.

"We heard he's just been croaked!" the Kid exclaimed.

'Poleon nodded. "I seen it all. He had it comin' to him," and with
a gesture he seemed to brush a hideous picture from before his
eyes.

"Old Sam! DEAD!"

Broad, it seemed, was incredulous. He undertook to bore his way
into the crowd that was pressing through the saloon door, but
Doret seized him.

"Wait!" cried the latter. "Dat ain't all; dat ain't de worst."

"Say! Where's Letty?" Bridges inquired. "Was she with him when it
happened? Does she know--"

"Dat's w'at I'm goin' tell you." In a few words 'Poleon made known
the girl's condition, how he had happened to encounter her, and
how he had been looking for her father when the tragedy occurred.
His listeners showed their amazement and their concern.

"Gosh! That's tough!" It was Broad speaking. "Me 'n' the Kid had
struck camp and was on our way down to fix up our boat when we
heard about the killin'. We couldn't believe it, for Sam--"

"Seems like it was a waste of effort to save that outfit," Bridges
broke in. "Sam dead and Letty dyin'--all in this length of time!
She's a good kid; she's goin' to feel awful. Who's goin' to break
the news to her?"

"I don' know." 'Poleon frowned in deep perplexity. "Dere's doctor
in dere now," he nodded toward the Gold Belt. "I'm goin' tak' him
to her, but she mus' have woman for tak' care of her. Mebbe Madame
la Comtesse--"

"Why, the Countess is gone! She left at daylight. Me 'n' the Kid
are to follow as soon as we get our skiff fixed."

"Gone?"

"Sure!"

"Sacre! De one decent woman in dis place, Wal!" 'Poleon shrugged.
"Dose dance-hall gal' is got good heart--"

"Hell! They pulled out ahead of our gang Best ran his boats
through the White Horse late yesterday and he was off before it
was light. I know, because Phillips told me. He's joined out with
'em--blew in early and got his war-bag. He left the Countess
flat."

Doret was dumfounded at this news and he showed his dismay.

"But--dere's no more women here!" he stammered. "Dat young lady
she's seeck; she mus' be nurse'. By Gar! Who's goin' do it, eh?"

The three of them were anxiously discussing the matter when they
were joined by the doctor to whom 'Poleon had referred. "I've done
all there is to do here," the physician announced. "Now about
Kirby's daughter. You say she's delirious?" The pilot nodded. He
told of Rouletta's drenching on the afternoon previous and of the
state in which he had just found her. "Jove! Pneumonia, most
likely. It sounds serious, and I'm afraid I can't do much. You see
I'm all ready to go, but--of course I'll do what I can."

"Who's goin' nurse her?" 'Poleon demanded for a second time. "Dere
ain't no women in dis place."

The physician shook his head. "Who indeed? It's a wretched
situation! If she's as ill as you seem to think, why, we'll have
to do the best we can, I suppose. She probably won't last long.
Come!" Together he and the French Canadian hurried away.




CHAPTER XV


It was afternoon when Lucky Broad and Kid Bridges came to 'Poleon
Doret's tent and called its owner outside.

"We're hitched up and ready to say 'gid-dap,' but we came back to
see how Letty's getting along," the former explained.

'Poleon shook his head doubtfully; his face was grave. "She's bad
seeck."

"Does she know about old Sam?"

"She ain't know not'in'. She's crazee altogether. Poor li'l gal,
she's jus' lak baby. I'm scare' as hell."

The confidence-men stared at each other silently; then they stared
at Doret. "What we goin' to do about it?" the Kid inquired,
finally.

'Poleon was at a loss for an answer; he made no secret of his
anxiety. "De doctor say she mus' stay right here--"

"HERE?"

"He say if she get cold once more--pouf! She die lak dat! Plenty
fire, plenty blanket, medicine every hour, dat's all. I'm prayin'
for come along some woman--any kin' of woman at all--I don' care
if she's squaw."

"There ain't any skirts back of us. Best's outfit was the last to
leave Linderman. There won't be any more till after the freeze-
up."

"Eh bien! Den I s'pose I do de bes' I can. She's poor seeck gal in
beeg, cold countree wit' no frien's, no money--"

"No money?" Broad was startled. "Why, Sam was 'fat'! He had a
bank-roll--"

"He lose five t'ousan' dollar' playin' card las' night. Less 'n
eighty dollar' dey lef' him. Eighty dollar' an'--dis." From the
pocket of his mackinaw 'Poleon drew Kirby's revolver, that famous
single-action six-shooter, the elaborate ivory grip of which was
notched in several places. Broad and his partner eyed the weapon
with intense interest.

"That's Agnes, all right!" the former declared. "And that's where
old Sam kept his books." He ran his thumb-nail over the
significant file-marks on the handle. "Looks like an alligator had
bit it."

Bridges was even more deeply impressed by the announcement of
Kirby's losses than was his partner. "Sam must of been easy
pickin', drunk like that. He was a gamblin' fool when he was
right, but I s'pose he couldn't think of nothin' except fresh meat
for Agnes. Letty had him tagged proper, and I bet she'd of saved
him if she hadn't of gone off her nut. D'you think she's got a
chance?"

"For get well?" 'Poleon shrugged his wide shoulders. "De doctor
say it's goin' be hard pull. He's goin' stay so long he can, den--
wal, mebbe 'noder doctor come along. I hope so."

"If she does win out, then what?" Broad inquired.

'Poleon considered the question. "I s'pose I tak' her back to Dyea
an' send her home. I got some dog."

Lucky studied the speaker curiously; there was a peculiar hostile
gleam in his small, colorless eyes. "Medicine every hour, and a
steady fire, you say. You don't figger to get much sleep, do you?"

"Non. No. But me, I'm strong feller; I can sleep hangin' up by de
ear if I got to."

"What's the big idea?"

"Eh?" Doret was frankly puzzled. "Wat you mean, 'beeg idea'?"

"What d'you expect to get out of all this?"

"M'sieu'!" The French Canadian's face flushed, he raised his head
and met the gaze of the two men. There was an air of dignity about
him as he said: "Dere's plenty t'ing in dis worl' we don' get pay'
for. You didn't 'spect no pay yesterday when you run de W'ite
'Orse for save dis gal an' her papa, did you? No. Wal, I'm
woodsman, river-man; I ain't dam' stampeder. Dis is my countree,
we're frien's together long tam; I love it an' it loves me. I love
de birds and hanimals, an' dey're frien's wit' me also. 'Bout
spring-tam, w'en de grub she's short, de Canada jays dey come to
visit me, an' I feed dem; sometam' I fin' dere's groun-squirrel's
nest onder my tent, an' mebbe mister squirrel creep out of his
hole, t'inkin' summer is come. Dat feller he's hongry; he steal my
food an' he set 'longside my stove for eat him. You t'ink I hurt
dose he'pless li'l t'ing? You s'pose I mak' dem pay for w'at dey
eat?"

'Poleon was soaring as only his free soul could soar; he indicated
the tent at his back, whence issued the sound of Rouletta Kirby's
ceaseless murmurings.

"Dis gal--she's tiny snowbird wit' broken wing. Bien! I fix her
wing de bes' I can. I mak' her well an' I teach her to fly again.
Dat's all." Broad and Bridges had listened attentively, their
faces impassive. Lucky was the first to speak.

"Letty's a good girl, y'understand. She's different to these
others--"

'Poleon interrupted with a gesture of impatience. "It ain't mak'
no difference if she's good or bad. She's seeck."

"Me 'n' the Kid have done some heavy thinkin', an' we'd about
decided to get a high stool and take turns lookin' out Letty's
game, just to see that her bets went as they laid, but I got a
hunch you're a square guy. What D'YOU think, Kid?"

Mr. Bridges nodded his head slowly. "I got the same hunch. The
point is this," he explained. "We can't very well throw the
Countess--we got some of her outfit--and, anyhow, we'd be about as
handy around an invalid as a coupla cub bears. I think we'll bow
out. But, Frenchy"--the gambler spoke with intense earnestness--
"if ever we hear a kick from that gal we'll--we'll foller you like
a track. Won't we, Lucky?"

"We'll foller him to hell!" Mr. Broad feelingly declared.

Gravely, ceremoniously, the callers shook hands with Doret, then
they returned whence they had come. They went their way;
Rouletta's delirium continued; 'Poleon's problem increased daily;
meanwhile, however, the life of the North did not slacken a single
pulse-beat.

Never since their earliest associations had Tom Linton and Jerry
Quirk found themselves in such absolute accord, in such complete
harmony of understanding, as during the days that immediately
followed their reconciliation. Each man undertook to outdo the
other in politeness; each man forced himself to be considerate,
and strove at whatever expense to himself to lighten the other's
burdens; all of their relations were characterized by an
elaborate, an almost mid-Victorian courtesy. A friendly rivalry in
self-sacrifice existed between them; they quarreled good-naturedly
over the dish-washing, that disgusting rite which tries the
patience of every grown man; when there was wood to be cut they
battled with each other for the ax.

But there is a limit to politeness; unfailing sunshine grows
tedious, and so does a monotonous exercise of magnanimity.

While it had been an easy matter to cut their rowboat in two, the
process of splicing it together again had required patience and
ingenuity, and it had resulted in delay. By the time they arrived
at Miles Canon, therefore, the season was far advanced and both
men, without knowing it, were in a condition of mind to welcome
any sort of a squall that would serve to freshen the unbearably
stagnant atmosphere of amiability in which they were slowly
suffocating.

Here for the first time the results of their quarrel arose to
embarrass them; they could find no pilot who would risk his life
in a craft so badly put together as theirs. After repeated
discouragements the partners took counsel with each other;
reluctantly they agreed that they were up against it.

"Seems like I've about ruined us," Mr. Quirk acknowledged,
ruefully.

"You? Why, Jerry, it was my fault we cut the old ship in two," Mr.
Linton declared.

The former speaker remonstrated, gently. "Now, Tom, it's just like
you to take the blame, but it was my doin's; I instigated that
fratricidal strife."

Sweetly but firmly Linton differed with his partner. "It ain't
often that you're wrong, Jerry, old boy--it ain't more than once
or twice in a lifetime--but you're wrong now. I'm the guilty
wretch and I'd ought to hang for it. My rotten temper--"

"Pshaw! You got one of the nicest dispositions I ever see--in a
man. You're sweeter 'n a persimmon. I pecked at you till your core
was exposed. I'm a thorn in the flesh, Tom, and folks wouldn't
criticize you none for doin' away with me."

"You're 'way off. I climbed you with my spurs--"

"Now, Tom!" Sadly Mr. Quirk wagged his gray head. "I don't often
argue with anybody, especially with you, but the damnable idea of
dividin' our spoils originated in my evil mind and I'm goin' to
pay the penalty. I'll ride this white-pine outlaw through by
myself. You ear him down till I get both feet in the stirrups,
then turn him a-loose; I'll finish settin' up and I won't pull
leather."

"How you talk! Boats ain't like horses; it'll take a good oarsman
to navigate these rapids--"

"Well?" Quirk looked up quickly. "I'm a good oarsman." There was a
momentary pause. "Ain't I?"

Mr. Linton hastily remedied his slip of the tongue. "You're a
bear!" he asserted, with feeling. "I don't know as I ever saw a
better boatman than you, for your weight and experience, but--
there's a few things about boats that you never had the chance to
pick up, you being sort of a cactus and alkali sailor. For
instance, when you want a boat to go 'gee' you have to pull on the
'off' oar. It's plumb opposite to the way you steer a horse."

"Sure! Didn't I figger that out for the both of us? We 'most had a
runaway till I doped it out."

Now this was a plain perversion of fact, for it was Tom who had
made the discovery. Mr. Linton was about to so state the matter
when he reflected that doubtless Jerry's intentions were honest
and that his failing memory was to blame for the misstatement. It
was annoying to be robbed of the credit for an important
discovery, of course, but Tom swallowed his resentment.

"The point is this," he said, with a resumption of geniality.
"You'd get all wet in them rapids, Jerry, and--you know what that
means. I'd rather take a chance on drowning myself than to nurse
you through another bad cold."

It was a perfectly sincere speech--an indirect expression of deep
concern that reflected no little credit upon the speaker's
generosity. Tom was exasperated, therefore, when Jerry, by some
characteristic process of crooked reasoning, managed to
misinterpret it. Plaintively the latter said:

"I s'pose I AM a handicap to you, Tom. You're mighty consid'rate
of my feelin's, not to throw it up to me any oftener than you do."

"I don't throw it up to you none. I never did. No, Jerry, I'll row
the boat. You go overland and keep your feet dry."

"A lot of good that would do." Mr. Quirk spoke morosely. "I'd
starve to death walkin' around if you lost the grub."

This struck Tom Linton as a very narrow, a very selfish way of
looking at the matter. He had taken no such view of Jerry's offer;
he had thought less about the grub than about his partner's
safety. It was an inconsiderate and unfeeling remark. After a
moment he said:

"You know I don't throw things up to you, Jerry. I ain't that
kind." Mr. Quirk stirred uneasily. "You didn't mean to say that,
did you?"

What Jerry would have answered is uncertain, for his attention at
the moment was attracted by a stranger who strode down the bank
and now accosted him and his partner jointly.

"Bonjour, m'sieu's!" said the new-comer. "I'm lookin' for buy some
lemon'. You got some, no?"

Mr. Quirk spoke irritably. "Sure. We've got a few, but they ain't
for sale."

The stranger--Quirk remembered him as the Frenchman, Doret, whom
he had seen at Sheep Camp--smiled confidently.

"Oh yes! Everyt'ing is for sale if you pay 'nough for him," said
he.

Now this fellow had broken the thread of a conversation into which
a vague undertone of acrimony was creeping--a conversation that
gave every indication of developing into an agreeable and soul-
satisfying difference of opinion, if not even into a loud and
free-spoken argument of the old familiar sort. To have the promise
of an invigorating quarrel frustrated by an idiotic diversion
concerning lemons caused both old men to turn their pent-up
exasperation upon the speaker.

"We've got use for our lemons and we're going to keep them," said
Tom. "We're lemon-eaters--full of acid--that's us."

"We wouldn't give lemon aid to nobody." Jerry grinned in malicious
enjoyment of his own wit.

"You got how many?" 'Poleon persisted.

"Oh, 'bout enough! Mebbe a dozen or two."

"I buy 'em. Dere's poor seeck lady--"

Tom cut in brusquely. "You won't buy anything here. Don't tell us
your troubles. We've got enough of our own, and poverty ain't
among the number."

"W'at trouble you got, eh? Me, I'm de trouble man. Mebbe I fix
'em."

Sourly the partners explained their difficulty. When 'Poleon
understood he smiled again, more widely.

"Good! I mak' bargain wit' you, queeck. Me, I'm pilot of de bes'
an' I tak' your boat t'rough for dose lemon'."

The elderly men sat up; they exchanged startled glances.

"D'you mean it?"

"I'm goin' have dose lemon'."

"Can't you buy any in the saloons?"

"No. Wal, w'at you say?"

Tom inquired of his partner, "Reckon you can get along without
'em, Jerry?"

"Why, I been savin' 'em for you."

"Then it's a go!"

"One t'ing you do for me, eh?" 'Poleon hesitated momentarily.
"It's goin' tak' tam for fin' dam' fool to he'p me row dat bateau,
but--I fin' him. Mebbe you set up wit' li'l seeck gal while I'm
gone. What?" In a few words he made known the condition of affairs
at his camp, and the old men agreed readily enough. With
undisguised relief they clambered stiffly out of their boat and
followed the French Canadian up the trail. As they toiled up the
slope 'Poleon explained:

"De doctor he's go to Dawson, an' t'ree day dis gal been layin'
seeck--crazee in de head. Every hour medicine, all de tam fire in
de stove! Sapre! I'm half 'sleep."

"We'll set up with her as long as you want," Tom volunteered.
"Being a family man myself, I'm a regular nurse."

"Me, too," Jerry exclaimed. "I never had no family, but I allus
been handy around hosses, and hosses is the same as people, only
bigger--"

Mr. Linton stifled a laugh at this remark. "That'll show you!"
said he. "You leave it to me, Jerry."

"Well, ain't they?"

"No."

"They are, too."

"Plumb different."

The argument waxed hot; it had reached its height when 'Poleon
laid a finger upon his lips, commanding silence. On tiptoe he led
the two men into his tent. When he had issued instructions and
left in search of a boatman the partners seated themselves
awkwardly, their caps in their hands. Curiously, apprehensively,
they studied the fever-flushed face of the delirious girl.

"Purty, ain't she?" Jerry whispered.

Tom nodded. "She's sick, all right, too," he said in a similar
tone; then, after a moment: "I've been thinking about them lemons.
We're getting about a hundred dollars a dozen for 'em. Kind of a
rotten trick, under the circumstances. I'm sorry you put it up to
that feller the way you did."

Mr. Quirk stiffened, his eyes widened in astonishment.

"Me? I didn't put it up to him. You done it. They're your lemons."

"How d'you figure they're mine?"

"You bought 'em, didn't you?"

"I PAID for 'em, if that's what you mean, but I bought 'em for
you, same as I bought that liquor. You've et most of 'em, and
you've drank most of the whisky. You needed it worse than I did,
Jerry, and I've always considered--"

Now any reference, any reflection upon his physical limitations,
however remote or indirect, aroused Jerry's instant ire. "At it
again, ain't you?" he cried, testily. "I s'pose you'll forget
about that whisky in four or five years. I hope so--"

"'Sh-h!" Tom made a gesture commanding silence, for Jerry had
unconsciously raised his voice. "What ails you?" he inquired,
sweetly.

"Nothin' ails me," Jerry muttered under his breath. "That's the
trouble. You're allus talkin' like it did--like I had one foot in
the grave and was gaspin' my last. I'm hard as a hickory-nut. I
could throw you down and set on you."

Mr. Linton opened hia bearded lips, then closed them again; he
withdrew behind an air of wounded dignity. This, he reflected, was
his reward for days of kindness, for weeks of uncomplaining
sacrifice. Jerry was the most unreasonable, the most difficult
person he had ever met; the more one did for him the crankier he
became. There was no gratitude in the man, his skin wouldn't hold
it. Take the matter of their tent, for instance: how would the old
fellow have managed if he, Tom, had not, out of pure compassion,
taken pity on him and rescued him from the rain back there at
Linderman? Had Jerry remembered that act of kindness? He had not.
On the contrary, he had assumed, and maintained, an attitude of
indulgence that was in itself an offense--yes, more than an
offense. Tom tried to center his mind upon his partner's virtues,
but it was a difficult task, for honesty compelled him to admit
that Jerry assayed mighty low when you analyzed him with care. Mr.
Linton gave up the effort finally with a shake of his head.

"What you wigwaggin' about?" Jerry inquired, curiously. Tom made
no answer. After a moment the former speaker whispered,
meditatively: "I'D have GIVE him the lemons if he'd asked me for
'em. Sick people need lemons."

"Sometimes they do and sometimes they don't," Mr. Linton
whispered, shortly.

"Lemons is acid, and acid cuts phlegm."

"Lemons ain't acid; they're alkali."

This statement excited a derisive snort from Mr. Quirk. "Alkali!
My God! Ever taste alkali?" Jerry had an irritating way of
asserting himself in regard to matters of which he knew less than
nothing; his was the scornful certainty of abysmal ignorance.

"Did you ever give lemons to sick folks?" Tom inquired, in his
turn.

"Sure! Thousands."

Now this was such an outrageous exaggeration that Linton was
impelled to exclaim:

"RATS! You never SAW a thousand sick folks."

"I didn't say so. I said I'd given thousands of lemons--"

"Oh!" Tom filled his pipe and lit it, whereupon his partner
breathed a sibilant warning:

"Put out that smudge! D'you aim to strangle the girl?"

With a guilty start the offender quenched the fire with his thumb.

"The idea of lightin' sheep-dip in a sick-room!" Mr. Quirk went
on. With his cap he fanned violently at the fumes.

"You don't have to blow her out of bed," Tom growled. Clumsily he
drew the blankets closer beneath the sick girl's chin, but in so
doing he again excited his companion's opposition.

"Here!" Jerry protested. "She's burnin' up with fever. You blanket
'em when they've got chills." Gently he removed the covers from
Rouletta's throat.

Linton showed his contempt for this ridiculous assertion by
silently pulling the bedding higher and snugly tucking it in.
Jerry promptly elbowed him aside and pulled it lower. Tom made an
angry gesture, and for a third time adjusted the covers to suit
himself, whereupon Jerry immediately changed them to accord with
his ideas.

Aggressively, violently, but without words this time, the partners
argued the matter. They were glaring at each other, they had
almost come to blows when, with a start, Jerry looked at his
watch. Swiftly he possessed himself of the medicine-glass and
spoon; to Tom he whispered:

"Quick! Lift her up."

Linton refused. "Don't you know ANYTHING?" he queried. "Never move
a sick person unless you have to. Give it to her as she lays."

"How you goin' to feed medicine out of a spoon to anybody layin'
down?" the other demanded.

"Easy!" Tom took the glass and the teaspoon; together the two men
bent over the bed.

But Linton's hands were shaky; when he pressed the spoon to
Rouletta's lips he spilled its contents. The girl rolled her head
restlessly.

"Pshaw! She moved."

"She never moved," Jerry contradicted. "You missed her." From his
nostrils issued that annoying, that insulting, snort of derision
which so sorely tried his partner's patience. "You had a fair shot
at her, layin' down, Tom, and you never touched her."

"Maybe I'd have had better luck if you hadn't jiggled me."

"Hell! Who jiggled--?"

"'Sh--h!" Once more Mr. Quirk had spoken aloud. "If you've got to
holler, go down by the rapids."

After several clumsy attempts both men agreed that their patient
had doubtless received the equivalent of a full dose of medicine,
so Tom replaced the glass and spoon. "I'm a little out of
practice," he explained.

"I thought you done fine." Jerry spoke with what seemed to be
genuine commendation. "You got it into her nose every time."

Tom exploded with wrath and it was Jerry's turn to command
silence.

"Why don't you hire a hall?" the latter inquired. "Or mebbe I
better tree a 'coon for you so you can bark as loud as you want
to. Family man! Huh!" Linton bristled aggressively, but the
whisperer continued:

"One head of children don't make a family any more 'n one head of
heifers makes a herd."

Tom paled; he showed his teeth beneath his gray mustache. Leaning
forward, he thrust his quivering bearded face close to the hateful
countenance opposite him. "D'you mean to call my daughter a
heifer?" he demanded, in restrained fury.

"Keep them whiskers to yourself," Jerry snapped. "You can't pick a
row with me, Tom; I don't quarrel with nobody. I didn't call your
daughter a heifer, and you know I didn't. No doubt she would of
made a fine woman if she'd of grown up, but--Say! I bet I know why
you lost her. I bet you poured so much medicine in her crib that
she drownded." Jerry giggled at this thought.

"That ain't funny," the other rumbled. "If I thought you meant to
call a member of my family a heifer--"

"You've called your wife worse 'n that. I've heard you."

"I meant everything I said. She was an old catamount and--"

"Prob'bly she was a fine woman." Jerry had a discourteous habit of
interrupting. "No wonder she walked out and left you flat--she was
human. No doubt she had a fine character to start with. So did I,
for that matter, but there's a limit to human endurance."

"You don't have to put up with me any longer than you want to,"
Linton stormed, under his breath. "We can get a divorce easy. All
it takes is a saw."

"You made that crack once before, and I called your bluff!"
Jerry's angry face was now out-thrust; only with difficulty did he
maintain a tone inaudible to the sick girl. "Out of pity I helped
you up and handed you back your crutches. But this time I'll let
you lay where you fall. A hundred dollars a dozen for lemons! For
a poor little sick girl! You 'ain't got the bowels of a shark!"

"It was your proposition!"

"It wasn't!"

"It was!"

"Some folks lie faster 'n a goat can gallop."

"Meaning me?"

"Who else would I mean?"

"Why don't you CALL me a liar and be done with it?"

"I do. It ain't news to anybody but you!"

Having safely landed his craft below the rapids, 'Poleon Doret
hurried back to his tent to find the partners sitting knee to
knee, face to face, and hurling whispered incoherencies at each
other. Both men were in a poisonous mood, both were ripe for
violence. They overflowed with wrath. They were glaring; they
shook their fists; they were racked with fury; insult followed
abuse; and the sounds that issued from their throats were like the
rustlings of a corn-field in an autumn gale. Nor did inquiry
elicit a sensible explanation from either.

"Heifer, eh? Drowned my own child, did I?" Tom ground his teeth in
a ferocious manner.

"Don't file your tusks for me," Jerry chattered; "file the saw.
We're goin' to need it."

"You men goin' cut dat boat in two again?" 'Poleon inquired, with
astonishment.

"Sure. And everything we've got."

It was Linton who spoke; there was a light of triumph in his eyes,
his face was ablaze with an unholy satisfaction. "We've been
drawing lots for twenty minutes, and this time--I GOT THE STOVE!"




CHAPTER XVI


Once again Tom and Jerry's skiff had been halved, once again its
owners smarted under the memory of insults unwarranted, of gibes
that no apology could atone for. This time it had been old Jerry
who cooked his supper over an open fire and old Tom who stretched
the tarpaulin over his stove. Neither spoke; both were sulky,
avoiding each other's eye; there was an air of bitter, implacable
hostility.

Into this atmosphere of constraint came 'Poleon Doret, and, had it
not been for his own anxieties, he would have derived much
amusement from the situation. As it was, however, he was quite
blind to it, showing nothing save his own deep feeling of concern.

"M'sieu's," he began, hurriedly, "dat gal she's gettin' more
seeck. I'm scare' she's goin' die to-night. Mebbe you set up wit'
me, eh?"

Tom quickly volunteered: "Why, sure! I'm a family man. I--"

"Family man!" Jerry snorted, derisively. "He had one head, mister,
and he lost it inside of a month. I'm a better nurse than him."

"Bien! I tak' you both," said 'Poleon.

But Jerry emphatically declined the invitation. "Cut me out if you
aim to make it three-handed--I'd Jim the deck, sure. No, I'll set
around and watch my grub-pile."

Tom addressed himself to 'Poleon, but his words were for his late
partner.

"That settles me," said he. "I'll have to stick close to home, for
there's people I wouldn't trust near a loose outfit."

This was, of course, a gratuitous affront. It was fathered in
malice; it had its intended effect. Old Jerry hopped as if springs
in his rheumatic legs had suddenly let go; he uttered a shrill
war-whoop--a wordless battle-cry in which rage and indignation
were blended.

"If a certain old buzzard-bait sets up with you, Frenchy, count
your spoons, that's all. I know him. A hundred dollars a dozen for
lemons! He'd rob a child's bank. He'd steal milk out of a sick
baby's bottle."

The pilot frowned. "Dis ain't no tam for callin' names," said he.
"To-night dat gal goin' die or--she's goin' begin get well. Me,
I'm mos' dead now. Mebbe you fellers forget yourse'f li'l while
an' he'p me out."

Tom stirred uneasily. With apparent firmness he undertook to evade
the issue, but in his eyes was an expression of uncertainty.
Jerry, too, was less obdurate than he had pretended. After some
further argument he avoided a weak surrender by muttering:

"All right. Take HIM along, so I'll know my grub's safe, and I'll
help you out. I'm a good hand with hosses, and hosses are like
humans, only bigger. They got more sense and more affection, too.
They know when they're well off. Now if a hoss gets down you got
to get him up and walk him around. My idea about this girl--"

Mr. Linton groaned loudly, then to 'Poleon he cried: "Lead the
way. You watch the girl and I'll watch this vet'rinary."

That was an anxious and a trying night for the three men. They
were unskilled in the care of the sick; nevertheless, they
realized that the girl's illness had reached its crisis and that,
once the crisis had passed, she would be more than likely to
recover. Hour after hour they sat beside her, administering her
medicine regularly, maintaining an even temperature in the tent,
and striving, as best they could, to ease her suffering. This
done, they could only watch and wait, putting what trust they had
in her youth and her vitality. Their sense of helplessness
oppressed the men heavily; their concern increased as the hours
dragged along and the life within the girl flared up to a blaze or
flickered down to a mere spark.

Doret was in a pitiable state, on the verge of exhaustion, for his
vigil had been long and faithful; it was a nightmare period of
suspense for him. Occasionally he dozed, but only to start into
wakefulness and to experience apprehensions keener than before.
The man was beside himself, and his anxiety had its effect upon
Tom and Jerry. Their compassion increased when they learned how
Sam Kirby had been taken off and how Rouletta had been brought to
this desperate pass. The story of her devotion, her sacrifice,
roused their deepest pity, and in the heat of that emotion they
grew soft.

This mellowing process was not sudden; no spirit of forgiveness
was apparent in either of the pair. Far from it. Both remained
sullen, unrelenting; both maintained the same icy front. They
continued to ignore each other's presence and they exchanged
speech only with Doret. Nevertheless, their sympathy had been
stirred and a subtle change had come over them.

This change was most noticeable in Linton. As the night wore on
distressing memories, memories he considered long dead and gone,
arose to harass him. It was true that he had been unhappily
married, but tune had cured the sting of that experience, or so he
had believed. He discovered now that such was not the case;
certain incidents of those forgotten days recurred with poignant
effect. He had experienced the dawn of a father's love, a father's
pride; he lost himself in a melancholy consideration of what might
have been had not that dawn been darkened. How different, how
full, how satisfying, if--As he looked down upon the fair, fever-
flushed face of this girl he felt an unaccustomed heartache, a
throbbing pity and a yearning tenderness. The hand with which he
stroked the hair back from her brow and rearranged her pillow was
as gentle as a woman's.

Jerry, too, altered in his peculiar way. As the hours lengthened,
his wrinkled face became less vinegary, between his eyes there
appeared a deepening frown of apprehension. More than once he
opened his lips to ask Tom's opinion of how the fight progressed,
but managed in time to restrain himself. Finally he could maintain
silence no longer, so he spoke to Doret:

"Mister! It looks to me like she ain't doin' well."

'Poleon rose from his position beside the stove; he bent over the
sick-bed and touched Rouletta's brow with his great hand. In a low
voice he addressed her:

"Ma soeur! Ma petite soeur! It's 'Poleon spik to you."

Rouletta's eyes remained vacant, her ceaseless whispering
continued and the man straightened himself, turning upon his
elderly companions. Alarm was in his face; his voice shook.

"M'sieu's! W'at shall we do? Queeck! Tell me."

But Tom and Jerry were helpless, hopeless. Doret stared at them;
his hands came slowly together over his breast, his groping
fingers interlocked; he closed his eyes, and for a moment he stood
swaying. Then he spoke again as a man speaks who suffers mortal
anguish. "She mus' not die! She--mus' not die! I tell you
somet'ing now: dis li'l gal she's come to mean whole lot for me.
At firs' I'm sorry, de same lak you feel. Sure! But bimeby I get
to know her, for she talk, talk--all tam she talk, lak crazee
person, an' I learn to know her soul, her life. Her soul is w'ite,
m'sieu's, it's w'ite an' beautiful; her life--I lit 'im together
in little piece, lak broken dish. Some piece I never fin', but I
save 'nough to mak' picture here and dere. Sometam I smile an'
listen to her; more tam' I cry. She mak' de tears splash on my
hand.

"Wal, I begin talk back to her. I sing her li'l song, I tell her
story, I cool her face, I give her medicine, an' den she sleep. I
sit an' watch her--how many day an' night I watch her I don' know.
Sometam I sleep li'l bit, but when she stir an' moan I spik to her
an' sing again until-she know my voice."

'Poleon paused; the old men watched his working face.

"M'sieu's," he went on, "I'm lonely man. I got no frien's, no
family; I live in dreams. Dat's all I got in dis whole worl'--jus'
dreams. One dream is dis, dat some day I'm going find somet'ing to
love, somet'ing dat will love me. De hanimals I tame dey run away;
de birds I mak' play wit' dey fly south when de winter come. I
say, 'Doret, dis gal she's poor, she's frien'less, she's alone.
She's very seeck, but you goin' mak' her well. She ain't goin' run
away. She ain't goin' fly off lak dem birds. No. She's goin' love
you lak a broder, an' mebbe she's goin' let you stay close by.'
Dieu! Dat's fine dream, eh? It mak' me sing inside; it mak' me
warm an' glad. I w'isper in her ear, 'Ma soeur! Ma petite soeur!
It's your beeg broder 'Poleon dat spik. He's goin' mak' you well,'
an' every tam she onderstan'. But now--"

A sob choked the speaker; he opened his tight-shut eyes and stared
miserably at the two old men. "I call to her an' she don' hear.
Wat I'm goin' do, eh?"

Neither Linton nor Quirk made reply. 'Poleon leaned forward;
fiercely he inquired:

"Which one of you feller' is de bes' man? Which one is go to
church de mos'?"

Tom and Jerry exchanged glances. It was the latter who spoke:

"Tom--this gentleman-knows more about churches than I do. He was
married in one."

Mr. Linton nodded. "But that was thirty years ago, so I ain't what
you'd call a regular attendant. I used to carry my religion in my
wife's name, when I had a wife."

"You can pray?"

Tom shook his head doubtfully. "I'd be sure to make a mess of it."

Doret sank to a seat; he lowered his head upon his hands. "Me,
too," he confessed. "Every hour I mak' prayer in my heart, but--I
can't spik him out."

"If I was a good talker I'd take a crack at it," Jerry ventured,
"but--I'd have to be alone."

Doret's lips had begun to move; his companions knew that he was
voicing a silent appeal, so they lowered their eyes. For some
moments the only sound in the tent was the muttering of the
delirious girl.

Linton spoke finally; his voice was low, it was husky with
emotion: "I've been getting acquainted with myself to-night--first
time in a long while. Things look different than they did. What's
the good of fighting, what's the use of hurrying and trampling on
each other when this is the end? Gold! It won't buy anything worth
having. You're right, Doret; somebody to love and to care for,
somebody that cares for you, that's all there is in the game. I
had dreams, too, when I was a lot younger, but they didn't last.
It's bad, for a man to quit dreaming; he gets mean and selfish and
onnery. Take me--I ain't worth skinning. I had a kid--little girl-
-I used to tote her around in my arms. Funny how it makes you feel
to tote a baby that belongs to you; seems like all you've got is
wrapped up in it; you live two lives. My daughter didn't stay
long. I just got started loving her when she went away. She was--
awful nice."

The speaker blinked, for his eyes were smarting. "I feel, somehow,
as if she was here to-night--as if this girl was her and I was her
daddy. She might have looked something like this young lady if she
had lived. She would have made a big difference in me."

Tom felt a hand seek his. It was a bony, big-knuckled hand not at
all like 'Poleon Doret's. When it gave his fingers a strong, firm,
friendly pressure his throat contracted painfully. He raised his
eyes, but they were blurred; he could distinguish nothing except
that Jerry Quirk had sidled closer and that their shoulders all
but touched.

Now Jerry, for all of his crabbedness, was a sentimentalist; he
also was blind, and his voice was equally husky when he spoke:

"I'd of been her daddy, too, wouldn't I, Tom? We'd of shared her,
fifty-fifty. I've been mean to you, but I'd of treated her all
right. If you'll forgive me for the things I've said to you maybe
the Lord will forgive me for a lot of other things. Anyhow, I'm
goin' to do a little rough prayin' for this kid. I'm goin' to ask
Him to give her a chance."

Mr. Quirk did pray, and if he made a bad job of it, as he more
than suspected, neither of his earthly hearers noticed the fact,
for his words were honest, earnest. When he had finished Tom
Linton's arm was around his shoulders; side by side the old men
sat for a long time. Their heads were bowed; they kept their eyes
upon Rouletta Kirby's face. Doret stood over them, motionless and
intense; they could hear him sigh and they could sense his
suffering. When the girl's pain caused her to cry out weakly, he
knelt and whispered words of comfort to her.

Thus the night wore on.

The change came an hour or two before dawn and the three men
watched it with their hearts in their throats. Mutely they
questioned one another, deriving deep comfort from each
confirmatory nod and gesture, but for some time they dared not
voice their growing hope. Rouletta's fever was breaking, they felt
sure; she breathed more deeply, more easily, and she coughed less.
Her discomfort lessened, too, and finally, when the candle-light
grew feeble before the signs of coming day, she fell asleep. Later
the men rose and stole out of the tent into the cold.

Doret was broken. He was limp, almost lifeless; there were deep
lines about his eyes, but, nevertheless, they sparkled.

"She's goin' get well," he said, uncertainly. "I'm goin' teach dat
li'l bird to fly again."

The partners nodded.

"Sure as shootin'," Jerry declared.

"Right-o!" Linton agreed. "Now then"--he spoke in an energetic,
purposeful tone--"I'm going to put Jerry to bed while I nail that
infernal boat together again."

"Not much, you ain't!" Jerry exclaimed. "You know I couldn't sleep
a wink without you, Tom. What's more, I'll never try."

Arm in arm the two partners set off down the river-bank. 'Poleon
smiled after them. When they were out of sight he turned his face
up to the brightening sky and said, aloud:

"Bon Dieu, I t'ank you for my sister's life."

 Pierce Phillips awoke from a cramped and troubled slumber to find
himself lying upon a pile of baggage in the stern of a skiff. For
a moment he remained dazed; then he was surprised to hear the
monotonous creak of oars and to feel that he was in motion. A fur
robe had been thrown over him; it was powdered with snowflakes,
but it had kept him warm. He sat up to discover Laure facing him.

"Hello!" said he. "You here?"

The girl smiled wearily. "Where did you think I'd be? Have a good
sleep?"

He shrugged and nodded, and, turning his eyes shoreward, saw that
the forest was flowing slowly past. The boat in which he found
himself was stowed full of impedimenta; forward of Laure a man was
rowing listlessly, and on the seat beyond him were two female
figures bundled to the ears in heavy wraps. They were the 'coon-
shouting sisters whose song had drawn Pierce into the Gold Belt
Saloon the evening before. In the distance were several other
boats.

"You feel tough, I'll bet." Laure's voice was sympathetic.

After a moment of consideration Pierce shook his head. "No," said
he. "I feel fine--except that I'm hungry. I could eat a log-
chain."

"No headache?"

"None. Why?"

Laure's brown eyes widened in admiration and astonishment.
"Jimminy! You're a hound for punishment. You must have oak ribs.
Were you weaned on rum?"

"I never took a drink until last night. I'm a rank amateur."

"Really!" The girl studied him with renewed interest. "What set
you off?"

Pierce made no answer. His face seemed fixed in a frown. His was a
tragic past; he could not bear to think of it, much less could he
speak of it. Noting that the oarsman appeared to be weary, Pierce
volunteered to relieve him, an offer which was quickly accepted.
As he seated himself and prepared to fall to work Laure advised
him:

"Better count your money and see if it's all there."

He did as directed. "It's all here," he assured her.

She flashed him a smile, then crept into the place he had vacated
and drew up the robe snugly. Pierce wondered why she eyed him with
that peculiar intentness. Not until she had fallen asleep did he
suspect with a guilty start that the robe was hers and that she
had patiently waited for him to finish his sleep while she herself
was drooping with fatigue. This suspicion gave him a disagreeable
shock; he began to give some thought to the nature of his new
surroundings. They were of a sort to warrant consideration; for a
long time he rowed mechanically, a frown upon his brow.

In the first place, he was amazed to find how bravely he bore the
anguish of a breaking heart, and how little he desired to do away
with himself. The world, strangely enough, still remained a
pleasant place, and already the fret for new adventure was
stirring in him. He was not happy--thoughts of Hilda awoke real
pain, and his sense of injury burned him like a brand--
nevertheless, he could not make himself feel so utterly hopeless,
so blackly despondent as the circumstances plainly warranted. He
was, on the whole, agreeably surprised at his powers of resistance
and of recuperation, both physical and emotional. For instance, he
should by all means experience a wretched reaction from his
inebriety; as a matter of fact, he had never felt better in his
life; his head was clear, he was ravenously hungry. Then, too, he
was not altogether hopeless; it seemed quite probable that he and
Hilda would again meet, in which event there was no telling what
might happen. Evidently liquor agreed with him; in his case it was
not only an anodyne, but also a stimulus, spurring him to
optimistic thought and independent action. Yes, whisky roused a
fellow's manhood. It must be so, otherwise he would never have
summoned the strength to snap those chains which bound him to the
Countess Courteau, or the reckless courage to embark upon an
enterprise so foreign to his tastes and to his training as this
one.

His memory of the later incidents of the night before was somewhat
indistinct, as was his recollection of the scene when he had
served his notice upon the Countess. Of this much he felt certain,
however, he had done the right thing in freeing himself from a
situation that reflected discredit upon his manhood. Whether he
had acted wisely by casting in his lot with Morris Best's outfit
was another matter altogether. He was quite sure he had not acted
wisely, but there is a satisfaction at certain times in doing what
we know to be the wrong thing.

Pierce was no fool; even his limited experience in the North had
taught him a good deal about the character of dance-hall women and
of the men who handled them; he was in no wise deceived,
therefore, by the respectability with which the word "theatrical"
cloaked this troupe of wanderers; it gave him a feeling of extreme
self-consciousness to find himself associated with such folk; he
felt decidedly out of place.

What would his people think? And the Countess Courteau? Well, it
would teach her that a man's heart was not a football; that a
man's love was not to be juggled with. He had made a gesture of
splendid recklessness; he would take the consequences.

In justice to the young man, be it said he had ample cause for
resentment, and whatever of childishness he displayed was but
natural, for true balance of character is the result of
experience, and as yet he had barely tasted life.

As for the girl Laure, she awoke no real interest in him, now that
he saw her in the light of day; he included her in his general,
vague contempt for all women of her type. There was, in fact, a
certain contamination in her touch. True, she was a little
different from the other members of the party-greatly different
from Pierce's preconceived ideas of the "other sort"--but not
sufficiently different to matter. It is the privilege of arrogant
youth to render stern and conclusive judgment.

Best waved his party toward the shore shortly before dusk. A
landing-place was selected, tents, bedding, and paraphernalia were
unloaded; then, while the women looked on, the boatmen began
pitching camp. The work had not gone far before Phillips
recognized extreme inefficiency in it. Confusion grew, progress
was slow, Best became more and more excited. Irritated at the
general ineptitude, Pierce finally took hold of things and in a
short time had made all snug for the night.

Lights were glowing in the tents when he found his way through the
gloom to the landing in search of his own belongings. Seated on
the gunwale of a skiff he discovered Laure.

"I've been watching you," she said. "You're a handy man."

He nodded. "Is this the way Best usually makes camp?"

"Sure. Only it usually takes him much longer. I'll bet he's glad
he hired you."

Pierce murmured something.

"Are you glad he did?"

"Why, yes--of course."

"What do you think of the other girls?"

"I haven't paid much attention to them," he told her, frankly.

There was a moment's pause; then Laure said:

"Don't!"

"Eh?"

"I say, don't!"

Phillips shrugged. In a world-weary, cynical tone he asserted,
"Women don't interest me."

"What ails you to-day?" Laure inquired, curiously.

"Nothing. I'm not much of a ladies' man, that's all."

"Yes, you are. Anyhow, you were last night."

"I was all tuned up, then," he explained. "That's not my normal
pitch."

"Don't you like me as well as you did?"

"Why--certainly."

"Is there another woman?"

"'Another'?" Pierce straightened himself. "There's not even one.
What difference would it make if there were?"

"Oh, none." Laure's teeth flashed through the gloom. "I was just
curious. Curiosity killed a cat, didn't it? Will you help me up
the bank?"

Pierce took the speaker's arm; together they climbed the gravelly
incline toward the illumination from the cook fire. In the edge of
the shadows Laure halted and her hand slipped down over Pierce's.

"Remember!" she said, meaningly. "Don't--or you'll hear from me."




CHAPTER XVII


Laure had no cause to repeat her admonition, for, in the days that
followed, Pierce Phillips maintained toward the women members of
the party an admirable attitude of aloofness. He was not rude,
neither was he discourteous; he merely isolated himself from them
and discouraged their somewhat timid advances toward friendship.
This doubtless would have met with Laure's whole-hearted approval
had he not treated her in precisely the same way. She had at first
assumed a somewhat triumphant air of proprietorship toward him,
but this quickly gave way to something entirely different. They
began to know each other, to be sure; for hours upon end they were
together, which could have resulted in nothing less than a
thorough acquaintance; notwithstanding this, there lurked behind
Phillips' friendly interest an emotional apathy that piqued the
girl and put her on her mettle. She hid her chagrin under an
assumption of carelessness, but furtively she studied him, for
every hour he bulked bigger to her. He exercised a pronounced
effect upon her; his voice, his laughter, brought a light and a
sparkle to her eyes; she could not rest when he was out of her
sight. His appeal, unconscious on his part, struck to the very
core of her being. To discover that she lacked a similar appeal
for him roused the girl to desperation; she lay awake nights,
trying to puzzle out the reason, for this was a new experience to
her. Recalling their meeting and the incidents of that first night
at White Horse, she realized that here was a baffling secret and
that she did not possess the key to it.

One night the truth came home to her. Best had made camp later
than usual, and as a result had selected a particularly bad spot
for it--a brushy flat running back from a high, overhanging bank
beneath which ran a swirling eddy.

The tents were up, a big camp-fire was blazing brightly, when
Pierce Phillips, burdened with a huge armful of spruce boughs and
blinded by the illumination, stepped too close to the river's rim
and felt the soil beneath him crumble away. Down he plunged, amid
an avalanche of earth and gravel; the last sound he heard before
the icy waters received him was Laure's affrighted scream. An
instant later he had seized a "sweeper," to which he clung until
help arrived. He was wet to the skin, of course; his teeth were
chattering by the time he had regained the camp-fire. Of the
entire party, Laure alone had no comment to make upon the
accident. She stood motionless, leaning for support against a
tent-pole, her face hidden in her hands. Best's song-birds were
noisily twittering about Pierce; Best himself was congratulating
the young man upon his ability to swim, when Laure spoke, sharply,
imperiously:

"Somebody find his dry things, quickly. And you, Morris, get your
whisky."

While one of the men ran for Pierce's duffle-bag, Best came
hurrying with a bottle which he proffered to Pierce. The latter
refused it, asserting that he was quite all right; but Laure
exclaimed:

"Drink! Take a good one, then go into our tent and change as fast
as you can."

"Sure!" the manager urged. "Don't be afraid of good liquor. There
isn't much left. Drink it all."

A short time later, when Pierce reappeared, clad in dry garments,
he felt none the worse for his mishap, but when he undertook to
aid in the preparations for the night he suspected that he had
taken his employer's orders too literally, for his brain was
whirling. Soon he discovered that his movements were awkward and
his hands uncertain, and when his camp-mates began to joke he
desisted with a laughing confession that he had imbibed too much.

Laure drew him out of hearing, then inquired, anxiously, "Are you
all right again?"

"Sure! I feel great."

"I--I thought I'd die when I saw you disappear." She shuddered and
hid her face in her hands for a second time. It was quite dark
where they stood; they were sheltered from observation.

"Served me right," he declared. "Next time I'll look where--" He
halted in amazement. "Why, Laure, I believe you're crying!"

She lifted her face and nodded. "I'm frightened yet." She laid
trembling, exploratory hands upon him, as if to reassure herself
of his safety. "Pierce! Pierce!" she exclaimed, brokenly.

Suddenly Phillips discovered that this girl's concern affected him
deeply, for it was genuine--it was not in the least put on. All at
once she seemed very near to him, very much a part of himself. His
head was spinning now and something within him had quickened
magically. There was a new note in his voice when he undertook to
reassure his companion. At his first word Laure looked up,
startled; into her dark eyes, still misty with tears, there flamed
a light of wonder and of gladness. She swayed closer; she took the
lapels of his coat between her gloved fingers and drew his head
down to hers; then she kissed him full upon the lips. Slowly,
resolutely, his arms encircled her.

On the following morning Laure asked Morris Best for a bottle of
whisky. The evenings were growing cold and some of the girls
needed a stimulant while camp was being pitched, she explained.
The bottle she gave to Pierce, with a request to stow it in his
baggage for safekeeping, and that night when they landed, cramped
and chilly, she prevailed upon him to open it and to drink. The
experiment worked. Laure began to understand that when Pierce
Phillips' blood flowed warmly, when he was artificially
exhilarated, then he saw her with the eyes of a lover. It was not
a flattering discovery, but the girl contented herself, for by now
she was desperate enough to snatch at straws. Thenceforth she
counted upon strong drink as her ally.

The closing scenes of the great autumn stampede to Dawson were
picturesque, for the rushing river was crowded with boats all
racing with one another. 'Neath lowering skies, past ghostly
shores seen dimly through a tenuous curtain of sifting snowflakes,
swept these craft; they went by ones and by twos, in groups and in
flotillas; hourly the swirling current bore them along, and as the
miles grew steadily less the spirits of the crews mounted. Loud
laughter, songs, yells of greeting and encouragement, ran back and
forth; a triumphant joyfulness, a Jovian mirth, animated these men
of brawn, for they had met the North and they had bested her.
Restraint had dropped away by now, and they reveled in a new-found
freedom. There was license in the air, for Adventure was afoot and
the Unknown beckoned.

Urged on by oar and sweep, propelled by favoring breezes, the
Argonauts pressed forward exultantly. At night their roaring camp-
fires winked at one another like beacon lights along some friendly
channel. Unrolling before them was an endless panorama of spruce
and birch and cottonwood, of high hills white with snow, of
unexplored valleys dark with promise. As the Yukon increased in
volume it became muddy, singing a low, hissing song, as if the
falling particles of snow melted on its surface and turned to
steam.

Out of all the traffic that flowed past the dance-hall party,
among all the boats they overhauled and left behind, Pierce
Phillips nowhere recognized the Countess Courteau's outfit.
Whether she was ahead or whether they had outdistanced her he did
not know and inquiry rewarded him with no hint.

During this journey a significant change gradually came over the
young man. Familiarity, a certain intimacy with his companions,
taught him much, and in time he forgot to look upon them as
pariahs. Best, for instance, proved to be an irritable but good-
hearted little Hebrew; he developed a genuine fondness for Pierce,
which he took every occasion to show, and Pierce grew to like him.
The girls, too, opened their hearts and made him feel their
friendship. For the most part they were warm, impulsive creatures,
and Pierce was amazed to discover how little they differed from
the girls he had known at home. Among their faults he discovered
unusual traits of character; there was not a little kindliness,
generosity, and of course much cheerfulness. They were free-handed
with what they had; they were ready with a smile, a word of
encouragement or of sympathy; they were absurdly grateful, too,
for the smallest favor or the least act of kindness. Moreover,
they behaved themselves extremely well.

They were an education to Phillips; he acknowledged that he had
gravely misjudged them, and he began to suspect that they had
taught him something of charity.

As for Laure, he knew her very well by now and she knew him--even
better. This knowledge had come to them not without cost--wisdom
is never cheap--but precisely what each of them had paid or was
destined to pay for their better understanding of each other they
had not the slightest idea. One thing the girl by this time had
made sure of, viz., when Pierce was his natural self he felt her
appeal only faintly. On the other hand, the moment he was not his
natural self, the moment his pitch was raised, he saw allurements
in her, and at such times they met on common ground. She made the
most of this fact.

Dawson City burst into view of the party without warning, and no
El Dorado could have looked more promising. Hounding a bend of the
river, they beheld a city of logs and canvas sprawled between the
stream and a curving mountain-side. The day was still and clear,
hence vertical pencil-markings of blue smoke hung over the roofs;
against the white background squat dwellings stood out distinctly,
like diminutive dolls' houses. Upon closer approach the river
shore was seen to be lined with scows and rowboats; a stern-
wheeled river steamer lay moored abreast of the town. Above it a
valley broke through from the north, out of which poured a flood
of clear, dark water. It was the valley of the Klondike, magic
word.

The journey was ended. Best's boats were unloaded, his men had
been paid off, and now his troupe had scattered, seeking lodgings.
As in a dream Pierce Phillips joined the drifting current of
humanity that flowed through the long front streets and eddied
about the entrances of amusement places. He asked himself if he
were indeed awake, if, after all, this was his Ultima Thule?
Already the labor, the hardship, the adventure of the trip seemed
imaginary; even the town itself was unreal. Dawson was both a
disappointment and a satisfaction to Pierce. It was not what he
had expected and it by no means filled the splendid picture he had
painted in his fancy. Crude, raw, unfinished, small, it was little
more than Dyea magnified. But in enterprise it was tremendous;
hence it pleased and it thrilled the youth. He breathed its
breath, he drank the wine of its intoxication, he walked upon air
with his head in the clouds.

Pierce longed for some one to whom he could confide his feeling of
triumph, but nowhere did he recognize a face. Finally he strolled
into one of the larger saloons and gambling-houses, and was
contentedly eying the scene when he felt a gaze fixed upon him. He
turned his head, opened his lips to speak, then stiffened in his
tracks. He could not credit his senses, for there, lounging at
ease against the bar, his face distorted into an evil grin, stood
Joe McCaskey!

Pierce blinked; he found that his jaw had dropped in amazement.
McCaskey enjoyed the sensation he had created; he leered at his
former camp-mate, and in his expression was a hint of that same
venom he had displayed when he had run the gauntlet at Sheep Camp
after his flogging, He broke the spell of Pierce's amazement and
proved himself to be indeed a reality by uttering a greeting.

Pierce was inclined to ignore the salutation, but curiosity got
the better of him and he answered:

"Well! This is a surprise. Do you own a pair of seven-league boots
or--what?"

McCaskey bared his teeth further. In triumph he said: "Thought
you'd lost me, didn't you? But I fooled you-fooled all of you. I
jumped out to the States and caught the last boat for St. Michael,
made connections there with the last up-river packet, and--here I
am. I don't quit; I'm a finisher."

Pierce noted the emphasis with which Joe's last words were
delivered, but as yet his curiosity was unsatisfied. He wondered
if the fellow was sufficiently calloused to disregard his
humiliating experience or if he proposed in some way to conceal
it. Certainly he had not evaded recognition, nor had he made the
slightest attempt to alter his appearance. From his bold
insouciance it seemed evident that he was totally indifferent as
to who recognized him. Either the man possessed moral courage of
the extremest sort or else an unbelievable effrontery.

As for Pierce, he was deeply resentful of Joe's false accusation--
the memory of that was ineradicable--nevertheless, in view of the
outcome of that cowardly attempt, he had no desire for further
revenge. It seemed to him that the fellow had been sufficiently
punished for his misdeed; in fact, he could have found it easy to
feel sorry for him had it not been for the ill-concealed malice in
Joe's present tone and attitude.

He was upon the point of answering Joe's indirect threat with a
warning, when his attention was attracted to a short, thick-set,
nervous man at his elbow. The latter had edged close and was
staring curiously at him. He spoke now, saying:

"So you're Phillips, eh?"

It was Joe who replied: "Sure. This is him."

There was no need of an introduction. Pierce recognized the
stranger as another McCaskey, for the family likeness was stamped
upon his features. During an awkward moment the two men eyed each
other, and Joe McCaskey appeared to gloat as their glances
clashed.

"This is Frank," the latter explained, with a malicious grin. "He
and Jim was pals. And, say! Here's another guy you ought to meet."
He laid a hand upon still a second stranger, a man leaning across
the bar in conversation with a white-aproned attendant. "Count,
here's that fellow I told you about."

The man addressed turned, exposing a handsome, smiling blond face
ornamented with a well-cared-for mustache. "I beg pardon?" he
exclaimed, vacuously.

"Meet Phillips. He can give you some dope on your wife." Joe
chuckled. Phillips flushed; then he paled; his face hardened.

"Ah! To be sure." Count Courteau bowed, but he did not extend his
hand. "Phillips! Yes, yes. I remember. You will understand that
I'm distracted for news of Hilda. She is with you, perhaps?"

"I left her employ at White Horse. If she's not here, she'll
probably arrive soon."

"Excellent; I shall surprise her."

Pierce spoke dryly. "I'm afraid it won't be so much of a surprise
as you think. She rather expects you." With a short nod and with
what pretense of carelessness he could assume he moved on toward
the rear of the building, whence came the sounds of music and the
voice of a dance-hall caller.

For some time he looked on blindly at the whirling figures. Joe
McCaskey here! And Count Courteau! What an astonishing
coincidence! And yet there was really nothing so remarkable about
it; doubtless the same ship had brought them north, in which event
they could not well have avoided a meeting. Pierce remembered
Hilda's prophecy that her indigent husband would turn up, like a
bad penny. His presence was agitating--for that matter, so was the
presence of Joe McCaskey's brother Frank, as yet an unknown
quantity. That he was an enemy was certain; together, he and Joe
made an evil team, and Pierce was at a loss just how to meet them.

Later, when he strolled out of the saloon, he saw the three men
still at the bar; their heads were together; they were talking
earnestly.




CHAPTER XVIII


Rouletta Kirby was awakened by the sound of chopping; in the
still, frosty morning the blows of the ax rang out loudly. For a
moment she lay staring upward at the sloping tent-roof over her
bed, studying with sleepy interest the frost-fringe formed by her
breath during the night. This fringe was of intricate design; it
resembled tatters of filmy lace and certain fragments of it hung
down at least a foot, a warning that the day was to be extremely
cold. But Rouletta needed no proof of that fact beyond the
evidence of her nose, the tip of which was like ice and so stiff
that she could barely wrinkle it. She covered it now with a warm
palm and manipulated it gently, solicitously.

There was a damp, unpleasant rime of hoar-frost standing on the
edge of her fur robe, and this she gingerly turned back.
Cautiously she freed one arm, then raised herself upon her elbow.
Reaching up, she struck the taut canvas roof a sharp blow; then
with a squeak, like the cry of a frightened marmot, she dodged
under cover just in time to avoid the frosty shower.

The chopping abruptly ceased. 'Poleon's voice greeted her gaily:
"Bon jour, ma soeur! By golly! You gettin' be de mos' lazy gal!
I'spect you sleep all day only I mak' beeg noise."

"Good morning!" Rouletta's voice was muffled. As if repeating a
lesson, she ran on: "Yes, I feel fine. I had a dandy sleep; didn't
cough and my lungs don't hurt. And no bad dreams. So I want to get
up. There! I'm well."

"You hongry, too, I bet, eh?"

"Oh, I'm dying. And my nose--it won't work."

Doret shouted his laughter. "You wait. I mak' fire queeck an' cook
de breakfas', den--you' nose goin' work all right. I got beeg
s'prise for dat li'l nose to-day."

The top of Rouletta's head, her eyes, then her mouth, came
cautiously out from hiding.

"What is it, 'Poleon? Something to eat?"

"Sapre! What I tol' you? Every minute 'eat, eat'! You' worse dan
harmy of Swede'. I ain't goin' tol' you what is dis s'prise--
bimeby you smell him cookin'."

"Moose meat!" Rouletta cried.

"No'" 'Poleon vigorously resumed his labor every stroke of the ax
was accompanied by a loud "Huh!" "I tol' you not'in'!" he
declared; then after a moment he voiced one word, "Caribou!"

Again Rouletta uttered a famished cry.

Soon the tent strings were drawn and the axman pushed through the
door, his arms full of dry spruce wood. He stood smiling down at
the face framed snugly in the fox fur; then he dropped his burden
and knelt before the stove. In a moment there came a promising
crackle, followed quickly by an agreeable flutter which grew into
a roar as the stove began to draw.

"CARIBOU!" Rouletta's eyes were bright with curiosity and an
emotion far more material. "Where in the world--?"

"Some hinjun hunter mak' beeg kill. I got more s'prise as dat,
too. By golly! Dis goin' be regular Chris'mas for you."

Rouletta stirred. There was stubborn defiance in her tone when she
said: "I'm going to get up and I'm--going--outdoors--clothes or no
clothes. I'll wrap the robe around me and play I'm a squaw." She
checked 'Poleon's protest. "Oh, I'm perfectly well, and the
clothes I have are thick enough."

"Look out you don' froze yourse'f. Dat pretty dress you got is
give you chillsblain in Haugust." The speaker blew upon his
fingers and sat back upon his heels, his eyes twinkling, his brown
face wreathed in smiles.

"Then I can do it? You'll let me try?" Rouletta was all eagerness.

"We'll talk 'bout dat bimeby. First t'ing we goin' have beeg
potlatch, lak Siwash weddin'."

"Goody! Now run away while I get up."

But the man shook his head. "Don' be soch hurry. Dis tent warm
slow. Las' night de reever is froze solid so far you look. Pretty
queeck people come."

"Do you think they'll have extra clothes--something warm that I
can wear?"

"Sure! I fix all dat." Still smiling, 'Poleon rose and went
stooping out of the tent, tying the flaps behind him. A few rods
distant was another shelter which he had pitched for himself; in
front of it, on a pole provision-cache, were two quarters of
frozen caribou meat, and seated comfortably in the snow beneath,
eyes fixed upon the prize, were several "husky" dogs of unusual
size. At 'Poleon's appearance they began to caper and to fawn upon
him.

"Ho, you ole t'iefs!" he cried, sternly. "You lak steal dose meat,
I bet! Wal, I eat you 'live." Stretching on tiptoe, he removed one
of the quarters and bore it into his tent. The dogs gathered just
outside the door; cautiously they nosed the canvas aside; and as
'Poleon set to work with hatchet and hunting-knife their bright
eyes followed his every move.

"Non!" he exclaimed, with a ferocious frown. "You don't get so
much as li'l smell. You t'ink ma soeur goin' hongry to feed
loafer' lak you?" Bushy gray tails began to stir, the heads came
farther forward, there was a most unmannerly licking of chops. "By
Gar! You sound lak' miner-man eatin' soup. Wat for you'spect nice
grub? You don' work none." 'Poleon removed a layer of fat, divided
it, and tossed a portion to each animal. The morsels vanished with
a single gulp, with one wolfish click of sharp white teeth, "No, I
give you not'in'."

For no reason whatever the speaker broke into loud laughter; then,
to further relieve his bubbling joyousness, he began to hum a
song. As he worked his song grew louder, until its words were
audible to the girl in the next tent.

"Oh, la voix du beau Nord qui m'appelle, Pour benir avec lui le
jour, Et desormais toute peine cruelle Fuira devant mon chant
d'amour. D'amour, d'amour." ("Oh, the voice of the North is a-
calling me, To join in the praise of the day, So whatever the fate
that's befalling me, I'll sing every sorrow away. Away, away.")

The Yukon stove was red-hot now, and Rouletta Kirby's tent was
warm. She seated herself before a homely little dresser fashioned
from two candle-boxes, and began to arrange her hair. Curiously
she examined the comb and brush. They were, or had been,
'Poleon's; so was the pocket-mirror hanging by a safety-pin to the
canvas wall above. Rouletta recalled with a smile the flourish of
pride with which he had presented to her this ludicrous bureau and
its fittings. Was there ever such a fellow as this Doret? Was
there ever a heart so big, so kind? A stranger, it seemed to the
girl that she had known him always. There had been days--days
interminable--when he had seemed to be some dream figure; an
indistinct, unreal being at once familiar and unfamiliar, friendly
and forbidding; then other days during which he had gradually
assumed substance and actuality and during which she had come to
know him. Following her return to sanity, Rouletta had experienced
periods of uncertainty and of terror, then hours of embarrassment
the mere memory of which caused her to shrink and to hide her
head. Those were times of which, even yet, she could not bear to
think. Hers had been a slow recovery and a painful, nay a tragic,
awakening, but, as she had gained the strength and the ability to
understand and to suffer, 'Poleon, with a tact and a
thoughtfulness unexpected in one of his sort, had dropped the
character of nurse and assumed the role of friend and protector.
That had been Rouletta's most difficult ordeal, the most trying
time for both of them, in fact; not one man in ten thousand could
have carried off such an awkward situation at a cost so low to a
woman's feelings. It was, of course, the very awkwardness of that
situation, together with 'Poleon's calm, courageous method of
facing it, that had given his patient the strength to meet him
half-way and that had made her convalescence anything less than a
torture.

And the manner in which he had allowed her to learn all the truth
about herself--bit by bit as her resistance grew--his sympathy,
his repression, his support! He had to know just how far to go; he
had spared her every possible heartache, he had never permitted
her to suffer a moment of trepidation as to herself. No. Her first
conscious feeling, now that she recalled it, had been one of
implicit, unreasoning faith in him. That confidence had increased
with every hour; dismay, despair, the wish to die had given place
to resignation, then to hope, and now to a brave self-confidence.
Rouletta knew that her deliverance had been miraculous and that
this man, this total stranger, out of the goodness of his heart,
had given her back her life. She never ceased pondering over it.

She was now sitting motionless, comb and brush in hand, when
'Poleon came into the tent for a second time and aroused her from
her abstraction. She hastily completed her toilette, and was
sitting curled up on her bed when the aroma of boiling coffee and
the sound of frying steak brought her to her feet. With a noisy
clatter she enthusiastically arranged the breakfast dishes.

"How wonderful it is to have an appetite in the morning!" said
she; then: "This is the last time you're going to cook. You may
chop the wood and build the fires, but I shall attend to the rest.
I'm quite able."

"Bien!" The pilot smiled his agreement. "Everybody mus' work to be
happy--even dose dog. Wat you t'ink? Dey loaf so long dey begin
fight, jus' lak' people." He chuckled. "Pretty queeck we hitch her
up de sled an' go fly to Dyea. You goin' henjoy dat, ma soeur.
Mebbe we meet dose cheechako' comin' in an' dey holler: 'Hallo,
Frenchy! How's t'ing' in Dawson?' an' we say: 'Pouf! We don' care
'bout Dawson; we goin' home.'"

"Home!" Rouletta paused momentarily in her task.

"Sure! Now--voila,! Breakfas' she's serve in de baggage-car. "With
a flourish he poured the coffee, saying, "Let's see if you so
hongry lak you pretend, or if I'm goin' keep you in bed some
more."

Rouletta's appetite was all--yes, more--than she had declared it
to be. The liberality with which she helped herself to oatmeal,
her lavish use of the sugar--spoon, and her determined attack upon
the can of "Carnation" satisfied any lingering doubts in Doret's
mind. Her predatory interest in the appetizing contents of the
frying-pan--she eyed it with the greedy hopefulness of a healthy
urchin--also was eloquent of a complete recovery and brought a
thrill of pride to her benefactor.

"Gosh! I mak' bad nurse for hospital," he grinned. "You eat him
out of house an' lot." He finished his meal, then looked on until
Rouletta leaned back with regretful satisfaction; thereupon he
broke out:

"Wal, I got more s'prise for you."

"You--you can't surprise a toad, and--I feel just like one. Isn't
food good?"

Now Rouletta had learned much about this big woodsman's
peculiarities; among other things she had discovered that he took
extravagant delight in his so-called "s'prises." They were many
and varied, now a titbit to tempt her palate, or again a native
doll which needed a complete outfit of moccasins, cap, and parka,
and which he insisted he had met on the trail, very numb from the
cold; again a pair of rabbit-fur sleeping-socks for herself. That
crude dresser, which he had completed without her suspecting him,
was another. Always he was making or doing something to amuse or
to occupy her attention, and, although his gifts were poor,
sometimes absurdly simple, he had, nevertheless, the power of
investing them with importance. Being vitally interested in all
things, big or little, he stimulated others to share in that
interest. Life was an enjoyable game, inanimate objects talked to
him, every enterprise was tinted imaginary colors, and he
delighted in pretense--welcome traits to Rouletta, whose childhood
had been starved.

"What is my new s'prise?" she queried. But, without answering,
'Poleon rose and left the tent; he was back a moment later with a
bundle in his hands. This bundle he unrolled, displaying a fine
fur parka, the hood of which was fringed with a deep fox-tail
facing, the skirt and sleeves of an elaborate checker-board
pattern of multicolored skins. Gay squirrel-tail streamers
depended from its shoulders as further ornamentation. Altogether
it was a splendid specimen of Indian needlework and Rouletta
gasped with delight.

"How WONDERFUL!" she cried. "Is--it for me?" The pilot nodded.
"Sure t'ing. De purtiest one ever I see. But look!" He called her
attention to a beaver cap, a pair of beaded moose-hide mittens,
and a pair of small fur boots that went with the larger garments--
altogether a complete outfit for winter travel. "I buy him from
dose hinjun hunter. Put him on, queeck."

Rouletta slipped into the parka; she donned cap and mittens; and
'Poleon was in raptures.

"By golly! Dat's beautiful!" he declared. "Now you' fix for sure.
No matter how col' she come, your li'l toes goin' be warm, you
don' froze your nose--"

"You're good and true--and--" Rouletta faltered, then added,
fervently, "I shall always thank God for knowing you."

Now above all things Doret dreaded his "sister's" serious moods or
any expression of her gratitude; he waved her words aside with an
airy gesture and began in a hearty tone:

"We don't stop dis place no longer. To-morrow we start for Dyea.
Wat you t'ink of dat, eh? Pretty queeck you be home." When his
hearer displayed no great animation at the prospect he exclaimed,
in perplexity: "You fonny gal. Ain't you care?"

"I have no home," she gravely told him.

"But your people--dey goin' be glad for see you?"

"I have no people, either. You see, we lived a queer life, father
and I. I was all he had, outside of poor Danny Royal, and he--was
all I had. Home was where we happened to be. He sold everything to
come North; he cut all ties and risked everything on a single
throw. That was his way, our way--all or nothing. I've been
thinking lately; I've asked myself what he would have wished me to
do, and--I've made up my mind."

"So?" 'Poleon was puzzled.

"I'm not going 'outside.' I'm going to Dawson. 'Be a thoroughbred.
Don't weaken.' That's what he always said. Sam Kirby followed the
frontier and he made his money there. Well, I'm his girl, his
blood is in me. I'm going through."

'Poleon's brow was furrowed in deep thought; it cleared slowly.
"Dawson she's bad city, but you're brave li'l gal and--badness is
here," he tapped his chest with a huge forefinger. "So long de
heart she's pure, not'in' goin' touch you." He nodded in better
agreement with Rouletta's decision. "Mebbe so you're right. For
me, I'm glad, very glad, for I t'ink my bird is goin' spread her
wing' an' fly away south lak all de res', but now--bien! I'm
satisfy! We go to Dawson."

"Your work is here," the girl protested. "I can't take you away
from it."

"Fonny t'ing 'bout work," 'Poleon said, with a grin. "Plenty tam I
try to run away from him, but always he catch up wit' me."

"You're a poor man. I can't let you sacrifice too much."

"Poor?" The pilot opened his eyes in amazement. "Mon Dieu! I'm
reech feller. Anybody is reech so long he's well an' happy. Mebbe
I sell my claim."

"Your claim? Have you a claim? At Dawson?"

The man nodded indifferently. "I stake him las' winter. He's
pretty claim to look at--plenty snow, nice tree for cabin, dry
wood, everyt'ing but gold. Mebbe I sell him for beeg price."

"Why doesn't it have any gold?" Rouletta was genuinely curious.

"Why? Biccause I stake him," 'Poleon laughed heartily. "Dose claim
I stake dey never has so much gold you can see wit' your eye. Not
one, an' I stake t'ousan'. Me, I hear dose man talk 'bout million
dollar; I'm drinkin' heavy so I t'ink I be millionaire, too. But
bimeby I'm sober ag'in an' my money she's gone. I'm res'less
feller; I don' stop long no place."

"What makes you think it's a poor claim?"

'Poleon shrugged. "All my claim is poor. Me, I'm onlucky. Mebbe so
I don' care enough for bein' reech. W'at I'll do wit' pile of
money, eh? Drink him up? Gamble? Dat's fun for while. Every spring
I sell my fur an' have beeg tam; two weeks I'm drunk, but--dat's
plenty. Any feller dat's drunk more 'n two weeks is bum. No!" He
shook his head and exposed his white teeth in a flashing smile.
"I'm cut off for poor man. I mak' beeg soccess of dat."

Rouletta studied the speaker silently for a moment. "I know." She
nodded her complete understanding of his type. "Well, I'm not
going to let you do that any more."

"I don' hurt nobody," he protested. "I sing plenty song an' fight
li'l bit. A man mus' got some fun." "Won't you promise--for my
sake?"

'Poleon gave in after some hesitation; reluctantly he agreed. "Eh
bien! Mos' anyt'ing I promise for you, ma soeur. But--she's goin'
be mighty poor trip for me. S'pose mebbe I forget dose promise?"

"I sha'n't let you. I've seen too much drinking--gambling. I'll
hold you to your pledge."

Again the man smiled; there was a light of warm affection in his
eyes. "By Gar! It's nice t'ing to have sister w'at care for you.
When we goin' start for Dawson, eh?"

"To-morrow."




CHAPTER XIX


Every new and prosperous mining-camp has an Arabian Nights
atmosphere, characteristic, peculiar, indescribable. Especially
noticeable was this atmosphere in the early Arctic camps, made up
as they were of men who knew little about mining, rather less
about frontier ways, and next to nothing about the country in
which they found themselves. These men had built fabulous hopes,
they dwelt in illusion, they put faith in the thinnest of shadows.
Now the most practical miner is not a conservative person; he is
erratic, credulous, and extravagant; reasonless optimism is at
once his blessing and his curse. Nevertheless, the "old-timers" of
the Yukon were moderate indeed as compared with the adventurous
holiday-seekers who swarmed in upon their tracks. Being none too
well balanced themselves, it was only natural that the exuberance
of these new arrivals should prove infectious and that a sort of
general auto-intoxication should result. That is precisely what
happened at Dawson. Men lost all caution, all common sense; they
lived in a land of rosy imaginings; hard-bought lessons of
experience were forgotten; reality disappeared; fancy took wing
and left fact behind; expectations were capitalized and no
exaggeration was too wild to challenge acceptance. It became a
City of Frenzy.

It was all very fine for an ardent youth like Pierce Phillips; it
set him ablaze, stirring a fever in his blood. Having won thus
far, he made the natural mistake of believing that the race was
his; so he wasted little time in the town, but very soon took to
the hills, there to make his fortune and be done with it.

Here came his awakening. Away from the delirium of the camp, in
contact with cold reality, he began to learn something of the
serious, practical business of gold-mining. Before he had been
long on the creeks he found that it was no child's play to wrest
treasure from the frozen bosom of a hostile wilderness, and that,
no matter how rich or how plentiful the treasure, Mother Earth
guarded her secrets jealously. He began to realize that the
obstacles he had so blithely overcome in getting to the Klondike
were as nothing to those in the way of his further success. Of a
sudden his triumphal progress slowed down and he came to a pause;
he began to mark time.

There was work in plenty to be had, but, like most of the new-
comers, he was not satisfied to take fixed wages. They seemed
paltry indeed compared with the drunken figures that were on every
lip. In the presence of the uncertain he could not content himself
with a sure thing. Nevertheless, he was soon forced to the
necessity of resorting to it, for through the fog of his
misapprehensions, beneath the obscurity of his ignorance, he began
to discover the true outline of things and to understand that his
ideas were impractical.

To begin with, every foot of ground in the proven districts was
taken, and even when he pushed out far afield he found that the
whole country was plastered with locations: rivers, creeks and
tributaries, benches and hillsides, had been staked. For many
miles in every direction blazed trees and pencil notices greeted
him--he found them in places where it seemed no foot but his had
ever trod. In Dawson the Gold Commissioner's office was besieged
by daily crowds of claimants; it would have taken years of work on
the part of a hundred thousand men to even prospect the ground
already recorded on the books.

Back and forth Phillips came and went, he made trips with pack and
hand-sled, he slept out in spruce forests, in prospectors' tents,
in new cabins the sweaty green logs of which were still dripping,
and when he had finished he was poorer by a good many dollars and
richer only in the possession of a few recorder's receipts, the
value of which he had already begun to doubt.

Disappointed he was, but not discouraged. It was all too new and
exciting for that. Every visit to Bonanza or El Dorado inspired
him. It would have inspired a wooden man. For miles those valleys
were smoky from the sinking fires, and their clean white carpets
were spotted with piles of raw red dirt. By day they echoed to
blows of axes, the crash of falling trees, the plaint of
windlasses, the cries of freighters; by night they became vast
caldrons filled with flickering fires; tremendous vats, the vapors
from which were illuminated by hidden furnaces. One would have
thought that here gold was being made, not sought--that this was a
region of volcanic hot springs where every fissure and vent-hole
spouted steam. It was a strange, a marvelous sight; it stirred the
imagination to know that underfoot, locked in the flinty depths of
the frozen gravel, was wealth unmeasured and unearned, rich hoards
of yellow gold that yesterday were ownerless.

A month of stampeding dulled the keen edge of Pierce's enthusiasm,
so he took a breathing-spell in which to get his bearings.

The Yukon had closed and the human flotsam and jetsam it had borne
thither was settling. Pierce could feel a metamorphic agency at
work in the town; already new habits of life were crystallizing
among its citizens; and beneath its whirlpool surface new forms
were in the making. It alarmed him to realize that as yet his own
affairs were in suspense, and he argued, with all the hot
impatience of youth, that it was high time he came to rest.
Opportunities were on every side of him, but he knew not where or
how to lay hold of them to his best advantage. More than ever he
felt himself to be the toy of circumstance, more than ever he
feared the fallibility of his judgment and the consequences of a
mistake. He was in a mood both dissatisfied and irresolute when he
encountered his two trail friends, Tom Linton and Jerry Quirk.
Pierce had seen them last at Linderman, engaged in prosecuting a
stampeders' divorce; he was surprised to find them reunited.

"I never dreamed you'd get through," he told them, when greetings
had passed. "Did you come in one boat or in two?"

Jerry grinned. "We sawed up that outlaw four times. We'd have
split her end to end finally, only we run out of pitch to cork her
up."

"That boat was about worn out with our bickerings," Tom declared.
"She ain't over half the length she was--all the rest is sawdust.
If the nail-holes in her was laid end to end they'd reach to Forty
Mile. We were the last outfit in, as it was, and we'd of missed a
landing if a feller hadn't run out on the shore ice and roped us.
First town I ever entered on the end of a lariat. Hope I don't
leave it the same way."

"Guess who drug us in," Jerry urged.

"I've no idea," said Pierce.

"Big Lars Anderson."

"Big Lars of El Dorado?"

"He's the party. He was just drunk enough to risk breakin'
through. When he found who we was--well, he gave us the town; he
made us a present of Dawson and all points north, together with
the lands, premises, privileges, and hereditaments appurtenant
thereto. I still got a kind of a hangover headache and have to
take soda after my meals."

"Lars was a sheepman when we knew him," Tom explained. "Jerry and
I purloined him from some prominent cow-gentlemen who had him all
decorated up ready to hang, and he hasn't forgotten it. He got
everybody full the night we landed, and wound up by buying all the
fresh eggs in camp. Forty dozen. We had 'em fried. He's a prince
with his money."

"He owns more property than anybody," said pierce.

"Right! And he gave us a 'lay.'"

Phillips' eyes opened. "A lay? On El Dorado?" he queried, in frank
amazement.

"No. Hunker. He says it's a good creek. We're lookin' for a
pardner."

"What kind of a partner?"

It was Linton who answered. "Well, some nice, easy-going, hard-
working young feller. Jerry and I are pretty old to wind a
windlass, but we can work underground where it's warm."

"'Easy-goin',' that's the word," Jerry nodded. "Tom and me get
along with each other like an order of buckwheat cakes, but we're
set in our ways and we don't want anybody to come between us."

"How would I do?" Pierce inquired, with a smile.

Tom answered promptly. "If your name was put to a vote I know one
of us that wouldn't blackball you."

"Sure!" cried his partner. "The ballot-box would look like a
settin' of pigeon eggs. Think it over and let us know. We're
leavin' to-morrow."

A lease on Hunker Creek sounded good to Phillips. Big Lars
Anderson had been one of the first arrivals from Circle City;
already he was rated a millionaire, for luck had smiled upon him;
his name was one to conjure with. Pierce was about to accept the
offer made when Jerry said:

"Who d'you s'pose got the lay below ours? That feller McCaskey and
his brother."

"McCaskey!"

"He's an old pal of Anderson's."

"Does Big Lars know he's a thief?"

Jerry shrugged. "Lars ain't the kind that listens to scandal and
we ain't the kind that carries it."

Pierce meditated briefly; then he said, slowly, "If your lay turns
out good so will McCaskey's." His frown deepened. "Well, if
there's a law of compensation, if there's such a thing as
retributive justice--you have a bad piece of ground."

"But there ain't any such thing," Tom quickly asserted. "Anyhow,
it don't work in mining-camps. If it did the saloons would be
reading-rooms and the gamblers would take in washing. Look at the
lucky men in this camp--bums, most of 'em. George Carmack was a
squaw-man, and he made the strike."

Pierce felt no fear of Joe McCaskey, only dislike and a desire to
avoid further contact with him. The prospect of a long winter in
close proximity to a proven scoundrel was repugnant. Balanced
against this was the magic of Big Lars' name. It was a problem;
again indecision rose to trouble him.

"I'll think it over," he said, finally.

Farther down the street Phillips' attention was arrested by an
announcement of the opening of the Rialto Saloon and Theater,
Miller & Best, proprietors. Challenged by the name of his former
employer and drawn by the sounds of merriment from within, Pierce
entered. He had seen little of Laure since his arrival; he had all
but banished her from his thoughts, in fact; but he determined now
to look her up.

The Rialto was the newest and the most pretentious of Dawson's
amusement palaces. It comprised a drinking-place with a spacious
gambling-room adjoining. In the rear of the latter was the
theater, a huge log annex especially designed as the home of
Bacchus and Terpsichore.

The front room was crowded; through an archway leading to the
gambling-hall came the noise of many voices, and over all the
strains of an orchestra at the rear. Ben Miller, a famous sporting
character, was busy weighing gold dust at the massive scales near
the door when Pierce entered.

The theater, too, was packed. Here a second bar was doing a
thriving business, and every chair on the floor, every box in the
balcony overhanging three sides of it, was occupied. Waiters were
scurrying up and down the wide stairway; the general hubbub was
punctuated by the sound of exploding corks as the Klondike
spendthrifts advertised their prosperity in a hilarious contest of
prodigality.

All Dawson had turned out for the opening, and Pierce recognized
several of the El Dorado kings, among them Big Lars Anderson.

These new-born magnates were as thriftless as locusts, and in the
midst of their bacchanalian revels Pierce felt very poor, very
obscure. Here was the roisterous spirit of the Northland at full
play; it irked the young man intensely to feel that he could
afford no part in it. Laure was not long in discovering him. She
sped to him with the swiftness of a swallow; breathlessly she
inquired:

"Where have you been so long? Why didn't you let me know you were
back?"

"I just got in. I've been everywhere." He smiled down at her, and
she clutched the lapel of his coat, then drew him out of the
crowd. "I dropped in to see how you were getting along."

"Well, what do you think of the place?"

"Why, it looks as if you'd all get rich in a night."

"And you? Have you done anything for yourself?"

Pierce shook his head; in a few words he recounted his goings and
his comings, his efforts and his failures. Laure followed the
recital with swift, birdlike nods of understanding; her dark ayes
were warm with sympathy.

"You're going at it the wrong way," she asserted when he had
finished. "You have brains; make them work. Look at Best, look at
Miller, his new partner; they know better than to mine. Mining is
a fool's game. Play a sure thing, Pierce. Stay here in town and
live like a human being; here's where the money will be made."

"Do you think I WANT to go flying over hill and dale, like a
tumbleweed? I haven't had warm feet in a week and I weep salt
tears when I see a bed. But I'm no Croesus; I've got to hustle. I
think I've landed something finally." He told of Tom and Jerry's
offer, but failed to impress his listener.

"If you go out to Hunker Creek I'll scarcely ever see you," said
she. "That's the first objection. I've nearly died these last
three weeks. But there are other objections. You couldn't get
along with those old men. Why, they can't get along with each
other! Then there's Joe McCaskey to think of. Why run into
trouble?"

"I've thought of all that. But Big Lars is on the crest of his
wave; he has the Midas touch; everything he lays his hands on
turns to gold. He believes in Hunker--"

"I'll find out if he does," Laure said, quickly. "He's drinking.
He'll tell me anything. Wait!" With a flashing smile she was off.

She returned with an air of triumph. "You'll learn to listen to
me," she declared. "He says Hunker is low grade. That's why he
lets lays on it instead of working it himself. Lars is a fox."

"He said that?"

"The best there is in it is wages. Those were his very words.
Would you put up with Linton and Quirk and the two McCaskeys for
wages? Of course not. I've something better fixed up for you."
Without explaining, she led Pierce to the bar, where Morris Best
was standing.

Best was genuinely glad to see his former employee; he warmly
shook Pierce's hand,

"I've got 'em going, haven't I?" he chuckled.

Laure broke out, imperiously: "Loosen up. Morris, and let's all
have a drink on the house. You can afford it."

"Sure!" With a happy grin the proprietor ordered a quart bottle of
wine. "I can afford more than that for a friend. We put it over,
didn't we, kid?" He linked arms with Pierce and leaned upon him.
"Oy! Such trouble we had with these girls, eh? But we got 'em
here, and now I got Dawson going. I'll be one of these Rockyfeller
magnets, believe me."

Pierce had not tasted liquor since his last farewell to Laure.
Three weeks of hard work in the open air had effected a chemical
change in his make-up, a purification of his tissues, and as a
result Best's liquor mounted quickly to his head and warmed his
blood. When he had emptied his glass Laure saw that it was
promptly refilled.

"So you've cut out the stampeding," Morris continued. "Good!
You've got sense. Let the rough-necks do it. This here Front
Street is the best pay-streak in the Klondike and it won't pinch
out. Why? Because every miner empties his poke into it." The
speaker nodded, and leaned more intimately against Phillips. "They
bring in their Bonanza dust and their El Dorado nuggets and salt
our sluices. That's the system. It's simpler as falling down a
log. What?"

"Come to the good news," Laure urged.

"This little woman hates you, don't she?" Best winked. "Just like
she hates her right eye. You got her going, kid. Well, you can
start work to-morrow."

"Start work? Where?" Pierce was bewildered.

"Miller's looking for a gold-weigher. We'll put you out in the
saloon proper."

"'Saloon proper'?" Pierce shook his head in good-natured refusal.
"I dare say it's the fault of my bringing-up, but--I don't think
there's any such thing. I'm an outdoor person. I'm one of the
rough-necks who salts your sluice-boxes. I think I'd better stick
to the hills. It's mighty nice of you, though, and I'm much
obliged."

"Are you going to take that other offer?" Laure inquired. When
Pierce hesitated she laid hold of his other arm. "I won't let you
go," she cried. "I want you here--"

"Nonsense!" he protested. "I can't do anything for you. I have
nothing--"

"Have I ever asked you for anything?" she blazed at him. "I can
take care of myself, but--I want you. I sha'n't let you go."

"Better think it over," Best declared. "We need a good man."

"Yes!" Laure clung to Pierce's hand. "Don't be in a hurry. Anyhow,
stay and dance with me while we talk about it. We've never had a
dance together. Please!"

The proprietor of the theater was in a genial mood. "Stick
around," he seconded. "Your credit is good and it won't worry me
none if you never take up your tabs. Laure has got the right idea;
play 'em safe and sure, and let the other feller do the work. Now
we'll have another bottle."

The three of them were still standing at the bar when the curtain
fell on the last vaudeville act and the audience swarmed out into
the gambling-room of the main saloon. Hastily, noisily, the chairs
were removed from the dance floor, then the orchestra began a
spirited two-step and a raucous-voiced caller broke into loud
exhortations. In a twinkling the room had refilled, this time with
whirling couples.

Laure raised her arms, she swayed forward into Pierce's embrace,
and they melted into the throng. The girl could dance; she seemed
to float in cadence with the music; she became one with her
partner and answered his every impulse. Never before had she
seemed so utterly and so completely to embody the spirit of
pleasure; she was ardent, alive, she pulsated with enjoyment; her
breath was warm, her dark, fragrant hair brushed Phillips' cheek;
her olive face was slightly flushed; and her eyes, uplifted to
his, were glowing. They voiced adoration, abandon, surrender.

The music ended with a crash; a shout, a storm of applause
followed; then the dancers swarmed to the bar, bearing Pierce and
his companion with them. Laure was panting. She clung fiercely,
jealously, to Phillips' arm.

"Dance with me again. Again! I never knew what it was--" She
trembled with a vibrant ecstasy.

Drinks were set before them. The girl spurned hers, but absent-
mindedly pocketed the pasteboard check that went with it. While
yet Pierce's throat was warm from the spirits there began the
opening measures of a languorous waltz and the crowd swept into
motion again. There was no refusing the invitation of that music.

Later in the evening Phillips found Tom and Jerry; his color was
deeper than usual, his eyes were unnaturally bright.

"I'm obliged to you," he told them, "but I've taken a job as
weigher with Miller & Best. Good luck, and--I hope you strike it
rich."

When he had gone Tom shook his head. His face was clouded with
regret and, too, with a vague expression of surprise.

"Too bad," he said. "I didn't think he was that kind."

"Sure!" Jerry agreed. "I thought he'd make good."




CHAPTER XX


Morris Best's new partner was a square gambler, so called. People
there were who sneered at this description and considered it a
contradiction as absurd as a square circle or an elliptical cube.
An elementary knowledge of the principles of geometry and of the
retail liquor business proved the non-existence of such a thing as
a straight crook, so they maintained. But be that as it may, Ben
Miller certainly differed from the usual run of sporting-men, and
he professed peculiar ideas regarding the conduct of his trade.
Those ideas were almost puritanical in their nature.
Proprietorship of recreation centers similar to the Rialto had
bred in Mr. Miller a profound distrust of women as a sex and of
his own ability successfully to deal with them; in consequence, he
refused to tolerate their presence in his immediate vicinity. That
they were valuable, nay, necessary, ingredients in the success of
an enterprise such as the present one he well knew--Miller was,
above all, a business man--but in making his deal with Best he had
insisted positively that none of the latter's song-birds were ever
to enter the front saloon. That room, Miller maintained, was to be
his own, and he proposed to exercise dominion over it. As for the
gambling-hall, that of necessity was neutral territory and be
reluctantly consented to permit the girls to patronize it so long
as they behaved themselves. For his part, he yielded all
responsibility over the theater, and what went on therein, to
Best. He agreed to stay out of it.

This division of power worked admirably, and Miller's prohibitions
were scrupulously observed. He was angered, therefore, when, one
morning, his rule was broken. At the moment he was engaged in
weighing, checking up, and sacking his previous night's receipts,
he looked up with a frown when a woman's--a girl's--voice
interrupted him.

"Are you Ben Miller?" the trespasser inquired.

Miller nodded shortly. He could be colder than a frog when he
chose.

"I'm looking for work," explained the visitor.

"You got the wrong door," he told her. "You want the dance-hall.
We don't allow women in here."

"So I understand."

Miller's frown deepened. "Well, then, beat it! Saloons are
masculine gender and--"

"I'm not a dance-hall girl, I'm a dealer," the other broke in.

"You're a--WHAT?" Ben's jaw dropped; he stared curiously at the
speaker. She was pretty, very pretty, in a still, dignified way;
she had a fine, intelligent face and she possessed a poise, a
carriage, that challenged attention.

"A dealer? What the deuce can you deal?" he managed to ask.

"Anything--the bank, the wheel, the tub, the cage--"

Disapproval returned to the man's countenance; there was an
admonitory sternness to his voice when he said: "It ain't very
nice to see a kid like you in a place like this. I don't know
where you learned that wise talk, but--cut it out. Go home and
behave yourself, sister. If you're broke, I'll stake you; so'll
anybody, for that matter."

His visitor stirred impatiently. "Let's stick to business. I don't
want a loan. I'm a dealer and I want work."

Morris Best bustled out of the adjoining room at the moment, and,
noting a feminine figure in this forbidden territory, he
exclaimed:

"Hey, miss! Theater's in the rear."

Miller summoned him with a backward jerk of his head. "Morris,
this kid's looking for a job--as dealer," said he.

"Dealer?" Best halted abruptly. "That's funny."

"What is funny about it?" demanded the girl. "My father was a
gambler. I'm Rouletta Kirby."

"Are you Sam Kirby's girl?" Miller inquired. When Rouletta nodded
he removed his hat, then he extended his hand. "Shake," said he.
"Now I've got you. You've had a hard time, haven't you? We heard
about Sam and we thought you was dead. Step in here and set down."
He motioned to the tiny little office which was curtained off from
general view.

Rouletta declined with a smile. "I really want work as a dealer.
That's the only thing I can do well. I came here first because you
have a good reputation."

"Kirby's kid don't have to deal nothing. She's good for any kind
of a stake on his name."

"Dad would be glad to hear that. He was a--great man. He ran
straight." Rouletta's eyes had become misty at Miller's indirect
tribute to her father; nevertheless, she summoned a smile and went
on: "He never borrowed, and neither will I. If you can't put me to
work I'll try somewhere else."

"How did you get down from White Horse?" Miller inquired,
curiously.

"'Poleon Doret brought me."

"I know Doret. He's aces."

"Can you really deal?" Best broke in.

"Come. I'll prove that I can." Rouletta started for the gambling-
room and the two men followed. Best spoke to his partner in a low
voice:

"Say, Ben, if she can make a half-way bluff at it she'll be a big
card. Think of the play she'll get."

But Miller was dubious. "She's nothing but a kid," he protested.
"A dealer has got to have experience, and, besides, she ain't the
kind that belongs in a dump. Somebody'd get fresh and--I'd have to
bust him."

There was little activity around the tables al this hour of the
day; the occupants of the gambling-room were, for the most part,
house employees who were waiting for business to begin. The
majority of these employees were gathered about the faro layout,
where the cards were being run in a perfunctory manner to an
accompaniment of gossip and reminiscence. The sight of Ben Miller
in company with a girl evoked some wonder. This wonder increased
to amazement when Miller ordered the dealer out of his seat; it
became open-mouthed when the girl took his place, then broke a new
deck of cards, deftly shuffled them, and slipped them into the
box. At this procedure the languid lookout, who had been
comfortably resting upon his spine, uncurled his legs, hoisted
himself into an attitude of attention, and leaned forward with a
startled expression upon his face.

The gamblers crowded closer, exchanging expectant glances; Ben
Miller and Morris Best helped themselves to chips and began to
play. These were queer doings; the case-hardened onlookers
prepared to enjoy a mildly entertaining treat. Soon grins began to
appear; the men murmured, they nudged one another, they slapped
one another on the back, for what they saw astonished and
delighted them. The girl dealt swiftly, surely; she handled the
paraphernalia of the faro-table with the careless familiarity of
long practice; but stranger still, she maintained a poise, a
certain reserve and feminine dignity which were totally
incongruous.

When, during a pause, she absent-mindedly shuffled a stack of
chips, the Mocha Kid permitted his feelings to get the better of
him.

"Hang me for a horse-thief!" he snickered. "Will you look at
that?" Now the Mocha Kid was a ribald character, profanity was a
part of him, and blasphemy embellished his casual speech. The
mildness of his exclamation showed that he was deeply moved. He
continued in the same admiring undertone: "I seen a dame once that
could deal a bank, but she couldn't pay and take. This gal can
size up a stack with her eyes shut!"

Nothing could have more deeply intrigued the attention of these
men than the sight of a modest, quiet, well-behaved young woman
exhibiting all the technic of a finished faro-dealer. It was
contrary to their experience, to their ideas of fitness. Mastery
of the gaming-table requires years of practice to acquire, and not
one of these professionals but was as proud of his own dexterity
as a fine pianist; to behold a mere girl possessed of all the
knacks and tricks and mannerisms of the craft excited their
keenest risibilities. In order the more thoroughly to test her
skill several of them bought stacks of chips and began to play in
earnest; they played their bets open, they coppered, they split,
they strung them, and at the finish they called the turn. Rouletta
paid and took; she measured stacks of counters with unerring
facility, she overlooked no bets. She ran out the cards, upset the
box, and began to reshuffle the cards.

"Well, I'm a son of a gun!" declared the lookout. He doubled up in
breathless merriment, he rocked back and forth in his chair, he
stamped his feet. A shout of laughter issued from the others.

Ben Miller closed the cases with a crash. "You'll do," he
announced. "If there's anything you don't know I can't teach it to
you." Then to the bystanders he said: "This is Sam Kirby's girl.
She wants work, and if I thought you coyotes knew how to treat a
lady I'd put her on."

"Say!" The Mocha Kid scowled darkly at his employer. "What kinda
guys do you take us for? What makes you think we don't know--"

He was interrupted by an angry outburst, by a chorus of resentful
protests, the indignant tone of which seemed to satisfy Miller.
The latter shrugged his shoulders and rose. Rouletta stirred as if
to follow suit, but eager hands stayed her, eager voices urged her
to remain.

"Run 'em again, miss," begged Tommy Ryan, the roulette-dealer. Mr.
Ryan was a pale-faced person whose addiction to harmful drugs was
notorious; his extreme pallor and his nervous lack of repose had
gained for him the title of "Snowbird." Tommy's hollow eyes were
glowing, his colorless lips were parted in an engaging smile.
"Please run 'em once more. I 'ain't had so much fun since my wife
eloped with a drummer in El Paso."

Rouletta agreed readily enough, and her admiring audience crowded
closer. Their interest was magnetic, their absorption and their
amusement were communicated to some new-comers who had dropped in.
Before the girl had dealt half the cards these bona-fide customers
had found seats around the table and were likewise playing. They,
too, enjoyed the novel experience, and the vehemence with which
they insisted that Rouletta retain her office proved beyond
question the success of Miller's experiment.

It was not yet midday, nevertheless the news spread quickly that a
girl was dealing bank at the Rialto, and soon other curious
visitors arrived. Among them was Big Lars Anderson. Lars did not
often gamble, but when he did he made a considerable business of
it and the sporting fraternity took him seriously. Anything in the
nature of an innovation tickled the big magnate immensely, and to
evidence his interest in this one he purchased a stack of chips.
Ere long he had lost several hundred dollars. He sent for Miller,
finally, and made a good-natured complaint that the game was too
slow for him.

"Shall I raise the limit?" the proprietor asked of Rouletta. The
girl shrugged indifferently, whereupon the Mocha Kid and the
Snowbird embraced each other and exchanged admiring profanities in
smothered tones.

Big Lars stubbornly backed his luck, but the bank continued to
win, and meanwhile new arrivals dropped in. Two, three hours the
play went on, by which time all Dawson knew that a big game was
running and that a girl was in the dealer's chair. Few of the
visitors got close enough to verify the intelligence without
receiving a sotto voce warning that rough talk was taboo--Miller's
ungodly clan saw to that--and on the whole the warning was
respected. Only once was it disregarded; then a heavy loser
breathed a thoughtless oath. Disapproval was marked, punishment
was condign; the lookout leisurely descended from his eyrie and
floored the offender with a blow from his fist.

When the resulting disturbance had quieted down the defender of
decorum announced with inflexible firmness, but with a total lack
of heat:

"Gents, this is a sort of gospel game, and it's got a certain tone
which we're going to maintain. The limit is off, except on
cussing, but it's mighty low on that. Them of you that are
indisposed to swallow your cud of regrets will have it knocked out
of you."

"Good!" shouted Big Lars. He pounded the table with the flat of
his huge palm. "By Jingo! I'll make that unanimous. If anybody has
to cuss let him take ten paces to the rear and cuss the stove."

It was well along in the afternoon when Rouletta Kirby pushed back
her chair and rose. She was very white; she passed an uncertain
hand over her face, then groped blindly at the table for support.
At these signs of distress a chorus of alarm arose.

"It's nothing," she smiled. '"I'm just--hungry. I've been pretty
ill and I'm not very strong yet."

Lars Anderson was dumfounded, appalled. "Hungry? My God!" To his
companions he shouted: "D'you hear that, boys? She's starved out!"

The boys had heard; already they had begun to scramble. Some ran
for the lunch-counter in the adjoining room, others dashed out to
the nearest restaurants. The Snowbird so far forgot his
responsibilities as to abandon the roulette-wheel and leave its
bank-roll unguarded while he scurried to the bar and demanded a
drink, a tray of assorted drinks, fit for a fainting lady. He came
flying back, yelling, "Gangway!" and, scattering the crowd ahead
of him, he offered brandy, whisky, creme de menthe, hootch,
absinthe and bitters to Rouletta, all of which she declined. He
was still arguing the medicinal value of these beverages when the
swinging doors from the street burst open and in rushed the Mocha
Kid, a pie in each hand. Other eatables and drinkables appeared as
by magic, the faro-table was soon spread with the fruits of a
half-dozen hasty and hysterical forays.

Rouletta stared at the apprehensive faces about her, and what she
read therein caused her lips to quiver and her voice to break when
she tried to express her thanks.

"Gosh! Don't cry!" begged the Mocha Kid. With a counterfeit
assumption of juvenile hilarity he exclaimed: "Oh, look at the
pretty pies! They got little Christmas-trees on their lids, 'ain't
they? Um-yum! Rich and juicy! I stuck up the baker and stole his
whole stock, but I slipped and spilled 'em F. O. B.--flat on the
boardwalk."

Rouletta laughed. "Let's end the game and all have lunch," she
suggested, and her invitation was accepted.

Big Lars spoke up with his mouth full of pastry: "We don't allow
anybody to go hungry in this camp," said he. "We're all your
friends, miss, and if there's anything you want and can't afford,
charge it to me."

Rouletta stopped to speak with Miller, on her way out. "Do I get
the position?" she inquired.

"Say! You know you get it!" he told her. "You go on at eight and
come off at midnight."

"What is the pay?"

"I pay my dealers an ounce a shift, but--you can write your own
ticket. How is two ounces?"

"I'll take regular wages," Rouletta smiled.

Miller nodded his approval of this attitude; then his face
clouded. "I've been wondering how you're going to protect your
bank-roll. Things won't always be like they were to-day. I s'pose
I'll have to put a man on--"

"I'll protect it," the girl asserted. "Agnes and I will do that."

The proprietor was interested. "Agnes? Holy Moses! Is there two of
you? Have you got a sister? Who's Agnes?"

"She's an old friend of my father's."

Miller shrugged. "Bring her along if you want to," he said,
doubtfully, "but those old dames are trouble-makers."

"Yes, Agnes is all of that, but"--Rouletta's eyes were dancing--
"she minds her own business and she'll guard the bank-roll."

Lucky Broad and Kid Bridges had found employment at the Rialto
soon after it opened. As they passed the gold-scales on their way
to work Pierce Phillips halted them.

"I've some good news for you, Lucky," he announced. "You've lost
your job."

"Who, me?" Broad was incredulous.

"Miller has hired a new faro-dealer, and you don't go on until
midnight." Briefly Pierce retold the story that had come to his
ears when he reported for duty that evening.

Broad and Bridges listened without comment, but they exchanged
glances. They put their heads together and began a low-pitched
conversation. They were still murmuring when Rouletta appeared, in
company with 'Poleon Doret.

'Poleon's face lighted at sight of the two gamblers. He strode
forward, crying: "Hallo! I'm glad for see you some more." To the
girl he said: "You 'member dese feller'. Dey he'p save you in de
rapids."

Rouletta impulsively extended her hands. "Of course! Could I
forget?" She saw Pierce Phillips behind the scales and nodded to
him. "Why, we're all here, aren't we? I'm so glad. Everywhere I go
I meet friends."

Lucky and the Kid inquired respectfully regarding her health, her
journey down the river, her reasons for being here; then when they
had drawn her aside the former interrupted her flow of
explanations to say:

"Listen, Letty. We got just one real question to ask and we'd like
a straight answer. Have you got any kick against this Frenchman?"

"Any kick of any kind?" queried Bridges. "We're your friends; you
can tip us off."

The sudden change in the tone of their voices caused the girl to
start and to stare at them. She saw that both men were in sober
earnest; the reason behind their solicitude she apprehended.

She laid a hand upon the arm of each. Her eyes were very bright
when she began: "'Poleon told me how you came to his tent that
morning after--you know, and he told me what you said. Well, it
wasn't necessary. He's the dearest thing that ever lived!"

"Why'd he put you to work in a place like this?" Bridges roughly
demanded.

"He didn't. He begged me not to try it. He offered me all he has--
his last dollar. He--"

Swiftly, earnestly, Rouletta told how the big woodsman had cared
for her; how tenderly, faithfully, he had nursed her back to
health and strength; how he had cast all his plans to the winds in
order to bring her down the river. "He's the best, the kindest,
the most generous man I ever knew," she concluded. "His heart is
clean and--his soul is full of music."

"'Sta bueno!" cried Lucky Broad, in genuine relief. "We had a
hunch he was right, but--you can't always trust those Asiatic
races."

Ben Miller appeared and warmly greeted his new employee. "Rested
up, eh? Well, it's going to be a big night. Where's Agnes--the
other one? Has she got cold feet?"

"No, just a cold nose. Here she is." From a small bag on her arm
Rouletta drew Sam Kirby's six-shooter. "Agnes was my father's
friend. Nobody ever ran out on her."

Miller blinked, he uttered a feeble exclamation, then he burst
into a mighty laugh. He was still shaking, his face was purple,
there were tears of mirth in his eyes, when he followed Broad,
Bridges, and Rouletta into the gambling-room.

There were several players at the faro-table when the girl took
her place. Removing her gloves, she stowed them away in her bag.
From this bag she extracted the heavy Colt's revolver, then opened
the drawer before her and laid it inside. She breathed upon her
fingers, rubbing the circulation back into them, and began to
shuffle the cards. Slipping them into the box, the girl settled
herself in her chair and looked up into a circle of grinning
faces. Before her level gaze eyes that had been focused queerly
upon her fell. The case-keeper's lips were twitching, but he bit
down upon them. Gravely he said:

"Well, boys, let's go!"




CHAPTER XXI


In taking charge of a sick girl, a helpless, hopeless stranger,
'Poleon Doret had assumed a responsibility far greater than he had
anticipated, and that responsibility had grown heavier every day.
Having, at last, successfully discharged it, he breathed freely,
his first relaxation in a long time; he rejoiced in the
consciousness of a difficult duty well performed. So far as he
could see there was nothing at all extraordinary, nothing in the
least improper, about Rouletta's engagement at the Rialto. Any
suggestion of impropriety, in fact, would have greatly surprised
him, for saloons and gambling-halls filled a recognized place in
the every-day social life of the Northland. Customs were free,
standards were liberal in the early days; no one, 'Poleon least of
all, would have dreamed that they were destined to change in a
night. Had he been told that soon the country would be dry, and
gambling-games and dance-halls be prohibited by law, he would have
considered the idea too utterly fantastic for belief; the mere
contemplation of such a dreary prospect would have proved
extremely dispiriting. He--and the other pioneers of his kind--
would have been tempted immediately to pack up and move on to some
freer locality where a man could retain his personal liberty and
pursue his happiness in a manner as noisy, as intemperate, and as
undignified as suited his individual taste.

In justice to the saloons, be it said, they were more than mere
drinking-places; they were the pivots about which revolved the
business life of the North country. They were meeting-places,
social centers, marts of trade; looked upon as evidences of
enterprise and general prosperity, they were considered desirable
assets to any community. Everybody patronized them; the men who
ran them were, on the whole, as reputable as the men engaged in
other pursuits. No particular stigma attached either to the places
themselves or to the people connected with them.

These gold-camps had a very simple code. Work of any sort was
praiseworthy and honorable, idleness or unproductivity was
reprehensible. Mining, storekeeping, liquor-selling, gambling,
steamboating, all were occupations which men followed as necessity
or convenience prompted. A citizen gained repute by the manner in
which he deported himself, not by reason of the nature of the
commodity in which he dealt. Such, at least, was the attitude of
the "old-timers."

Rouletta's instant success, the fact that she had fallen among
friends, delighted a woodsman like 'Poleon, and, now that he was
his own master again, he straightway surrendered himself to the
selfish enjoyment of his surroundings. His nature and his training
prescribed the limits of those pleasures; they were quite as
simple as his everyday habits of life; he danced, he gambled, and
he drank.

To-night he did all three, in the reverse order. To him Dawson was
a dream city; its lights were dazzling, its music heavenly, its
games of chance enticing, and its liquor was the finest, the
smoothest, the most inspiriting his tongue had ever tested. Old
friends were everywhere, and new ones, too, for that matter. Among
them were alluring women who smiled and sparkled. Each place
'Poleon entered was the home of carnival.

By midnight he was gloriously drunk. Ere daylight came he had sung
himself hoarse, he had danced two holes in his moccasins, and had
conducted three fist-fights to a satisfactory if not a successful
conclusion. It had been a celebration that was to live in his
memory. He strode blindly off to bed, shouting his complete
satisfaction with himself and with the world, retired without
undressing, and then sang himself to sleep, regardless of the
protests of the other lodgers.

"Say! That Frenchman is a riot," Kid Bridges declared while he and
Lucky Broad were at breakfast. "He's old General Rough-houser, and
he set an altogether new mark in disorderly conduct last night.
Letty 'most cried about it."

"Yeah? Those yokels are all alike--one drink and they declare a
dividend." Lucky was only mildly concerned. "I s'pose the vultures
picked him clean."

"Nothin' like it," Bridges shook his head. "He gnawed 'em naked,
then done a war-dance with their feathers in his hat. He left 'em
bruised an' bleedin'."

For a time the two friends ate in silence, then Broad mused,
aloud: "Letty 'most cried, eh? Say, I wonder what she really
thinks of him?"

"I don't know. Miller told me she was all broke up, and I was
goin' to take her home and see if I could fathom her true
feelin's, but--Phillips beat me to it."

"Phillips! He'll have to throw out the life-line if Laure gets
onto that. She'll take to Letty just like a lone timber-wolf."

"Looks like she'd been kiddin' us, don't it? She calls him her
'brother' and he says she's his masseur--you heard him, didn't
you?" There was another pause. "What's a masseur, anyhow?"

"A masseur," said Mr. Broad, "is one of those women in a barber-
shop that fixes your fingernails. Yes, I heard him, and I'm here
to say that I didn't like the sound of it. I don't yet. He may
mean all right, but--them foreigners have got queer ideas about
their women. Letty's a swell kid and she's got a swell job. What's
more, she's got a wise gang riding herd on her. It's just like she
was in a church--no danger, no annoyance, nothing. If Doret
figures to start a barber-shop with her for his masseur, why,
we'll have to lay him low with one of his own razors."

Mr. Bridges nodded his complete approval of this suggestion.
"Right-o! I'll bust a mirror with him myself. Them barber-shops is
no place for good girls."

Broad and Bridges pondered the matter during the day, and that
evening they confided their apprehensions to their fellow-workers.
The other Rialto employees agreed that things did not look right,
and after a consultation it was decided to keep a watch upon the
girl. This was done. Prompted by their pride in her, and a
genuinely unselfish interest in her future, the boys made guarded
attempts to discover the true state of her feelings for the French
Canadian, but they learned little. Every indirect inquiry was met
with a tribute to 'Poleon's character so frank, so extravagant, as
to completely baffle them. Some of the investigators declared that
Rouletta was madly in love with him; others were equally positive
that this extreme frankness in itself proved that she was not. All
agreed, however, that 'Poleon was not in love with her--he was
altogether too enthusiastic over her growing popularity for a
lover. Had the gamblers been thoroughly assured of her desires in
the matter, doubtless they would have made some desperate effort
to marry 'Poleon to her, regardless of his wishes-they were men
who believed in direct action--but under the circumstances they
could only watch and wait until the uncertainty was cleared up.

Meanwhile, as 'Poleon continued his celebration, Rouletta grew
more and more miserable; at last he sobered up--sufficiently to
realize he was hurting her. He was frankly puzzled at this; he met
her reproaches with careless good-nature, brushing aside the
remonstrances of Lucky Broad and his fellows by declaring that he
was having the time of his life, and arguing that he injured
nobody. In the end the girl prevailed upon him to stop drinking,
and then bound him to further sobriety by means of a sacred
pledge. When, perhaps a week later, he disappeared into the hills
Rouletta and her corps of self-appointed guardians breathed
easier.

But the boys did not relax their watchfulness; Rouletta was their
charge and they took good care of her. None of the Rialto's
patrons, for instance, was permitted to follow up his first
acquaintance with "the lady dealer." Some member of the clan was
always on hand to frown down such an attempt. Broad or Bridges
usually brought her to work and took her home, the Snowbird and
the Mocha Kid made it a practice to take her to supper, and when
she received invitations from other sources one or the other of
them firmly declined, in her name, and treated the would-be host
with such malevolent suspicion that the invitation was never
repeated. Far from taking offense at this espionage, Rouletta
rather enjoyed it; she grew to like these ruffians, and that
liking became mutual. Soon most of them took her into their
confidence with a completeness that threatened to embarrass her,
as, for instance, when they discussed in her hearing incidents in
their colorful lives that the Mounted Police would have given much
to know. The Mocha Kid, in particular, was addicted to
reminiscence of an incriminating sort, and he totally ignored
Rouletta's protests at sharing the secrets of his guilty past. As
for the Snowbird, he was fond of telling her fairy-stories. They
were queer fairy-stories, all beginning in the same way:

"Once upon a time there was a beautiful Princess and her name was
Rouletta."

All the familiar characters figured in these narratives, the
Wicked Witch, the Cruel King, the Handsome Prince; there were
other characters, too, such as the Wise Guy, the Farmer's Son, the
Boob Detective, the Tough Mary Ann and the Stony-hearted Jailer.

The Snowbird possessed a fertile fancy but it ran in crooked
channels; although he launched his stories according to Grimm, he
sailed them through seas of crime, of violence, and of bloodshed
too realistic to be the product of pure imagination. The
adventures of the beautiful Princess Rouletta were blood-curdling
in the extreme, and the doings of her criminal associates were
unmistakably autobiographic. Naturally Rouletta never felt free to
repeat these stories, but it was not long before she began to look
forward with avid interest to her nightly entertainment.

Inasmuch as Pierce Phillips went off shift at the same time as did
Rouletta, they met frequently, and more than once he acted as her
escort. He offered such a marked contrast to the other employees
of the Rialto, his treatment of her was at such total variance
with theirs, that he interested her in an altogether different
way. His was an engaging personality, but just why she grew so
fond of him she could not tell; he was neither especially witty
and accomplished nor did he lay himself out to be unusually
agreeable. He was quiet and reserved; nevertheless, he had the
knack of making friends quickly. Rouletta had known men like Broad
and Bridges and the Mocha Kid all her life, but Pierce was of a
type quite new and diverting. She speculated considerably
regarding him.

Their acquaintance, while interesting, had not progressed much
beyond that point when Rouletta experienced a disagreeable shock.
She had strolled into the theater one evening and was watching the
performance when Laure accosted her. As Rouletta had not come into
close contact with any of the dance-hall crowd, she was surprised
at the tone this girl assumed.

"Hello! Looking for new conquests?" Laure began.

Miss Kirby shook her head in vague denial, but the speaker eyed
her with open hostility and there was an unmistakable sneer behind
her next words:

"What's the matter? Have you trimmed all the leading citizens?"

"I've finished my work, if that's what you mean."

"Now you're going to try your hand at box-rustling, eh?"

Rouletta's expression altered; she regarded her inquisitor more
intently. "You know I'm not," said she. "What are you driving at?"

"Well, why don't you? Are you too good?"

"Yes." The visitor spoke coldly. She turned away, but Laure
stepped close and cried, in a low, angry voice:

"Oh no, you're not! You've fooled the men, but you can't fool us
girls. I've got your number. I know your game."

"My game? Then why don't you take a shift in the gambling-room?
Why work in here?"

"You understand me," the other persisted. "Too good for the dance-
hall, eh? Too good to associate with us girls; too good to live
like us! YOU stop at the Courteau House, the RESPECTABLE hotel!
Bah! Miller fell for you, but--you'd better let well enough
alone."

"That's precisely what I do. If there were a better hotel than the
Courteau House I'd stop there. But there isn't. Now, then, suppose
you tell me what really ails you."

Laure's dusky eyes were blazing, her voice was hoarse when she
answered:

"All right. I'll tell you. I want you to mind your own business.
Yes, and I'm going to see that you do. You can't go home alone,
can you? Afraid of the dark, I suppose, or afraid some man will
speak to you. My goodness! The airs you put on--YOU! Sam Kirby's
girl, the daughter of a gambler, a--"

"Leave my father out of this!" There was something of Sam Kirby's
force in this sharp command, something of his cold, forbidding
anger in his daughter's face. "He's my religion, so you'd better
lay off of him. Speak out. Where did I tread on your toes?"

"Well, you tread on them every time you stop at the gold-scales,
if you want to know. I have a religion, too, and it's locked up in
the cashier's cage."

There was a pause; the girls appraised each other with mutual
dislike.

"You mean Mr. Phillips?" "I do. See that you call him 'Mister,'
and learn to walk home alone."

"Don't order me. I can't take orders."

Laure was beside herself at this defiance. She grew blind with
rage, so much so that she did not notice Phillips himself; he had
approached within hearing distance. "You've got the boss; he's
crazy about you, but Pierce is mine--"

"What's that?" It was Phillips who spoke. "What are you saying
about me?" Both girls started. Laure turned upon him furiously.

"I'm serving notice on this faro-dealer, that's all. But it goes
for you, too--"

Phillips' eyes opened, his face whitened with an emotion neither
girl had before seen. To Rouletta he said, quietly:

"The other boys are busy, so I came to take you home."

Laure cried, wildly, hysterically: "Don't do it! I warn you!"

"Are you ready to go?"

"All ready," Rouletta agreed. Together they left the theater.

Nothing was said as the two trod the snow-banked streets; not
until they halted at the door of the Courteau House did Rouletta
speak; then she said:

"I wouldn't have let you do this, only--I have! a temper."

"So have I," Pierce said, shortly. "It's humiliating to own up."

"I was wrong. I have no right to hurt that girl's feelings."

"Right?" He laughed angrily. "She had no right to make a scene."

"Why not? She's fighting for her own, isn't she? She's honest
about it, at least." Noting Pierce's expression of surprise,
Rouletta went on: "You expect me to be shocked, but I'm not, for
I've known the truth in a general way. You think I'm going to
preach. Well, I'm not going to do that, either. I've lived a queer
life; I've seen women like Laure--in fact, I was raised among
them--and nothing they do surprises me very much. But I've learned
a good many lessons around saloons and gambling-places. One is
this: never cheat. Father taught me that. He gave everybody a
square deal, including himself. It's a good thing to think about--
a square deal all around, even to yourself."

"That sounds like an allopathic sermon of some sort," said Pierce,
"but I can't see just how it applies to me. However, I'll think it
over. You're a brick, Miss Kirby, and I'm sorry if you had an
unpleasant moment." He took Rouletta's hand and held it while he
stared at her with a frank, contemplative gaze. "You're an unusual
person, and you're about the nicest girl I've met. I want you to
like me."

As he walked back down-town Pierce pondered Rouletta's words, "a
square deal all around, even to yourself." They were a trifle
puzzling. Whom had he cheated? Surely not Laure. From the very
first he had protested his lack of serious interest in her, and
their subsequent relations were entirely the result of her
unceasing efforts to appropriate him to herself. He had resisted,
she had persisted. Nor could he see that he had cheated--in other
words, injured--himself. This was a liberal country; its code was
free and it took little account of a man's private conduct. Nobody
seriously blamed him for his affair with Laure; he had lost no
standing by reason of it. It was only a part of the big adventure,
a passing phase of his development, an experience such as came to
every man. Since it had left no mark upon him, and had not
seriously affected Laure, the score was even. He dismissed
Rouletta's words as of little consequence. In order, however, to
prevent any further unpleasant scenes he determined to put Laure
in her place, once for all.

Rouletta went to her room, vaguely disturbed at her own emotions.
She could still feel the touch of Phillips' hand, she could still
feel his gaze fixed earnestly, meditatively, upon hers, and she
was amazed to discover the importance he had assumed in her
thoughts. Importance, that was the word. He was a very real, a
very interesting, person, and there was some inexplicable
attraction about him that offset his faults and his failings,
however grave. For one thing, he was not an automaton, like the
other men; he was a living, breathing problem, and he absorbed
Rouletta's attention.

She was sitting on the edge of her bed, staring at the wall, when
the Countess Courteau knocked at her door and entered. The women
had become good friends; frequently the elder one stopped to
gossip. The Countess flung herself into a chair, rolled and lit a
cigarette, then said:

"Well, I see you and Agnes saved the bankroll again."

Rouletta nodded. "Agnes is an awful bluff. I never load her. But
of course nobody knows that."

"You're a queer youngster. I've never known a girl quite like you.
Everybody is talking about you."

"Indeed? Not the nice people?"

"Nice people?" The Countess lifted her brows. "You mean those at
the Barracks and up on the hill? Yes, they're talking about you,
too."

"I can imagine what they say." Rouletta drew her brows together in
a frown. "No doubt they think I'm just like the dance-hall girls.
I've seen a few of them--at a distance. They avoid me as if I had
measles."

"Naturally. Do you care?"

"Certainly I care. I'd like to be one of them, not a--a specimen.
Wouldn't you?"

"Um-m, perhaps. I dare say I could be one of them if it weren't
for Courteau. People forget things quickly in a new country."

"Why did you take him back? I'm sure you don't care for him."

"Not in the least. He's the sort of man you can't love or hate;
he's a nine-spot. Just the same, he protects me and--I can't help
being sorry for him."

Rouletta smiled. "Fancy you needing protection and him giving--"

"You don't understand. He protects me from myself. I mean it. I'm
as unruly as the average woman and I make a fool of myself on the
slightest provocation. Henri is a loafer, a good-for-nothing, to
be sure, but, nevertheless, I have resumed his support. It was
easier than refusing it. I help broken miners. I feed hungry dogs.
Why shouldn't I clothe and feed a helpless husband? It's a
perfectly feminine, illogical thing to do."

"Other people don't share your opinion of him. He can be very
agreeable, very charming, when he tries."

"Of course. That's his stock in trade; that's his excuse for
being. Women are crazy about him, as you probably know, but--give
me a man the men like." There was a pause. "So you don't enjoy the
thing you're doing?"

"I hate it! I hate the whole atmosphere--the whole underworld.
It's-unhealthy, stifling."

"What has happened?"

Slowly, hesitatingly, Rouletta told of her encounter with Laure.
The Countess listened silently.

"It was an unpleasant shock," the girl concluded, "for it brought
me back to my surroundings. It lifted the curtain and showed me
what's really going on. It's a pity Pierce Phillips is entangled
with that creature, for he's a nice chap and he's got it in him to
do big things. But it wasn't much use my trying to tell him that
he was cheating himself. I don't think he understood. I feel
almost--well, motherly toward him."

Hilda nodded gravely. "Of course you do. He has it."

"Has it? What?"

"The call--the appeal--the same thing that lets Henri get by."

"Oh, he's nothing like the Count!" Rouletta protested, quickly.

The elder woman did not argue the point. "Pierce has more
character than Henri, but a man can lose even that in a gambling-
house. I was very fond of him--fonder than I knew. Yes, it's a
fact. I'm jealous of Laure, jealous of you--"

"JEALOUS? of ME? You're joking!"

"Of course. Don't take me seriously. Nevertheless, I mean it." The
Countess smiled queerly and rose to her feet. "It's improper for a
married woman to joke about such things, even a woman married to a
no-good count, isn't it? And it's foolish, too. Well, I'm going to
do something even more foolish--I'm going to give you some advice.
Cut out that young man. He hasn't found himself yet; he's running
wild. He's light in ballast and he's rudderless. If he straightens
out he'll make some woman very happy; otherwise--he'll create a
good deal of havoc. Believe me, I know what I'm talking about, for
I collided with Henri and--look at the result!"




CHAPTER XXII


Pierce Phillips possessed the average young American's capacities
for good or evil. Had he fallen among healthy surroundings upon
his arrival at Dawson, in all probability he would have
experienced a healthy growth. But, blown by the winds of chance,
he took root where he dropped--in the low grounds. Since he
possessed the youthful power of quick and vigorous adaptation, he
assumed a color to match his environment. Of necessity this
alteration was gradual; nevertheless, it was real; without knowing
it he suffered a steady deterioration of moral fiber and a
progressive change in ideals.

His new life was easy; hours at the Rialto were short and the pay
was high. Inasmuch as the place was a playground where cares were
forgotten, there was a wholly artificial atmosphere of gaiety and
improvidence about it. When patrons won at the gambling-games,
they promptly squandered their winnings at the bar and in the
theater; when they lost, they cheerfully ignored their ill-
fortune. Even the gamblers themselves shared this recklessness,
this prodigality; they made much money; nevertheless, they were
usually broke. Most of them drank quite as freely as did the
customers.

This was not a temperance country. Although alcohol was not
considered a food, it was none the less regarded as a prime
essential of comfort and well-being. It was inevitable, therefore,
that Pierce Phillips, a youth in his growing age, should adopt a
good deal the same habits, as well as the same spirit and outlook,
as the people with whom he came in daily contact.

Vice is erroneously considered hideous; it is supposed to have a
visage so repulsive that the simplest stranger will shudder at
sight of it and turn of his own accord to more attractive Virtue.
If that were only true! More often than not it is the former that
wears a smile and masquerades in agreeable forms, while the latter
repels. This is true of the complex life of the city, where a man
has landmarks and guide-posts of conduct to go by, and it is
equally true of the less complicated life of the far frontier
where he must blaze his own trail. Along with the strength and
vigor and independence derived from the great outdoors, there
comes also a freedom of individual conduct, an impatience at
irksome restraints, that frequently offsets any benefits that
accrue from such an environment.

So it was in Pierce's case. He realized, subconsciously, that he
was changing, had changed; on the whole, he was glad of it. It
filled him with contemptuous amusement, for instance, to look back
upon his old puritanical ideas. They seemed now very narrow, very
immature, very impractical, and he was gratified at his broader
vision. The most significant alteration, however, entirely escaped
his notice. That alteration was one of outlook rather than of
inlook. Bit by bit he had come to regard the general crowd--the
miners, merchants, townspeople--as outsiders, and him self as an
insider--one of the wise, clever, ease-loving class which
subsisted without toil and for whom a freer code of morals
existed. Those outsiders were stupid, hard-working; they were
somehow inferior. He and his kind were of a higher, more advanced
order of intelligence; moreover, they were bound together by the
ties of a common purpose and understanding and therefore enjoyed
privileges denied their less efficient brethren.

If jackals were able to reason, doubtless they would justify their
existence and prove their superiority to the common herd by some
such fatuous argument.

Pierce's complacency received its first jolt when he discovered
that he had lost caste in the eyes of the better sort of people--
people such as he had been accustomed to associate with at home.
This discovery came as the result of a chance meeting with a
stranger, and, but for it, he probably would have remained unaware
of the truth, for his newly made friends had treated him with
consideration and nothing had occurred to disturb his complacency.
He had acquired a speaking acquaintance with many of the best
citizens, including the Mounted Police and even the higher
Dominion officials, all of whom came to the Rialto. These men
professed a genuine liking for him, and, inasmuch as his time was
pretty full and there was plenty of amusement close at hand, he
had never stopped to think that the side of Dawson life which he
saw was merely the under side--that a real social community was
forming, with real homes on the back streets, where already women
of the better sort were living. Oblivious of these facts, it never
occurred to Pierce to wonder why these men did not ask him to
their cabins or why he did not meet their families.

He had long since become a night-hawk, mainly through a growing
fondness for gambling, and he had arrived at the point where
daylight impressed him as an artificial and unsatisfactory method
of illumination. Recently, too, he had been drinking more than was
good for him, and he awoke finally to the unwelcome realization
that he was badly in need of fresh air and outdoor exercise.

After numerous half-hearted attempts, he arose one day about noon;
then, having eaten a tasteless breakfast and strengthened his
languid determination by a stiff glass of "hootch," he strolled
out of town, taking he first random trail that offered itself. It
was a wood trail, leading nowhere in particular, a fact which
precisely suited his resentful mood. His blood moved sluggishly,
he was short of breath, the cold was bitter. Before long he
decided that walking was a profitless and stultifying occupation,
a pastime for idiots and solitaire-players; nevertheless, he
continued in the hope of deriving some benefit, however indirect
or remote.

It was a still afternoon. A silvery brightness beyond the mountain
crests far to the southward showed where the low winter sun was
sweeping past on its flat arc. The sky to the north was empty,
colorless. There had been no wind for some time, and now the firs
sagged beneath burdens of white; even the bare birch branches
carried evenly balanced inch-deep layers of snow. Underfoot, the
earth was smothered in a feathery shroud as light, as clean as the
purest swan's-down, and into it Pierce's moccasins sank to the
ankles. He walked as silently as a ghost. Through this queer,
breathless hush the sounds of chopping, of distant voices, of an
occasional dog barking followed him as he went deeper into the
woods.

Time was when merely to be out in the forest on such a day would
have pleased him, but gone entirely was that pleasure, and in its
place there came now an irritation at the physical discomfort it
entailed. He soon began to perspire freely, too freely;
nevertheless, there was no glow to his body; he could think only
of easy-chairs and warm stoves. He wondered what ailed him.
Nothing could be more abhorrent than this, he told himself. Health
was a valuable thing, no doubt, and he agreed that no price was
too high to pay for it--no price, perhaps, except dull,
uninteresting exercise of this sort. He was upon the point of
turning back when the trail suddenly broke out into a natural
clearing and he saw something which challenged his attention.

To the left of the path rose a steep bank, and beyond that the
bare, sloping mountain-side. In the shelter of the bank the snow
had drifted deep, but, oddly enough, its placid surface was
churned up, as if from an explosion or some desperate conflict
that had been lately waged. It had been tossed up and thrown down.
What caused him to stare was the fact that no footprints were
discernible--nothing except queer, wavering parallel streaks that
led downward from the snowy turmoil to the level ground below.
They resembled the tracks of some oddly fashioned sled.

Pierce halted, and with bent head was studying the phenomenon,
when close above him he heard the rush of a swiftly approaching
body; he looked up just in time to behold an apparition utterly
unexpected, utterly astounding. Swooping directly down upon him
with incredible velocity was what seemed at first glance to be a
bird-woman, a valkyr out of the pages of Norse mythology. Wingless
she was, yet she came like the wind, and at the very instant
Pierce raised his eyes she took the air almost over his head--
quite as if he had startled her into an upward flight. Upon her
feet was a pair of long, Norwegian skees, and upon these she had
scudded down the mountain-side; where the bank dropped away she
had leaped, and now, like a meteor, she soared into space. This
amazing creature was clad in a blue-and-white toboggan suit, short
skirt, sweater jacket, and knitted cap. As she hung outlined
against the wintry sky Pierce caught a snap-shot glimpse of a
fair, flushed, youthful face set in a ludicrous expression of
open-mouthed dismay at sight of him. He heard, too, a high-pitched
cry, half of warning, half of fright; the next instant there was a
mighty upheaval of snow, an explosion of feathery white, as the
human projectile landed, then a blur of blue-and-white stripes as
it went rolling down the declivity.

"Good Lord!" Pierce cried, aghast; then he sped after the
apparition. Only for the evidence of that undignified tumble, he
would have doubted the reality of this flying Venus and considered
her some creature of his imagination. There she lay, however, a
thing of flesh and blood, bruised, broken, helpless;
apprehensively he pictured himself staggering back to town with
her in his arms.

He halted, speechless, when the girl sat up, shook the snow out of
her hair, gingerly felt one elbow, then the other, and finally
burst into a peal of ringing laughter. The face she lifted to his,
now that it wore a normal expression, was wholly charming; it was,
in fact, about the freshest, the cleanest, the healthiest and the
frankest countenance he had ever looked into.

"Glory be!" he stammered. "I thought you were--completely
spoiled."

"I'm badly twisted," the girl managed to gasp, "but I guess I'm
all here. Oh! What a bump!"

"You scared me. I never dreamed--I didn't hear a thing until--
Well, I looked up and there you were. The sky was full of you.
Gee! I thought I'd lost my mind. Are you quite sure you're all
right?"

"Oh, I'll be black and blue again, but I'm used to that. That's
the funniest one I've had, the very funniest. Why don't you
laugh?"

"I'm--too rattled, I suppose. I'm not accustomed to flying girls.
Never had them rain down on me out of the heavens."

The girl's face grew sober. "You're entirely to blame," she cried,
angrily. "I was getting it beautifully until you showed up. You
popped right out of the ground. What are you doing in the Queen's
Park, anyhow? You've no business at the royal sports."

"I didn't mean to trespass."

"I think I'll call the guards."

"Call the court physician and make sure--"

"Pshaw! I'm not hurt." Ignoring his extended hand, she scrambled
to her feet and brushed herself again. Evidently the queenly anger
was short-lived, for she was beaming again, and in a tone that was
boyishly intimate she explained:

"I'd made three dandy jumps and was going higher each time, but
the sight of you upset me. Think of being upset by a perfectly
strange man. Shows lack of social training, doesn't it? It's a
wonder I didn't break a skee."

Pierce glanced apprehensively at the bluff overhead. "Hadn't we
better move out of the way?" he inquired. "If the royal family
comes dropping in, we'll be ironed out like a couple of
handkerchiefs. I don't want to feel the divine right of the king,
or his left, either."

"There isn't any king-nor any royal family. I'm just the Queen of
Pretend."

"You're skee-jumping, alone? Is that what you mean?"

The girl nodded.

"Isn't that a dangerous way to amuse self? I thought skees were--
tricky."

"Have you ever ridden them?" the girl inquired, quickly.

"Never."

"You don't know what fun is. Here--" The speaker stooped and
detached her feet from the straps. "Just have a go at it." Pierce
protested, but she insisted in a business-like way. "They're long
ones--too long for me. They'll just suit you."

"Really, I don't care to--"

"Oh yes, you do. You must."

"You'll be sorry," Pierce solemnly warned her. "When my feet
glance off and leave me sticking up in the snow to starve, you'll-
-Say! I can think of a lot of things I want to do, but I don't
seem to find skee-jumping on the list."

"You needn't jump right away." Determination was in the girl's
tone; there was a dancing light of malice in her eyes. "You can
practise a bit. Remember, you laughed at me."

"Nothing of the sort. I was amazed, not amused. I thought I'd
flushed a very magnificent pheasant with blue-and-white stripes,
and I was afraid it was going to fly away before I got a good look
at it. Now, then--"He slowly finished buckling the runners to his
feet and looked up interrogatively. "What are your Majesty's
orders?"

"Walk around. Slide down the hill."

"What on?"

The girl smothered a laugh and waved him away. She looked on while
he set off with more or less caution. When he managed to maintain
an upright position despite the antics of his skees her face
expressed genuine disappointment.

"It's not so hard as I thought it would be," he soon announced,
triumphantly. "A little awkward at first, but--" he cast an eye up
at the bank. "You never know what you can do until you try."

"You've been skeeing before," she accused him, reproachfully.

"Never."

"Then you pick it up wonderfully. Try a jump."

Her mocking invitation spurred him to make the effort, so he
removed the skees and waded a short distance up the hill. When he
had secured his feet in position for a second time he called down:

"I'm going to let go and trust to Providence. Look out."

"The same to you," she cried. "You're wonderful, but--men can do
anything, can't they?"

There was nothing graceful, nothing of the free abandon of the
practised skee-runner in Pierce's attitude; he crouched apelike,
with his muscles set to maintain an equilibrium, and this much he
succeeded in doing--until he reached the jumping, off place. At
that point, however, gravity, which he had successfully defied,
wreaked vengeance upon him; it suddenly reached forth and made him
its vindictive toy. He pawed, he fought, he appeared to be
climbing an invisible rope. With a mighty flop he landed flat upon
his back, uttering a loud and dismayed grunt as his breath left
him. When he had dug himself out he found that the girl, too, was
breathless. She was rocking in silent ecstasy, she hugged herself
gleefully, and there were tears in her eyes.

"I'm--so--sorry!" she exclaimed, in a thin, small voice. "Did you-
-trip over something?"

The young man grinned. "Not at all. I was afraid of a sprained
ankle, so I hit on my head. We meet on common ground, as it were."

Once again he climbed the grade, once again he skidded downward,
once again he went sprawling. Nor were his subsequent attempts
more successful. After a final ignominious failure he sat where he
had fetched up and ruefully took stock of the damage he had done
himself. Seriously he announced:

"I was mistaken. Women are entitled to vote--they're entitled to
anything. I've learned something else, too--Mr. Newton's
interesting little theory is all wrong; falling bodies travel
sixteen miles, not sixteen feet, the first second."

The girl demanded her skees, and, without rising, Pierce
surrendered them; then he looked on admiringly while she attached
them to her feet and went zigzagging up the hill to a point much
higher than the one from which he had dared to venture. She made a
very pretty picture, he acknowledged, for she was vivid with youth
and color. She was lithe and strong and confident, too; she was
vibrant with the healthy vigor of the out-of-doors.

She descended with a terrific rush, and this time she took the air
with grace and certainty. She cleared a very respectable distance
and ricocheted safely down the landing-slope.

Pierce applauded her with enthusiasm. "Beautiful! My sincere
congratulations, O Bounding Fawn!"

"That's the best I've done," she crowed. "You put me on my mettle.
Now you try it again."

Pierce did try again; he tried manfully, but with a humiliating
lack of success. He was puffing and blowing, his face was wet with
perspiration, he had lost all count of time, when his companion
finally announced it was time for her to be going.

"You're not very fit, are you?" said she.

Pierce colored uncomfortably. "Not very," he confessed. He was
relieved when she did not ask the reason for his lack of fitness.
Just why he experienced such relief he hardly knew, but suddenly
he felt no great pride in himself nor in the life that had brought
him to such a state of flabbiness. Nor did he care to have this
girl know who or what he was. Plainly she was one of those "nice
people" at whom Laure and the other denizens of the Rialto were
wont to sneer with open contempt; probably that was why he had
never chanced to meet her. He felt cheated because they had not
met, for she was the sort of girl he had known at home, the sort
who believed in things and in whom he believed. Despite all his
recently acquired wisdom, in this short hour she had made him over
into a boy again, and somehow or other the experience was
agreeable. Never had he seen a girl so cool, so candid, so
refreshingly unconscious and unaffected as this one. She was as
limpid as a pool of glacier water; her placidity, he imagined, had
never been stirred, and in that fact lay much of her fascination.

With her skees slung over her shoulder, the girl strode along
beside Phillips, talking freely on various topics, but with no
disposition to chatter. Her mind was alert, inquisitive, and yet
she had that thoughtful gravity of youth, wisdom coming to life.
That Pierce had made a good impression upon her she implied at
parting by voicing a sincere hope that they would meet again very
soon.

"Perhaps I'll see you at the next dance," she suggested.

"Dance!" The word struck Pierce unpleasantly.

"Saturday night, at the Barracks."

"I'd love to come," he declared.

"Do. They're loads of fun. All the nice people go."

With a nod and a smile she was gone, leaving him to realize that
he did not even know her name. Well, that was of no moment; Dawson
was a small place, and--Saturday was not far off. He had heard
about those official parties at the Barracks and he made up his
mind to secure an invitation sufficiently formal to permit him to
attend the very next one.

His opportunity came that night when one of the younger Mounted
Police officers paused to exchange greetings with him. Lieutenant
Rock was a familiar figure on the streets of Dawson and on the
trails near by, a tall, upstanding Canadian with a record for
unfailing good humor and relentless efficiency. He nodded at
Pierce's casual reference to the coming dance at Headquarters.

"Great sport," said he. "It's about the only chance we fellows
have to play."

When no invitation to share in the treat was forthcoming Pierce
told of meeting a most attractive girl that afternoon, and, having
obtained his hearer's interest, he described the youthful goddess
of the snows with more than necessary enthusiasm. He became aware
of a peculiar expression upon Rock's face.

"Yes. I know her well," the latter said, quietly. "D'you mean to
say she invited you to the ball?"

"It wasn't exactly an invitation--"

"Oh! I see. Well"--Rock shook his head positively--"there's
nothing doing, old man. It isn't your kind of a party.
Understand?"

"I--don't understand," Pierce confessed in genuine surprise.

The officer eyed him with a cool, disconcerting directness. "We
draw the lines pretty close--have to in a camp like this. No
offense, I trust." With a smile and a careless wave of the hand he
moved on, leaving Pierce to stare after him until he was swallowed
up by the crowd in the gambling-room.

A blow in the face would not have amazed Pierce Phillips more, nor
would it have more greatly angered him. So, he was ostracized!
These men who treated him with such apparent good-fellowship
really despised him; in their eyes he was a renegade; they
considered him unfit to know their women. It was incredible!

This was the first deliberate slight the young man had ever
received. His face burned, his pride withered under it; he would
have bitten out his tongue rather than subject himself to such a
rebuff. Who was Rock? How dared he? Rock knew the girl, oh yes!
But he refused to mention her name--as if that name would be
sullied by his, Pierce's, use of it. That hurt most of all; that
was the bitterest pill. Society! Caste! On the Arctic Circle! It
was to laugh!

But Phillips could not laugh. He could more easily have cried, or
cursed, or raved; even to pretend to laugh off such an affront was
impossible. It required no more than this show of opposition to
fan the embers of his flickering desire into full flame, and, now
that he was forbidden to meet that flying goddess, it seemed to
him that he must do so at whatever cost. He'd go to that dance, he
decided, in spite of Rock; he'd go unbidden; he'd force his way in
if needs be.

This sudden ardor died, however, as quickly as it had been born,
leaving him cold with apprehension. What would happen if he took
the bit in his teeth? Rock knew about Laure--those detestable
redcoats knew pretty much everything that went on beneath the
surface of Dawson life--and if Pierce ran counter to the fellow's
warning he would probably speak out. Rock was just that sort. His
methods were direct and forceful. What then? Pierce cringed
inwardly at the contemplation. That snow-girl was so clean, so
decent, so radically different from all that Laure stood for, that
he shrank from associating them together even in his thoughts.

Well, he was paying the fiddler, and the price was high. Even here
on the fringe of the frontier society exacted penalty for the
breach of its conventions. Pierce's rebellion at this discovery,
his resentment at the whole situation, prevented him from properly
taking the lesson to heart. The issue was clouded, too, by a
wholly natural effort at self-justification. The more he tried
this latter, however, the angrier he became and the more
humiliating seemed his situation.

He was in no mood to calmly withstand another shock, especially
when that shock was administered by Joe McCaskey, of all persons;
nevertheless, it came close upon the heels of Rock's insult.

Pierce had not seen either brother since their departure for
Hunker Creek, therefore Joe's black visage leering through the
window of the cashier's cage was an unwelcome surprise.

"Hello, Phillips! How are you making it?" the man inquired.

"All right."

Despite this gruffness, Joe's grin widened. There was nothing of
pleasure at the meeting, nor of friendliness behind it, however.
On the contrary, it masked both malice and triumph, as was plain
when he asked:

"Did you hear about our strike?"

"What strike?"

"Why, it's all over town! Frank and I hit pay in our first shaft--
three feet of twenty-cent dirt."

"Really?" Pierce could not restrain a movement of surprise.

Joe nodded and chuckled, meanwhile keeping his malignant gaze
focused upon the younger man's face. "It's big. We came to town to
buy grub and a dog-team and to hire a crew of hands. We've got
credit at the A. C. Company up to fifty thousand dollars."

There was a brief pause which Pierce broke by inquiring, as
casually as he could:

"Did Tom and Jerry have any luck?"

"Sure thing! They've hit it, the same as us. You tossed off a
home-stake, kid. Don't believe it, eh? Well, here's the proof-
coarse gold from Hunker." With an ostentatious flourish the
speaker flung down a half-filled poke, together with a bar check.
"Cash me in, and don't let any of it stick to your fingers."

Pierce was impelled to hurl the gold sack at Joe's head, but he
restrained himself. His hands were shaky, however, and when he
untied the thongs he was mortified at spilling some of the
precious yellow particles. Mortification changed to anger when the
owner cried, sharply:

"Hey! Got cashier's ague, have you? Just cut out the sleight-of-
hand!"

Pierce smothered a retort; silently he brushed the dust back into
the blower and set the weights upon his scales. But McCaskey ran
on with an insulting attempt at banter:

"I'm onto you short-weighers. Take your bit out of the drunks; I'm
sober."

When Pierce had retied the sack and returned it he looked up and
into Joe's face. His own was white, his eyes were blazing.

"Don't pull any more comedy here," he said, quietly. "That short-
weight joke doesn't go at the Rialto."

"Oh, it don't? JOKE!" McCaskey snorted. "I s'pose it's a joke to
spill dust--when you can't get away with it. Well, I've spotted a
lot of crooked cashiers in this town."

"No doubt. It takes a thief to catch a thief." McCaskey started.
His sneer vanished. "Thief! Say--" he blustered, angrily. "D'you
mean--" The clash, brief as it had been, had excited attention.
Noting the fact that an audience was gathering, the speaker
lowered his voice and, thrusting his black, scowling countenance
closer to the cage opening, he said: "You needn't remind me of
anything. I've got a good memory. Damn' good!" After a moment he
turned his back and moved away.

When Pierce went off shift he looked up Lars Anderson and received
confirmation of the Hunker strike. Lars was in a boisterous mood
and eager to share his triumph.

"I knew that was a rich piece of ground," he chuckled, "and I knew
I was handing those boys a good thing. But a fellow owes something
to his friends, doesn't he?"

"I thought you said it was low grade?"

"Low grade!" Big Lars threw back his head and laughed loudly. "I
never said nothing of the kind. Me knock my own ground? Why, I'd
have banked my life on Hunker!"

Here was luck, Pierce told himself. A fortune had been handed him
on a silver platter, and he had shoved it aside. He was sick with
regret; he was furious with himself for his lack of wisdom; he
hated Laure for the deception she had practised upon him. The
waste he had made of this opportunity bred in him a feeling of
desperation.

Toward the close of the show Laure found him braced against the
bar; the face he turned upon her was cold, repellent. When she
urged him to take her to supper he shook his head.

"What's the matter?" she inquired.

"Big Lars never told you Hunker was low grade," he declared.

The girl flushed; she tossed her dark head defiantly. "Well, what
of it?"

"Simply this--Tom and Jerry and the McCaskeys have struck rich
pay."

"Indeed?"

"You lied to me."

Laure's lips parted slowly in a smile. "What did you expect? What
would any girl do?" She laid a caressing hand upon his arm. "I
don't care how much they make or how poor you are--"

Pierce disengaged her grasp. "I care!" he cried, roughly. "I've
lost my big chance. They've made their piles and I'm--well, look
at me."

"You blame me?"

He stared at her for a moment. "What's the difference whether I
blame you or myself? I'm through. I've been through for some time,
but--this is curtain."

"Pierce!"

Impatiently he flung her off and strode out of the theater.

Laure was staring blindly after him when Joe McCaskey spoke to
her. "Have a dance?" he inquired.

She undertook to answer, but her lips refused to frame any words;
silently she shook her head.

"What's the idea? A lovers' quarrel?" McCaskey eyed her curiously,
then he chuckled mirthlessly. "You can come clean with me. I don't
like him any better than you do."

"Mind your own business," stormed the girl in a sudden fury.

"That's what I'm doing, and minding it good. I've got a lot of
business--with that rat." Joe's sinister black eyes held Laure's
in spite of her effort to avoid them; it was plain that he wished
to say more, but hesitated. "Maybe it would pay us to get
acquainted," he finally suggested. "Frank and me and the Count are
having a bottle of wine upstairs. Better join us."

"I will," said Laure, after a moment. Together they mounted the
stairs to the gallery above.




CHAPTER XXIII


"Wal, w'at I tol' you?" 'Poleon Doret exclaimed, cheerfully. "Me,
I'm cut off for poor man. If one dose El Dorado millionaire' give
me his pay-dump, all de gold disappear biffore I get him in de
sluice-box. Some people is born Jonah." Despite this melancholy
announcement 'Poleon was far from depressed. On the contrary, he
beamed like a boy and his eyes were sparkling with the joy of
again beholding his "sister."

He had returned from the hills late this evening and now he had
come to fetch Rouletta from her work. This was his first
opportunity for a word with her alone.

The girl was not unmoved by his tale of blighted expectations; she
refused, nevertheless, to accept it as conclusive. "Nonsense!" she
said, briskly. "You know very well you haven't prospected your
claim for what it's worth. You haven't had time."

"I don' got to prospec' him," 'Poleon asserted. "Dat's good t'ing
'bout dat claim. Some Swede fellers above me cross-cut de whole
dam' creek an' don' fin' so much as one color. Sapre! Dat's fonny
creek. She 'ain't got no gravel." The speaker threw back his head
and laughed heartily. "It's fac'! I'scover de only creek on all de
Yukon wit'out gravel. Muck! Twenty feet of solid frozen muck! It's
lucky I stake on soch bum place, eh? S'pose all winter I dig an'
don' fin' 'im out?"

For a moment Rouletta remained silent; then she said, wearily:

"Everything is all wrong, all upside down, isn't it? The McCaskeys
struck pay; so did Tom and Jerry. But you--why, in all your years
in this country you've never found anything. Where's the justice--
"

"No, no! I fin' somet'ing more better as dem feller. I fin' a
sister; I fin' you. By Gar! I don't trade you for t'ousan' pay-
streak!" Lowering his voice, 'Poleon said, earnestly, "I don' know
how much I love you, ma soeur, until I go 'way and t'ink 'bout
it."

Rouletta smiled mistily and touched the big fellow's hand,
whereupon he continued:

"All dese year I look in de mos' likely spot for gold, an' don'
fin' him. Wal, I mak' change. I don' look in no more creek-bottom;
I'm goin' hit de high spot!"

Reproachfully the girl exclaimed, "You promised me to cut that
out."

With a grin the woodsman reassured her: "No, no! I mean I'm goin'
dig on top de mountains."

"Not--really? Why, 'Poleon, gold is heavy! It sinks. It's deep
down in the creek-beds."

"It sink, sure 'nough," he nodded, "but where it sink from, eh? I
don' lak livin' in low place, anyhow--you don' see not'in'. Me, I
mus' have good view."

"What are you driving at?"

"I tell you: long tam ago I know old miner. He's forever talk
'bout high bars, old reever-bed, an' soch t'ing. We call him 'High
Bar.' He mak' fonny story 'bout reever dat used to was on top de
mountain. By golly! I laugh at him! But w'at you t'ink? I'm
crossin' dose hill 'bove El Dorado an' I see place where dose
miner is shoot dry timber down into de gulch. Dose log have dug up
de snow an' I fin'--what?" Impressively the speaker whispered one
word, "GRAVEL!"

Much to his disappointment, Rouletta remained impassive in the
face of this startling announcement. Vaguely she inquired: "What
of it? There's gravel everywhere. What you want is gold--"

"Mon Dieu!" 'Poleon lifted his hands in despair. "You're worse as
cheechako. Where gravel is dere you fin' gold, ain't you?"

"Why--not always."

With a shrug the woodsman agreed. "Of course, not always, but--"

"On top of a hill?"

"De tip top."

"How perfectly absurd! How could gold run uphill?"

"I don' know," the other confessed. "But, for dat matter, how she
run downhill? She 'ain't got no legs. I s'pose de book hexplain it
somehow. Wal! I stake two claim--one for you, one for me. It's
dandy place for cabin! You look forty mile from dat spot. Mak' you
feel jus' lak bird on top of high tree. Dere's plenty dry wood,
too, an' down below is de Forks--nice town wit' saloon an' eatin'-
place. You can hear de choppin' an' de win'lass creakin' and smell
de smoke. It's fine place for singin' songs up dere."

"'Poleon!" Rouletta tried to look her sternest. "You're a great,
overgrown boy. You can't stick to anything. You're merely lonesome
and you want to get in where the people are."

"Lonesome! Don' I live lak bear when I'm trappin'? Some winter I
don' see nobody in de least."

"Probably I made a mistake in bringing you down here to Dawson,"
the girl continued, meditatively. "You were doing well up the
river, and you were happy. Here you spend your money; you gamble,
you drink--the town is spoiling you just as it is spoiling the
others."

"Um-m! Mebbe so," the man confessed. "Never I felt lak I do
lately. If I don' come in town to-day I swell up an' bus'. I'm
full of t'ing' I can't say."

"Go to work somewhere."

"For wages? Me?" Doret shook his head positively. "I try him once-
-cookin' for gang of rough-neck'--but I mak' joke an' I'm fire'.
Dem feller kick 'bout my grub an' it mak' me mad, so one day I
sharpen all de table-knife. I put keen edge on dem--lak razor."
The speaker showed his white teeth in a flashing smile. "Dat's
meanes' trick ever I play. Sapre! Dem feller cut deir mouth so
fast dey mos' die of bleedin'. No, I ain't hired man for nobody. I
mus' be free."

"Very well," Rouletta sighed, resignedly, "I won't scold you, for-
-I'm too glad to see you." Affectionately she squeezed his arm,
whereupon he beamed again in the frankest delight. "Now, then,
we'll have supper and you can take me home."

The Rialto was crowded with its usual midnight throng; there was
the hubbub of loud voices and the ebb and flow of laughter. From
midway of the gambling-hall rose the noisy exhortations of some
amateur gamester who was breathing upon his dice and pleading
earnestly, feelingly, with "Little Joe"; from the theater issued
the strains of a sentimental ballad. As Rouletta and her companion
edged their way toward the lunch-counter in the next room they
were intercepted by the Snowbird, whose nightly labors had also
ended.

"All aboard for the big eats," the latter announced. "Mocha's
buttoned up in a stud game where he dassen't turn his head to
spit. He's good for all night, but I'm on the job."

"I'm having supper with 'Poleon," Rouletta told him.

The Snowbird paused in dismay. "Say! You can't run out on a pal,"
he protested. "You got to O.K. my vittles or they won't
harmonize."

"But 'Poleon has just come in from the creeks and we've a lot to
talk about."

"Won't it keep? I never seen talk spoil overnight." When Rouletta
smilingly shook her head Mr. Ryan dangled a tempting bait before
her. "I got a swell fairy-story for you. I bet you'd eat it up.
It's like this: Once upon a time there was a beautiful Princess
named Rouletta and she lived in an old castle all covered with
ivy. It was smothered up in them vines till you'd vamp right by
and never see it. Along came a busted Prince who had been spendin'
his vacation and some perfectly good ten-dollar bills in the next
county that you could scarcely tell from the real thing. He was
takin' it afoot, on account of the jailer's daughter, who had
slipped him a file along with his laundry, but she hadn't thought
to put in any lunch. See? Well, it's a story of how this here
hungry Prince et the greens off of the castle and discovered the
sleepin' Princess. It's a knockout. I bet you'd like it."

"I'm sure I would," Rouletta agreed. "Save it for to-morrow
night."

The Snowbird was reluctant in yielding; he eyed 'Poleon darkly,
and there was both resentment and suspicion in his somber glance
when he finally turned away.

Not until Rouletta and her companion were perched upon their high
stools at the oilclothcovered lunch-counter did the latter speak;
then he inquired, with a frown:

"Tell me, is any dese feller mak' love on you, ma soeur?"

"Why, no! They're perfectly splendid, like you. Why the terrible
black look?"

"Gamblers! Sure-t'ing guys! Boosters! Bah! Better dey lef you
alone, dat's all. You're nice gal; too nice for dem feller."

Rouletta smiled mirthlessly; there was an expression in her eyes
that the woodsman had never seen. "'Too nice!' That's almost funny
when you think about it. What sort of men would make love to me,
if not gamblers, fellows like Ryan?"

'Poleon breathed an exclamation of astonishment at this assertion.
"Wat you sayin'?" he cried. "If dat loafer mak' fresh talk wit'
you I--pull him in two piece wit' dese fingers. Dere's plenty good
man. I--you--" He paused uncertainly; then his tone changed to one
of appeal. "You won't marry wit' nobody, eh? Promise me dat."

"That's an easy promise, under the circumstances."

"Bien! I never t'ink 'bout you gettin' married. By gosh! dat's
fierce t'ing, for sure! Wat I'll do if--" 'Poleon shook his
massive shoulders as if to rid himself of such unwelcome
speculations.

"No danger!"

Rouletta's crooked smile did not go unnoticed. 'Poleon studied her
face intently; then he inquired:

"Wat ail' you, li'l sister?"

"Why--nothing."

"Oh yes! I got eye lak fox. You seeck?"

"The idea!" Miss Kirby pulled herself together, but there was such
genuine concern in her companion's face that her chin quivered.
She felt the need of saying something diverting; then abruptly she
turned away.

'Poleon's big hand closed over hers; in a voice too low for any
but her ears he said: "Somet'ing is kill de song in your heart, ma
petite. I give my life for mak' you happy. Sometam you care for
tell me, mebbe I can he'p li'l bit."

The girl suddenly bowed her head; her struggling tears overflowed
reluctantly; in a weary, heartsick murmur she confessed:

"I'm the most miserable girl in the world. I'm so--unhappy."

Some instinct of delicacy prompted the woodsman to refrain from
speaking. In the same listless monotone Rouletta continued:

"I've always been a lucky gambler, but--the cards have turned
against me. I've been playing my own stakes and I've lost."

"You been playing de bank?" he queried, in some bewilderment.

"No, a gambler never plays his own game. He always bucks the other
fellow's. I've been playing--hearts."

'Poleon's grasp upon her hand tightened. "I see," he said. "Wal,
bad luck is boun' to change."

In Rouletta's eyes, when she looked up, was a vision of some glory
far beyond the woodsman's sight. Her lips had parted, her tears
had dried. "I wonder--" she breathed. "Father's luck always
turned. 'Don't weaken; be a thoroughbred!' That's what he used to
tell me. He'd be ashamed of me now, wouldn't he? I've told you my
troubles, 'Poleon, because you're all I have left. Forgive me,
please, big brother."

"Forgive? Mon Dieu!" said he.

Their midnight meal was set out; to them it was tasteless, and
neither one made more than a silent pretense of eating it. They
were absorbed in their own thoughts when the sound of high voices,
a commotion of some sort at the front of the saloon, attracted
their attention. Rouletta's ears were the first to catch it; she
turned, then uttered a breathless exclamation. The next instant
she had slid down from her perch and was hurrying away. 'Poleon
strode after her; he was at her back when she paused on the
outskirts of a group which had assembled near the cashier's cage.

Pierce Phillips had left his post behind the scales; he, Count
Courteau, and Ben Miller, the proprietor, were arguing hotly.
Rock, the Police lieutenant, was listening to first one then
another. The Count was deeply intoxicated; nevertheless, he
managed to carry himself with something of an air, and at the
moment he was making himself heard with considerable vehemence.

"I have been drinking, to be sure," he acknowledged, "but am I
drunk? No. Damnation! There is the evidence." In his hand he was
holding a small gold-sack, and this he shook defiantly under the
officer's nose. "Do you call that eight hundred dollars? I ask
you. Weigh it! Weigh it!"

Rock took the little leather bag in his fingers; then he agreed.
"It's a lot short of eight hundred, for a fact, but--"

In a strong voice Phillips cried: "I don't know what he had.
That's all there was in the sack when he paid his check."

The Count lurched forward, his face purple with indignation. "For
shame!" he cried. "You thought I was blind. You thought I was like
these other--cattle. But I know to a dollar--" He turned to the
crowd. "Here! I will prove what I say. McCaskey, bear me out."

With a show of some reluctance Frank, the younger and the smaller
of the two brothers, nodded to the Police lieutenant. "He's giving
you the straight goods. He had eight hundred and something on him.
when he went up to the cage."

Rock eyed the speaker sharply. "How do you know?" said he.

"Joe and I was with him for the last hour and a half. Ain't that
right, Joe?" Joe verified this statement. "Understand, this ain't
any of our doings. We don't want to mix up in it, but the Count
had a thousand dollars, that much I'll swear to. He lost about a
hundred and forty up the street and he bought two rounds of drinks
afterward. I ain't quick at figures--"

Pierce uttered a threatening cry. He moved toward the speaker, but
Rock laid a hand on his arm and in a tone of authority exclaimed:
"None of that, Phillips. I'll do all the fighting."

Ben Miller, who likewise had bestirred himself to forestall
violence, now spoke up. "I'm not boosting for the house," said he,
"but I want more proof than this kind of chatter. Pierce has been
weighing here since last fall, and nobody ever saw him go south
with a color. If he split this poke he must have the stuff on him.
Let Rock search you, Pierce."

Phillips agreed readily enough to this suggestion, and assisted
the officer's search of his pockets, a procedure which yielded
nothing.

"Dat boy's no t'ief," 'Poleon whispered to Rouletta. "M'sieu' le
Comte has been frisk' by somebody." The girl did not answer. She
was intently watching the little drama before her.

During the search Miller forced his way out of the ring of
spectators, unlocked the gate of the cashier's cage, and passed
inside. "We keep our takin's in one pile, and I'll lay a little
eight to five that they'll balance up with the checks to a
pennyweight," said he. "Just wait till I add up the figgers and
weigh--" He paused; he stooped; then he rose with something he had
picked up from the floor beneath his feet.

"What have you got, Ben?" It was Rock speaking.

"Dam' if I know! There it is." The proprietor shoved a clean, new
moose-skin gold-sack through the wicket.

Rock examined the bag, then he lifted an inquiring gaze to Pierce
Phillips. There was a general craning of necks, a shifting of
feet, a rustle of whispers.

"Ah!" mockingly exclaimed Courteau. "I was dreaming, eh? To be
sure!" He laughed disagreeably.

"Is this 'house' money?" inquired the redcoat.

Miller shook his head in some bewilderment. "We don't keep two
kitties. I'll weigh it and see if it adds up with the Count's--"

"Oh, it will add up!" Phillips declared, his face even whiter than
before. "It's a plant, so of course it will add up."

Defiantly he met the glances that were fixed upon him. As his eyes
roved over the faces turned upon him he became conscious for the
first tune of 'Poleon's and Rouletta's presence, also that Laure
had somehow appeared upon the scene. The latter was watching him
with a peculiar expression of hostility frozen upon her features;
her dark eyes were glowing, she was sneering faintly. Of all the
bystanders, perhaps the two McCaskeys seemed the least inclined to
take part in the affair. Both brothers, in fact, appeared desirous
of effacing themselves as effectively as possible.

But Courteau's indignation grew, and in a burst of excitement he
disclaimed the guilt implied in Pierce's words. "So! You plead
innocence! You imply that I robbed myself, eh? Well, how did I
place the gold yonder? I ask you? Am I a magician?" He waved his
arms wildly, then in a tone of malevolence he cried: "This is not
the first time you have been accused of theft. I have heard that
story about Sheep Camp."

"Sheep Camp, yes!" Phillips' eyes ignored the speaker; his gaze
flew to Joe McCaskey's face and to him he directed his next words:
"The whole thing is plain enough to me. You tried something like
this once before, Joe, and failed. I suppose your back is well
enough now for the rest of those forty lashes. Well, you'll get
'em--"

The Count came promptly to the rescue of his friend. "Ho! Again
you lay your guilt upon others. Those miners at Sheep Camp let you
off easy. Well, a pretty woman can do much with a miners' meeting,
but here there will be no devoted lady to the rescue--no skirt to
hide behind, for--"

Courteau got no further. Ignoring Rock's previous admonition,
Pierce knocked the fellow down with a swift, clean blow. He would
have followed up his attack only for the lieutenant, who grappled
with him.

"Here! Do you want me to put you in irons?"

Courteau raised himself with difficulty; he groped for the bar and
supported himself dizzily thereon, snarling from the pain. With
his free hand he felt his cheek where Pierce's knuckles had found
lodgment; then, as a fuller realization of the indignity his
privileged person had suffered came home to him, he burst into a
torrent of frenzied abuse.

"Shut up!" the officer growled, unsympathetically. "I know as much
about that trial at Sheep Camp as you do, and if Phillips hadn't
floored you I would. That's how you stand with me. You, too!" he
shot at the McCaskeys. "Let me warn you if this is a frame-up
you'll all go on the woodpile for the winter. D'you hear me? Of
course, if you want to press this charge I'll make the arrest, but
I'll just take you three fellows along so you can do some swearing
before the colonel, where it'll go on the records."

"Arrest? But certainly!" screamed the Count. "The fellow is a
thief, a pig. He struck me. ME! You saw him. I--"

"Sure, I saw him!" the officer grinned. "I was afraid he'd miss
you. Stop yelling and come along." With a nod that included the
McCaskeys as well as the titled speaker he linked arms with Pierce
Phillips and led the way out into the night.

"W'at fool biznesse!" Doret indignantly exclaimed. "Dat boy is
hones' as church."

He looked down at the sound of Rouletta's voice; then he started.
The girl's face was strained and white and miserable; her hands
were clasped over her bosom; she was staring horrified at the door
through which Phillips had been taken. She swayed as if about to
fall. 'Poleon half dragged, half carried her out into the street;
with his arm about her waist he helped her toward her hotel.

The walk was a silent one, for Rouletta was in a state bordering
upon collapse; gradually she regained control of herself and
stumbled along beside him.

"They're three to one," she said, finally. "Oh, 'Poleon! They'll
swear it on him. The Police are strict; they'll give him five
years. I heard the colonel say so."

"Dere's been good deal of short-weighin', but--" Doret shook his
head. "Nobody goin' believe Courteau. And McCaskey is dam' t'ief."

"If--only I--could help him. You'll go to him, 'Poleon, won't you?
Promise."

Silently the Canadian assented. They had reached the door of the
hotel before he spoke again; then he said slowly, quietly:

"You been playin' 'hearts' wit' HIM, ma soeur? You--you love him?
Yes?"

"Oh--yes!" The confession came in a miserable gasp.

"Bien! I never s'pect biff ore. Wal, dat's all right."

"The Police are swift and merciless," Rouletta persisted,
fearfully. "They hate the Front Street crowd; they'd like to make
an example."

"Go in your li'l bed an' sleep," he told her, gently. "Dis t'ing
is comin' out all right. 'Poleon fix it, sure; he's dandy fixer."

For some time after the door had closed upon Rouletta the big
fellow stood with bent head, staring at the snow beneath his feet.
The cheer, the sympathy, had left his face; the smile had vanished
from his lips; his features were set and stony. With an effort he
shook himself, then, murmured:

"Poor li'l bird! Wal, I s'pose now I got to bus' dat jail!"




CHAPTER XXIV


Although 'Poleon had spoken with confidence, he found, upon
arriving at Police Headquarters, that the situation was by no
means as simple as it had appeared, and that something more than a
mere word regarding Phillips' character would be required to
offset the very definite accusation against him. Courteau, he
learned, had pressed his charge with vigor, and although the two
McCaskeys had maintained their outward show of reluctance at being
dragged into the affair, they had, nevertheless, substantiated his
statements with a thoroughness and a detail that hinted more than
a little at vindictiveness. Pierce, of course, had denied his
guilt, but his total inability to explain how the gold-dust in
dispute came to be concealed in the cashier's cage, to which no
one but he had access, had left the Police no alternative except
to hold him. By the time 'Poleon arrived Pierce had been locked up
for the night.

Drawing Rock aside, Doret put in an earnest plea for his young
friend. The lieutenant answered him with some impatience:

"I admit it looks fishy, but what is there to do? The colonel
likes Pierce, as we all do, but--he had no choice."

"It's dirty frame-up."

"I imagine he believes so. And yet--how the deuce did that sack
get where it was? I was standing alongside the McCaskeys when
Courteau went up to pay his check, and I'm sure they had no part
in it."

"M'sieu' le Comte is sore," 'Poleon asserted. "Me, I savvy plenty.
Wal, how we goin' get dat boy from out of jail, eh? By Gar! I bet
I don' sleep none if I'm lock up."

"Get bail for him."

'Poleon was frankly puzzled at this suggestion, but when its
nature had been explained his face lit up.

"Ho! Dat's nice arrangements, for sure. Come! I fix it now."

"Have you got enough money?"

"I got 'bout t'irty dollar, but dat ain't mak' no differ. I go to
workin' somewhere. Me, I'm good for anyt'ing."

"That won't do," Rock smiled. "You don't understand." Laboriously
he made more plain the mysteries of court procedure, whereupon his
hearer expressed the frankest astonishment.

"Sacre!" the latter exclaimed. "What for you say two, free
T'OUSAN' dollar? Courteau 'ain't lose but six hundred, an' he's
got it back. No! I'm t'inkin' you Policemans is got good sense,
but I lak better a miners' meetin'. Us 'sour-dough' mak' better
law as dem feller at Ottawa."

"Morris Best was willing to go his bail," Rock informed him, "but
Miller wouldn't allow it. Ben is sore at having the Rialto
implicated--there's been so much short-weighing going on.
Understand?"

'Poleon wagged his head in bewilderment. "I don' savvy dis new
kin' of law you feller is bring in de country. S'pose I say,
'M'sieu' Jodge, I know dis boy long tam; he don' steal dat gold.'
De Jodge he say, 'Doret, how much money you got? T'ousand dollar?'
I say, 'Sure! I got 'bout t'ousand dollar.' Den he tell me, 'Wal,
dat ain't 'nough. Mebbe so you better gimme two t'ousan' dollar
biffore I b'lieve you.' Bien! I go down-town an' win 'noder
t'ousan' on de high card, or mebbe so I stick up some feller, den
I come back and m'sieu' le jodge he say: 'Dat's fine! Now we let
Phillips go home. He don' steal not'in'.' Wat I t'ink of dem
proceedin's? Eh? I t'ink de jodge is dam' grafter!"

Rock laughed heartily. "Don't let Colonel Cavendish hear you," he
cautioned. "Seriously now, he'd let Pierce go if he could; he told
me so. He'll undoubtedly allow him the freedom of the Barracks, so
he'll really be on parole until his trial."

"Trial? You goin' try him again?" The woodsman could make little
of the affair. "If you try him two tam, dose crook is mak' t'ief
of Pierce for sure. One trial is plenty. I s'pose mebbe I better
kill dem feller off an' settle dis t'ing."

"Don't talk like that," Rock told him. "I'm not saying they don't
need killing, but--nobody gets away with that stuff nowadays."

"No?" 'Poleon was interested and a trifle defiant. "For why? You
never catch me, M'sieu'. Nobody is able for doin' dat. I'm good
traveler."

Rock eyed the stalwart speaker meditatively. "I'd hate to take
your trail, that's a fact, but I'd have to do it. However, that
would be a poor way to help Pierce. If he's really innocent,
Courteau will have a hard job to convict him. I suggest that you
let matters rest as they are for a day or so. We'll treat the kid
all right."

On the way to her room Rouletta met the Countess Courteau, and in
a few words made known the facts of Pierce's arrest. The elder
woman listened in astonishment.

"Arrested? For theft? Absurd! Who made the charge?"

"Count Courteau."

"COURTEAU? Where did he get a thousand dollars?" The speaker's
face was set in an expression of utter incredulity.

"I don't know. It's all too wretched, too terrible--" Rouletta's
voice broke; she hid her face in her hands. For a moment there was
silence; then the elder woman exclaimed, harshly, peremptorily:

"Tell me everything. Quick! There's a reason why I must know all
about it."

Drawing Rouletta into her room, she forced her into a chair, then
stood over her while the latter repeated the story in greater
detail.

"So! That's it!" the Countess cried, at last. "The McCaskeys
backed him up. Of course! And he referred to Sheep Camp--to me.
He's the sort to do a thing like that. God! What a dog!" After a
time she went on: "I'm sorry Pierce struck him; he'll never get
over that and it will make it harder--much harder."

"You think it can be straightened out?" Rouletta s face was
strained; her eyes searched the former speaker's face eagerly.

"It's GOT to be straightened out. It would be monstrous to allow--
" The Countess shook her head, then, with a mirthless smile,
exclaimed: "But what a situation! Henri, of all persons! It's
pleasant for me, isn't it? Well, somebody planted that poke--
probably one of the McCaskeys. They'd like to railroad the boy.
Joe is as vindictive as an Indian and he blames Pierce and me for
his brother's death."

In desperation Rouletta cried: "I'll pay the Count back his money-
-I'll double it."

"HIS money?" sneered the woman. "He hasn't a cent, except what I
give him. That was McCaskey's dust." She stared at the
apprehensive figure crouched upon the edge of the chair, and
slowly her expression softened. In a gentler tone she said, "I see
you didn't take my advice; you didn't heed my warning."

"Who ever heeds a warning like yours?"

"Does Pierce know that you--feel this way about him?"

Rouletta sighed wearily. "I didn't know myself, although I more
than half suspected. I didn't permit myself to think, it made me
so unhappy."

"It ought to satisfy me somewhat to learn that he doesn't care for
you, but--somehow it doesn't. He didn't care for me, either. But I
cared for him. I love him now, just as you love him--better,
probably. Oh, why conceal it? I've spent a good many black hours
thinking about it and trying to fight it. Mind you, it wasn't his
fault; it was just fate. There are some fellows who go smiling and
singing along through life--clean, decent fellows, too--attending
to their own affairs in a perfectly proper manner, but leaving a
trail of havoc behind them. It isn't so true of women--they're
usually flirts--their smiles don't last and the echo of their
songs dies out. He's perfectly impossible for me. I wouldn't marry
him if I were free and if he asked me. But that has nothing
whatever to do with the case."

"I had no idea!" Rouletta said. "I suppose there's no hope for me,
either. I'm not his kind. He's told me about his life, his people.
I wouldn't fit in."

"It isn't that--people are adaptable, they make themselves fit,
for a while at least--it's a question of identities. As much a
matter of family histories as anything else. You're his antithesis
in every respect and--like should mate with like. Now then, about
this other trouble. I must work in my own way, and I see but one.
I'll have to pay high, but--" The speaker lifted her shoulders as
if a cold wind had chilled her. "I've paid high, up to date, and I
suppose I shall to the end. Meanwhile, if you can get him out of
jail, do so by all means. I can't. I daren't even try."

When, at a late hour, Count Henri Courteau entered the
establishment that bore his name he was both surprised and angered
to find his wife still awake. The guests of the hotel were asleep,
the place was quiet, but the Countess was reading in an easy-chair
beside the office stove. She was in negligee, her feet were
resting upon the stove fender. She turned her head to say:

"Well, Henri, you look better than I thought you would."

The Count passed a caressing hand over his swollen cheek and his
discolored left eye. "You heard about the fight, eh?" he inquired,
thickly.

"Yes--if you'd call it that."

Courteau grimaced, but there was a ring of triumph and of
satisfaction in his voice when he cried:

"Well, what do you think of that fellow? It was like him, wasn't
it, after I had caught him red-handed?"

"To punch you? Quite like him," agreed the woman.

"Pig! To strike a defenseless man. Without warning, too. It shows
his breeding. And now"--the speaker sneered openly--"I suppose you
will bail him out."

"Indeed! Why should I?"

"Oh, don't pretend innocence!" the Count stormed. "Don't act so
unconcerned. What's your game, anyhow? Whatever it is, that fellow
will cut cord-wood for the rest of the winter where the whole of
Dawson can see him and say, 'Behold the lover of the Countess
Courteau!'"

"There's some mistake. He isn't a thief."

"No?" The husband swayed a few steps closer, his face working
disagreeably. "Already it is proved. He is exposed, ruined. Bah!
He made of me a laughing-stock. Well, he shall suffer! A born
thief, that's what he is. What have you to say?"

"Why--nothing. I hoped it was a mistake, that's all."

"You HOPED! To be sure!" sneered the speaker. "Well, what are you
going to do about it?" When his wife said nothing the man
muttered, in some astonishment: "I didn't expect you to take it so
quietly. I was prepared for a scene. What ails you?"

Hilda laid down her book. She turned to face her accuser. "Why
should I make a scene?" she asked. "I've had nothing to do with
Phillips since we parted company at White Horse. I've scarcely
spoken to him, and you know it."

"You don't deny there was something between you?"

The woman shrugged non-committally, her lips parted in a faint,
cheerless smile. "I deny nothing. I admit nothing."

Although Courteau's brain was fogged, he experienced a growing
surprise at the self-possession with which his wife had taken this
blow which he had aimed as much at her as at Pierce Phillips; he
studied her intently, a mingling of suspicion, of anger, and of
admiration in his uncertain gaze. He saw, for one thing, that his
effort to reach her had failed and that she remained completely
the mistress of herself. She reclined at ease in her comfortable
chair, quite unstirred by his derision, his jubilation. He became
aware, also, of the fact that she presented an extremely
attractive picture, for the soft white fur of the loose robe she
wore exposed an alluring glimpse of snowy throat and bosom; one
wide sleeve had fallen back, showing a smoothly rounded arm; her
silken ankles, lifted to the cozy warmth of the stove, were small
and trim; her feet were shod in neat high-heeled slippers. The
Count admired neatly shod ladies.

"You're a very smart-looking woman," he cried, with some
reluctance. "You're beautiful, Hilda. I don't blame the young fool
for falling. But you're too old, too wise--"

Hilda nodded. "You've said it. Too old and too wise. If I'd been
as young and as silly as when I met you--who knows? He's a
handsome boy."

Again the husband's anger blazed up.

"But I'm not young and silly," his wife interrupted.

"Just the same, you played me a rotten trick," the Count exploded.
"And I don't forget. As for him"--he swore savagely--"he'll learn
that it's not safe to humiliate me, to rob me of any woman--wife
or mistress. You've never told me the half; I've had to guess. But
I'm patient, I know how to wait and to use my eyes and my ears.
Then to strike me! Perdition! I'll follow this through, never
fear."

"How did you get a thousand dollars, Henri?" the wife inquired,
curiously.

Courteau's gaze shifted. "What difference? I won it on a turn at
the North Star; it was given to me; I found it. Anyhow, I had it.
It was a good night for me; yes, a very good night. I had my
revenge and I showed my friends that I'm a man to be reckoned
with."

In a tone unexpectedly humble the woman said: "I had no idea you
cared very much what I did or how I carried on. After all, it was
your own fault."

"Mine?" The Count laughed in derision and astonishment.

"Exactly! If you had taken the trouble to show me that you cared--
well, things might have been different. However--" The Countess
rose, and with another change of voice and manner said: "Come
along. Let's do something for your eye."

The Count stared at her in bewilderment, then he turned away,
crying: "Bah! I want no help." At the door he paused to jeer once
more. "Pierce Phillips! A common thief, a despicable creature who
robs the very man he had most deeply injured. I've exposed him to
the law and to public scorn. Sleep on that, my dear. Dream on it."
With a chuckle he traced an uncertain course to the stairs,
mounted them to his room, and slammed his door behind him.

He had undressed and flung himself into bed, but he had not yet
fallen asleep when the door reopened and his wife entered, bearing
in her hand a steaming pitcher of hot water. This she deposited;
into it she dipped a folded towel.

"I'm sorry you're disfigured, Henri," she told him, quietly.

Despite his surly protests, she bathed and soothed his swollen
features until he dropped asleep, after which she stole out and
down to her room on the floor below. There, however, she paused,
staring back up the empty stairway, a look of deepest loathing
upon her face. Slowly, carefully, she wiped her hands as if they
were unclean; her lips curled into a mirthless smile; then she
passed into her chamber and turned the key behind her.

Rock had spoken truly in assuring 'Poleon that Pierce Phillips'
lot would be made as easy for him as possible. That is what
happened. No one at the Barracks appeared to take much stock in
Courteau's charge, and even Colonel Cavendish, the commandant,
took the trouble to send for him early the next morning and to ask
for the whole story in detail. When Pierce had given it the
officer nodded. "It looks very much like a spite case. I couldn't
imagine your doing such a thing, my boy."

"It is a spite case, nothing else."

"Courteau is a rotter, and your affair with his wife explains his
animosity."

"It wasn't exactly an 'affair,' sir." Pierce colored slightly as
he went on to explain. "You see, I was perfectly honest. I didn't
know there was a count, and when I learned there was I up stakes
and ended it. She was the first woman who ever--Well, sir, I
admired her tremendously. She--impressed me wonderfully."

"No doubt," the colonel smiled. "She's an impressive person. Are
you still fond of her?"

"Not in the same way."

"What about this girl Laure?"

This time Pierce flushed uncomfortably. "I've no excuses to offer
there, sir--no explanations. We--just drifted together. It was a
long trip and the Yukon does that sort of thing. Force of
circumstance as much as anything, I presume. I've been trying to
break away, but--" he shrugged.

"You've been a pretty foolish lad." Pierce remained silent at this
accusation, and the colonel went on: "However, I didn't bring you
here to lecture you. The Royal Mounted have other things to think
about than young wasters who throw themselves away. After all,
it's a free-and-easy country and if you want to play ducks and
drakes it's your own business. I merely want you to realize that
you've put yourself in a bad light and that you don't come into
court with clean hands."

"I understand. I put in a wakeful night thinking about it. It's
the first time in a long while that I've done any serious
thinking."

"Well, don't be discouraged. A little thinking will benefit you.
Now then, I'm going to put Rock at work on your case, and
meanwhile you may have the liberty of the Barracks. You're a
gentleman, and I trust you to act as one."

Pierce was only too grateful for this courtesy, and to realize
that he retained the respect of this middle-aged, soldierly
officer, whom he had long admired, filled him with deep relief. He
gave his promise readily enough.

Later in the day Broad and Bridges came in to see him, and their
indignation at the outrage, their positive assertion that it was
nothing less than a deliberate conspiracy, and so considered among
the Front Street resorts, immensely cheered him.

"You remember the holler I let up when them Sheep-Campers wanted
to hang McCaskey?" Broad inquired. "It was my mistake. His ear and
a hemp knot would go together like rheumatism and liniment."

Bridges agreed. "Funny, us three bein' tillicums, ain't it?" he
mused. "Especially after the way we dredged you. We didn't need
your loose change, but--there it was, so we took it."

"You'd of done better if you'd turned on the hollow of your foot
that day and romped right back to the old farm," Broad asserted.
"You'd never of doubled up with the McCaskeys and you'd still be
the blushing yokel you was."

"Yes, you're a different kid, now." Both gamblers, it seemed, were
in the melancholy mood for moralizing. "Why, we was talkin' to
Rouletta about you this morning. She's all bereaved up over this
thing; she sent us here to cheer you. You was clean as an apple,
then--and easier to pick--now you're just a common bar-fly, the
same as us. Laure done it. She's the baby vampire that made a bum
of you."

"You're not very flattering." Phillips smiled faintly.

"Oh, I'm sort of repeatin' what Letty said. She put me to
thinkin'. She's quite a noisy little missionary when she gets
started."

"Missionary!" Broad exclaimed, in disdain. "I don't like the word.
Them birds is about useful as a hip pocket in an undershirt. Why,
missionaries don't do no real, lasting good outside of Indian
villages! Us sure-thing guys are the best missionaries that ever
struck this country. Look at the good we done around Dyea and
Skagway. Them gospel-bringers never touched it. We met the suckers
on the edge of the Frozen North and we turned 'em back by the
score. Them three walnut husks done more good than the Ten
Commandments. Yes, sir, a set of cheatin' tools will save more
strayed lambs than a ship-load of Testaments."

"Letty figgers that somebody tossed that goldsack over the top of
the cage after you follered the Count out."

"Impossible," Pierce declared.

"I got an idea." It was Broad speaking again. "The mere
contemplation of physical violence unmans that Frog. He'd about as
soon have a beatin' as have a leg cut off with a case-knife.
S'pose me and the Kid lure him to some lonely spot--some good
yellin'-place--and set upon him with a coupla pick-handles. We'll
make him confess or we'll maim and meller him till he backs out
through his bootlegs. What d'you say?"

Pierce shook his head. "Something must be done, but I doubt if
that's it. It's tough to be--disgraced, to have a thing like this
hanging over you. I wouldn't mind it half so much if I were up for
murder or arson or any man's-sized crime. Anything except
STEALING!"

"A mere matter of choice," the former speaker lightly declared.
"We got boys around the Rialto that has tried 'em all. They don't
notice no particular difference."

For some time the three friends discussed the situation, then,
when his visitors rose to go, Pierce accompanied them to the
limits of the Barracks premises and there stood looking after
them, realizing with a fresh pang that he was a prisoner. It was
an unfortunate predicament, he reflected, and quite as unpleasant
as the one which had brought him into conflict with the angry men
of Sheep Camp. That had been an experience fraught with peril, but
his present plight was little better, it seemed to him, for
already he felt the weight of the Dominion over him, already he
fancied himself enmeshed in a discouraging tangle of red tape.
There was no adventurous thrill to this affair, nothing but an
odious feeling of shame and disgrace which he could not shake off.

He was staring morosely at the ground between his feet when he
heard a voice that caused him to start. There, facing him with a
light of pleasure in her blue eyes, was the girl of the skees.

"Hello!" said she. She extended her hand, and her mitten closed
over Pierce's fingers with a firm clasp. "I'm awfully glad to see
you again, Mr--" She hesitated, then with a smile confessed, "Do
you know, you're my only pupil and yet I've never heard your
name."

"Phillips," said he.

"You don't deserve to be remembered at all, for you didn't come to
the dance. And after you had promised, too."

"I couldn't come," he assured her, truthfully enough.

"I looked for you. I was quite hurt when you failed to appear.
Then I thought perhaps you expected something more formal than a
mere verbal invitation, and in that way I managed to save my
vanity. If I'd known who you were or how to find you I'd have had
my father send you a note. If it wasn't that, I'm glad. Well,
there's another dance this week and I'll expect you."

"I--I'm not dancing," he stammered. "Not at the Barracks, anyhow."

The girl was puzzled; therefore Pierce summoned his courage and
explained, with as brave an attempt at lightness as he could
afford: "You see before you a victim of unhappy circumstance," a
person to be shunned. I'm worse than a case of smallpox. I don't
think you should be seen talking to me."

"What are you driving at?"

"I'm getting up the spiritual momentum necessary to tell you that
I'm a thief! Truly. Anyhow, three choice gentlemen are so sure of
it that they went to the trouble of perjuring themselves and
having me arrested--"

"Arrested? YOU?"

"Exactly. And the evidence is very strong. I almost think I must
be guilty."

"Are you?"

Pierce shook his head.

"Of course you're not. I remember, now--something father said at
breakfast, but I paid no attention. You fought with that good-
looking French count, didn't you?"

"Thank you for reminding me of the one cheerful feature connected
with the entire affair. Yes, I raised my hand to him in anger--and
let it fall, but Lieutenant Rock spoiled the whole party."

"Tell me everything, please."

Pierce was more than willing to oblige, and he began his recital
at the time of his first meeting with Joe McCaskey on the beach at
Dyea. While he talked the girl listened with that peculiar open-
eyed meditative gravity he had noted upon their former meeting.
When he had finished she cried, breathlessly:

"Why, it's as exciting as a book!"

"You think so? I don't. If I were only a clever book character I'd
execute some dramatic coup and confound my enemies--book people
always do. But my mind is a blank, my ingenuity is at a complete
standstill. I feel perfectly foolish and impotent. To save me, I
can't understand how that gold got where it was, for the cashier's
cage is made of wire and the door has a spring-lock. I heard it
snap back of me when I followed the Count outside. I had an insane
idea that his nose would stretch if I pulled it and I believe yet
it would. Well, I've spent one night in the dungeon and I'm not
cut out to enjoy that mode of life. All I can think about is the
Prisoner of Chillon and the Man in the Iron Mask and other
distressing instances of the law's injustice. I feel as if I'd
grown a gray beard in the last twelve hours. Do I look much older
than when we met?"

The girl shook her head. "It's tremendously dramatic. Think what a
story it will make when it's over and when you look back on it."

"Do you feel that way, too?" Pierce inquired, curiously. "As if
everything is an adventure? I used to. I used to stand outside of
myself and look on, but now--I'm on the inside, looking out. I
suppose it's the effect of the gray beard. Experience comes fast
in this country. To one thing I've made up my mind, however; when
I get out of this scrape, if I ever do, I'm going away up into the
hills where the wind can blow me clean, and stay there."

"It's a perfect shame!" the girl said, indignantly. "I shall tell
father to fix it. He fixes everything I ask him to. He's
wonderful, as you probably know."

"Inasmuch as I haven't the faintest idea who he is--"

"Why, he's Colonel Cavendish! I'm Josephine Cavendish. I thought
everybody knew me."

Pierce could not restrain a start of surprise. Very humbly he
inquired:

"Now that you understand who I am and what I'm charged with, do
you want to--know me; be friends with me?"

"We ARE friends," Miss Cavendish warmly declared. "That's not
something that may happen; it has happened. I'm peculiar about
such matters; I have my own way of looking at them. And now that
we're friends we're going to be friends throughout and I'm going
to help you. Come along and meet mother."

"I--don't know how far my parole extends," Pierce ventured,
doubtfully.

"Nonsense! There's only one authority around here. Father thinks
he's it, but he isn't. I am. You're my prisoner now. Give me your
word you won't try to escape--"

"Escape!" Pierce smiled broadly. "I don't much care if I never get
out. Prisons aren't half as bad as they're pictured."

"Then come!"




CHAPTER XXV


"You really must do something for this boy Pierce Phillips." Mrs.
Cavendish spoke with decision.

The newspaper which the colonel was reading was barely six weeks
old, therefore he was deeply engrossed in it, and he looked up
somewhat absentmindedly.

"Yes, yes. Of course, my dear," he murmured. "What does he want
now?"

"Why, he wants his liberty! He wants this absurd charge against
him dismissed! It's a shame to hold a boy of his character, his
breeding, on the mere word of a man like Count Courteau."

Colonel Cavendish smiled quizzically. "You, too, eh?" said he.

"What do you mean by that?"

"Why, you're the fourth woman who has appealed to me since his
arrest. I dare say I'll hear from others. I never saw a fellow who
had the female vote so solidly behind him. I'm beginning to regard
him as a sort of domestic menace."

"You surely don't believe him guilty?"

When her husband refused to commit himself Mrs. Cavendish
exclaimed, "Rubbish!"

"First Josephine came to me," the colonel observed. "She was
deeply indignant and considerably disappointed in me as a man and
a father when I refused to quash the entire proceedings and
apologize, on behalf of the Dominion Government, for the injury to
the lad's feelings. She was actually peeved. What ails her I don't
know. Then the Countess Courteau dropped in, and so did that 'lady
dealer' from the Rialto. Now you take up his defense." The speaker
paused thoughtfully for an instant. "It's bad enough to have the
fellow hanging around our quarters at all hours, but Josephine
actually suggested that we have him DINE with us!"

"I know. She spoke of it to me. But he isn't 'hanging around at
all hours.' Josephine is interested in his case, just as I am,
because--"

"My dear! He's a weigher in a saloon, a gambling-house employee.
D'you think it wise to raise such a dust about him? I like the boy
myself--can't help liking him--but you understand what he's been
doing? He's been cutting up; going the pace. I never knew you to
countenance a fellow--"

"I never saw a boy toward whom I felt so--motherly," Mrs.
Cavendish said, with some irrelevance. "I don't like wild young
men any better than you do, but--he isn't a thief, of that I'm
sure."

"Look here." Colonel Cavendish laid down his paper, and there was
more gravity than usual in his tone. "I haven't told you
everything, but it's evidently time I did. Phillips was mixed up
with bad associates, the very worst in town--"

"So he told me."

"He couldn't have told you what I'm about to. He had a most
unfortunate affair with a dance-hall girl--one that reflects no
credit upon him. He was on the straight path to ruin and going at
a gallop, drinking, gambling--everything."

 "All the more reason for trying to save him. Remember, you were
pretty wild yourself."

"Wait! I don't say he's guilty of this charge; I want to believe
him innocent--I'd like to help prove it. For that very reason it
occurred to me that Laure--she's the dance-hall girl--might throw
some light on the matter, so I put Rock to work on her. Well, his
report wasn't pleasant. The girl talked, but what she said didn't
help Phillips. She confessed that he'd been stealing right along
and giving her the money."

Mrs. Cavendish was shocked, incredulous. After a moment, however,
she shook her head positively and exclaimed, "I don't believe a
word of it."

"She's going to swear to it."

"Her oath would be no better than her word--"

"Good Lord!" the colonel cried, testily. "Has this young imp
completely hypnotized you women? The Kirby girl is frightened to
death, and the Countess--well, she told me herself that her
husband's jealousy was at the bottom of the whole thing. Laure, in
spite of what she said to Rock, is behaving like a mad person. I
dropped in at the Rialto this evening and she asked me what was
the worst Pierce could expect. I made it strong, purposely, and I
thought she'd faint. No, it's a nasty affair, all through. And, by
Jove! to cap the climax, you and Josephine take part in it! I
flatter myself that I'm democratic, but--have him here to dine!
Gad! That's playing democracy pretty strong."

"It isn't fair to imply that he's nothing more than a ladies' man.
They're detestable. The men like Phillips, too."

"True," Cavendish admitted. "He has the God-given faculty of
making friends, and for that alone I can forgive him almost
anything. It's a wonderful faculty--better than being born lucky
or rich or handsome. I'm fond of him, but I've favored him all I
can. If I thought Josephine were seriously interested in him--
well, I wouldn't feel so friendly." The speaker laughed shortly,
"No. The man who claims that girl's attention must be clean
through and through. He must stand the acid test."

When his wife silently approved this sentiment the colonel picked
up Ms paper and resumed his reading.

Pierce's friends were indeed uniformly indignant, and without
exception they maintained their faith in his innocence; most of
them, in fact, actually applied themselves to the task of clearing
him of Courteau's charge. But of the latter the one who applied
herself the most thoughtfully, the most seriously, was the
Countess Courteau. Having reasoned that she herself was indirectly
responsible for his plight, she set about aiding him in a
thoroughly feminine and indirect manner. It was an unpleasant
undertaking; she took it up with intense abhorrence; it required
her utmost determination to carry it on. Her plan had formed
itself immediately she had learned what had happened; her meeting
with the Count that evening and her unexpected solicitude, her
unbidden attention to his injury, were a part of it. As time went
on she assumed an air that amazed the man. She meekly accepted his
reproaches, she submitted to his abuse; cautiously, patiently she
paved the way to a reconciliation.

It was by no means easy, for she and Henri had long lived in what
was little better than a state of open hostility, and she had been
at no pains to conceal the utter disregard and contempt she felt
for him. He, of course, had resented it; her change of demeanor
now awoke his suspicion. He was a vain and shallow person,
however; his conceit was thoroughly Latin, and Hilda's
perseverance was in a way rewarded. Slowly, grudgingly he gave
ground before her subtle advances--they were, in fact, less
advances on her part than opportunities for him--he experienced a
feeling of triumph and began to assume a masterful air that was
indeed trying to one of her disposition. Before his friends he
boasted that his energetic defense of his honor had worked a
marvel in his home; in her presence he made bold to take on a
swagger and an authority hitherto unknown.

Hilda stood it, with what cost no one could possibly understand.
In some manner she managed to convey the idea that he dominated
her and that she cringed spiritually before him. She permitted him
occasionally to surprise a look of bewilderment, almost of fright,
in her eyes, and this tickled the man immensely. With a fatuous
complacency, thoroughly typical, he told himself that she feared
and respected him--was actually falling in love with him all over
again. When he felt the impulse to scout this idea he went to his
mirror and examined himself critically, Why not? he asked himself.
He was very pleasing. Women had always been wax in his hands; he
had a personality, an air, an irresistible something that had won
him many conquests. It seemed not unlikely that Hilda had been
shocked into a new and keener realization of his many admirable
qualities and was ready to make up, if, or when, he graciously
chose to permit her.

On the very evening that Colonel Cavendish and his wife were
discussing Pierce Phillips' affair, Courteau, feeling in a
particularly jubilant mood, decided to put the matter to a test;
therefore he surprised his wife by walking into her room
unannounced.

"My dear," he began, "it's high time we had a talk."

"Indeed!" said she. "What about?"

"About you, about me, about our affairs. Are we husband and wife
or are we not? I ask you."

With a queer flicker of her eyelids she answered: "Why--of course.
You have appeared to forget it sometimes, but--"

"No reproaches, please. The past is gone. Neither of us is without
blame. You've had your fling, too, but I've shown you that I'm
made of stern stuff and will tolerate no further foolishness. I am
a different Courteau than you ever knew. I've had my rebirth. Now
then, our present mode of life is not pleasing to me, for I'm a
fellow of spirit. Think of me--in the attitude of a dependent!"

"I share generously with you. I give you money--"

"The very point,' he broke in, excitedly. "You give; I accept. You
direct; I obey. It must end now, at once. I cannot play the
accompaniment while you sing. Either I close my eyes to your folly
and forgive, utterly--either we become man and wife again and I
assume leadership--or I make different plans for the future."

"Just what do you propose, Henri?"

The fellow shrugged. "I offer you a reconciliation; that, to begin
with. You've had your lesson and I flatter myself that you see me
in a new light. The brave can afford to be generous. I--well, I've
always had a feeling for you; I've never been blind to your
attractions, my dear. Lately I've even experienced something of
the--er--the old spell. Understand me? It's a fact.' I'm actually
taken with you, Hilda; I have the fire of an impetuous lover."

Courteau's eyes gleamed; there was an unusual warmth to his gaze
and a vibrance to his tone. He curled his mustache, he swelled his
chest, he laughed lightly but deeply. "What do you say, eh? I'm
not altogether displeasing. No? You see something in me to admire?
I thrill you? Confess."

The wife lowered her eyes. "You have some power--" she murmured.

"Power! Precisely." The Count nodded and there was a growing
vivacity and sparkle to him. "That is my quality--a power to
charm, a power to achieve, a power to triumph. Well, I choose now
to win you again for myself. It is my whim. To rekindle a love
which one has lost is a test of any man's power, n'est-ce pas? You
are fond of me. I see it. Am I not right, my sweet?"

He laid his soft white hands upon his wife's shoulders and bent an
ardent gaze upon her. Hilda faced him with an odd smile; her
cheeks were white, her ice-blue eyes were very wide and bright and
they held a curious expression.

"Come! A kiss!" he persisted. "Oho! You tremble, you shrink like a
maiden. I, too, am exhilarated, but--" With a chuckle he folded
her in his embrace and she did not resist. After a moment he
resumed: "This is quite too amusing. I wish my friends to see and
to understand. Put on your prettiest dress--"

"What for?"

"We are going down-town. We shall celebrate our reunion--we shall
drink to it publicly. All Dawson shall take note. They have said,
'Courteau is a loafer, a ne'er-do-well, and he permits another to
win his wife away from him.' I propose to show them."

"You mean you propose to show me off. Is that it? Another
conquest, eh?"

"Have it as you will. I--"

"I won't go," Hilda cried, furiously. She freed herself from his
arms. "You know I won't go. You'd like to parade me in the places
you frequent--saloons, dance-halls, gambling-houses. The idea!"

"You won't? Tut, tut! What is this?" Courteau cried, angrily.
"Rebellious so soon? Is this recent change of demeanor assumed?
Have you been fooling me?"

"What change?" the woman parried. "I don't know--"

"Oh yes, you do! For the first time in years you have treated me
as a husband should be treated; half-measures will no longer
satisfy me. We have arrived at the show-up. Are you a miserable
Delilah or--"

"Please don't ask me to go out with you, Henri," the woman
pleaded, in genuine distress, now that she saw he was in earnest.
"To be paraded like an animal on a chain! Think of my feelings."

"Indeed! Think of mine," he cried. "This is my hour, my triumph; I
propose to make it complete. Now that I carefully consider it, I
will put you to the test. You've had a fine time; if you pay a
price for it, whose fault is that? No! One must be cruel to be
kind."

"Cruel! Kind!" Hilda sneered. "It merely pleases you to humiliate
me."

"Very well!" blazed the Count. "If it pleases me, so be it. That
is my attitude now and henceforth--my will is to be law. Come!
Your prettiest dress and your prettiest smile, for we celebrate.
Yes, and money, too; I'm as poverty-ridden as usual. We will treat
my friends, we will gamble here and there, we will watch the shows
to an accompaniment of popping corks so that every one shall see
us and say: 'Yonder is Courteau and his wife. They have made up
and she adores him like a mistress. Parbleu! The man has a way
with women, eh!' It shall be a great night for me."

"Are you really serious?"

Courteau stamped his felt-shod foot. "Anger me no more."

Hilda's face was colorless, her eyes were still glowing with that
peculiar light of defiance, of desperation, of curiosity;
nevertheless, she turned away and began to dress herself.

Courteau was not disappointed. His appearance in the river-front
resorts, accompanied by his wife, created a sensation indeed. And
Hilda's bearing, under the circumstances, added to his
gratification, for, now that the die was cast, she surrendered
completely, she clung to him as if feeling a new dependence, and
this filled his cup to overflowing. It was an outrageous thing to
do; no one save a Courteau would have thought of subjecting the
woman who bore his name to such a humiliation. But he was a
perverse individual; his mind ran in crooked courses; he took a
bizarre delight in the unusual, and morality of the common sort he
knew not. To smirch her, even a little bit, to subject her to
seeming disgrace, not only taught her a lesson, but also united
them more closely, so he told himself. That he had the ability to
compel her to do anything against her will immensely tickled his
vanity, for her stubborn independence had always been a trial to
him. He knew that her social status was not of the highest;
nevertheless, her reputation was far better than his, and among
all except the newest arrivals in Dawson she bore a splendid name.
To be, himself, the cause of blackening that name, in order to
match his own, gratified his feelings of resentment. All in all,
it was a night of nights for him and he was at no pains to conceal
his satisfaction. From one place to another he led her, taking
malicious enjoyment from the distress he caused.

Courteau was not loud nor blatant; nevertheless, his triumphant
demeanor, his proprietary air, fairly shouted the fact that he had
tamed this woman and was exhibiting her against her inclinations.
At every bar he forced her to drink with him and with his friends;
he even called up barroom loafers whom he did not know and
introduced them with an elaborate flourish. The money he spent was
hers, of course, but he squandered it royally, leaving a trail of
empty champagne-bottles behind. Champagne, at this time, sold for
twenty dollars a quart and, although Hilda saw her earnings
melting away with appalling rapidity, she offered no protest.
Together they flung their chips broadcast upon the gambling-
tables, and their winnings, which were few, went to buy more
popularity with the satellites who trailed them.

As time passed and Hilda continued to meet the test, her husband's
satisfaction gained a keener edge. He beamed, he strutted, he
twisted his mustache to needle-points. She was a thoroughbred,
that he assured himself. But, after all, why shouldn't she do this
for him? The women with whom he was accustomed to associate would
not have counted such an evening as this a sacrifice, and, even
had they so considered it, he was in the habit of exacting
sacrifices from women. They liked it; it proved their devotion.

Her subjugation was made complete when he led her into a box at
the Rialto Theater and insisted upon the two McCaskeys joining
them. The brothers at first declined, but by this time Courteau's
determination carried all before it.

Joe halted him outside the box door, however, to inquire into the
meaning of the affair.

"It means this," the Count informed him. "I have effected a
complete reconciliation with my adorable wife. Women are all
alike--they fear the iron, they kiss the hand that smites them. I
have made her my obedient slave, mon ami. That's what it means."

"It don't look good to me," Joe said, morosely. "She's got an ace
buried somewhere."

"Eh? What are you trying to say?"

"I've got a hunch she's salving you, Count. She's stuck on
Phillips, like I told you, and she's trying to get a peek at your
hole card."

It was characteristic of Courteau that he should take instant
offense at this reflection upon his sagacity, this doubt of his
ability as a charmer.

"You insult my intelligence," he cried, stiffly, "and, above all,
I possess intelligence. You--do not. No. You are coarse, you are
gross. I am full of sentiment--"

"Rats!" McCaskey growled. "I get that way myself sometimes.
Sentiment like yours costs twenty dollars a quart. But this ain't
the time for a spree; we got business on our hands."

The Count eyed his friend with a frown. "It is a personal affair
and concerns our business not in the least. I am a revengeful
person; I have pride and I exact payment from those who wound it.
I brought my wife here as a punishment and I propose to make her
drink with you. Your company is not agreeable at any time, my
friend, and she does you an honor--"

"Cut out that tony talk," Joe said, roughly. "You're a broken-
hipped stiff and you're trying to grab her bank-roll. Don't you
s'pose I'm on? My company was all right until you got your hand in
the hotel cash-drawer; now I'm coarse. Maybe she's on the square--
she fell for you once--but I bet she's working you. Make sure of
this, my high and mighty nobleman"--for emphasis the speaker laid
a heavy hand upon the Count's shoulder and thrust his disagreeable
face closer--"that you keep your mouth shut. Savvy? Don't let her
sweat you--"

The admonitory words ended abruptly, for the door of the box
reopened and Joe found the Countess Courteau facing him. For an
instant their glances met and in her eyes the man saw an
expression uncomfortably reminiscent of that day at Sheep Camp
when she had turned public wrath upon his brother Jim's head. But
the look was fleeting; she turned it upon her husband, and the
Count, with an apology for his delay, entered the box, dragging
McCaskey with him.

Frank, it appeared, shared his brother's suspicions; the two
exchanged glances as Joe entered; then when the little party had
adjusted itself to the cramped quarters they watched the Countess
curiously, hoping to analyze her true intent. But in this they
were unsuccessful. She treated both of them with a cool, impartial
formality, quite natural under the circumstances, but in no other
way did she appear conscious of that clash on the Chilkoot trail.
It was not a pleasant situation at best, and Joe especially was
ill at ease, but Courteau continued his spendthrift role, keeping
the waiters busy, and under the influence of his potations the
elder McCaskey soon regained some of his natural sang-froid. All
three men drank liberally, and by the time the lower floor had
been cleared for dancing they were in a hilarious mood. They
laughed loudly, they shouted greetings across to other patrons of
the place, they flung corks at the whirling couples below.

Meanwhile, they forced the woman to imbibe with them. Joe, in
spite of his returning confidence, kept such close watch of her
that she could not spill her glass into the bucket, except rarely.
Hilda hated alcohol and its effect; she was not accustomed to
drinking. As she felt her intoxication mounting she became fearful
that the very medium upon which she had counted for success would
prove to be her undoing. Desperately she battled to retain her
wits. More than once, with a reckless defiance utterly foreign to
her preconceived plans, she was upon the point of hurling the
bubbling contents of her glass into the flushed faces about her
and telling these men how completely she was shamming, but she
managed to resist the temptation. That she felt such an impulse at
all made her fearful of committing some action equally rash, of
dropping some word that would prove fatal.

It was a hideous ordeal. She realized that already the cloak of
decency, of respectability, which she had been at such pains to
preserve during these difficult years, was gone, lost for good and
all. She had made herself a Lady Godiva; by this night of
conspicuous revelry she had undone everything. Not only had she
condoned the sins and the shortcomings of her dissolute husband,
but also she had put herself on a level with him and with the
fallen women of the town--his customary associates. Courteau had
done this to her. It had been his proposal. She could have
throttled him where he sat.

The long night dragged on interminably. Like leeches the two
McCaskeys clung to their prodigal host, and not until the early
hours of morning, when the Count had become sodden, sullen,
stupefied, and when they were in a condition little better, did
they permit him to leave them. How Hilda got him home she scarcely
knew, for she, too, had all but lost command of her senses. There
were moments when she fought unavailingly against a mental
numbness, a stupor that rolled upward and suffused her like a
cloud of noxious vapors, leaving her knees weak, her hands clumsy,
her vision blurred; again waves of deathly illness surged over
her. Under and through it all, however, her subconscious will to
conquer remained firm. Over and over she told herself:

"I'll have the truth and then--I'll make him pay."

Courteau followed his wife into her room, and there his maudlin
manner changed. He roused himself and smiled at her fatuously;
into his eyes flamed a desire, into his cheeks came a deeper
flush. He pawed at her caressingly; he voiced thick, passionate
protestations. Hilda had expected nothing less; it was for this
that she had bled her flesh and crucified her spirit these many
hours.

"You're--wonderful woman," the man mumbled as he swayed with her
in his arms. "Got all the old charm and more. Game, too!" He
laughed foolishly, then in drunken gravity asserted: "Well, I'm
the man, the stronger vessel. To turn hate into love, that--"

"You've taken your price. You've had your hour," she told him. Her
head was thrown back, her eyes were closed, her teeth were
clenched as if in a final struggle for self-restraint.

Courteau pressed his lips to hers; then in a sudden frenzy he
crushed her closer and fell to kissing her cheeks, her neck, her
throat. He mistook her shudder of abhorrence for a thrill
responsive to his passion, and hiccoughed:

"You're mine again, all mine, and--I'm mad about you. I'm aflame.
This is like the night of our marriage, what?"

"Are you satisfied, now that you've made me suffer? Do you still
imagine I care for that foolish boy?"

"Phillips? Bah! A noisy swine." Again the Count chuckled, but this
time his merriment ran away with him until he shook and until
tears came to his eyes.

Without reason Hilda joined in his laughter. Together they stood
rocking, giggling, snickering, as if at some excruciating jest.

"He--he tried to steal you--from me. From ME. Imagine it! Then he
struck me. Well, where is he now, eh?"

"I never dreamed that you cared enough for me to--do what you did.
To risk so much."

"Risk?"

Hilda nodded, and her loose straw-gold hair brushed Courteau's
cheek. "Don't pretend any longer. I knew from the start. But you
were jealous. When a woman loses the power to excite jealousy it's
a sign she's growing old and ugly and losing her fire. She can
face anything except that."

"Fire!" Henri exclaimed. "Parbleu! Don't I know you to be a
volcano?"

"How did you manage the affair--that fellow's ruin? It frightens
me to realize that you can accomplish such things."

The Count pushed his wife away. "What are you talking about?" he
demanded.

"Oh, very well! Carry it out if you wish," she said, with a
careless shrug. "But you're not fooling me in the least. On the
contrary, I admire your spirit. Now then, I'm thirsty. And you
are, too." With a smile she evaded his outstretched arms and left
the room. She was back in a moment with a bottle and two glasses.
The latter she filled; her own she raised with a gesture, and
Courteau blindly followed suit.

In spite of his deep intoxication the man still retained the
embers of suspicion, and when she spoke of Pierce Phillips they
began to glow and threatened to burst into flame. Cunningly,
persistently she played upon him, however. She enticed, she
coquetted, she cajoled; she maddened him with her advances; she
teased him with her repulses; she drugged him with her smiles, her
fragrant charms. Time and again he was upon the point of
surrender, but caught himself in time.

She won at last. She dragged the story from him, bit by bit,
playing upon his vanity, until he gabbled boastfully and took a
crapulent delight in repeating the details. It was a tale
distorted and confused, but the truth was there. She made an
excuse to leave him, finally, and remained out of the room for a
long time. When she returned it was to find him sprawled across
her bed and fast asleep.

For a moment she held dizzily to the bedpost and stared down at
him. Her mask had slipped now, her face was distorted with
loathing, and so deep were her feelings that she could not bear to
touch him, even to cover him over. Leaving him spread-eagled as he
was, she staggered out of his unclean presence.

Hilda was deathly sick; objects were gyrating before her eyes; she
felt a hideous nightmare sensation of unreality, and was filled
with an intense contempt, a tragic disgust for herself. Pausing at
the foot of the stairs, she strove to gather herself together;
then slowly, passionately she cursed the name of Pierce Phillips.




CHAPTER XXVI


Tom Linton and Jerry Quirk toiled slowly up the trail toward their
cabin. Both men were bundled thickly in clothing, both bewhiskered
visages bore grotesque breath-masks of ice; even their eyebrows
were hoary with frost. The partners were very tired.

Pausing in the chip-littered space before their door, they gazed
down the trail to a mound of gravel which stood out raw and red
against the universal whiteness. This mound was in the form of a
truncated cone and on its level top was a windlass and a pole
bucket track. From beneath the windlass issued a cloud of smoke
which mounted in billows, as if breathed forth from a concealed
chimney--smoke from the smothered drift fires laid against the
frozen face of pay dirt forty feet below the surface. Evidently
this fire was burning to suit the partners; after watching it a
moment, Tom took a buck-saw and fell stiffly to work upon a dry
spruce log which lay on the saw-buck; Jerry spat on his mittens
and began to split the blocks as they fell.

Darkness was close at hand, but both men were so fagged that they
found it impossible to hurry. Neither did they speak. Patiently,
silently they sawed and chopped, then carried the wood into the
chilly cabin; while one lit the lamp and went for a sack of ice,
the other kindled a fire. These tasks accomplished, by mutual
consent, but still without exchanging a word, they approached the
table. From the window-sill Tom took a coin and balanced it upon
his thumb and forefinger; then, in answer to his bleak, inquiring
glance, Jerry nodded and he snapped the piece into the air. While
it was still spinning Jerry barked, sharply:

"Tails!"

Both gray heads bent and near-sightedly examined the coin.

"Tails she is," Tom announced. He replaced the silver piece,
crossed the room to his bunk, seated himself upon it, and remained
there while Jerry, with a sudden access of cheerfulness, hustled
to the stove, warmed himself, and then began culinary
preparations.

These preparations were simple, but precise; also they were
deliberate. Jerry cut one slice of ham, he measured out just
enough coffee for one person, he opened one can of corn, and he
mixed a half-pan of biscuits. Tom watched him from beneath a
frown, meanwhile tugging moodily at the icicles which still clung
to his lips. His corner of the cabin was cold, hence it was a
painful process. When he had disposed of the last lump and when he
could no longer restrain his irritation, he broke out:

"Of course you had to make BREAD, didn't you? Just because you
know I'm starving."

"It come tails, didn't it?" Jerry inquired, with aggravating
pleasantness. "It ain't my fault you're starving, and you got all
night to cook what YOU want--after I'm done. _I_ don't care if you
bake a layer cake and freeze ice-cream. You can put your front
feet in the trough and champ your swill; you can root and waller
in it, for all of ME. _I_ won't hurry you, not in the least."

"It's come tails every time lately," grumbled the former speaker.

Jerry giggled. "I always was right lucky, except in pickin'
pardners," he declared. In a cracked and tuneless voice he began
humming a roundelay, evidently intended to express gaiety and
contentment.

Unable longer to withstand his gnawing hunger, Tom secured for
himself a large round hardtack, and with this he tried to ward off
the pangs of starvation. But he had small success with the
endeavor, for his teeth were poor. He flung the thing of adamant
aside, finally, and cried, testily:

"My God! Ain't it bad enough to EAT a phonograph record without
having to listen to the damn' machine? Shut up, will you? You've
got the indecentest singing voice I ever heard."

"Say!" Jerry looked up belligerently. "You don't have to listen to
my singin'. There's plenty of room outside--all the room from here
south to Seattle. And you don't have to gum that pilot-bread if
your teeth is loose. You can boil yourself a pot of mush--when
your turn comes. You got a free hand. As for me, I eat anything I
want to and I SING anything I want to whenever I want to, and I'd
like to see anybody stop me. We don't have to toss up for turns at
singin'." More loudly he raised his high-pitched voice;
ostentatiously he rattled his dishes.

Tom settled back in exasperated silence, but as time wore on and
his hungry nostrils were assailed with the warm, tantalizing odor
of frying ham fat he fidgeted nervously.

Having prepared a meal to his liking, Jerry set the table with a
single plate, cup, and saucer, then seated himself with a
luxurious grunt. He ate slowly; he rolled every mouthful with
relish; he fletcherized it with calculated deliberation; he paused
betweentimes to blow loudly upon his coffee and to smack his lips-
-sounds that in themselves were a provocation and an insult to his
listener. When he had cleaned up his interminable repast and was
finishing the last scrap, Tom rose and made for the stove.

Jerry watched him, paralyzed in mid-motion, until his partner's
hand was outstretched, then he suddenly shouted:

"Get away from there!"

Tom started. "What for?" he queried, a light of rebellion flaring
into his eyes. "Ain't you through with your supper? You been at it
long enough."

"You see me eatin', don't you? After I get fed up and my teeth
picked I got all my dishes to wash."

"That wasn't our arrangement."

"It was so."

"You'll eat all night," Tom complained, almost tearfully. "You'll
set there and gorge till you bust."

"That's my privilege. I don't aim to swaller my grub whole. I'm
shy a few teeth and some of the balance don't meet, so I can't
consume vittles like I was a pulp-mill. I didn't start this row--"

"Who did?"

"Now ain't that a fool question?" Jerry leaned back comfortably
and began an elaborate vacuum-cleaning process of what teeth he
retained. "Who starts all our rows, if I don't? No. I'm as easy-
going as a greased eel, and 'most anybody can get along with me,
but, tread on my tail and I swop ends, pronto. That's me. I go my
own even way, but I live up to my bargains and I see to it that
others do the same. You get the hell away from that stove!"

Tom abandoned his purpose, and with the resignation of a martyr
returned to teeter upon the edge of his bunk. He remained there,
glum, malevolent, watchful, until his cabin-mate had leisurely
cleared the table, washed and put away his dishes; then with a
sigh of fat repletion, unmistakably intended as a provocation, the
tormentor lit his pipe and stretched himself luxuriously upon his
bed.

Even then Tom made no move. He merely glowered at the recumbent
figure. Jerry blew a cloud of smoke, then waved a generous
gesture.

"Now then, fly at it, Mr. Linton," he said, sweetly. "I've et my
fill; I've had an ample sufficiency; I'm through and in for the
night."

"Oh no, you ain't! You get up and wash that skillet."

Mr. Quirk started guiltily.

"Hustle your creaking joints and scrub it out."

"Pshaw! I only fried a slice--"

"Scrub it!" Linton ordered.

This command Jerry obeyed, although it necessitated heating more
water, a procedure which, of course, he maliciously prolonged.
"Waited till I was all spread out, didn't you," he sneered, as he
stooped over the wood-box. "That's like you. Some people are so
small-calibered they'd rattle around in a gnat's bladder like a
mustard seed in a bass drum."

"I'm particular who I eat after," Tom said, "so be sure you scrub
it clean."

"Thought you'd spoil my smoke. Well, I can smoke standin' on my
head and enjoy it." There was a silence, broken only by the sound
of Jerry's labors. At last he spoke: "Once again I repeat what I
told you yesterday. I took the words out of your own mouth. You
said the woman was a hellion--"

"I never did. Even if I had I wouldn't allow a comparative
stranger to apply such an epithet to a member of my family."

"You did say it. And she ain't a member of your family."

Tom's jaws snapped. "If patience is a virtue," he declared, in
quivering anger, "I'll slide into heaven on skids. Assassination
ought not to be a crime; it's warranted, like abating a nuisance;
it ain't even a misdemeanor--sometimes. She was a noble woman--"

"Hellion! I got it on the authority of her own husband--you!"

Tom rose and stamped over to the stove; he slammed its door and
clattered the coffee-pot to drown this hateful persistence. Having
had the last word, as usual, Jerry retreated in satisfaction to
his bed and stretched his aching frame upon it.

The dingy cabin was fragrant with the odor of cooking food for a
second time that evening when the sound of voices and a knock at
the door brought both old men to their feet.

Before they could answer, the door flew open and in and out of the
frosty evening came Rouletta Kirby and 'Poleon Doret. The girl's
cheeks were rosy, her eyes were sparkling; she warmly greeted
first one partner, then the other. Pausing, she sniffed the air
hungrily.

"Goody!" she cried. "We're just in time. And we're as hungry as
bears."

"Dis gal 'ain't never got 'nough to eat since she's seeck in W'ite
'Orse," 'Poleon laughed. "For las' hour she's been sayin': 'Hurry!
Hurry! We goin' be late.' I 'mos' keel dem dog."

Linton's seamed face softened; it cracked into a smile of genuine
pleasure; there was real hospitality and welcome in his voice when
he said:

"You're in luck, for sure. Lay off your things and pull up to the
fire. It won't take a jiffy to parlay the ham and coffee--one
calls three, as they say. No need to ask if you're well; you're
prettier than ever, and some folks would call that impossible."

Jerry nodded in vigorous agreement. "You're as sweet as a bunch of
jessamine, Letty. Why, you're like a breath of spring! What
brought you out to see us, anyhow?"

"Dat's long story," 'Poleon answered. "Sapre! We got plenty
talkin' to do. Letty she's goin' he'p you mak' de supper now, an'
I fix dem dog. We goin' camp wit' you all night. Golly! We have
beeg tam."

The new-comers had indeed introduced a breath of new, clean air.
Of a sudden the cabin had brightened, it was vitalized, it was
filled with a magic purpose and good humor. Rouletta flung aside
her furs and bustled into the supper preparations. Soon the meal
was ready. The first pause in her chatter came when she set the
table for four and when Jerry protested that he had already dined.

The girl paused, plate in hand. "Then we WERE late and you didn't
tell us," she pouted, reproachfully.

"No. I got through early, but Tom--he was held up in the traffic.
You see, I don't eat much, anyhow. I just nibble around and take a
cold snack where I can get it."

"And you let him!" Rouletta turned to chide the other partner.
"He'll come down sick, Tom and you'll have to nurse him again. If
you boys won't learn to keep regular meal hours I'll have to come
out and run your house for you. Shall I? Speak up. What am I
offered?"

Now this was the most insidious flattery. "Boys" indeed! Jerry
chuckled, Tom looked up from the stove and his smoke-blue eyes
were twinkling.

"I can't offer you more 'n a half-interest in the 'lay.' That's
all I own."

"Is dis claim so reech lak people say?" 'Poleon inquired. "Dey're
tellin' me you goin' mak' hondred t'ousan' dollar."

"We're just breastin' out--cross-cuttin' the streak, but--looky."
Jerry removed a baking-powder can from the window-shelf and out of
it he poured a considerable amount of coarse gold which the
visitors examined with intense interest. "Them's our pannin's."

"How splendid!" Rouletta cried.

"I been clamorin' to hire some men and take life easy. I say put
on a gang and h'ist it out, but"--Jerry shot a glance at his
partner--"people tell me I'm vi'lent an' headstrong. They say,
'Prove it up.'"

Linton interrupted by loudly exclaiming, "Come and get it,
strangers, or I'll throw it out and wash the skillet."

Supper was welcome, but, despite the diners' preoccupation with
it, despite Tom's and Jerry's effort to conceal the fact of their
estrangement, it became evident that something was amiss. Rouletta
finally sat back and, with an accusing glance, demanded to know
what was the matter.

The old men met her eyes with an assumption of blank astonishment.

"'Fess up," she persisted. "Have you boys been quarreling again?"

"Who? Us? Why, not exactly--"

"We sort of had words, mebbe."

"What about?"

There was an awkward, an ominous silence. "That," Mr. Linton said,
in a harsh and firm voice, "is something I can't discuss. It's a
personal matter." "It ain't personal with me," Jerry announced,
carelessly. "We was talkin' about Tom's married life and I
happened to say--"

"DON'T!" Linton's cry of warning held a threat. "Don't spill your
indecencies in the presence of this child or--I'll hang the
frying-pan around your neck. The truth is," he told Letty,
"there's no use trying to live with a horn' toad. I've done my
best. I've let him defame me to my face and degrade me before
strangers, but he remains hostyle to every impulse in my being; he
picks and pesters and poisons me a thousand times a day. And
snore! My God! You ought to hear him at night."

Strangely enough, Mr. Quirk did not react to this passionate
outburst. On the contrary, he bore it with indications of a deep
and genuine satisfaction.

"He's workin' up steam to propose another divorce," said the
object of Tom's tirade.

"That I am. Divorce is the word," Linton growled.

"WHOOP-EE!" Jerry uttered a high-pitched shout. "I been waitin'
for that. I wanted him to say it. Now I'm free as air and twice as
light. You heard him propose it, didn't you?"

"Wat you goin' do 'bout dis lay?" Toleon inquired.

"Split her," yelled Jerry.

"Dis cabin, too?"

"Sure. Slam a partition right through her."

"We won't slam no partition anywhere," Tom declared. "Think I'm
going to lay awake every night listening to distant bugles? No.
We'll pull her apart, limb from limb, and divvy the logs. It's a
pest-house, anyhow. I'll burn my share."

Tom's positive refusal even to permit mention of the cause of the
quarrel rendered efforts at a reconciliation difficult; 'Poleon's
and Rouletta's attempts at badinage, therefore, were weak
failures, and their conversation met with only the barest
politeness. Now that the truth had escaped, neither partner could
bring himself to a serious consideration of anything except his
own injuries. They exchanged evil glances, they came into direct
verbal contact only seldom, and when they did it was to clash as
flint upon steel. No statement of the one was sufficiently
conservative, sufficiently broad, to escape a sneer and an
immediate refutation from the other. Evidently the rift was deep
and was widening rapidly.

Of course the facts were revealed eventually--Rouletta had a way
of winning confidences, a subtle, sweet persuasiveness--they had
to do with the former Mrs. Linton, that shadowy female figure
which had fallen athwart Tom's early life. It seemed that Jerry
had referred to her as a "hellion."

Now the injured husband himself had often applied even more
disparaging terms to the lady in question, therefore the visitors
were puzzled at his show of rabid resentment; the most they could
make out of it was that he claimed the right of disparagement as a
personal and exclusive privilege, and considered detraction out of
the lips of another a trespass upon his intimate private affairs,
an aspersion and an insult. The wife of a man's bosom, he averred,
was sacred; any creature who breathed disrespect of her into the
ears of her husband was lower than a hole in the ground and lacked
the first qualifications of a friend, a gentleman, or a citizen.

Jerry, on the other hand, would not look at the matter in this
light. Tom had called the woman a "hellion," therefore he was
privileged to do the same, and any denial of that privilege was an
iniquitous encroachment upon HIS sacred rights. Those rights he
proposed to safeguard, to fight for if necessary. He would shed
his last drop of blood in their defense. No cantankerous old
grouch could refuse him free speech and get away with it.

"You're not really mad at each other," Rouletta told them.

"AIN'T we?" they hoarsely chorused.

She shook her head. "You need a change, that's all. As a matter of
fact, your devotion to each other is about the most beautiful, the
most touching, thing I know. You'd lay down your lives for each
other; you're like man and wife, and well you know it."

"Who? US?" Jerry was aghast. "Which one of us is the woman? I been
insulted by experts, but none of 'em ever called me 'Mrs. Linton.'
She was a tough customer, a regular hellion--"

"He's off again!" Tom growled. "Me lay down MY life for a
squawking parrot! He'll repeat that pet word for the rest of time
if I don't wring his neck."

"Mebbe so you lak hear 'bout some other feller's trouble," 'Poleon
broke in, diplomatically.

"Wal, ma soeur she's come to you for help, queeck."

Both old men became instantly alert. "You in trouble?" Tom
demanded of the girl. "Who's been hurting you, I'd like to know?"

Jerry, too, leaned forward, and into his widening eyes came a
stormy look. "Sure! Has one of them crawlin' worms got fresh with
you, Letty? Say--!" He reached up and removed his six-shooter from
its nail over his bed.

Rouletta set them upon the right track. Swiftly but earnestly she
recited the nature and the circumstances of the misfortune that
had overtaken Pierce Phillips, and of the fruitless efforts his
friends were making in his behalf. She concluded by asking her
hearers to go his bail.

"Why, sure!" Linton exclaimed, with manifest relief. "That's easy.
I'll go it, if they'll take me."

"There you are, hoggin' the curtain, as usual," Jerry protested.
"I'll go his bail myself. I got him in trouble at Sheep Camp. I
owe him--"

"I've known the boy longer than you have. Besides, I'm a family
man; I know the anguish of a parent's heart--"

"Lay off that 'family' stuff," howled Mr. Quirk. "You know it
riles me. I could of had as much of a family as you had if I'd
wanted to. You'd think it give you some sort of privilege. Why,
ever since we set up with Letty you've assumed a fatherly air even
to her, and you act like I was a plumb outsider. You remind me of
a hen--settin' on every loose door-knob you find."

"If you'd lay off the 'family' subject we'd get along better."

Once again the fray was on; it raged intermittently throughout the
evening; it did not die out until bedtime put an end to it.

Rouletta and her three companions were late in reaching town on
the following day, for they awakened to find a storm raging, and
in consequence the trails were heavy. Out of this white smother
they plodded just as the lights of Dawson were beginning to gleam.
Leaving the men at the Barracks, the girl proceeded to her hotel.
She had changed out of her trail clothes and was upon the point of
hurrying down-town to her work when she encountered Hilda
Courteau.

"Where in the world have you been?" the latter inquired.

"Nowhere, in the world," Rouletta smiled. "I've been quite out of
it." Then she told of her and 'Poleon's trip to the mines and of
their success. "Pierce will be at liberty inside of an hour," she
declared.

"Well, I've--learned the truth."

Rouletta started; eagerly she clutched at the elder woman. "What?
You mean--?"

"Yes. I wrung it out of Courteau. He confessed."

"It WAS a frame-up--a plot? Oh, my dear--!"

"Exactly. But don't get hysterical. I'm the one to do that. What a
night, what a day I've put in!" The speaker shuddered, and
Rouletta noticed for the first time how pale, how ill she looked.

"Then Pierce is free already? He's out--?"

"Not yet. I'll tell you everything if you'll promise not to
breathe a word, not to interfere until Henri has a chance to
square himself. I--think I've earned the right to demand that
much. I told you the whole thing was counterfeit--was the work of
Joe McCaskey. I couldn't believe Henri was up to such villainy.
He's dissolute, weak, vain--anything you choose--but he's not
voluntarily criminal. Well, I went to work on him. I pretended to-
-" the Countess again shivered with disgust. "Oh, you saw what I
was doing. I hated myself, but there was no choice. Things came to
a climax last night. I don't like to talk about it--think about
it--but you're bound to hear. I consented to go out with him. He
dragged me through the dance-halls and the saloons--made me drink
with him, publicly, and with the scum of the town." Noting the
expression on her hearer's face, the Countess laughed shortly,
mirthlessly. "Shocking, wasn't it? Low, indecent, wretched? That's
what everybody is saying. Dawson is humming with it. God! How he
humiliated me! But I loosened his tongue. I got most of the
details--not all, but enough. It was late, almost daylight, before
I succeeded. He slept all day, stupefied, and so did I, when I
wasn't too ill.

"He remembered something about it, he had some shadowy
recollection of talking too much. When he woke up he sent for me.
Then we had it. He denied everything, of course. He lied and he
twisted, but I'm the stronger--always have been. I beat him down,
as usual. I could have felt sorry for the poor wretch only for
what he had put me through. He went out not long ago."

"Where to? Tell me--"

"To the Police--to Colonel Cavendish. I gave him the chance to
make a clean breast of everything and save his hide, if possible.
If he weakens I'll take the bit in my teeth."

Rouletta stood motionless for a moment; then in deep emotion she
exclaimed: "I'm so glad! And yet it must have been a terrible
sacrifice. I think I understand how you must loathe yourself. It
was a very generous thing to do, however. Not many women could
have risen to it."

"I--hope he doesn't make me tell. I haven't much pride left, but--
I'd like to save what remains, for you can imagine what Cavendish
will think. A wife betraying her husband for her--for another man!
What a story for those women on the hill!"

Impulsively Rouletta bent forward and kissed the speaker. "Colonel
Cavendish will understand. He's a man of honor. But, after all,
when a woman really--cares, there's a satisfaction, a
compensation, in sacrifice, no matter how great."

Hilda Courteau's eyes were misty, their dark-fringed lids trembled
wearily shut. "Yes," she nodded, "I suppose so. Bitter and sweet!
When a woman of my sort, my age and experience, lets herself
really care, she tastes both. All I can hope is that Pierce never
learns what he made me pay for loving him. He wouldn't understand-
-yet." She opened her eyes again and met the earnest gaze bent
upon her. "I dare say you think I feel the same toward him as you
do, that I want him, that I'm hungry for him. Well, I'm not. I'm
'way past that. I've been through fire, and fire purifies. Now run
along, child. I'm sure everything will come out right."

The earlier snowfall had diminished when Rouletta stepped out into
the night, but a gusty, boisterous wind had risen and this filled
the air with blinding clouds of fine, hard particles, whirled up
from the streets, and the girl was forced to wade through newly
formed drifts that rose over the sidewalks, in places nearly to
her knees. The wind flapped her garments and cut her bare cheeks
like a knife; when she pushed her way into the Rialto and stamped
the snow from her feet her face was wet with tears; but they were
frost tears. She dried them quickly and with a song in her heart
she hurried back to the lunch-counter and climbed upon her
favorite stool. There it was that Doret and his two elderly
companions found her.

"Well, we sprung him," Tom announced.

"All we done was sign on the dotted line," Jerry explained. "But,
say, if that boy hops out of town he'll cost us a lot of money."

"How's he going to hop out?" Tom demanded. "That's the hell of
this country--there's no getting away."

Jerry snorted derisively. "No gettin' away? What are you talkin'
about? Ain't the Boundary within ninety miles? 'Ain't plenty of
people made get-aways? All they need is a dog-team and a few
hours' start of the Police."

"Everyt'ing's all fix'," 'Poleon told his sister. "I had talk wit'
Pierce. He ain't comin' back here no more."

"Not coming back?" the girl exclaimed.

Doret met her startled gaze. "Not in dis kin' of place. He's cut
'em out for good. I mak' him promise."

"A touch of jail ain't a bad thing for a harum-scarum kid," Tom
volunteered, as he finished giving his supper order. "It's a cold
compress--takes down the fever--"

"Nothing of the sort," Jerry asserted. "Jails is a total waste of
time. I don't believe in 'em. You think this boy's tamed, do you?
Well, I talked with him, an' all I got to say is this: keep
Courteau away from him or there's one Count you'll lose count of.
The boy's got pizen in him, an' I don't blame him none. If I was
him I'd make that Frog hop. You hear me."

'Poleon met Rouletta's worried glance with a reassuring smile. "I
been t'inkin' 'bout dat, too. W'at you say I go pardners wit' him,
eh? I got dog-team an' fine claim on hilltop. S'pose I geeve him
half-interes' to go wit' me?"

"WILL you?" eagerly queried the girl.

"Already I spoke it to him. He say mebbe so, but firs' he's got
li'l biznesse here."

"Of course! His case. But that will be cleared up. Mark what I
say. Yes"--Rouletta nodded happily--"take him with you, 'Poleon--
out where things are clean and healthy and where he can get a new
start. Oh, you make me very happy!"

The woodsman laid a big hand gently over hers. In a low voice he
murmured: "Dat's all I want, ma soeur--to mak' you happy. If dat
claim is wort' million dollar' it ain't too much to pay, but--I'm
scare' she's 'noder bum."

The song was still sounding in Rouletta's heart when she sat down
at the faro-table, and all through the evening it seemed to her
that the revelry round about was but an echo of her gladness.
Pierce was free, his name was clean. Probably ere this the whole
truth was known to the Mounted Police and by to-morrow it would be
made public.

Moreover, he and 'Poleon were to be partners. That generous
woodsman, because of his affection for her, proposed to take the
young fellow into his heart and make a man of him. That was like
him--always giving much and taking little. Well, she was 'Poleon's
sister. Who could tell what might result from this new union of
interests? Of course, there was no pay out there on that mountain-
crest, but hard work, honest poverty, an end of these demoralizing
surroundings were bound to affect Pierce only for the better.
Rouletta blessed the name of Hilda Courteau, who had made this
possible, and of 'Poleon Doret, too--'Poleon of the great heart,
who loved her so sincerely, so unselfishly. He never failed her;
he was a brother, truly--the best, the cheeriest, the most loyal
in the world. Rouletta was amazed to realize what a part in her
life the French Canadian had played. His sincere affection was
about the biggest thing that had come to her, so it seemed.

Occupied with such comforting thoughts, Rouletta failed to note
that the evening had passed more quickly than usual and that it
was after midnight. When she did realize that fact, she wondered
what could have detained Lucky Broad. Promptness was a habit with
him; he and Bridges usually reported at least a half-hour ahead of
time.

She caught sight of the pair, finally, through the wide archway,
and saw that they were surrounded by an excited crowd, a crowd
that grew swiftly as some whisper, some intelligence, spread with
electric rapidity through the barroom. Yielding to a premonition
that something was amiss, Rouletta asked the lookout to relieve
her, and, rising, she hurried into the other hall. Even before she
had come within sound of Lucky's voice the cause of the general
excitement was made known to her. It came in the form of an
exclamation, a word or two snatched out of the air. "Courteau!"
"Dead!" "Shot--back street--body just found!"

Fiercely Rouletta fought her way through the press, an unvoiced
question trembling upon her lips. Broad turned at her first touch.

"Tough, ain't it?" said he. "Me and the Kid stumbled right over
him--kicked him out of the snow. We thought he'd been froze."

"We never dreamed he'd been shot till we got him clean down to the
drug-store," Bridges supplemented. "Shot in the back, too."

Questions were flying back and forth now. Profiting by the
confusion, Rouletta dragged Broad aside and queried, breathlessly:

"Was he dead--quite dead--?"

"Oh, sure!"

"Who--shot him?" The question came with difficulty. Lucky stared
at his interrogator queerly, then he shrugged.

"Quien sabe? Nobody seen or heard the shooting. He'd been croaked
a long while when we found him."

For a moment the two eyed each other silently. "Do you think--?"
Rouletta turned her white face toward the cashier's cage.

"More 'n likely. He was bitter--he made a lot of cracks around the
Barracks. The first thing the Police said when we notified 'em
was, 'Where's Phillips?' We didn't know the boy was out until that
very minute or--we'd 'a' done different. We'd 'a' left the Count
in the drift and run Phillips down and framed an alibi. Think of
us, his pals, turnin' up the evidence!" Lucky breathed an oath.

"Oh, why--?" moaned the girl. "He--It was so useless. Everything
was all right. Perhaps--after all, he didn't do it."

"You know him as well as I do. I'm hoping he had better sense,
but--he's got a temper. He was always talking about the disgrace."

"Has he gone? Can't you help him? He might make the Boundary--"

Broad shook his head. "No use. It's too late for that. If he's
still here me 'n' the Kid will do our best to swear him out of
it."

Rouletta swayed, she groped blindly at the bar rail for support,
whereupon her companion cried in a low voice:

"Here! Brace up, or you'll tip it all off! If he stands pat, how
they going to prove anything? The Count's been dead for hours. He
was all drifted--"

Broad was interrupted by the Mocha Kid, who entered out of the
night at that instant with the announcement: "Well, they got him!
Rock found him, and he denies it, but they've got him at the
Barracks, puttin' him through the third degree. I don't mind
sayin' that Frenchman needed croakin', bad, and they'd ought to
give Phillips a vote of thanks and a bronx tablet."

Mocha's words added to Rouletta's terror, for it showed that other
minds ran as did hers. Already, it seemed to her, Pierce Phillips
had been adjudged guilty. Through the murk of fright, of
apprehension in which her thoughts were racing there came a name--
'Poleon Doret. Here was deep trouble, grave peril, a threat to her
newfound happiness. 'Poleon, her brother, would know what to do,
for his head was clear, his judgment was unerring. He never failed
her. Blindly she ran for her wraps, hurriedly she flung them on,
then plunged out into the night. As she scurried through the
street, panic-stricken, beset, one man's name was in her thoughts,
but another's was upon her lips. Over and over she kept repeating:

"'Poleon! Oh,'Poleon!"




CHAPTER XXVII


The news of Count Courteau's death traveled fast. 'Poleon Doret
was not long in hearing of it, and of course he went at once in
search of Rouletta. By the time he found her the girl's momentary
panic had been succeeded by a quite unnatural self-possession; her
perturbation had changed to an intense but governable agitation,
and her mind was working with a clarity and a rapidity more than
normal. This power of rising to an emergency she had doubtless
inherited from her father. "One-armed" Kirby had been a man of
resource, and, so long as he remained sober, he had never lost his
head. Swiftly the girl told of the instant suspicion that had
attached to Phillips and of his prompt apprehension.

"Who done dat shootin' if he don't?" Doret inquired, quickly.

"Joe McCaskey--or Frank," Rouletta answered with positiveness.
'Poleon started. Through the gloom he stared incredulously at the
speaker.

"I'm sure of it, now that I've had time to think," the girl
declared. "That's why I ran for you. Now listen! I promised not to
tell this, but--I must. Courteau confessed to his wife that he and
the McCaskeys trumped up that charge against Pierce. They paid
Courteau well for his part--or they promised to--and he perjured
himself, as did they. Hilda got the truth out of him while he was
drunk. Of course he denied it later, but she broke him down, and
this evening, just before we got home, he promised to go to
Colonel Cavendish and make a clean breast of everything. He went
out for that purpose, but--evidently he lacked courage to go
through with it. Otherwise how did he come to be on the back
streets? The McCaskeys live somewhere back yonder, don't they?"

"Sure!" 'Poleon meditated, briefly. "Mebbe so you're right," he
said, finally.

"I know I'm right," Rouletta cried. "The first thing to do is find
them. Where are they?"

"I don' see 'em no place."

"Then we must tell the colonel to look them up."

But Doret's brows remained puckered in thought. "Wait!" he
exclaimed. "I got idea of my own. If dem feller kill Courteau dey
ain't nowheres roun' here. Dey beat it, firs' t'ing."

"To Hunker? Perhaps--"

"No. For de Boun'ry." 'Poleon slapped his thigh in sudden
enlightenment. "By golly! Dat's why I don' see 'em no place. You
stay here. I mak' sure."

He turned and strode away, but Rouletta followed at his heels.

"I'm going, too," she stoutly asserted. "Don't argue. I'll bet ten
to one we find their cabin empty."

Together they made their way rapidly out of the brightly
illuminated portion of the town and into the maze of blank
warehouses and snow-banked cabins which lay behind. At this hour
of the night few lamps were burning even in private residences,
and, inasmuch as these back streets were unlighted, the travelers
had to feel their way. The wind was diminishing, but even yet the
air was thick with flying flakes, and new drifts seriously impeded
progress. Wading knee-deep in places, stumbling in and out of cuts
where the late snow had been removed, clambering over treacherous
slopes where other snows lay hard packed and slippery, the two
pursued their course.

'Poleon came to a pause at length in the shelter of a pole
provision-cache and indistinctly took his bearings. Silently he
pointed to the premises and vigorously nodded his head; then he
craned his neck for a view of the stove-pipe overhead. Neither
sparks nor smoke nor heat was rising from it. After a cautious
journey of exploration he returned to Rouletta and spoke aloud:

"Dey gone. Sled, dogs, ever't'ing gone."

He pushed open the cache door, and a moment later there came the
sound of rending wood as he shouldered his way into the dark
cabin, regardless of lock and bar. Rouletta was close behind him
when he struck a match and held it to a candle which he discovered
fixed in its own wax beside the window.

Curiously the interlopers surveyed the unfamiliar premises.
Rouletta spoke first, with suppressed excitement:

"You were right. And they left in a hurry, too."

"Sure. Beddin' gone, an'--dey got plenty beddin' on Hunker. Here
dey mak' grub-pack, see?" 'Poleon ran his finger through a white
dust of flour which lay thick upon the table. Striding to the
stove, he laid his hand upon it; he lifted the lid and felt of the
ashes within. "Dey lef 'bout five hour' ago. Wal, dat's beeg
start. I guess mebbe dey safe enough."

"Don't say that," Rouletta implored. "Rock can overtake them. He's
a famous traveler."

"I dunno. Dey got good team--"

"He must catch them! Why, he has ninety miles to do it in! He
must, 'Poleon, he MUST! Of course this is evidence, but it isn't
proof. Remember, Pierce talked wildly. People are prejudiced
against him and--you know the Police. They act on suspicion, and
circumstances are certainly strong. Poor boy! If these men get
away--who knows what may happen to him? I tell you his very life
may be in danger, for the law is an awful thing. I--I've always
been afraid of it. So was father, to his dying day. We must send
Rock flying. Yes, and without a moment's delay."

"You still got deep feelin' for dat feller?" 'Poleon inquired,
gravely. The quick look of anguish, the frank nod of assent that
he received, were enough. "Bien!" he said, slowly. "I mak'
satisfy, dat's all. I never see you so scare' as dis."

"You know how I feel," Rouletta said; then, more curiously: "Why
do you need to make sure? Do you think I've changed--?" She
hesitated for an instant; there came a faint pucker of
apprehension between her brows; into her eyes crept a look of
wonder which changed to astonishment, then to incredulity, fright.
"Oh--h!" she exclaimed. She raised a faltering hand to her lips as
if to stay a further betrayal of the knowledge that had suddenly
come to her. "Oh, 'Poleon, my dear! My brother!"

The man smiled painfully as he met her shocked gaze. "I'm fonny
feller, ma saeur; always dream-in' de mos' foolish t'ing. Don' pay
no'tention."

"I am--I always will be that--your sister. Have I made you
unhappy?"

Vigorously he shook his head; his face slowly cleared. "No, no. In
dis life one t'ing is give me happiness--one t'ing alone--an' dat
is bring you joy. Now come. De grass growin' on our feet."

Together and in silence they hurried back as they had come; then,
on the plea that he could make better time alone, 'Poleon left his
companion and headed for the Barracks.

Rouletta let him go without protest; her heart was heavier than
lead; she could find no words whatever. A new tragedy, it seemed,
had risen to face her, for she realized now that she had hurt the
man who loved her best of all. That certainty filled her with such
regret, such a feeling of guilt, that she could not bear to think
of it. A very poignant sense of pain troubled her as she turned
into the Rialto, and as a consequence the lively clatter of the
place grated upon her sensibilities; she felt a miserable, sick
desire to shut her ears to this sound of laughter which was like
ribald applause for the death-blow she had dealt. Yes, she had
dealt a death-blow, and to one most dear. But how could she have
known? How could she have foreseen such a wretched complication as
this? Who would have dreamed that gay, careless, laughing 'Poleon
Doret was like other men? Rouletta felt the desire to bend her
head and release those scalding tears that trembled on her lashes.

Lieutenant Rock was preparing for bed when 'Poleon, after some
little difficulty, forced his way in upon him. The officer
listened to his caller's recital, and even before it was finished
he had begun to dress himself in his trail clothes.

"Courteau confessed, eh? And the McCaskeys have disappeared--taken
French leave. Say! That changes the look of things, for a fact. Of
course they may have merely gone back to Hunker--"

"In de middle of snow-storm? Dis tam de night? No. Dey makin' run
for de Line an' it's goin' tak' fas' team for pull 'em down."

"Well, I've got the best dogs in town."

Rock's caller smiled. "M'sieu', dey goin' travel some if dey keep
in sight of me."

"YOU?" Rock straightened himself. "Will you go along? Jove! I'd
like that!" he cried, heartily. "I've heard you own a lively bunch
of mutts."

"I give you tas'e of Injun travel. Better you dress light an'
buckle up dat belt, for I got reason to fin' out who keel
Courteau. I ain't goin' sleep no more till I know."

The officer smiled as he declared: "That suits me exactly. We may
not catch them, but--they'll know they've been in a race before
they thumb their noses at us from across the Boundary. Now see how
fast you can harness up."

It was considerably after midnight when 'Poleon swung his dog-team
into the lighted space in front of the Rialto; nevertheless, many
people were about, for Dawson was a city of sleep-haters. The
sight of a racing-team equipped for a flying trip at this hour of
the night evoked instant interest and speculation, pointing, as it
did, to a new gold discovery and a stampede. Stampedes were
frequent, they never failed to create a sensation, therefore the
woodsman was soon the center of an inquisitive crowd. Not until he
had fully explained the nature of his business was suspicion
allayed; then his word that Joe and Frank McCaskey had fled for
the Boundary ran up and down the street and caused even greater
excitement.

Rouletta came hurrying forth with the others, and to her 'Poleon
made known his intention of accompanying the fleet-footed Rock.

"Nobody is able to catch dem feller but him an' me," he explained.
"Dey got too long start."

"You think they may get across?" she queried, apprehensively.

"Five, six hour, dat's beeg edge. But me--" The speaker shrugged.
"Forty Mile, Circle, Fort Yukon, Rampart, it mak' no differ. I get
'em some place, if I go plumb to St. Michael's. When I get goin'
fas' it tak' me long tam for run down."

Rouletta's eyes opened. "But, 'Poleon--you can't! There's the
Boundary. You're not an officer; you have no warrant."

"Dem t'ing is dam' nuisance," he declared. "I don' savvy dis law
biznesse. You say get 'em. Bien! I do it."

Rouletta stared curiously, wonderingly into the big fellow's face;
she was about to put her thoughts into words when a shout arose
from the crowd as the Police team streamed into view. Down the
street it came at a great pace, flashing through shadows and past
glaring lighted fronts, snatching the light hickory sled along
behind as if it were a thing of paper. Rock balanced himself upon
the runner heels until, with a shout, he put his weight upon the
sharp-toothed sled brake and came to a pause near 'Poleon. The
rival teams plunged into their collars and set up a pandemonium of
yelping, but willing hands held them from flying at one another's
throats. Meanwhile, saloon doors were opening, the street was
filling; dance-hall girls, white-aproned bartenders, bleary-eyed
pedestrians, night-owls--all the queerly assorted devotees of
Dawson's vivid and roisterous nocturnal life hastened thither;
even the second-story windows framed heads, for this clamor put
slumber to flight without delay.

The wind was no longer strong, and already a clearing sky was
evidenced by an occasional winking star; nevertheless, it was
bitterly cold and those who were not heavily clad were forced to
stamp their feet and to whip their arms in order to keep their
blood in motion.

Nothing is more exciting, more ominous, than a man-hunt; doubly
portentous was this one, the hasty preparations for which went
forward in the dead of night. Dawson had seen the start of more
than one race for the Boundary and had awaited the outcome with
breathless interest. Most of the fugitives overtaken had walked
back into town, spent, famished, frost-blackened, but there were
some who had returned on their backs, wrapped in robe or canvas
and offering mute testimony to the speedy and relentless
efficiency of the men from the Barracks. Of that small picked
corps Lieutenant Rock was by long odds the favorite. Now,
therefore, he was the center of attention, and wagers were laid
that he would catch his men, however rapidly they traveled,
however great their start. Only a few old-timers--"sour-doughs"
from the distant reaches of the Yukon--knew 'Poleon Doret, but
those few drew close to him and gave the lieutenant little notice.
This French Canadian they regarded as the most tireless traveler
in all the North; about him, therefore, they assembled, and to him
they addressed their questions and offered their advice.

The dogs were inspired, now, with the full intoxication of the
chase; they strained forward fretfully, their gray plumes waving,
their tongues lolling, their staccato chorus adding to the general
disturbance. When the word came to go, they leaped into their
harness, and with a musical jingle of bells they swept down toward
the river; over the steep bank they poured, and were gone. A shout
of encouragement followed Rock as he was snapped into the
blackness, then noisily the crowd bolted for the warm interiors
behind them.

Rouletta was slow in leaving; for some time she stood harkening to
the swift diminuendo of those tinkling sleigh-bells, staring into
the night as if to fix in her mind's eye the picture of what she
had last seen, the picture of a mighty man riding the rail of a
plunging basket sled. In spite of the biting cold he was stripped
down; a thin drill parka sufficed to break the temper of the wind,
light fur boots were upon his feet, the cheek pieces of his otter
cap were tied above his crown. He had turned to wave at her and to
shout a word of encouragement just before he vanished. That was
like him, she told herself--eager to spare her even the pain of
undue apprehension. The shock of her discovery of an hour ago was
still too fresh in Rouletta's memory; it was still too new and too
agitating to permit of orderly thought, yet there it stood, stark
and dismaying. This woodsman loved her, no longer as a sister, but
as the one woman of his choice. As yet she could not reconcile
herself to such a state of affairs; her attempts to do so filled
her with mixed emotions. Poor 'Poleon! Why had this come to him?
Rouletta's throat swelled; tears not of the wind or the cold stood
in her eyes once again; an aching tenderness and pity welled up
from her heart.

She became conscious finally that her body was growing numb, so
she bestirred herself. She had taken but a step or two, however,
when some movement in the shadows close at hand arrested her.
Peering into the gloom, she discovered a figure. It was Laure.

The girl wore some sort of wrap, evidently snatched at random, but
under it she was clad in her dance-hall finery, and she, too, was
all but frozen.

Rouletta was about to move on, when the other addressed her
through teeth that clicked like castanets.

"I got here--late. Is it true? Have they--gone after Joe and
Frank?"

"Yes."

"What happened? I--I haven't heard. Don't they think--Pierce did
it?"

"You KNOW he didn't do it," Rouletta cried. "Neither did he steal
Courteau's money."

"What do you mean, 'I know'?" Laure's voice was harsh, imperative.
She clutched at the other girl; then, as Rouletta hesitated, she
regained control of herself and ran on, in a tone bitterly
resentful: "Oh, you'd like to get him out of it--save him for
yourself--wouldn't you? But you can't. You can't have him. I won't
let you. My God! Letty, he's the only thing I ever cared for! I
never had even a dog or a cat or a canary of my own. Think a
little bit of me."

Almost dazed by this mingled accusation and appeal, Rouletta at
length responded by a question, "Then why haven't you done
something to clear him?"

Laure drew her flimsy wrap closer; she was shaking wretchedly.
When she spoke her words were spilled from her lips as if by the
tremors of her body. "I could help. I would, but--you sha'n't have
him. Nobody shall! I'd rather see him dead. I'd--No, no! I don't
know what I'm saying. I'd sooner die than hurt him. I'd do my bit,
only--McCaskey'd kill me. Say. Will Rock get him, d'you think? I
hear he gets his man every time. But Joe's different; he's not the
ordinary kind; he's got the devil in him. Frank--he's a dog, but
Joe'll fight. He'll kill--at the drop of the hat. So will Rock, I
suppose. Maybe he'll kill them both, eh? Or maybe they'll kill him
and get away. I don't care which way it goes--"

"Don't talk like that!" Rouletta exclaimed.

"I mean it," Laure ran on, crazily. "Yes, Joe'd kill anybody that
stood in his way or doublecrossed him. I guess I know. Why, he
told me so himself! And Courteau knew it, perfectly well--the poor
fool!--but look at him now. He got his, didn't he?"

Rouletta laid a cold hand upon the shivering, distracted creature
before her. Sternly she said:

"I believe you know who committed that murder. You act as if you
did."

"I'm a g-good guesser, but--I can keep my mouth shut. I know when
I'm well off. That's more than the Count knew."

"And you probably know something about his robbery, too. I mean
that gold-sack--"

Laure cast off the hand that rested upon her; she looked up
quickly. "If I did, d'you think I'd tell you? Well, hardly. But I
don't. I don't know anything, except that--Pierce is a thief. He
stole and gave me the money. He did that regularly, and that's
more than he'd do for you. You may as well know the truth.
Cavendish knows it. You think he's too good for me, don't you?
Well, he isn't. And you're no better than I am, either, for that
matter. You've got a nerve to put on airs. God! How I hate you and
your superior ways."

"Never mind me. I want to know who killed Count Courteau."

"All right. Wait till Rock comes back and ask him. He thinks he'll
find out, but--we'll see. Joe McCaskey'll be over the Line and
away, thank Heaven! If anything happens and they should overtake
him--well, he'll fight. He'll never come in alive, never."
Turning, the speaker stumbled toward the lights of the saloon, and
as she went Rouletta heard her mutter again: "He'll never come in
alive, never. Thank God for that!"




CHAPTER XXVIII


From Dawson City the Yukon flows in a northwesterly direction
toward the International Boundary, and although the camp is
scarcely more than fifty miles due east of American territory, by
the river it is ninety. Since the Yukon is the main artery of
travel, both winter and summer--there being no roads or trails--it
behooved those malefactors who fled the wrath of the Northwest
Mounted Police to obtain a liberal start, for ninety miles of dead
flat going is no easy run and the Police teams were fleet of foot.
Time was when evil-doers had undertaken to escape up-river, or to
lose themselves in the hills to the northward, but this was a
desperate adventure at best and had issued in such uniform
disaster as to discourage its practice. The Police had won the
reputation of never leaving a trail, and, in consequence, none but
madmen longer risked anything except a dash for American soil, and
even then only with a substantial margin of time in their favor.

But the winter winds are moody, the temper of the Arctic is
uncertain, hence luck played a large part in these enterprises.
Both Rock and Doret were sufficiently familiar with the hazards
and the disappointments of travel at this time of year to feel
extremely doubtful of overhauling the two McCaskeys, and so they
were by no means sanguine of success as they drove headlong into
the night.

Both teams were loaded light; neither driver carried stove, tent,
or camp duffle. Sleeping-bags, a little cooked food for
themselves, a bundle of dried fish for the dogs, that was the
limit the pursuers had allowed themselves. Given good weather,
nothing more was needed. In case of a storm, a sudden blizzard,
and a drop in temperature, this lack of equipment was apt to prove
fatal, but neither traveler permitted himself to think about such
things. Burdened thus lightly, the sleds rode high and the
malamutes romped along with them. When the late dawn finally came
it found them far on their way.

That wind, following the snowfall of the day before, had been a
happy circumstance, for in many places it had blown the trail
clean, so that daylight showed it winding away into the distance
like a thread laid down at random. Here and there, of course, it
was hidden; under the lee of bluffs or of wooded bends, for
instance, it was drifted deep, completely obliterated, in fact,
and in such places even a seasoned musher would have floundered
aimlessly, trying to hold it. But 'Poleon Doret possessed a sixth
sense, it appeared, and his lead dog, too, had unusual sagacity.
Rock, from his position in the rear, marveled at the accuracy with
which the woodsman's sled followed the narrow, hard-packed ridge
concealed beneath the soft, new covering. Undoubtedly the fellow
knew his business and the officer congratulated himself upon
bringing him along.

They had been under way for five or six hours when the tardy
daylight came, but even thereafter Doret continued to run with his
hand upon his sled. Seldom did he ride, and then only for a moment
or two when the going was best. For the most part he maintained a
steady, swinging trot that kept pace with the pattering feet ahead
of him and caused the miles rapidly to drop behind. Through drifts
knee-deep, through long, soft stretches he held to that
unfaltering stride; occasionally he turned his head and flashed a
smile or waved his hand at the man behind.

Along about ten o'clock he halted his team where a dead spruce
overhung the river-bank. By the time Rock had pulled in behind him
he had clambered up the bank, ax in hand, and was making the chips
fly. He sent the dry top crashing down, then explained:

"Dem dogs go better for l'il rest. We boil de kettle, eh?"

Rock wiped the sweat from his face. "You're certainly hitting it
off, old man. We've made good time, but I haven't seen any tracks.
Have you?"

"We see 'em bimeby."

"Kind of a joke if they hadn't come, after all--if they'd really
gone out to Hunker. Gee! The laugh would be on us."

"Dey come dis way," 'Poleon stoutly maintained.

Soon a blaze was going; then, while the ice in the blackened tea-
bucket was melting, the drivers sliced a slab of bacon into small
cubes and fed it sparingly to their animals, after which they
carefully examined the dogs' feet and cleaned them of ice and snow
pellets.

The tea was gulped, the hardtack swallowed, and the travelers were
under way again almost before their sweaty bodies had begun to
chill. On they hurried, mile after mile, sweeping past bends,
eagerly, hopefully scanning every empty tangent that opened up
ahead of them. They made fast time indeed, but the immensity of
the desolation through which they passed, the tremendous scale
upon which this country had been molded, made their progress seem
slower than an ant-crawl.

Eventually 'Poleon shouted something and pointed to the trail
underfoot. Rock fancied he could detect the faint, fresh markings
of sled runners, but into them he could not read much
significance. It was an encouragement, to be sure, but,
nevertheless, he still had doubts, and those doubts were not
dispelled until Doret again halted his team, this time beside the
cold embers of a fire. Fresh chips were scattered under the bank,
charred fagots had embedded themselves in the ice and were frozen
fast, but 'Poleon interpreted the various signs without
difficulty.

"Here dey mak' breakfas'--'bout daylight," said he. "Dey go slower
as us."

"But they're going pretty fast, for all that. We'll never get them
this side of Forty Mile."

"You don' spec' it, do you? Dey got beeg scare, dem feller. Dey
runnin' so fas' dey can."

Forty Mile, so called because the river of that name enters the
Yukon forty miles above the Boundary, was a considerable camp
prior to the Dawson boom, but thereafter it had languished, and
this winter it was all but deserted. So, too, was Cudahy, the
rival trading-post a half-mile below. It was on the bars of this
stream that the earliest pioneers had first found gold. Here at
its mouth, during the famine days before the steamboats came, they
had cached their supplies; here they had brewed their hootch in
the fall and held high carnival to celebrate their good luck or to
drown their ill-fortune.

Rock and his companion pulled up the bank and in among the
windowless cabins during the afternoon; they had halted their dogs
before the Mounted Police station, only to find the building
locked and cold. The few faithful Forty-Milers who came out to
exchange greetings explained that both occupants of the barracks
had gone down-river to succor some sick Indians.

Rock was disgusted, but his next question elicited information
that cheered him. Yes, a pair of strangers had just passed
through, one of them an active, heavy-set fellow, the other a
tall, dark, sinister man with black eyes and a stormy demeanor.
They had come fast and they had tarried only long enough to feed
their dogs and to make some inquiries. Upon learning that the
local police were on the main river somewhere below, they had held
a consultation and then had headed up the Forty Mile.

"UP Forty Mile?" Rock cried, in surprise. "Are you sure?"

"We seen 'em go," his informant declared. "That's what made us
think there was something wrong. That's why we been on the lookout
for you. We figgered they was on the dodge and hard pressed, but
we couldn't do nothing about it. You see, it's only about twenty-
three miles to the Line up Forty Mile. Down the Yukon it's forty.
They been gone 'most two hours, now."

"What do you want 'em for?" another bystander inquired.

"Murder," Rock exclaimed, shortly; then he heaved his sled into
motion once more, for 'Poleon had started his team and was making
off through the town. Down into the bed of the smaller stream the
pursuers made their way and up this they turned. Again they urged
their dogs into a run. It took some effort to maintain a galloping
pace now, for the teams were tiring, and after some mental
calculations Rock shook his head doubtfully. Of course, his quarry
was at a disadvantage, there being two men to one sled, but--
twenty-three miles, with a two-hour start! It was altogether too
great a handicap. The lieutenant had figured on that last forty
miles, the last five or ten, in fact, but this change of direction
had upset all his plans and his estimates. Evidently the McCaskeys
cared not how nor where they crossed the Line, so long as they
crossed it quickly and got Canadian territory behind them. Barring
accident, therefore, which was extremely unlikely, Rock told
himself regretfully that they were as good as gone. Two hours! It
was too much. On the other hand, he and 'Poleon now had a fresh
trail to follow, while the fleeing brothers had unbroken snow
ahead of them, and that meant that they must take turns ahead of
their dogs. Then, too, fifty miles over drifted trails at this
season of the year was a heavy day's work, and the McCaskeys must
be very tired by now, for neither was in the best of condition. In
the spring, when the snows were wet and sled runners ran as if
upon grease, such a journey would have been no great effort, but
in this temperature the steel shoes creaked and a man's muscles
did not work freely. Men had been known to play out unexpectedly.
After all, there was a possibility of pulling them down, and as
long as there was that possibility the Mounted Policeman refused
to quit.

Rock assured himself that this flight had established one thing,
at least, and that was Pierce Phillips' innocence of the Courteau
killing. The murderers were here; there could be no doubt of it.
Their frantic haste confessed their guilt. Friendship for the boy,
pride in his own reputation, the memory of that ovation he had
received upon leaving, gave the officer new strength and
determination, so he shut his teeth and spurred his rebellious
limbs into swifter action. There was no longer any opportunity of
riding the sled, even where the trail was hard, for some of the
Police dogs were limping and loafing in their collars. This was
indeed a race, a Marathon, a twenty-three-mile test of courage and
endurance, and victory would go to him who could call into fullest
response his last uttermost ounce of reserve power.

Doret had promised that he would show his trail-mate how to
travel, and that promise he had made good; all day he had held the
lead, and without assistance from the lash. Even now his dogs,
while not fresh, were far from exhausted. As for the man himself,
Rock began to feel a conviction that the fellow could go on at
this rate eternally.

Luck finally seemed to break in favor of the pursuers; accident
appeared to work in their behalf. The day was done, night was
again upon them, when Doret sent back a cry of warning, and,
leaping upon his sled, turned his leader at right angles toward
the bank.

His companion understood the meaning of that move, but the Police
team was less responsive to command, and before Rock could swing
them he felt his feet sink into soft slush.

"Dam' overflow!" Doret panted when the two teams were safely out
upon the bank. "You wet your feet, eh?"

Apprehensively the officer felt of his moccasins; they were wet to
the touch, but as yet no moisture had penetrated his socks. "You
yelled in the nick of time," he declared, as he dried his soles in
the loose snow.

"Dem feller got in it ankle-deep. I bet we fin' camp-fire soon."

This prediction came true. As the travelers rounded the next bluff
they smelled the odor of burning spruce and came upon a trampled
bed of boughs beside which some embers were still smoldering.

"Jove! That gives us a chance, doesn't it?" Rock panted.

His companion smiled. "We goin' start travel now, for sure. Dey
can't be more 'n a mile or two ahead."

Down upon the river-bed the teams rushed. With biting lash and
sharp commands the drivers urged them into a swifter run. Rock was
forcing his dogs now; he made the smoke fly from their hides when
they lagged. He vowed that he would not permit this French
Canadian to outdistance him. He swore a good deal at his
malamutes; he cursed himself as a weakling, a quitter; anger at
his fatigue ran through him.

The travelers were up among the hills by now. Occasionally they
passed a deserted cabin, home of some early gold-digger. Valleys
dark with night opened up to right and to left as the Forty Mile
wound higher, deeper into the maze of rounded domes: the Boundary
was close at hand. The hillsides hid their feet in black thickets
of spruce, but their slopes were thinly timbered, their crests
were nearly bare, and the white snow gave off a dim radiance that
made traveling possible even after the twilight had deepened. By
and by it grew lighter and the north horizon took on a rosy flush
that spread into a tremendous flare. The night was still, clear,
crackly; it was surcharged with some static force, and so calm was
the air, so deathlike the hush, that the empty valley rang like a
bell. That mysterious illumination in the north grew more and more
impressive; great ribbons, long pathways of quivering light,
unrolled themselves and streamed across the sky; they flamed and
flickered, they writhed and melted, disappearing, reappearing,
rising, falling. It was as if the lid had been lifted from some
stupendous caldron and the heavens reflected the radiance from its
white-hot contents. Mighty fingers, like the beams of polar
search-lights, groped through the voids overhead; tumbling waves
of color rushed up and dashed themselves away into space; the
whole arch of the night was lit as from a world in flames. Red,
yellow, orange, violet, ultra-violet--the tints merged with one
another bewilderingly and the snows threw back their flicker until
coarse print would have been readable. Against that war of
clashing colors the mountain-crests stood out in silhouette and
the fringe of lonely wind-twisted trunks high up on their saddles
were etched in blackest ink.

It was a weird, an unearthly effect; it was exciting, too. As
always when the Aurora is in full play, the onlookers marveled
that such a tremendous exhibition of energy could continue in such
silence. That was the oddest, the most impressive feature of all,
for the crash of avalanches, the rumble of thunder, the diapason
of a hundred Niagaras, should have accompanied such appalling
phenomena. It seemed odd indeed that the whine of sled runners,
the scuff of moccasins, the panting of dogs, should be the only
audible sounds.

There were other overflows underfoot now, but the cold had frozen
them and the going was getting constantly better. The snow was
thin and in places the sleds slewed sidewise and the dogs ran on
slack traces across long stretches of bare glare ice. It was while
negotiating such a place as this that Rock paid the price of his
earlier carelessness. Doret's dry moose-skin soles had a sure
grip, hence he never hesitated, but the lieutenant's moccasins
were like a pair of tin shoes now and, without warning, he lost
his footing. He was running swiftly at the moment; he strove to
save himself, to twist in midair, but he failed. 'Poleon heard a
cry of pain and dismay, so he halted his team and came striding
back. Rock raised himself, then took a step, but faltered and
clung helplessly to the handlebars. He began to curse furiously;
he undertook to estimate the extent of his injury, then explained:

"My foot doubled under me and I came down on it like a ton of
bricks. By Heavens! I believe something broke!"

'Poleon was solicitous. He blamed himself, too. "It's dem wet
moccasin'. I should have stop' an' mak' you change," said he.

"We can't stop," Rock groaned. "I'll be all right as soon as--"
The words ended in another explosive oath as he again put his
weight upon the injured member. Blasphemy poured from his lips as
repeatedly he tried to force his foot to carry him. He cursed
himself for a clumsy, blundering ass; he shouted at his dogs; he
sent his sled forward and lurched along behind it, half supporting
himself, until 'Poleon finally halted him.

"It's no good mak' bad t'ing worse, M'sieu'," the woodsman
declared. "You bus' him for sure, an' it's no use goin' furder.
S'pose mebbe we boil de kettle, eh?"

"And let them get away clean? When we had 'em? They can't be a
mile ahead. Let 'em slip between our fingers?" raved the officer.
"I can't. I won't--"

"We mak' li'l fire an' look him over dat foot. Me, I t'ink you
don' walk no more for two, free week'."

"You go! I'll deputize you! Get 'em, Doret, quick! You can do it!
I'll wait! Go ahead!"

The other nodded. "Sure, I can get 'em! I never have no doubt
'bout dat in de least, but it's better we fix you comfor'ble."

"They'll be across, I tell you--over the Line--"

"I came pas' dat place more 'n once or twice"--the French Canadian
grinned--"an' I never seen it no Line." He forced his companion to
lower himself upon the sled, then swung it toward the river-bank,
calling upon his own lead dog to follow. Up and into the shelter
of the spruce he drove the Police team; quickly he felled dry wood
and kindled a fire. This took but a few moments, but Rock was wet
with sweat and in consequence he was shivering wretchedly; his
teeth were chattering even before the blaze had taken hold.
'Poleon continued to work with what speed he could, and in a
surprisingly short time he had built a snug wickiup and filled it
with boughs. This done, he unhitched and fed both teams, spread
Rock's sleeping-bag under the shelter, and set a pail of snow to
melt. By the light of the fire he examined the latter's injury,
but could make little of it, for already it was badly swollen and
every manipulation caused its owner extreme pain. There were no
remedies available; there was not even a vessel of sufficient size
in which to bathe the foot; hence 'Poleon contented himself by
bandaging it and helping his trail-mate into bed.

Not since leaving Dawson had either man tasted hot food, but their
hunger was as nothing to their thirst. Even in this length of time
their bodies had shrunk, withered, inside their clothing, and for
perhaps an hour they took turns greedily draining the pail of its
tepid contents. Under intense cold the human body consumes itself
at a rapid rate. Once it has burned itself out it preys upon those
deep-hidden forces which nature holds in reserve, and the process
of recuperation waits upon a restoration of a normal balance of
moisture.

Both men were weighed down by an aching, nightmare fatigue, and as
they sat gulping hot water, absorbing heat from within and
without, their muscles set and they felt as if their limbs had
turned to stone.

But, once the first mad craving for drink had been assuaged, they
fried bacon and made tea. Like wolves they fell upon the salt
meat; they dipped the hot grease up in their spoons and swallowed
it with relish; they crunched their hardtack and washed the
powdery mouthfuls down with copious draughts from the blackened
pail. When the tea was gone they brewed another scalding
bucketful.

Rock lay back, finally, but the movement caused him to bare his
teeth in agony. At 'Poleon's quick inquiry he shook his head.

"I'm all right," he declared. "Good for the night. You can pull
out any time you want to."

"Dere's plenty tam." 'Poleon lit his pipe and reached again for
the tea-bucket.

"Better go before you stiffen up."

"I go bimeby--sooner I get li'l drinkin' done."

"They'll fight," Rock announced, after a silence of perhaps five
minutes. "I feel pretty rotten, playing out like this."

"You done firs' rate," the woodsman told him. "If I come alone I
catch 'em ten mile below, but--li'l tam, more less, don' mak' no
differ."

"I believe you WOULD have got 'em," the officer acknowledged.
After a time he persisted: "They'll put up a battle, Doret. You'll
need to be careful."

'Poleon was squatted Indian fashion over the blaze; he was staring
fixedly into the flames, and an aboriginal reticence had settled
upon him. After a long time he answered: "Mebbe so I keel de beeg
feller. I dunno. So long one is lef' I mak' him clear dat boy
Phillips."

"Decent of you to take a chance like that for Pierce," Rock
resumed. "It's different with me; I have to do it. Just the same,
I wouldn't care to follow those fellows over the Boundary. I don't
think you'd better try it."

In spite of his suffering, the lieutenant fell into a doze;
whether he slept ten minutes or an hour he never knew, but he
awoke, groaning, to find the big woodsman still bulked over the
campfire, still smoking, still sipping tea. Rock ate and drank
some more; again he slept. For a second time his pain roused him,
and once more he marveled to discover 'Poleon occupied as before.
It seemed to him that the fellow would never satisfy himself.
Eventually, however, the latter arose and made preparations to
leave.

The Northern Lights had flickered out now; the empty sky was
sprinkled with a million stars which glittered like scintillating
frost jewels frozen into the dome of heaven; there were no sounds
whatever to break the deathlike silence of the night, for the
Arctic wastes are all but lifeless. There were no bird-calls, no
sounds of insects, not even the whisper of running water, for the
river was locked deep beneath its icy armor.

"You got 'nough wood to las' long tam," 'Poleon declared. "If I
don' come back, dem Forty Mile Police is sure to pick you up."

"I can go in alone if I have to," the injured man declared. "Au
revoir and good luck."

'Poleon made no attempt to hurry his tired team; for several miles
he plodded along behind them, guiding them to right or left by a
low-spoken word. Years before, he had rocked on the bars of this
stream; therefore its landmarks were familiar to him, and in spite
of the darkness he readily identified them. In time he made out
the monuments marking the International Boundary, and a short
distance beyond that point he unhitched his dogs, then took a
carbine from his sled and slipped it full of shells. Next he
removed his lash rope, coiled it, and placed it in his pocket,
after which he resumed his journey alone.

Occasionally he dimly glimpsed deserted cabins, habitations built
by the gold-diggers of other days. Carefully he followed the all
but indistinguishable sled tracks ahead of him until they swerved
abruptly in toward the bank. Here he paused, pulled a mitten, and,
moistening a finger, held it up to test the wind. What movement
there was to the air seemed to satisfy him, for, step by step, he
mounted the steep slope until his head finally rose over its
crest. Against the skyline he now made out a small clearing;
straining his eyes, he could see the black square of a cabin wall.
No light shone from it, therefore he argued that his men had
supped and were asleep. He had assumed that they would not, could
not, go far beyond the Boundary; he had purposely allowed them
sufficient time in which to overcome the first agony of fatigue
and to fall asleep. He wondered apprehensively where they had put
their dogs, and if by any evil chance the McCaskey team included
an "outside" dog of the watchful, barking variety.

Gingerly he stepped out, and found that the snow underfoot gave
off only the faintest whisper. Like a shadow he stole closer to
the hut, keeping the imperceptible night breeze in his face.

So noiseless was his approach that the tired dogs, snugly curled
each in its own deep bed of snow, did not hear him--your malamutes
that are broken to harness are bad watch-dogs at best. Not until
he had melted into the gloom beneath the wide overhang above the
cabin door did the first disturbance come. Then something started
into life and the silence was broken.

'Poleon saw that a canvas sled-cover had been used to curtain the
door opening, and during the instant following the alarm he
brushed the tarpaulin aside and stepped into the pitch-black
interior.

It had been a swift maneuver, the result of a lightning-like
decision, and not so reckless as it appeared.

He stood now with his back to the rough log wall, every muscle in
his body taut, his ears strained for some sound, some challenge.
He had been prepared for a shot out of the darkness, but nothing
came. His lungs were filling with the first deep breath of relief
when a sleepy voice spoke:

"That you, Frank?" 'Poleon remained fixed in his tracks. "Frank!"
There was a moment's pause, then, "FRANK!"

Followed a rustle as of a body turning, then a startled mumble in
answer.

"Was that you?" Joe McCaskey's voice again demanded.

"Me? What--?"

"Was you outside?"

"Outside?"

"I heard the dogs rowing. They're stirring now. Hear 'em? I'll
swear I saw that fly drop--" McCaskey's words died out and again
the interior of the cabin became soundless.

"Who's there?" the former speaker suddenly barked.

When another moment had dragged by, a sulphur match was struck.
For a second or two it shed a sickly blue radiance sufficient only
to silhouette a pair of hands cupped over it; then, as the flame
ignited the tiny shaft, it burst into a yellow glow and sent the
shadows of the cabin leaping.

Joe McCaskey uttered a cry, a scream. The flame was crushed in his
palms and again the cabin was ink black. It remained as silent as
before except for a dry rattling of breath in the elder brother's
throat.

"Wha--what'd you--see?" the younger one gasped. Both men were now
fully awake, but, disregarding the question, Joe cried, wildly:

"Who are you? What d'you want?" And then, when no answer came:
"Christ! SAY something."

'Poleon could hear the wretch moisten his dry lips; he could
picture both men sitting bolt upright in their sleeping-bags; he
could feel the terror that was creeping over them.

"Who'd you see?" Frank whispered again.

"S-something big! Right there! By God! Something's in here!"

Joe's tone was firmer now; nevertheless, fright still held him
motionless, paralyzed. He was staring with blind eyes into the
velvet blackness, and his flesh was rippling with a superstitious
horror of that formless creature he had glimpsed. What was it that
had walked in out of the night and now crouched ready to spring?
Nothing human, nothing natural, that was sure.

Similar thoughts raced madly through his brother's brain, and the
latter let forth a thin wail--almost a sob. The sound set Joe into
motion. Swiftly but clumsily he fumbled through the dry grass with
which his bunk was filled. He uttered a throaty curse, for he had
laid his revolver by his side, right where his hand would fall
upon it. Where was the thing--?

Joe's body turned rigid, his shaking fingers grew stiff and
useless, when out of the darkness came a sigh--faint but
unmistakable; whence it issued neither brother could tell.

With another shriek Frank fell back and burrowed into his
sleeping-bag.




CHAPTER XXIX


Rouletta Kirby spent an anxious and a thoughtful night. The more
she dwelt upon Laure's peculiar behavior the more it roused her
suspicions and the more she felt justified in seeking an interview
with Colonel Cavendish. She rose early, therefore, and went to
Police Headquarters.

Two people were in the office when she entered, one a redcoat,
evidently acting in some clerical capacity; the other a girl whom
Rouletta had never seen. The colonel was engaged, so Rouletta was
told, and she sat down to wait. With furtive curiosity she began
to study this other young woman. It was plain that the latter was
a privileged person, for she made herself perfectly at home and
appeared to be not in the least chilled by the official formality
of her surroundings. She wandered restlessly about the room,
humming a tune under her breath; she readjusted the window-
curtains to her liking; she idly thumbed the books upon the
shelves; finally she perched herself upon the table in the midst
of the documents upon which the officer was engaged, and began a
low-voiced conversation with him.

Rouletta was not a little impressed by this stranger. She had
never seen a finer, healthier, cleaner-cut girl. Here for once was
a "nice" woman of the town who did not stare at her with open and
offensive curiosity. She was not surprised when she overheard the
Police officer address her as "Miss Cavendish." No wonder this
girl had poise and breeding--the Cavendishes were the best people
in the community. With a jealous pang the caller reflected that
the colonel's daughter was very much what she herself would like
to be, very much her ideal, so far as she could judge.

When, eventually, the commandant himself emerged from his sanctum,
he paused for a moment at his daughter's side; then he approached
Rouletta.

Very briefly the latter made known the reason of her presence, and
the colonel nodded.

"You did quite right in coming here," he declared, "and I'm sure
this dance-hall girl knows more than she has told. In fact, I was
on the point of sending for her. Please wait until she arrives.
Perhaps we can straighten out this whole unpleasant affair
informally. I'll need Phillips, too. Meanwhile, there's a friend
of yours inside." Stepping to the inner door, he spoke to some
one, and an instant later the Countess Courteau came forth.

Rouletta had not seen the Countess alone since early the previous
evening. She went swiftly to her now and placed an arm about her
shoulders. Hilda responded to this mark of sympathy with a weary
smile.

"Well, I had to go through with it to the bitter end," she said,
in a low voice. "Henri didn't spare me even that."

Rouletta pressed her closer, murmuring: "Colonel Cavendish is a
fine man--I'm sure he understands. You've undergone a dreadful
ordeal, but--it's nearly over. He's sending for Laure now. She can
tell a good deal, if she will."

"About the theft, yes. But what about the--murder? Joe McCaskey
did it. There's no doubt about that. Henri weakened, after I gave
him his chance. He got to drinking, I hear, and evidently he
conceived the notion of telling those men. He may have gone to
warn them, to appeal to them. I don't know. Then they must have
quarreled. It's all clear enough when you understand the inside
facts. Without knowing them, it was natural to suspect Pierce, so-
-I did what I had to do. I doubt if Laure knows anything about
this part of the affair."

The two women were still talking when Laure entered, in company
with the Mounted Police officer who had been sent to fetch her. At
sight of them she halted; a sudden pallor came into her cheeks;
she cast a glance of alarm about her as if seeking retreat; but
Colonel Cavendish grimly invited her to follow him, and stepped
into his private office. The new-comer faltered; then with a
defiant toss of her head and with lips curled in disdain she
obeyed; the door closed behind her.

Rouletta and the Countess Courteau fell silent now. They found
nothing to talk about, and in spite of themselves they strained
their ears for some sound from the other room. Even Miss Cavendish
seemed vaguely to feel the suspense, for she finally took her
stand beside a frost-rimed window and engaged herself in tracing
patterns thereon with the tip of her finger. An occasional stormy
murmur of voices, deadened by the thick log partition, indicated
that Laure and her inquisitor were not getting on well together.

Suddenly the girl at the window started; her apathy vanished; her
expression of boredom gave place to one of such lively
anticipation as to draw the attention of the two other women. A
magic change came over her; she became suddenly animated, alive,
atingle in every nerve; her eyes sparkled and a new color flooded
her cheeks. The alteration interested her observers; they were
mystified as to its cause until a quick step sounded in the entry
and the door opened to admit Pierce Phillips.

It was natural that he should first see Miss Cavendish, and that
he should greet her before recognizing the other occupants of the
room. It was natural, too, that he should be a trifle nonplussed
at finding Hilda here; nevertheless, he managed to cover his lack
of ease. Not so, however, when, a moment later, the door to
Colonel Cavendish's office opened and Laure, of all persons,
appeared therein. Quickly Pierce inferred the reason for his
summons, but, happily for him, he was spared further
embarrassment. Cavendish called to him, took him by the hand in
the friendliest manner, and again disappeared into his retreat,
drawing the young man with him.

Brief as had been the interruption, both Hilda and Rouletta had
gathered much from it; their inference was borne out when Laure
paused before them and in a voice subdued by the very force of her
agitation exclaimed:

"Well, I hope you're satisfied! I got it, and got it good." Her
face was livid, her dark eyes were blazing wrathfully. She
outthrust a shaking hand and unclenched her fingers, displaying
therein a crumpled sheet of pink paper, a printed official form,
the telltale tint of which indicated its fateful character. Both
of her hearers were familiar with the so-called "pink tickets" of
the Mounted Police; every one in the Northwest Territory, in fact,
knew what they were--deportation orders. But in a tone hoarse and
suppressed Laure read, "'--leave by the first safe conveyance!'
That's what it says--the first safe conveyance. I suppose you'd
like it better if it were a blue ticket and I had to leave in
twenty-four hours. You put it over, but I won't forget. I'll get
even with you."

"We had nothing to do with that," the Countess declared, quietly.
"I'm sorry you take it so hard, but--it serves you right."

"Who wouldn't take it hard? To be expelled, fired out like a
thief, a--" The girl's voice broke; then she pulled herself
together and uttered a quavering, artificial laugh. She tossed her
head again, with an obvious attempt at defiance. "Oh, it takes
more than a pink ticket to down me! Anyhow, I'm sick of this
place, sick of the people. I hate them." With a vicious fling of
her shoulders she swept on to a seat as far from them as possible
and sank into it.

So the girl had confessed, Hilda reflected. She was glad, for
Pierce's sake, that this miserable complication was in process of
clearing up and that he would be finally and completely
exonerated; she was glad, too, that her efforts in his behalf, her
humiliation, had borne fruit. He would never know how high he had
made her pay, but that was all right. She felt very gently toward
him at this moment, and experienced a certain wistful desire that
he might understand how unselfish had been her part. It might make
a difference; probably it would. Things now were not as they had
been. She was a free woman. This thought obtruded itself
insistently into the midst of her meditations. Yes, Courteau was
gone; there was no reason now why she could not look any man
honestly in the eye. Of course, there was the same disparity in
years between her and Pierce which she had recognized from the
beginning, but, after all, was that necessarily fatal? He had
loved her genuinely enough at one time. Hilda recalled that windy
night on the shores of Linderman when the whimper of a rising
storm came out of the darkness, when the tree-tops tossed their
branches to the sky, and when her own soul had broken its fetters
and defied restraint. She thrilled at memory of those strong young
arms about her, those hot lips pressing hers. That was a moment to
remember always. And those dreamy, magic days that had followed,
the more delightful, the more unreal because she had deliberately
drugged her conscience. Then that night at White Horse! He had
told her bitterly, broken-heartedly, that he could never forget.
Perhaps even yet--With an effort Hilda Courteau roused herself.
Never forget? Why, he had forgotten the very next day, as was
quite natural. No, she was a foolish sentimentalist, and he--well,
he was just one whom fate had cast for a lover's role, one
destined to excite affection in women, good and bad. Some day he
would find his mate and--Hilda believed she loved him well enough
to rejoice in his happiness when it came. There spoke the maternal
instinct which Phillips had the knack of rousing; for want of
something better, she determined she would cherish that.

Meanwhile Laure sat in her corner, her head bowed, her very soul
in revolt. She was tasting failure, disappointment, balked desire,
and it was like gall in her mouth. She could have cried out aloud
in her rage. She hated these other women whom she blamed for her
undoing; she hated Cavendish, Pierce Phillips, herself.

"It serves me right," she told herself, furiously. "I deserve the
pink ticket for making a fool of myself. Yes, a FOOL! What has
Pierce ever done for me? Nothing. And I--?" Before her mind's eye
came a vision of the opportunities she had let slip, the chances
she had ignored. She knew full well that she could have had the
pick of many men--the new-made millionaires of Dawson--but instead
she had chosen him. And why? Merely because he had a way, a smile,
a warm and pleasing personality--some magnetic appeal too
intangible to identify. It was like her to make the wrong choice--
she always did. She had come North with but one desire, one
determination--namely, to make money, to reap to the full her
share of this free harvest. She had given up the life she liked,
the people she knew, the comforts she craved, for that and for
nothing else, and what a mess she had made of the venture! Other
girls not half so smart, not half so pretty as she, had feathered
their nests right here before her eyes, while she was wasting her
time. They had kept their heads, and they would go out in the
spring, first class, with good clothes and a bank-roll in the
purser's safe. Some of them were married and respectable. "Never
again!" she whispered to herself. "The next one will pay." Chagrin
at the treatment she had suffered filled her with a poisonous
hatred of all mankind, and soundlessly she cursed Phillips as the
cause of her present plight.

Such thoughts as these ran tumbling through the girl's mind; her
rage and her resentment were real enough; nevertheless, through
this overtone there ran another note; a small voice was speaking
in the midst of all her tumult--a small voice which she refused to
listen to. "What I ever saw in him I don't know," she sneered,
goading herself to further bitterness and stiffening her courage.
"I never really cared for him; I'm too wise for that. I don't care
for him now. I detest the poor, simple-minded fool. I--HATE him."
So she fought with herself, drowning the persistent piping of that
other voice. Then her eyes dropped to that fatal paper in her lap
and suddenly venom fled from her. She wondered if Cavendish would
tell Pierce that he had given her the pink ticket. Probably not.
The Mounted Police were usually close-mouthed about such things,
and yet--Laure crushed the paper into a crumpled ball and
furtively hid it in the pocket of her coat; then she raised wild,
apprehensive eyes to the door. If only she dared slip out now,
before Pierce reappeared, before he had a chance to see her. It
seemed as if she could not bear to have him know, but--Cavendish
had ordered her to wait. "My God!" the girl whispered. "I'll die,
if he knows! I'll die!" She began to tremble wretchedly and to
wring her hands; she could not remove her gaze from the door.

This waiting-room at the Barracks had housed people of divers and
many sorts during its brief history; it had harbored strained
faces, it had been the scene of strong emotional conflicts, but
never, perhaps, had its narrow walls encompassed emotions in wider
contrast than those experienced by the four silent women who
waited there at this moment. One object of interest dominated the
thoughts of each of them. These thoughts were similar in nature
and sprang from the same starting-point. Curiously enough,
however, they took channels as wide apart as the poles.

Josephine Cavendish had heard just enough about the incidents of
the previous night to awaken her apprehensions and to stir her
feeling of loyalty to the depths. The suggestion that Pierce
Phillips was in the slightest degree responsible for the death of
Count Courteau had roused her indignation and her fighting-blood.
Unable to endure the suspense of idle waiting, she had sought
relief by assuming a sort of sentinel post where she could watch
developments. It was something to be close to his affairs. It was
next to being close to him; hence the reason of her presence and
her insistence upon remaining.

In her mind there had never been the slightest question of
Pierce's innocence; any doubt of it, expressed or implied, awoke
in her a sharp and bitter antagonism quite remarkable; no bird
could have flown quicker to the aid of her chick, no wolf mother
could have bristled more ferociously at threat to her cub, than
did this serene, inexperienced girl-woman at hint of peril to
Pierce Phillips. And yet, on the surface, at least, she and Pierce
were only friends. He had never voiced a word of love to her. But-
-of what use are words when hearts are full and when confession
lurks in every glance, every gesture; when every commonplace is
thrilling and significant?

In her eyes no disgrace whatever attached to him as a result of
the notoriety he had suffered. On the contrary, she considered him
a martyr, a hero, the object of a deep conspiracy, and his wrongs
smarted her. He was, in short, a romantic figure. Moreover, she
had recently begun to believe that this entire situation was
contrived purely for the purpose of bringing them together, of
acquainting them with each other, and of testing the strength of
their mutual regard. These other women, whom she saw to-day for
the first time, she considered merely extra figures in the drama
of which she and Pierce played the leads--witnesses in the case
deserving no attention. She would be grateful to them, of course,
if they succeeded in helping him, but, at best, they were minor
characters, supers in the cast. Once Pierce himself strode into
the scene, she forgot them entirely.

What a picture her lover made, she reflected; how he filled her
eye! What importance he possessed! Surely the world must see and
feel how dominant, how splendid he was. It must recognize how
impossible it would be for him to do wrong. The mere sight of him
had set her to vibrating, and now inspired in her a certain
reckless abandon; guilty or innocent, he was her mate and she
would have followed him at a word. But--he was innocent; it was
her part to wait here as patiently as she could until the fact was
proved and until he could ask that question which forever trembled
between them.

Such thoughts as these were impossible to conceal; they were
mirrored upon the face of the colonel's daughter as she stood
raptly gazing at the door through which Pierce Phillips had
disappeared. Her lips were parted; the shadow of the smile his
coming had evoked still lingered upon them; her soul was in her
shining eyes. Unknown to her, at least one of the other women
present had read her sudden emotions and now watched her
curiously, with an intent and growing astonishment.

Rouletta Kirby had been as quick as the Countess to correctly
interpret Laure's chagrin, and she, too, had experienced a
tremendous relief. Oddly enough, however, she had felt no such
fierce and jealous exultation as she had anticipated; there had
been no selfish thrill such as she had expected. What ailed her?
she wondered. While groping for an answer, her attention had been
challenged by the expression upon Miss Cavendish's face, and
vaguely she began to comprehend the truth. Breathlessly now she
watched the girl; slowly conviction grew into certainty.

So! That was why the colonel's daughter was here. That was why, at
sound of a certain step, she had become glorified. That was why
Pierce had been blind to her own and Hilda's presence in the room.

It would be untrue to say that Rouletta was not shocked by this
discovery. It came like a thunderclap, and its very unexpectedness
jolted her mind out of the ruts it had been following these many
days. But, astonishing to relate, it caused her no anguish. After
the first moment or two of dizzy bewilderment had passed she found
that her whole being was galvanized into new life and that the
eyes of her soul were opened to a new light. With understanding
came a peculiar emotional let-down, a sudden, welcome relaxation--
almost a sensation of relief.

Rouletta asked herself, over and over, what could be the matter
with her; why she felt no twinge, no jealousy; why the sight of
that eager, breathless girl with the rapturous face failed to
cause her a heartache. She was amazed at herself. It could not be
that she no longer cared for Pierce, that she had mistaken her
feelings toward him. No, he was what he had always been--her
ideal--the finest, the most lovable, the dearest creature she had
ever met; just the sort of fellow she had always longed to know,
the kind any girl would crave for lover, friend, brother. She felt
very tender toward him. She was not greatly surprised that the
nicest girl in Dawson had recognized his charm and had surrendered
to it. Well, he deserved the nicest girl in the world.

Rouletta was startled at the direction her thoughts were taking.
Did she love Pierce Phillips as she had believed she did, or had
she merely fallen in love with his good qualities? Certainly he
had never been dearer to her than he was at this moment, and yet--
Rouletta abandoned the problem of self-analysis and allowed her
bubbling relief at the turn events had taken to remain a mystery
for the time being.

The door to the commandant's office opened without warning. Pierce
stood framed in it. His head was up, his shoulders were back, his
countenance was alight; with confident tread he entered the big
room and crossed it directly to the girl who stood waiting beside
the table. He held out his two hands to her and with a flash of
her clear blue eyes she placed hers in his. Gladness, trust, blind
faith, and adoration were in her face. She murmured something
which Rouletta did not hear, for at that instant Colonel Cavendish
appeared with the curt announcement:

"That is all, ladies. You needn't remain longer."

Blindly, confusedly, Rouletta rose and fumbled with her wraps. She
saw the colonel go to Laure and speak with her in a stiff, formal
way. She saw Pierce and Josephine turn away hand in hand, their
heads close together--he had not even glanced in her direction;
then Cavendish was speaking to her directly.

At first she did not understand him, but finally made out that he
was telling her that everything had been cleared up, including
even the mystery of Count Courteau's gold-sack.

"Laure confessed that she got a duplicate key to the cashier's
cage," she heard the colonel say. "Got it from Pierce. It was she
who put the evidence in there during the confusion. Pretty
ingenious, I call it, and pretty spiteful."

"Did she--have anything to say about the--the murder?" Rouletta
inquired.

"No. But the Countess has that figured out right, I'm sure. We'll
have the proof when Rock brings back his prisoners."

As Rouletta moved toward the door Pierce stopped her. There was a
ring in his voice as he said:

"Rouletta, I want you to meet Miss Cavendish. I want the two
nicest girls in the world to know each other. Josephine, this is
Miss Kirby, of whom I've said so much." Then without reason he
laughed joyously, and so did the colonel's daughter.

The latter took Rouletta's hand in a warm and friendly clasp. Her
smiling lips were tremulous. Engagingly, shyly, she said:

"Pierce has told me how splendid you've been to him, and I'm sure
you're as happy as we are, but--things always come out right if we
wish for them hard enough. Don't you think so?"

The Countess Courteau was walking slowly when Rouletta overtook
her a block or so down the street. She looked up as the younger
woman joined her.

"Well," she said, "I presume you saw. Not a look, not a thought
for any one but her--that other girl."

"Yes, I saw." There was a pause, then: "She's wonderful. I think
I'm very glad."

"Glad?" Hilda raised her brows; she glanced curiously at the
speaker.

"If I had a brother I'd want him to love a girl like that."

"But--you have no brother, outside of 'Poleon Doret." Hilda was
more than ever amazed when her companion laughed softly,
contentedly.

"I know, but if I had one, I'd want him to be like--Pierce. I--My
dear, something has changed in me, oh, surprisingly! I scarcely
know what it is, but--I'm walking on air and my eyes are open for
the first time. And you? We've been honest with each other--how do
you feel?"

"I?" The Countess smiled wistfully. "Why--it doesn't matter how I
feel! The boy has found himself, and nothing else is of the least
importance."




CHAPTER XXX


Joe McCaskey was not a coward, neither was he a superstitious man,
but he had imagination. The steady strain of his and Frank's long
flight, the certainty of pursuit close behind, had frayed his
nerve and rendered him jumpy. For a man in his condition to be
awakened out of a trancelike sleep by an intruder at once
invisible, dumb; to feel the presence of that mysterious visitor
and actually to see him--it--bulked dim and formless among the
darting shadows cast by a blazing match--was a test indeed. It was
too much for Joe.

As for Frank, he had actually seen nothing, heard nothing except
his brother's voice, and then--that sigh. For that very reason his
terror was, if anything, even greater than his brother's.

During what seemed an age there was no sound except the stertorous
breathing of the McCaskeys themselves and the stir of the dogs
outside. The pale square of the single window, over which a
bleached-out cotton flour-sack had been tacked, let in only enough
light to intensify the gloom. Within the cabin was a blackness
thick, tangible, oppressive; the brothers stared into it with
bulging eyes and listened with ear-drums strained to the point of
rupture. Oddly enough, this utter silence augmented their
agitation. Unable finally to smother the evidence of his steadily
growing fright, Frank uttered a half-audible moan. Joe in the next
bunk put it down as a new and threatening phenomenon. What sort of
thing was it that sighed and moaned thus? As evidence of the
direction Joe's mind was taking, he wondered if these sounds could
be the complaint of Courteau's unshriven spirit. It was a shocking
thought, but involuntarily he gasped the dead man's name.

A guilty conscience is a proven coward-maker; so, too, is a quick,
imaginative mind. It took only a moment or two to convince Joe
that this nocturnal interloper was not a creature of flesh and
blood, but some enormous, unmentionable, creeping thing come out
of the other world--out of the cold earth--to visit punishment
upon him for his crime. He could hear it stirring, finally, now
here, now there; he could make out the rustle of its grave-
clothes. There is no doubt that the cabin was full of half-
distinguishable sounds--so is any warm habitation--but to Joe's
panicky imagination the nature of these particular sounds
indicated that they could not come from any normal, living being.
There was, for instance, a slow, asthmatic wheezing, like the
breath of a sorely wounded man; a stretching and straining as of a
body racked with mortal agony; even a faint bubbling choke like a
death-rattle heard in an adjoining chamber. These and others as
horribly suggestive. Joe's wild agitation distorted all of them,
no matter whether they came from his brother Frank, from the
poorly seasoned pole rafters overhead, or from the sleepy dogs
outside, and 'Poleon Doret, with a grim internal chuckle, took
advantage of the fact.

When finally the elder McCaskey heard his own name whispered, the
last shred of self-control left to him was whipped away; his wits
went skittering, and for a second time he groped with frantic,
twitching fingers for his revolver. He raised it and, with a yell,
fired at random into the blackness, meanwhile covering his eyes
with his left arm for fear of beholding in the sulphurous flash
that bloodless, fleshless menace, whatever it might be.

Somehow he managed to get out of bed and to place his back against
the wall, and there he cowered until he heard his brother's body
threshing about the floor. As a matter of fact, that shot had sent
Frank sprawling from his bunk, and he was striving to kick off the
hampering folds of his sleeping-bag, nothing more; but the
thumping of his knees and elbows bore a dreadful significance to
the terrified listener. Evidently the Thing had closed in--had
grappled with Frank. Its hands, damp with death sweat, even now
were groping for him, Joe. The thought was unbearable.

Blindly the elder brother thrust his revolver at full length in
front of him and pulled the trigger; Frank shrieked, but again and
again Joe fired, and when the last cartridge was spent he
continued to snap the weapon. He desisted only when he heard a
voice, faint, but hoarse with agony, crying:

"O God! You've shot me, Joe! You've shot me!"

Then and not until then, did a sort of sanity come to the wretch.
The revolver slipped from his fingers; he felt his bones
dissolving into water; a horror ten times greater than he had
previously suffered fell upon him. He tried to speak, to throw off
this hideous nightmare, but his voice came only as a dry, reedy
whisper.

Frank was still now; he did not respond to his brother's
incoherencies except with a deep groaning that momentarily became
more alarming.

"I--I--didn't--Christ! I didn't shoot you ... Frank! ... Answer
me! Say something. ..." Even yet the dread of that hobgoblin
presence lay like ice upon the elder brother; he feared to move
lest he encounter it, lest he touch it and it enfold him; but when
Frank's twitching body became still he fell to his knees and went
groping forward on all-fours in search of it. Death was here now.
He had slain his brother and there was NO LIGHT!

Joe began to sob and to chatter in a maudlin hysteria of fright
and apprehension. He succeeded in finding Frank by the sound of
his breathing, and he was pawing at him and wildly calling his
name when at his back a match was struck.

The sound, the flare, brought a scream from his throat. He cringed
and cowered; the pallid face he raised was slack-jawed, his gaze
was that of a crazy man.

Slowly, very slowly his dementia left him. His eyes were still
distended, to be sure, but into them sanity, recognition, began to
creep. He stared dazedly about him, and at last he managed to
speak Doret's name.

"Wh-what you doing--here?" he breathed.

"Me? I come to tak' you back." Joe shook his head weakly. "You
can't. We're across--safe." His eyes dropped to the prostrate body
beside which he knelt, and a new thought swiftly flooded his
vacant mind. "Look! You--Now I understand. YOU did it! YOU shot
him. I never--BY GOD!" The fellow's insane vehemence, the panting
eagerness with which he undertook to absolve himself from the
hideous results of his deed, argued that he loved his brother. He
rose slowly to his feet, his countenance flaming, his gaze fixed
in an arresting expression of mingled rage and horror upon the
woodsman's face. "You did it, damn you! Shot him, in the dark,
asleep! Now you want me ... Take me back, eh? You can't do it. I'm
safe ... safe ... !"

'Poleon uttered a grunt. He leaned his carbine against the wall
behind him, and from his pocket he drew a thin cotton sled-rope.
With this in his hand he advanced upon the slayer.

McCaskey retreated. Weakly at first he fought off his captor;
then, as fear overwhelmed him, he became possessed of a phrenetic
energy and struggled with the strength of two men. He struck, he
bit, he clawed, he kicked. It was like the battle of a man with a
beast--ferocious, merciless--while it lasted. They rocked about
the cabin, heedless of the wounded man; the stove came crashing
down and they trampled the pipe under their feet.

But McCaskey collapsed as suddenly as he had flown to action. When
'Poleon trussed him up he had neither strength nor spirit either
for resistance or for resentment. He was as spineless as a wet
sack. With anguished eyes he watched his captor lift Frank into a
bunk and then proceed to do what remained to be done. Bleak of
face, lifeless of voice, hopeless of expression, he answered the
questions put to him and made no feeblest effort at concealment.
He was, in fact, no longer capable of any resistance, mental or
physical.

Frank died as the first ashen streaks of dawn came through the
window and lit the sickly face of the brother who had slain him.
There was no longer need of the rope; in fact, Joe implored his
captor with such earnestness not to leave him alone that 'Poleon
untied his hands, feeling sure that he was impotent. Joe followed
him outside, and stood near by while he harnessed the dogs; he
accompanied every step the woodsman took--wild horses could not
have dragged him away in his present frame of mind--and finally,
when they set out back toward the Canadian Line, he shambled along
ahead of the team with head down and eyes averted from the
gruesome bundle that lay in the sled. His punishment had overtaken
him and he was unequal to it.

Dawson was in ferment, for the news of another "strike" had come
in and a stampede was under way. Discoveries of gold, or rumors of
them, had been common. The camp had thrilled to many Arabian
Nights tales, but this one was quite the most sensational of all.
So amazing, so unbelievable was it, in truth, that those who had
been too often fooled laughed at it and declared it impossible on
its face. Some woodcutters on the hills above El Dorado had been
getting out dry timber for the drift fires, so ran the report, and
in shooting the tree-trunks down into the valley they had
discovered a deposit of wash gravel. One of them, possessed of the
prospector's instinct, had gophered a capful of the gravel from
off the rim where the plunging tree-trunks had dug through the
snow and exposed the outcropping bedrock, and, to satisfy his
curiosity, had taken it down to camp for a test. He had thawed and
panned it; to his amazement, he had discovered that it carried an
astonishing value in gold--coarse, rough gold--exactly like that
in the creek pay-streak, except with less signs of abrasion and
erosion. Rumor placed the contents of that first prospect at ten
dollars. Ten cents would have meant the riches of Aladdin, but--
ten dollars! No wonder the wiseacres shook their heads. Ten
dollars to the pan, on a hilltop! Absurd! How did metal of that
specific gravity get up there? How could there be wash gravel on
the crest of a mountain? There was no sense to such a proposition.

But such old California placer miners as chanced to hear of it
lost no time in hitting the trail. They were familiar with high
bars, prehistoric riverbeds, and they went as fast as their old
legs would carry them.

More faith was put in the story when it became known that the
diggings were being deserted and that the men of El Dorado and
Bonanza were quitting their jobs, actually leaving their thawed
drifts to freeze while they scattered over the domes and saddles
round about, staking claims. That settled matters, so far as
Dawson was concerned; men who had dogs hitched them up, those who
had none rolled their packs; soon the trail up the Klondike was
black and the recorder's office prepared for riotous activity.

Those who had set out thus late met excited travelers hastening
townward, and from them obtained confirmation. Yes, the story was
true, more than true! The half had not been told as yet. Gold lay
under the grass roots where anybody could see it; it was more
plentiful than in the creeks--this was the richest thing ever
known. "Frenchman's Hill," the discovery had been named, but all
the ground for miles round about had been already staked and now
men were going even further afield. It was well to hurry.

A frenzy took possession of the hearers, and they pressed on more
rapidly. This was like the rush of the autumn previous, from Dyea
to the Chilkoot, only here dogs flew under snapping lashes;
pedestrians, when shouldered aside, abandoned their burdens and
sacrificed all to speed. At the Forks the new arrivals scattered
up over the hills, and that night road-houses, cabins, tents, were
crowded; men slept on chairs, on floors; they stood around open
fires.

Dawson awoke, on the second morning, to behold a long queue of
fur-clad miners waiting outside the Gold Commissioner's office;
the town took on an electric liveliness. This signified big
things; it gave permanence; it meant that Dawson was to be the
world's first placer camp. Business picked up, the saloons became
thronged, on every corner knots of gossiping men assembled. There
began a considerable speculation in claims on Frenchman's Hill;
merchants planned larger stocks for the next season; the price of
town lots doubled.

Late that afternoon through the streets ran a cry that took every
foot-free man hurrying to the river-front. "Rock was coming!" In a
jiffy the vantage-points were crowded. Sure enough, far down the
Yukon two teams were approaching; with the smoke of Dawson in
their nostrils they were coming on the run, and soon the more
keen-eyed spectators announced that they could make out 'Poleon
Doret. The lieutenant himself, however, was not in evidence.
Instantly speculation became rife. Here was a sensation indeed,
and when the second runner was identified beyond question as Joe
McCaskey, excitement doubled. Where was Rock? Where was the other
fugitive? What, in the name of all that was unexpected, had
occurred?

A shout of relief issued from the crowd when the teams drew in
under the bank and Rock sat up, waving a mittened hand; the shout
was quickly hushed as the lookers-on saw what sort of burden Joe
McCaskey was driving.

Up into the main street came the cavalcade. The crowd fell in
alongside and ran with it to the Barracks, clamoring for details,
pouring questions upon the returning travelers. Joe McCaskey, of
course, was speechless, this ordeal proving, as a matter of fact,
scarcely less trying than that other one at Sheep Camp when he had
run the gauntlet. As for Rock and the French Canadian, neither had
much to say, and as a result sensational stories soon spread
through the resorts. The Mounted Policeman had got his men, as
usual, but only after a desperate affray in which Frank McCaskey
had fallen and the officer himself had been wounded--so ran the
first account. Those who had gone as far as the Barracks returned
with a fanciful tale of a siege in the snow and of Rock's single-
handed conquest of the two fugitives. These conflicting reports
were confusing and served to set the town so completely agog that
it awaited fuller details with the most feverish impatience. One
thing only was certain--the lieutenant had again made himself a
hero; he had put a new feather in his cap. Men lifted glasses to
him and to the Force. Such efficiency as this commanded their
deepest respect and admiration.

Pierce Phillips, of course, was the most eager member of that
welcoming throng. At the earliest moment he bore 'Poleon away to
his cabin, and there, when the last morbid curiosity-seeker had
been shaken off and the dogs had been attended to, he heard the
story.

"You don' got no more worry," 'Poleon told him, with a smile. "Joe
keel' de Count."

"He confessed? Really?"

"Rouletta figger' it out jus' right. By golly! Dat's de smartes'
gal!"

"She is indeed. But Frank? What happened? How did you manage--?"

'Poleon hesitated. There was a reason why he did not wish the
details of that affair on the upper Forty Mile to become public.
Joe McCaskey was beginning to talk loudly about his outraged
rights, his citizenship, international law, and such
incomprehensible things--but stronger by far than any fear of
consequences to himself, remote at best, 'Poleon felt a desire to
help his friend, the Police lieutenant. Rock was deeply humiliated
at his weak failure in living up to his reputation; he felt that
he had cut a very sorry figure indeed; and, although he had
undertaken to conceal that feeling from 'Poleon, the latter had
read him like a book and had secretly made up his mind to give
full credit to the officer, eliminating himself as much as
possible. There was no reason why the actual facts should be made
public, so far as he could see, and, once an artfully colored
account of the exploit had gained currency, Rock could not well
contradict it. He might, undoubtedly would, make a truthful report
to his superiors, but 'Poleon determined that in the eyes of the
hero-worshiping people of Dawson the fellow should still remain a
hero and stand for one hundred per cent. efficiency. That was
quite as it should be.

It was not difficult to distort the story enough to reverse the
roles he and the officer had played, and, when he had finished,
Pierce was loud in his praise of the Mounted Policeman.

"Well, things happened here, too," the youth declared. Succinctly
he told the story of Laure's delayed confession proving that he
had been the victim of a deliberate conspiracy. "Believe me, I'm
glad it has all come out so well," he said. "People didn't
actually accuse me, but I was conscious of their suspicion, their
doubt. I had talked too much. Then, too, there was that beastly
rumor about the Countess and me. It was fierce! Appearances were
strong. I'd--have gone on the stampede, only I didn't have the
heart. You've heard about that, of course? The new strike?" When
'Poleon shook his head the young man's eyes kindled. "Why, man,"
he broke out, "the town's crazy! dippy! It's the biggest thing
ever! Frenchman's Hill, it's called. Get that? Frenchman's Hill!"

"Some French feller mak' lucky strike, eh?" 'Poleon was not
greatly interested. "Where de place is? Who dis Frenchman?"

"It's a high bar somewhere above El Dorado--a mountain of pay
gravel--an old river-bed or something. They say it's where all the
gold came from, the mother lode. You can see it right at the grass
roots--"

'Poleon started and his mouth opened; then he shook his head.

"By Gar! Dat's fonny! I seen gravel up dere, but me--I'm onlucky.
Never I quite get not'in'; always I'm close by when 'noder feller
mak' strike."

Pierce still managed to control himself enough to explain: "They
were shooting dead timber down into the gulch and they wore the
snow off where the rim cropped out. It happened to be staked
ground right there." Pierce's excitement, the odd light in his
dancing eyes, bore to 'Poleon a significance. "Some Frenchman had
taken it up, so they called it Frenchman's Hill."

Doret's blank, confounded stare caused the speaker finally to
blurt out: "Good Heavens! man, wake up! I'm trying to break the
news gently that you're a millionaire--the Frenchman of
Frenchman's Hill. I don't want you to faint. First time in history
a miner ever left his claim and another fellow came along--"

Doret uttered a feeble cry and rose to his feet. "Ma soeur!" he
exclaimed. "She's got claim up dere--I stake it for her. For me, I
don' care if I lose mine--plenty tam I come jus' so close as dis;
but if dem feller jump her groun'--"

"Wait, wait! There's no question of anything like that. Nobody has
jumped your claim, or hers, either. The law wouldn't let 'em. I
wonder if she knows--Why, she CAN'T know! I left her not two hours
ago--"

"She don' know?"

Pierce shook his head. "She doesn't dream. I wish I'D known. I'd
have loved to tell her."

'Poleon Doret gazed fixedly, curiously at the speaker. He nodded
his head. A peculiar, set, hopeless look crept into his eyes; his
broad shoulders sagged wearily. He had traveled far and swiftly on
this young man's affairs; he had slept but little; and now a great
fatigue mastered him. Oddly enough, too, that fierce, consuming
desire to see Rouletta which had hourly gnawed at him was gone;
all at once he felt that she was quite the last person he wished
to face. This weakness, this smallness of spirit, was only
temporary, he assured himself; it would soon pass, and then he
would find the strength to go to her with his customary smile, his
mask in place. Now, however, he was empty, cheerless, frightened
by the portent of this new thing. It could have but one
significance--it meant that he would lose his "sister," that she
would have no further need of him.

Well, that was all right. It was something like this that he had
worked for. Why cherish a mean envy of this happy boy? Why permit
a narrow selfishness to mar this supreme moment?

Doret was not a grudging giver; he straightened himself finally,
and into his tired eyes there came the gleam that Phillips had
been waiting for.

"Bien!" he breathed. "My li'l bird goin' wear de plumage she
deserve. She's goin' be reech an' happy all her life. By golly!
Dat's nice, for fac'. I feel lak gettin' drunk."

"She'd never stand for that."

"I spec' you tol' her you an' me is pardners on dis Frenchman'
Hill, eh? An' she's glad 'bout dat--"

"Oh, see here!" Pierce's tone changed abruptly. "Of course I
didn't tell her. That's cold; it's off. D'you think I'd permit--"
The boy choked and stammered. "D'you imagine for a minute that I'd
let you go through with a proposition like that? I understand why
you made it--to get me away from the life I've been leading. It
was bully of you, but--well, hardly. I'm not that sort. No, I've
laid off the old stuff, absolutely--straightened out. I've lived
ten years in the last ten days. Wait and see. 'Poleon, I'm the
happiest, the most deliriously happy man you ever saw. I only want
one thing. That's work and lots of it--the harder the better, so
long as it's honest and self-respecting. What d'you think of
that?"

"W'at I t'ink?" the woodsman said, warmly. "I t'ink dat's de bes'
news of all. Mon ami, you got reecher pay-streak in you as
Frenchman' Hill, if only you work 'im hard. But you need pardner
to get 'im out." He winked meaningly. "I guess mebbe you fin' dat
pardner, eh?"

Pierce flushed; he nodded vigorously and laughed in the purest,
frankest joy. "You're a good guesser. A partner--life partner! I--
She--Oh, my Lord! I'm overflowing! I'm--Funny thing, I've never
said a word to her; she doesn't know--"

"Ho, ho!" cried the elder man.

"Oh, she does know, of course. If she didn't I wouldn't feel as I
do, but we've never actually mentioned it. I've got to prove
myself, understand? It came to me of a sudden, struck me all in a
heap, I can tell you. I saw what a fool I'd made of myself. What a
damnable thing chance is, anyhow! It makes you, breaks you;
carries you along and leaves you stranded finally, then sweeps you
on again. Fortunately, she's big enough to understand and make
allowances. If she weren't, I'd die. I wouldn't want to live and
not make good. It's ecstasy and it's--pain. I'm frightened, too,
at my own unworthiness--" Abruptly the speaker's voice ceased and
he bowed his head.

'Poleon wet his dry lips and essayed to speak, but he could find
nothing to say. Of course Rouletta was big enough to understand
and make allowance for any human shortcomings. She was the sanest,
the most liberal, the most charitable of girls. And it was true,
too, that love came unbidden. He had learned that, to his cost. It
was pretty hard to stand quietly and lend a sympathetic ear to
this lucky devil; it took an effort to maintain a smile, to keep a
friendly gaze fixed upon Phillips' face. The big fellow was
growing weary of forever fighting himself. It would be a relief to
get away and to yield to his misery.

But with a lover's fatuous absorption in his own affairs Pierce
resumed: "I've been thinking lately how I came to this country
looking for Life, the big adventure. Everything that happened,
good or bad, was part of a stage play. I've been two people in
one--the fellow who did things and the fellow who looked on and
applauded--actor and audience. It was tremendously interesting in
an unreal sort of way, and I jotted everything down mentally. I
was stocking up with experience. Understand? Well, the whole thing
has suddenly become very different. I'm not in the gallery now,
not in the theater at all, not acting. And I thank God for it. I
don't imagine that I make myself plain in the least--"

Evidently he had not; evidently, too, his auditor's mind had
strayed slightly, for the latter said:

"I s'pose you t'inkin' all at once 'bout gettin'--marry, eh?"

Phillips paled; he uttered a panicky denial. "Not yet! Oh no--!
That is, I've THOUGHT about it a good deal--can't think of
anything else--but it's too early yet. I'm in no position; I must
make good first."

"For why it's too early? Mebbe dis gal goin' tak' lot of fun in
he'p you mak' good."

"I wonder--"

"Sure t'ing. All women is lak dat. You goin' t'ink of her after
dis, not yourse'f. She's got money--"

"Oh yes. That makes it hard, still--"

"Wal, you ain't broke, my frien', not wit' half interes' in
Discovery on Frenchman' Hill."

"Once and for all," Pierce protested, in extreme agitation, "I
tell you I won't take it. My Lord! that's generous! You're a
princely fellow, Doret, but--the most you can give me is a job.
Work? Yes, I'll eat that up."

"All right. We talk 'bout dat 'noder tam. Now, mebbe so she lak
hear de lates' news from you. Dere's plenty for tellin' her--'bout
Joe McCaskey an' all de res'. You can spoke now, lak hones' man.
Sapre! Don' you s'pose she's waitin' to hear you say you love her?
An' how you goin' mak' big success? By Gar! I keeck you out dis
cabin if you keep her waitin' some more!"

With a cry, half of trepidation, half of exultance, Phillips
crushed his cap upon his head. "I--I've a notion to. I can ALMOST
say it; anyhow, I can say enough so she'll understand. Gad! I
will! I just needed you to stiffen me up." Fiercely he wrung the
woodsman's hand, and, forgetful of all else but his new
determination, moved toward the door. "Thanks for all you've done
for me, old man, and all you've offered to do."

"Frenchman' Hill is nice place for two nestin' doves--fine place
for sing an' be happy," the other reminded him.

In a choking voice Pierce exclaimed: "You're a prince, Doret, and
I won't forget! A prince!"

He was gone; the cabin door had slammed shut with a crash. 'Poleon
sank to a seat and with a long sigh bowed his head.

It was over; he had done his bit. For a long while he remained
there inert, his patient, haggard face bent, his eyes fixed upon
the floor. He felt very old, very much used up, and the labor of
thinking was unbearable. When the fire had died and a chill had
crept into the room he roused himself to note that it had grown
dark. Manifestly, this would not do; there was the problem of
living still to face. Sooner or later this very evening he must go
to Rouletta and pretend to a joyousness he could never again know.
That meant more smiles, more effort; it would take all he had in
him to carry it off, and, meanwhile, the more he let his mind
dwell upon her the more unbearable became his thoughts. This
solitude was playing tricks with him. Enough of it! He must get
out into the lights; he must hear voices and regain the mastery of
himself through contact with sane people. Perhaps in the saloons,
the restaurants, he could absorb enough laughter to make safe the
mockery he purposed; perhaps it would enable him to stamp a grin
upon his features.

But his impulse was futile; in spite of himself he shrank from
people and hid himself unobtrusively in a corner of the first
place he entered. He was hurt, wounded, sick to death; he longed
to creep away somewhere and be alone with his pain.

In order that he might the sooner be free to do so, he rose
finally and slunk out upon the street. It would soon be time for
Rouletta to go to work. He would get it over with.

Cap in hand, his heart beating heavily at the prospect of merely
seeing her, he came on noiseless soles to her door. He could hear
her stirring inside, so he took a deep breath and rapped softly.

She uttered a cry when she saw him standing there; then a sudden
pallor crept into her cheeks, a queer constraint enveloped her.
Nevertheless, she put both her hands in his and drew him across
the threshold. She said something which neither of them
understood.

'Poleon's ears were roaring, but after a few moments he discovered
that she was gently chiding him. Where had he been? Why had he
delayed so long, knowing all the time that she was dying to see
him and to hear his story? He could not understand her
embarrassment, her shyness, the fact that she seemed hurt.

"Wal, I'm tucker' out wit' travelin'," he declared. "Dat's hardes'
trip ever I mak'. You hear 'bout 'im, eh?--'bout how McCaskey tell
de truth?"

Rouletta nodded, with a curious little smile upon her lips. "Yes.
I heard all about it, the first thing--how Rock ran down those
fellows--everything. The town was ringing with his name inside of
an hour. Of course, I went to the Barracks, finally, looking for
you. I'm just back. I saw the lieutenant and--he told me the true
story."

'Poleon stirred uncomfortably.

"He swore at you roundly and said he'd take it out of your skin as
soon as he was able--giving him the credit. He told me it was you
who did it all--how you followed those men over the Line, alone,
after he played out; how Joe McCaskey killed his own brother in
trying to kill you. But the whole thing is public now. I heard it
as I came back. You're quite a famous character in Dawson to-
night, 'Poleon dear, what with this and with Frenchman's Hill."

"Ho! Dat Frenchman' Hill," the man broke out, hurriedly. "It's
beeg s'prise for us, eh? Pierce told you 'bout dat?"

"Pierce?" The girl shook her head vaguely.

"You 'member I stake two claim', one for you, one for me. By
golly! ma soeur, you're millionaire."

"I remembered, of course," Rouletta said, faintly. I--" She closed
her eyes. "I couldn't believe it, however. At first I didn't
understand where the strike had been made; then I couldn't credit
it. I thought I was dreaming--"

"You dream as much as you can," 'Poleon said, warmly. "Dey all
come true now. What? Everyt'ing come out nice, eh?"

Rouletta opened her eyes. They were shining; so, too, was her
face. "Yes, my dream has come true--that is, my biggest, finest
dream. I'm--the happiest girl in the world, 'Poleon."

"Ma soeur!" the man cried brokenly and with a depth of feeling
that even Rouletta could not fathom. "I give my life to hear you
say dose word', to see dat light in your eye. No price too high
for dat."

A silence, throbbing, intense, fell between them, Rouletta felt
her heart-beats swaying her. She opened her lips, but no sound
issued. The figure before her was growing misty and she had to
wink the tears back into place.

"'Ma soeur!'" she echoed, faintly. "I love to hear you say that,
dear. It has grown to be a caress, a--kiss, when you say it. But
I've something to tell you--"

"I know."

"Something you don't know and would never guess. I've found
another brother." When he stared at her in open bewilderment she
repeated: "Yes, another brother. I took him for something
altogether different, but--" She laughed happily. "What do you
think of a girl who doesn't know her own mind? Who lets the one
man, the real man, go away? She doesn't deserve much, does she?"

"Ma soeur! Ma soeur!" the big fellow cried, hoarsely. He had
fallen all atremble now; he could have believed himself demented
only for something in Rouletta's face. "You mean--HIM? Wat's dis
you sayin'?"

"I mean him--you. Who else could I mean? He doesn't care for me,
but for another, and I'm--oh, so glad!"

"Mon Dieu!" 'Poleon gasped. "For why you look at me lak dat? Don'-
-don'--!" His cry was one of pain, of reproach; he closed his eyes
the while he strove to still his working features. He opened them
with a snap when a small, warm, tremulous hand closed over his.

"You wouldn't mind if he called me his sister, if--if you called
me--something else, would you, dear?"

"Oh, ma soeur!" he whispered. "I'm poor, ignorant feller. I ain't
no good. But you--de bes' man in all de worl' would love you."

"He does, but he won't say so," Rouletta declared. "Come, must I
say it for him?"

One last protest the fellow voiced. "Me, I'm rough-neck man. I
scarcely read an' write. But you--"

"I'm a gambler's daughter, nothing more--a bold and forward
creature. But I'm done with dealing. I'm tired of the game and
henceforth I'm going to be the 'lookout'--your 'lookout,' dear."
With a choking little laugh the girl drew nearer, and, lifting his
hands, she crept inside his arms. Then as life, vigor, fire
succeeded his paralysis, she swayed closer, until her breast was
against his.

With a wordless, hungry cry of ecstasy, so keen that it was akin
to agony, 'Poleon Doret enfolded her in his great embrace. "Don'
spoke no more," he implored her. "I'll be wakin' up too soon."

They stood so for a long time before she raised her dewy lips to
his.

THE END




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