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diff --git a/1655-h/1655-h.htm b/1655-h/1655-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d0120da --- /dev/null +++ b/1655-h/1655-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,5313 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=US-ASCII" /> +<title>The God of His Fathers</title> +<style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- + P { margin-top: .75em; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + H1, H2 { + text-align: center; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + } + H3, H4 { + text-align: left; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; + } + BODY{margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + } + .blkquot {margin-left: 4em; margin-right: 4em;} /* block indent */ + // --> + /* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> +</head> +<body> +<h2> +<a href="#startoftext">The God of His Fathers, by Jack London</a> +</h2> +<pre> +The Project Gutenberg eBook, The God of His Fathers, by Jack London + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: The God of His Fathers + +Author: Jack London + +Release Date: March 18, 2005 [eBook #1655] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GOD OF HIS FATHERS*** +</pre> +<p><a name="startoftext"></a></p> +<p>Transcribed from the 1906 Sir Isaac Pitman & Sons edition by +David Price, email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk</p> +<h1>THE GOD OF HIS FATHERS: TALES OF THE KLONDYKE</h1> +<p>Contents:</p> +<p>The God of His Fathers<br /> +The Great Interrogation<br /> +Which Make Men Remember<br /> +Siwash<br /> +The Man with the Gash<br /> +Jan, the Unrepentant<br /> +Grit of Women<br /> +Where the Trail Forks<br /> +A Daughter of the Aurora<br /> +At the Rainbow’s End<br /> +The Scorn of Women</p> +<p><i>These tales have appeared in “McClure’s,” “Ainslee’s,” +“Outing,” the “Overland Monthly,” the “Wave,” +the “National,” and the San Francisco “Examiner.” +To the kindness of the various editors is due their reappearance in +more permanent form</i>.</p> +<p>TO THE DAUGHTERS OF THE WOLF WHO HAVE BRED AND SUCKLED A RACE OF +MEN</p> +<h2>THE GOD OF HIS FATHERS</h2> +<h3>I</h3> +<p>On every hand stretched the forest primeval,—the home of noisy +comedy and silent tragedy. Here the struggle for survival continued +to wage with all its ancient brutality. Briton and Russian were +still to overlap in the Land of the Rainbow’s End—and this +was the very heart of it—nor had Yankee gold yet purchased its +vast domain. The wolf-pack still clung to the flank of the cariboo-herd, +singling out the weak and the big with calf, and pulling them down as +remorselessly as were it a thousand, thousand generations into the past. +The sparse aborigines still acknowledged the rule of their chiefs and +medicine men, drove out bad spirits, burned their witches, fought their +neighbors, and ate their enemies with a relish which spoke well of their +bellies. But it was at the moment when the stone age was drawing +to a close. Already, over unknown trails and chartless wildernesses, +were the harbingers of the steel arriving,—fair-faced, blue-eyed, +indomitable men, incarnations of the unrest of their race. By +accident or design, single-handed and in twos and threes, they came +from no one knew whither, and fought, or died, or passed on, no one +knew whence. The priests raged against them, the chiefs called +forth their fighting men, and stone clashed with steel; but to little +purpose. Like water seeping from some mighty reservoir, they trickled +through the dark forests and mountain passes, threading the highways +in bark canoes, or with their moccasined feet breaking trail for the +wolf-dogs. They came of a great breed, and their mothers were +many; but the fur-clad denizens of the Northland had this yet to learn. +So many an unsung wanderer fought his last and died under the cold fire +of the aurora, as did his brothers in burning sands and reeking jungles, +and as they shall continue to do till in the fulness of time the destiny +of their race be achieved.</p> +<p>It was near twelve. Along the northern horizon a rosy glow, +fading to the west and deepening to the east, marked the unseen dip +of the midnight sun. The gloaming and the dawn were so commingled +that there was no night,—simply a wedding of day with day, a scarcely +perceptible blending of two circles of the sun. A kildee timidly +chirped good-night; the full, rich throat of a robin proclaimed good-morrow. +From an island on the breast of the Yukon a colony of wild fowl voiced +its interminable wrongs, while a loon laughed mockingly back across +a still stretch of river.</p> +<p>In the foreground, against the bank of a lazy eddy, birch-bark canoes +were lined two and three deep. Ivory-bladed spears, bone-barbed +arrows, buckskin-thonged bows, and simple basket-woven traps bespoke +the fact that in the muddy current of the river the salmon-run was on. +In the background, from the tangle of skin tents and drying frames, +rose the voices of the fisher folk. Bucks skylarked with bucks +or flirted with the maidens, while the older squaws, shut out from this +by virtue of having fulfilled the end of their existence in reproduction, +gossiped as they braided rope from the green roots of trailing vines. +At their feet their naked progeny played and squabbled, or rolled in +the muck with the tawny wolf-dogs.</p> +<p>To one side of the encampment, and conspicuously apart from it, stood +a second camp of two tents. But it was a white man’s camp. +If nothing else, the choice of position at least bore convincing evidence +of this. In case of offence, it commanded the Indian quarters +a hundred yards away; of defence, a rise to the ground and the cleared +intervening space; and last, of defeat, the swift slope of a score of +yards to the canoes below. From one of the tents came the petulant +cry of a sick child and the crooning song of a mother. In the +open, over the smouldering embers of a fire, two men held talk.</p> +<p>“Eh? I love the church like a good son. <i>Bien</i>! +So great a love that my days have been spent in fleeing away from her, +and my nights in dreaming dreams of reckoning. Look you!” +The half-breed’s voice rose to an angry snarl. “I +am Red River born. My father was white—as white as you. +But you are Yankee, and he was British bred, and a gentleman’s +son. And my mother was the daughter of a chief, and I was a man. +Ay, and one had to look the second time to see what manner of blood +ran in my veins; for I lived with the whites, and was one of them, and +my father’s heart beat in me. It happened there was a maiden—white—who +looked on me with kind eyes. Her father had much land and many +horses; also he was a big man among his people, and his blood was the +blood of the French. He said the girl knew not her own mind, and +talked overmuch with her, and became wroth that such things should be.</p> +<p>“But she knew her mind, for we came quick before the priest. +And quicker had come her father, with lying words, false promises, I +know not what; so that the priest stiffened his neck and would not make +us that we might live one with the other. As at the beginning +it was the church which would not bless my birth, so now it was the +church which refused me marriage and put the blood of men upon my hands. +<i>Bien</i>! Thus have I cause to love the church. So I +struck the priest on his woman’s mouth, and we took swift horses, +the girl and I, to Fort Pierre, where was a minister of good heart. +But hot on our trail was her father, and brothers, and other men he +had gathered to him. And we fought, our horses on the run, till +I emptied three saddles and the rest drew off and went on to Fort Pierre. +Then we took east, the girl and I, to the hills and forests, and we +lived one with the other, and we were not married,—the work of +the good church which I love like a son.</p> +<p>“But mark you, for this is the strangeness of woman, the way +of which no man may understand. One of the saddles I emptied was +that of her father’s, and the hoofs of those who came behind had +pounded him into the earth. This we saw, the girl and I, and this +I had forgot had she not remembered. And in the quiet of the evening, +after the day’s hunt were done, it came between us, and in the +silence of the night when we lay beneath the stars and should have been +one. It was there always. She never spoke, but it sat by +our fire and held us ever apart. She tried to put it aside, but +at such times it would rise up till I could read it in the look of her +eyes, in the very intake of her breath.</p> +<p>“So in the end she bore me a child, a woman-child, and died. +Then I went among my mother’s people, that it might nurse at a +warm breast and live. But my hands were wet with the blood of +men, look you, because of the church, wet with the blood of men. +And the Riders of the North came for me, but my mother’s brother, +who was then chief in his own right, hid me and gave me horses and food. +And we went away, my woman-child and I, even to the Hudson Bay Country, +where white men were few and the questions they asked not many. +And I worked for the company a hunter, as a guide, as a driver of dogs, +till my woman-child was become a woman, tall, and slender, and fair +to the eye.</p> +<p>“You know the winter, long and lonely, breeding evil thoughts +and bad deeds. The Chief Factor was a hard man, and bold. +And he was not such that a woman would delight in looking upon. +But he cast eyes upon my woman-child who was become a woman. Mother +of God! he sent me away on a long trip with the dogs, that he might—you +understand, he was a hard man and without heart. She was most +white, and her soul was white, and a good woman, and—well, she +died.</p> +<p>“It was bitter cold the night of my return, and I had been +away months, and the dogs were limping sore when I came to the fort. +The Indians and breeds looked on me in silence, and I felt the fear +of I knew not what, but I said nothing till the dogs were fed and I +had eaten as a man with work before him should. Then I spoke up, +demanding the word, and they shrank from me, afraid of my anger and +what I should do; but the story came out, the pitiful story, word for +word and act for act, and they marvelled that I should be so quiet.</p> +<p>“When they had done I went to the Factor’s house, calmer +than now in the telling of it. He had been afraid and called upon +the breeds to help him; but they were not pleased with the deed, and +had left him to lie on the bed he had made. So he had fled to +the house of the priest. Thither I followed. But when I +was come to that place, the priest stood in my way, and spoke soft words, +and said a man in anger should go neither to the right nor left, but +straight to God. I asked by the right of a father’s wrath +that he give me past, but he said only over his body, and besought with +me to pray. Look you, it was the church, always the church; for +I passed over his body and sent the Factor to meet my woman-child before +his god, which is a bad god, and the god of the white men.</p> +<p>“Then was there hue and cry, for word was sent to the station +below, and I came away. Through the Land of the Great Slave, down +the Valley of the Mackenzie to the never-opening ice, over the White +Rockies, past the Great Curve of the Yukon, even to this place did I +come. And from that day to this, yours is the first face of my +father’s people I have looked upon. May it be the last! +These people, which are my people, are a simple folk, and I have been +raised to honor among them. My word is their law, and their priests +but do my bidding, else would I not suffer them. When I speak +for them I speak for myself. We ask to be let alone. We +do not want your kind. If we permit you to sit by our fires, after +you will come your church, your priests, and your gods. And know +this, for each white man who comes to my village, him will I make deny +his god. You are the first, and I give you grace. So it +were well you go, and go quickly.”</p> +<p>“I am not responsible for my brothers,” the second man +spoke up, filling his pipe in a meditative manner. Hay Stockard +was at times as thoughtful of speech as he was wanton of action; but +only at times.</p> +<p>“But I know your breed,” responded the other. “Your +brothers are many, and it is you and yours who break the trail for them +to follow. In time they shall come to possess the land, but not +in my time. Already, have I heard, are they on the head-reaches +of the Great River, and far away below are the Russians.”</p> +<p>Hay Stockard lifted his head with a quick start. This was startling +geographical information. The Hudson Bay post at Fort Yukon had +other notions concerning the course of the river, believing it to flow +into the Arctic.</p> +<p>“Then the Yukon empties into Bering Sea?” he asked.</p> +<p>“I do not know, but below there are Russians, many Russians. +Which is neither here nor there. You may go on and see for yourself; +you may go back to your brothers; but up the Koyukuk you shall not go +while the priests and fighting men do my bidding. Thus do I command, +I, Baptiste the Red, whose word is law and who am head man over this +people.”</p> +<p>“And should I not go down to the Russians, or back to my brothers?”</p> +<p>“Then shall you go swift-footed before your god, which is a +bad god, and the god of the white men.”</p> +<p>The red sun shot up above the northern sky-line, dripping and bloody. +Baptiste the Red came to his feet, nodded curtly, and went back to his +camp amid the crimson shadows and the singing of the robins.</p> +<p>Hay Stockard finished his pipe by the fire, picturing in smoke and +coal the unknown upper reaches of the Koyukuk, the strange stream which +ended here its arctic travels and merged its waters with the muddy Yukon +flood. Somewhere up there, if the dying words of a ship-wrecked +sailorman who had made the fearful overland journey were to be believed, +and if the vial of golden grains in his pouch attested anything,—somewhere +up there, in that home of winter, stood the Treasure House of the North. +And as keeper of the gate, Baptiste the Red, English half-breed and +renegade, barred the way.</p> +<p>“Bah!” He kicked the embers apart and rose to his +full height, arms lazily outstretched, facing the flushing north with +careless soul.</p> +<h3>II</h3> +<p>Hay Stockard swore, harshly, in the rugged monosyllables of his mother +tongue. His wife lifted her gaze from the pots and pans, and followed +his in a keen scrutiny of the river. She was a woman of the Teslin +Country, wise in the ways of her husband’s vernacular when it +grew intensive. From the slipping of a snow-shoe thong to the +forefront of sudden death, she could gauge occasion by the pitch and +volume of his blasphemy. So she knew the present occasion merited +attention. A long canoe, with paddles flashing back the rays of +the westering sun, was crossing the current from above and urging in +for the eddy. Hay Stockard watched it intently. Three men +rose and dipped, rose and dipped, in rhythmical precision; but a red +bandanna, wrapped about the head of one, caught and held his eye.</p> +<p>“Bill!” he called. “Oh, Bill!”</p> +<p>A shambling, loose-jointed giant rolled out of one of the tents, +yawning and rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Then he sighted the +strange canoe and was wide awake on the instant.</p> +<p>“By the jumping Methuselah! That damned sky-pilot!”</p> +<p>Hay Stockard nodded his head bitterly, half-reached for his rifle, +then shrugged his shoulders.</p> +<p>“Pot-shot him,” Bill suggested, “and settle the +thing out of hand. He’ll spoil us sure if we don’t.” +But the other declined this drastic measure and turned away, at the +same time bidding the woman return to her work, and calling Bill back +from the bank. The two Indians in the canoe moored it on the edge +of the eddy, while its white occupant, conspicuous by his gorgeous head-gear, +came up the bank.</p> +<p>“Like Paul of Tarsus, I give you greeting. Peace be unto +you and grace before the Lord.”</p> +<p>His advances were met sullenly, and without speech.</p> +<p>“To you, Hay Stockard, blasphemer and Philistine, greeting. +In your heart is the lust of Mammon, in your mind cunning devils, in +your tent this woman whom you live with in adultery; yet of these divers +sins, even here in the wilderness, I, Sturges Owen, apostle to the Lord, +bid you to repent and cast from you your iniquities.”</p> +<p>“Save your cant! Save your cant!” Hay Stockard +broke in testily. “You’ll need all you’ve got, +and more, for Red Baptiste over yonder.”</p> +<p>He waved his hand toward the Indian camp, where the half-breed was +looking steadily across, striving to make out the newcomers. Sturges +Owen, disseminator of light and apostle to the Lord, stepped to the +edge of the steep and commanded his men to bring up the camp outfit. +Stockard followed him.</p> +<p>“Look here,” he demanded, plucking the missionary by +the shoulder and twirling him about. “Do you value your +hide?”</p> +<p>“My life is in the Lord’s keeping, and I do but work +in His vineyard,” he replied solemnly.</p> +<p>“Oh, stow that! Are you looking for a job of martyrship?”</p> +<p>“If He so wills.”</p> +<p>“Well, you’ll find it right here, but I’m going +to give you some advice first. Take it or leave it. If you +stop here, you’ll be cut off in the midst of your labors. +And not you alone, but your men, Bill, my wife—”</p> +<p>“Who is a daughter of Belial and hearkeneth not to the true +Gospel.”</p> +<p>“And myself. Not only do you bring trouble upon yourself, +but upon us. I was frozen in with you last winter, as you will +well recollect, and I know you for a good man and a fool. If you +think it your duty to strive with the heathen, well and good; but, do +exercise some wit in the way you go about it. This man, Red Baptiste, +is no Indian. He comes of our common stock, is as bull-necked +as I ever dared be, and as wild a fanatic the one way as you are the +other. When you two come together, hell’ll be to pay, and +I don’t care to be mixed up in it. Understand? So +take my advice and go away. If you go down-stream, you’ll +fall in with the Russians. There’s bound to be Greek priests +among them, and they’ll see you safe through to Bering Sea,—that’s +where the Yukon empties,—and from there it won’t be hard +to get back to civilization. Take my word for it and get out of +here as fast as God’ll let you.”</p> +<p>“He who carries the Lord in his heart and the Gospel in his +hand hath no fear of the machinations of man or devil,” the missionary +answered stoutly. “I will see this man and wrestle with +him. One backslider returned to the fold is a greater victory +than a thousand heathen. He who is strong for evil can be as mighty +for good, witness Saul when he journeyed up to Damascus to bring Christian +captives to Jerusalem. And the voice of the Saviour came to him, +crying, ‘Saul, Saul, why persecutest thou me?’ And +therewith Paul arrayed himself on the side of the Lord, and thereafter +was most mighty in the saving of souls. And even as thou, Paul +of Tarsus, even so do I work in the vineyard of the Lord, bearing trials +and tribulations, scoffs and sneers, stripes and punishments, for His +dear sake.”</p> +<p>“Bring up the little bag with the tea and a kettle of water,” +he called the next instant to his boatmen; “not forgetting the +haunch of cariboo and the mixing-pan.”</p> +<p>When his men, converts by his own hand, had gained the bank, the +trio fell to their knees, hands and backs burdened with camp equipage, +and offered up thanks for their passage through the wilderness and their +safe arrival. Hay Stockard looked upon the function with sneering +disapproval, the romance and solemnity of it lost to his matter-of-fact +soul. Baptiste the Red, still gazing across, recognized the familiar +postures, and remembered the girl who had shared his star-roofed couch +in the hills and forests, and the woman-child who lay somewhere by bleak +Hudson’s Bay.</p> +<h3>III</h3> +<p>“Confound it, Baptiste, couldn’t think of it. Not +for a moment. Grant that this man is a fool and of small use in +the nature of things, but still, you know, I can’t give him up.”</p> +<p>Hay Stockard paused, striving to put into speech the rude ethics +of his heart.</p> +<p>“He’s worried me, Baptiste, in the past and now, and +caused me all manner of troubles; but can’t you see, he’s +my own breed—white—and—and—why, I couldn’t +buy my life with his, not if he was a nigger.”</p> +<p>“So be it,” Baptiste the Red made answer. “I +have given you grace and choice. I shall come presently, with +my priests and fighting men, and either shall I kill you, or you deny +your god. Give up the priest to my pleasure, and you shall depart +in peace. Otherwise your trail ends here. My people are +against you to the babies. Even now have the children stolen away +your canoes.” He pointed down to the river. Naked +boys had slipped down the water from the point above, cast loose the +canoes, and by then had worked them into the current. When they +had drifted out of rifle-shot they clambered over the sides and paddled +ashore.</p> +<p>“Give me the priest, and you may have them back again. +Come! Speak your mind, but without haste.”</p> +<p>Stockard shook his head. His glance dropped to the woman of +the Teslin Country with his boy at her breast, and he would have wavered +had he not lifted his eyes to the men before him.</p> +<p>“I am not afraid,” Sturges Owen spoke up. “The +Lord bears me in his right hand, and alone am I ready to go into the +camp of the unbeliever. It is not too late. Faith may move +mountains. Even in the eleventh hour may I win his soul to the +true righteousness.”</p> +<p>“Trip the beggar up and make him fast,” Bill whispered +hoarsely in the ear of his leader, while the missionary kept the floor +and wrestled with the heathen. “Make him hostage, and bore +him if they get ugly.”</p> +<p>“No,” Stockard answered. “I gave him my word +that he could speak with us unmolested. Rules of warfare, Bill; +rules of warfare. He’s been on the square, given us warning, +and all that, and—why, damn it, man, I can’t break my word!”</p> +<p>“He’ll keep his, never fear.”</p> +<p>“Don’t doubt it, but I won’t let a half-breed outdo +me in fair dealing. Why not do what he wants,—give him the +missionary and be done with it?”</p> +<p>“N-no,” Bill hesitated doubtfully.</p> +<p>“Shoe pinches, eh?”</p> +<p>Bill flushed a little and dropped the discussion. Baptiste +the Red was still waiting the final decision. Stockard went up +to him.</p> +<p>“It’s this way, Baptiste. I came to your village +minded to go up the Koyukuk. I intended no wrong. My heart +was clean of evil. It is still clean. Along comes this priest, +as you call him. I didn’t bring him here. He’d +have come whether I was here or not. But now that he is here, +being of my people, I’ve got to stand by him. And I’m +going to. Further, it will be no child’s play. When +you have done, your village will be silent and empty, your people wasted +as after a famine. True, we will he gone; likewise the pick of +your fighting men—”</p> +<p>“But those who remain shall be in peace, nor shall the word +of strange gods and the tongues of strange priests be buzzing in their +ears.”</p> +<p>Both men shrugged their shoulder and turned away, the half-breed +going back to his own camp. The missionary called his two men +to him, and they fell into prayer. Stockard and Bill attacked +the few standing pines with their axes, felling them into convenient +breastworks. The child had fallen asleep, so the woman placed +it on a heap of furs and lent a hand in fortifying the camp. Three +sides were thus defended, the steep declivity at the rear precluding +attack from that direction. When these arrangements had been completed, +the two men stalked into the open, clearing away, here and there, the +scattered underbrush. From the opposing camp came the booming +of war-drums and the voices of the priests stirring the people to anger.</p> +<p>“Worst of it is they’ll come in rushes,” Bill complained +as they walked back with shouldered axes.</p> +<p>“And wait till midnight, when the light gets dim for shooting.”</p> +<p>“Can’t start the ball a-rolling too early, then.” +Bill exchanged the axe for a rifle, and took a careful rest. One +of the medicine-men, towering above his tribesmen, stood out distinctly. +Bill drew a bead on him.</p> +<p>“All ready?” he asked.</p> +<p>Stockard opened the ammunition box, placed the woman where she could +reload in safety, and gave the word. The medicine-man dropped. +For a moment there was silence, then a wild howl went up and a flight +of bone arrows fell short.</p> +<p>“I’d like to take a look at the beggar,” Bill remarked, +throwing a fresh shell into place. “I’ll swear I drilled +him clean between the eyes.”</p> +<p>“Didn’t work.” Stockard shook his head gloomily. +Baptiste had evidently quelled the more warlike of his followers, and +instead of precipitating an attack in the bright light of day, the shot +had caused a hasty exodus, the Indians drawing out of the village beyond +the zone of fire.</p> +<p>In the full tide of his proselyting fervor, borne along by the hand +of God, Sturges Owen would have ventured alone into the camp of the +unbeliever, equally prepared for miracle or martyrdom; but in the waiting +which ensued, the fever of conviction died away gradually, as the natural +man asserted itself. Physical fear replaced spiritual hope; the +love of life, the love of God. It was no new experience. +He could feel his weakness coming on, and knew it of old time. +He had struggled against it and been overcome by it before. He +remembered when the other men had driven their paddles like mad in the +van of a roaring ice-flood, how, at the critical moment, in a panic +of worldly terror, he had dropped his paddle and besought wildly with +his God for pity. And there were other times. The recollection +was not pleasant. It brought shame to him that his spirit should +be so weak and his flesh so strong. But the love of life! the +love of life! He could not strip it from him. Because of +it had his dim ancestors perpetuated their line; because of it was he +destined to perpetuate his. His courage, if courage it might be +called, was bred of fanaticism. The courage of Stockard and Bill +was the adherence to deep-rooted ideals. Not that the love of +life was less, but the love of race tradition more; not that they were +unafraid to die, but that they were brave enough not to live at the +price of shame.</p> +<p>The missionary rose, for the moment swayed by the mood of sacrifice. +He half crawled over the barricade to proceed to the other camp, but +sank back, a trembling mass, wailing: “As the spirit moves! +As the spirit moves! Who am I that I should set aside the judgments +of God? Before the foundations of the world were all things written +in the book of life. Worm that I am, shall I erase the page or +any portion thereof? As God wills, so shall the spirit move!”</p> +<p>Bill reached over, plucked him to his feet, and shook him, fiercely, +silently. Then he dropped the bundle of quivering nerves and turned +his attention to the two converts. But they showed little fright +and a cheerful alacrity in preparing for the coming passage at arms.</p> +<p>Stockard, who had been talking in undertones with the Teslin woman, +now turned to the missionary.</p> +<p>“Fetch him over here,” he commanded of Bill.</p> +<p>“Now,” he ordered, when Sturges Owen had been duly deposited +before him, “make us man and wife, and be lively about it.” +Then he added apologetically to Bill: “No telling how it’s +to end, so I just thought I’d get my affairs straightened up.”</p> +<p>The woman obeyed the behest of her white lord. To her the ceremony +was meaningless. By her lights she was his wife, and had been +from the day they first foregathered. The converts served as witnesses. +Bill stood over the missionary, prompting him when he stumbled. +Stockard put the responses in the woman’s mouth, and when the +time came, for want of better, ringed her finger with thumb and forefinger +of his own.</p> +<p>“Kiss the bride!” Bill thundered, and Sturges Owen was +too weak to disobey.</p> +<p>“Now baptize the child!”</p> +<p>“Neat and tidy,” Bill commented.</p> +<p>“Gathering the proper outfit for a new trail,” the father +explained, taking the boy from the mother’s arms. “I +was grub-staked, once, into the Cascades, and had everything in the +kit except salt. Never shall forget it. And if the woman +and the kid cross the divide to-night they might as well be prepared +for pot-luck. A long shot, Bill, between ourselves, but nothing +lost if it misses.”</p> +<p>A cup of water served the purpose, and the child was laid away in +a secure corner of the barricade. The men built the fire, and +the evening meal was cooked.</p> +<p>The sun hurried round to the north, sinking closer to the horizon. +The heavens in that quarter grew red and bloody. The shadows lengthened, +the light dimmed, and in the sombre recesses of the forest life slowly +died away. Even the wild fowl in the river softened their raucous +chatter and feigned the nightly farce of going to bed. Only the +tribesmen increased their clamor, war-drums booming and voices raised +in savage folk songs. But as the sun dipped they ceased their +tumult. The rounded hush of midnight was complete. Stockard +rose to his knees and peered over the logs. Once the child wailed +in pain and disconcerted him. The mother bent over it, but it +slept again. The silence was interminable, profound. Then, +of a sudden, the robins burst into full-throated song. The night +had passed.</p> +<p>A flood of dark figures boiled across the open. Arrows whistled +and bow-thongs sang. The shrill-tongued rifles answered back. +A spear, and a mighty cast, transfixed the Teslin woman as she hovered +above the child. A spent arrow, diving between the logs, lodged +in the missionary’s arm.</p> +<p>There was no stopping the rush. The middle distance was cumbered +with bodies, but the rest surged on, breaking against and over the barricade +like an ocean wave. Sturges Owen fled to the tent, while the men +were swept from their feet, buried beneath the human tide. Hay +Stockard alone regained the surface, flinging the tribesmen aside like +yelping curs. He had managed to seize an axe. A dark hand +grasped the child by a naked foot, and drew it from beneath its mother. +At arm’s length its puny body circled through the air, dashing +to death against the logs. Stockard clove the man to the chin +and fell to clearing space. The ring of savage faces closed in, +raining upon him spear-thrusts and bone-barbed arrows. The sun +shot up, and they swayed back and forth in the crimson shadows. +Twice, with his axe blocked by too deep a blow, they rushed him; but +each time he flung them clear. They fell underfoot and he trampled +dead and dying, the way slippery with blood. And still the day +brightened and the robins sang. Then they drew back from him in +awe, and he leaned breathless upon his axe.</p> +<p>“Blood of my soul!” cried Baptiste the Red. “But +thou art a man. Deny thy god, and thou shalt yet live.”</p> +<p>Stockard swore his refusal, feebly but with grace.</p> +<p>“Behold! A woman!” Sturges Owen had been +brought before the half-breed.</p> +<p>Beyond a scratch on the arm, he was uninjured, but his eyes roved +about him in an ecstasy of fear. The heroic figure of the blasphemer, +bristling with wounds and arrows, leaning defiantly upon his axe, indifferent, +indomitable, superb, caught his wavering vision. And he felt a +great envy of the man who could go down serenely to the dark gates of +death. Surely Christ, and not he, Sturges Owen, had been moulded +in such manner. And why not he? He felt dimly the curse +of ancestry, the feebleness of spirit which had come down to him out +of the past, and he felt an anger at the creative force, symbolize it +as he would, which had formed him, its servant, so weakly. For +even a stronger man, this anger and the stress of circumstance were +sufficient to breed apostasy, and for Sturges Owen it was inevitable. +In the fear of man’s anger he would dare the wrath of God. +He had been raised up to serve the Lord only that he might be cast down. +He had been given faith without the strength of faith; he had been given +spirit without the power of spirit. It was unjust.</p> +<p>“Where now is thy god?” the half-breed demanded.</p> +<p>“I do not know.” He stood straight and rigid, like +a child repeating a catechism.</p> +<p>“Hast thou then a god at all?”</p> +<p>“I had.”</p> +<p>“And now?”</p> +<p>“No.”</p> +<p>Hay Stockard swept the blood from his eyes and laughed. The +missionary looked at him curiously, as in a dream. A feeling of +infinite distance came over him, as though of a great remove. +In that which had transpired, and which was to transpire, he had no +part. He was a spectator—at a distance, yes, at a distance. +The words of Baptiste came to him faintly:-</p> +<p>“Very good. See that this man go free, and that no harm +befall him. Let him depart in peace. Give him a canoe and +food. Set his face toward the Russians, that he may tell their +priests of Baptiste the Red, in whose country there is no god.”</p> +<p>They led him to the edge of the steep, where they paused to witness +the final tragedy. The half-breed turned to Hay Stockard.</p> +<p>“There is no god,” he prompted.</p> +<p>The man laughed in reply. One of the young men poised a war-spear +for the cast.</p> +<p>“Hast thou a god?”</p> +<p>“Ay, the God of my fathers.”</p> +<p>He shifted the axe for a better grip. Baptiste the Red gave +the sign, and the spear hurtled full against his breast. Sturges +Owen saw the ivory head stand out beyond his back, saw the man sway, +laughing, and snap the shaft short as he fell upon it. Then he +went down to the river, that he might carry to the Russians the message +of Baptiste the Red, in whose country there was no god.</p> +<h2>THE GREAT INTERROGATION</h2> +<h3>I</h3> +<p>To say the least, Mrs. Sayther’s career in Dawson was meteoric. +She arrived in the spring, with dog sleds and French-Canadian <i>voyageurs</i>, +blazed gloriously for a brief month, and departed up the river as soon +as it was free of ice. Now womanless Dawson never quite understood +this hurried departure, and the local Four Hundred felt aggrieved and +lonely till the Nome strike was made and old sensations gave way to +new. For it had delighted in Mrs. Sayther, and received her wide-armed. +She was pretty, charming, and, moreover, a widow. And because +of this she at once had at heel any number of Eldorado Kings, officials, +and adventuring younger sons, whose ears were yearning for the frou-frou +of a woman’s skirts.</p> +<p>The mining engineers revered the memory of her husband, the late +Colonel Sayther, while the syndicate and promoter representatives spoke +awesomely of his deals and manipulations; for he was known down in the +States as a great mining man, and as even a greater one in London. +Why his widow, of all women, should have come into the country, was +the great interrogation. But they were a practical breed, the +men of the Northland, with a wholesome disregard for theories and a +firm grip on facts. And to not a few of them Karen Sayther was +a most essential fact. That she did not regard the matter in this +light, is evidenced by the neatness and celerity with which refusal +and proposal tallied off during her four weeks’ stay. And +with her vanished the fact, and only the interrogation remained.</p> +<p>To the solution, Chance vouchsafed one clew. Her last victim, +Jack Coughran, having fruitlessly laid at her feet both his heart and +a five-hundred-foot creek claim on Bonanza, celebrated the misfortune +by walking all of a night with the gods. In the midwatch of this +night he happened to rub shoulders with Pierre Fontaine, none other +than head man of Karen Sayther’s <i>voyageurs</i>. This +rubbing of shoulders led to recognition and drinks, and ultimately involved +both men in a common muddle of inebriety.</p> +<p>“Heh?” Pierre Fontaine later on gurgled thickly. +“Vot for Madame Sayther mak visitation to thees country? +More better you spik wit her. I know no t’ing ’tall, +only all de tam her ask one man’s name. ‘Pierre,’ +her spik wit me; ‘Pierre, you moos’ find thees mans, and +I gif you mooch—one thousand dollar you find thees mans.’ +Thees mans? Ah, <i>oui</i>. Thees man’s name—vot +you call—Daveed Payne. <i>Oui</i>, m’sieu, Daveed +Payne. All de tam her spik das name. And all de tam I look +rount vaire mooch, work lak hell, but no can find das dam mans, and +no get one thousand dollar ’tall. By dam!</p> +<p>“Heh? Ah, <i>oui</i>. One tam dose mens vot come +from Circle City, dose mens know thees mans. Him Birch Creek, +dey spik. And madame? Her say ‘<i>Bon</i>!’ +and look happy lak anyt’ing. And her spik wit me. +‘Pierre,’ her spik, ‘harness de dogs. We go +queek. We find thees mans I gif you one thousand dollar more.’ +And I say, ‘<i>Oui</i>, queek! <i>Allons, madame</i>!’</p> +<p>“For sure, I t’ink, das two thousand dollar mine. +Bully boy! Den more mens come from Circle City, and dey say no, +das thees mans, Daveed Payne, come Dawson leel tam back. So madame +and I go not ’tall.</p> +<p>“<i>Oui, m’sieu</i>. Thees day madame spik. +‘Pierre,’ her spik, and gif me five hundred dollar, ‘go +buy poling-boat. To-morrow we go up de river.’ Ah, +<i>oui</i>, to-morrow, up de river, and das dam Sitka Charley mak me +pay for de poling-boat five hundred dollar. Dam!”</p> +<p>Thus it was, when Jack Coughran unburdened himself next day, that +Dawson fell to wondering who was this David Payne, and in what way his +existence bore upon Karen Sayther’s. But that very day, +as Pierre Fontaine had said, Mrs. Sayther and her barbaric crew of <i>voyageurs</i> +towed up the east bank to Klondike City, shot across to the west bank +to escape the bluffs, and disappeared amid the maze of islands to the +south.</p> +<h3>II</h3> +<p>“<i>Oui, madame</i>, thees is de place. One, two, t’ree +island below Stuart River. Thees is t’ree island.”</p> +<p>As he spoke, Pierre Fontaine drove his pole against the bank and +held the stern of the boat against the current. This thrust the +bow in, till a nimble breed climbed ashore with the painter and made +fast.</p> +<p>“One leel tam, madame, I go look see.”</p> +<p>A chorus of dogs marked his disappearance over the edge of the bank, +but a minute later he was back again.</p> +<p>“<i>Oui, madame</i>, thees is de cabin. I mak investigation. +No can find mans at home. But him no go vaire far, vaire long, +or him no leave dogs. Him come queek, you bet!”</p> +<p>“Help me out, Pierre. I’m tired all over from the +boat. You might have made it softer, you know.”</p> +<p>From a nest of furs amidships, Karen Sayther rose to her full height +of slender fairness. But if she looked lily-frail in her elemental +environment, she was belied by the grip she put upon Pierre’s +hand, by the knotting of her woman’s biceps as it took the weight +of her body, by the splendid effort of her limbs as they held her out +from the perpendicular bank while she made the ascent. Though +shapely flesh clothed delicate frame, her body was a seat of strength.</p> +<p>Still, for all the careless ease with which she had made the landing, +there was a warmer color than usual to her face, and a perceptibly extra +beat to her heart. But then, also, it was with a certain reverent +curiousness that she approached the cabin, while the Hush on her cheek +showed a yet riper mellowness.</p> +<p>“Look, see!” Pierre pointed to the scattered chips +by the woodpile. “Him fresh—two, t’ree day, +no more.”</p> +<p>Mrs. Sayther nodded. She tried to peer through the small window, +but it was made of greased parchment which admitted light while it blocked +vision. Failing this, she went round to the door, half lifted +the rude latch to enter, but changed her mind and let it fall back into +place. Then she suddenly dropped on one knee and kissed the rough-hewn +threshold. If Pierre Fontaine saw, he gave no sign, and the memory +in the time to come was never shared. But the next instant, one +of the boatmen, placidly lighting his pipe, was startled by an unwonted +harshness in his captain’s voice.</p> +<p>“Hey! You! Le Goire! You mak’m soft more +better,” Pierre commanded. “Plenty bearskin; plenty +blanket. Dam!”</p> +<p>But the nest was soon after disrupted, and the major portion tossed +up to the crest of the shore, where Mrs. Sayther lay down to wait in +comfort.</p> +<p>Reclining on her side, she looked out and over the wide-stretching +Yukon. Above the mountains which lay beyond the further shore, +the sky was murky with the smoke of unseen forest fires, and through +this the afternoon sun broke feebly, throwing a vague radiance to earth, +and unreal shadows. To the sky-line of the four quarters—spruce-shrouded +islands, dark waters, and ice-scarred rocky ridges—stretched the +immaculate wilderness. No sign of human existence broke the solitude; +no sound the stillness. The land seemed bound under the unreality +of the unknown, wrapped in the brooding mystery of great spaces.</p> +<p>Perhaps it was this which made Mrs. Sayther nervous; for she changed +her position constantly, now to look up the river, now down, or to scan +the gloomy shores for the half-hidden mouths of back channels. +After an hour or so the boatmen were sent ashore to pitch camp for the +night, but Pierre remained with his mistress to watch.</p> +<p>“Ah! him come thees tam,” he whispered, after a long +silence, his gaze bent up the river to the head of the island.</p> +<p>A canoe, with a paddle flashing on either side, was slipping down +the current. In the stern a man’s form, and in the bow a +woman’s, swung rhythmically to the work. Mrs. Sayther had +no eyes for the woman till the canoe drove in closer and her bizarre +beauty peremptorily demanded notice. A close-fitting blouse of +moose-skin, fantastically beaded, outlined faithfully the well-rounded +lines of her body, while a silken kerchief, gay of color and picturesquely +draped, partly covered great masses of blue-black hair. But it +was the face, cast belike in copper bronze, which caught and held Mrs. +Sayther’s fleeting glance. Eyes, piercing and black and +large, with a traditionary hint of obliqueness, looked forth from under +clear-stencilled, clean-arching brows. Without suggesting cadaverousness, +though high-boned and prominent, the cheeks fell away and met in a mouth, +thin-lipped and softly strong. It was a face which advertised +the dimmest trace of ancient Mongol blood, a reversion, after long centuries +of wandering, to the parent stem. This effect was heightened by +the delicately aquiline nose with its thin trembling nostrils, and by +the general air of eagle wildness which seemed to characterize not only +the face but the creature herself. She was, in fact, the Tartar +type modified to idealization, and the tribe of Red Indian is lucky +that breeds such a unique body once in a score of generations.</p> +<p>Dipping long strokes and strong, the girl, in concert with the man, +suddenly whirled the tiny craft about against the current and brought +it gently to the shore. Another instant and she stood at the top +of the bank, heaving up by rope, hand under hand, a quarter of fresh-killed +moose. Then the man followed her, and together, with a swift rush, +they drew up the canoe. The dogs were in a whining mass about +them, and as the girl stooped among them caressingly, the man’s +gaze fell upon Mrs. Sayther, who had arisen. He looked, brushed +his eyes unconsciously as though his sight were deceiving him, and looked +again.</p> +<p>“Karen,” he said simply, coming forward and extending +his hand, “I thought for the moment I was dreaming. I went +snow-blind for a time, this spring, and since then my eyes have been +playing tricks with me.”</p> +<p>Mrs. Sayther, whose flush had deepened and whose heart was urging +painfully, had been prepared for almost anything save this coolly extended +hand; but she tactfully curbed herself and grasped it heartily with +her own.</p> +<p>“You know, Dave, I threatened often to come, and I would have, +too, only—only—”</p> +<p>“Only I didn’t give the word.” David Payne +laughed and watched the Indian girl disappearing into the cabin.</p> +<p>“Oh, I understand, Dave, and had I been in your place I’d +most probably have done the same. But I have come—now.”</p> +<p>“Then come a little bit farther, into the cabin and get something +to eat,” he said genially, ignoring or missing the feminine suggestion +of appeal in her voice. “And you must be tired too. +Which way are you travelling? Up? Then you wintered in Dawson, +or came in on the last ice. Your camp?” He glanced +at the <i>voyageurs</i> circled about the fire in the open, and held +back the door for her to enter.</p> +<p>“I came up on the ice from Circle City last winter,” +he continued, “and settled down here for a while. Am prospecting +some on Henderson Creek, and if that fails, have been thinking of trying +my hand this fall up the Stuart River.”</p> +<p>“You aren’t changed much, are you?” she asked irrelevantly, +striving to throw the conversation upon a more personal basis.</p> +<p>“A little less flesh, perhaps, and a little more muscle. +How did <i>you</i> mean?”</p> +<p>But she shrugged her shoulders and peered I through the dim light +at the Indian girl, who had lighted the fire and was frying great chunks +of moose meat, alternated with thin ribbons of bacon.</p> +<p>“Did you stop in Dawson long?” The man was whittling +a stave of birchwood into a rude axe-handle, and asked the question +without raising his head.</p> +<p>“Oh, a few days,” she answered, following the girl with +her eyes, and hardly hearing. “What were you saying? +In Dawson? A month, in fact, and glad to get away. The arctic +male is elemental, you know, and somewhat strenuous in his feelings.”</p> +<p>“Bound to be when he gets right down to the soil. He +leaves convention with the spring bed at borne. But you were wise +in your choice of time for leaving. You’ll be out of the +country before mosquito season, which is a blessing your lack of experience +will not permit you to appreciate.”</p> +<p>“I suppose not. But tell me about yourself, about your +life. What kind of neighbors have you? Or have you any?”</p> +<p>While she queried she watched the girl grinding coffee in the corner +of a flower sack upon the hearthstone. With a steadiness and skill +which predicated nerves as primitive as the method, she crushed the +imprisoned berries with a heavy fragment of quartz. David Payne +noted his visitor’s gaze, and the shadow of a smile drifted over +his lips.</p> +<p>“I did have some,” he replied. “Missourian +chaps, and a couple of Cornishmen, but they went down to Eldorado to +work at wages for a grubstake.”</p> +<p>Mrs. Sayther cast a look of speculative regard upon the girl. +“But of course there are plenty of Indians about?”</p> +<p>“Every mother’s son of them down to Dawson long ago. +Not a native in the whole country, barring Winapie here, and she’s +a Koyokuk lass,—comes from a thousand miles or so down the river.”</p> +<p>Mrs. Sayther felt suddenly faint; and though the smile of interest +in no wise waned, the face of the man seemed to draw away to a telescopic +distance, and the tiered logs of the cabin to whirl drunkenly about. +But she was bidden draw up to the table, and during the meal discovered +time and space in which to find herself. She talked little, and +that principally about the land and weather, while the man wandered +off into a long description of the difference between the shallow summer +diggings of the Lower Country and the deep winter diggings of the Upper +Country.</p> +<p>“You do not ask why I came north?” she asked. “Surely +you know.” They had moved back from the table, and David +Payne had returned to his axe-handle. “Did you get my letter?”</p> +<p>“A last one? No, I don’t think so. Most probably +it’s trailing around the Birch Creek Country or lying in some +trader’s shack on the Lower River. The way they run the +mails in here is shameful. No order, no system, no—”</p> +<p>“Don’t be wooden, Dave! Help me!” She +spoke sharply now, with an assumption of authority which rested upon +the past. “Why don’t you ask me about myself? +About those we knew in the old times? Have you no longer any interest +in the world? Do you know that my husband is dead?”</p> +<p>“Indeed, I am sorry. How long—”</p> +<p>“David!” She was ready to cry with vexation, but +the reproach she threw into her voice eased her.</p> +<p>“Did you get any of my letters? You must have got some +of them, though you never answered.”</p> +<p>“Well, I didn’t get the last one, announcing, evidently, +the death of your husband, and most likely others went astray; but I +did get some. I—er—read them aloud to Winapie as a +warning—that is, you know, to impress upon her the wickedness +of her white sisters. And I—er—think she profited +by it. Don’t you?”</p> +<p>She disregarded the sting, and went on. “In the last +letter, which you did not receive, I told, as you have guessed, of Colonel +Sayther’s death. That was a year ago. I also said +that if you did not come out to me, I would go in to you. And +as I had often promised, I came.”</p> +<p>“I know of no promise.”</p> +<p>“In the earlier letters?”</p> +<p>“Yes, you promised, but as I neither asked nor answered, it +was unratified. So I do not know of any such promise. But +I do know of another, which you, too, may remember. It was very +long ago.” He dropped the axe-handle to the floor and raised +his head. “It was so very long ago, yet I remember it distinctly, +the day, the time, every detail. We were in a rose garden, you +and I,—your mother’s rose garden. All things were +budding, blossoming, and the sap of spring was in our blood. And +I drew you over—it was the first—and kissed you full on +the lips. Don’t you remember?”</p> +<p>“Don’t go over it, Dave, don’t! I know every +shameful line of it. How often have I wept! If you only +knew how I have suffered—”</p> +<p>“You promised me then—ay, and a thousand times in the +sweet days that followed. Each look of your eyes, each touch of +your hand, each syllable that fell from your lips, was a promise. +And then—how shall I say?—there came a man. He was +old—old enough to have begotten you—and not nice to look +upon, but as the world goes, clean. He had done no wrong, followed +the letter of the law, was respectable. Further, and to the point, +he possessed some several paltry mines,—a score; it does not matter: +and he owned a few miles of lands, and engineered deals, and clipped +coupons. He—”</p> +<p>“But there were other things,” she interrupted, “I +told you. Pressure—money matters—want—my people—trouble. +You understood the whole sordid situation. I could not help it. +It was not my will. I was sacrificed, or I sacrificed, have it +as you wish. But, my God! Dave, I gave you up! You +never did <i>me</i> justice. Think what I have gone through!”</p> +<p>“It was not your will? Pressure? Under high heaven +there was no thing to will you to this man’s bed or that.”</p> +<p>“But I cared for you all the time,” she pleaded.</p> +<p>“I was unused to your way of measuring love. I am still +unused. I do not understand.”</p> +<p>“But now! now!”</p> +<p>“We were speaking of this man you saw fit to marry. What +manner of man was he? Wherein did he charm your soul? What +potent virtues were his? True, he had a golden grip,—an +almighty golden grip. He knew the odds. He was versed in +cent per cent. He had a narrow wit and excellent judgment of the +viler parts, whereby he transferred this man’s money to his pockets, +and that man’s money, and the next man’s. And the +law smiled. In that it did not condemn, our Christian ethics approved. +By social measure he was not a bad man. But by your measure, Karen, +by mine, by ours of the rose garden, what was he?”</p> +<p>“Remember, he is dead.”</p> +<p>“The fact is not altered thereby. What was he? +A great, gross, material creature, deaf to song, blind to beauty, dead +to the spirit. He was fat with laziness, and flabby-cheeked, and +the round of his belly witnessed his gluttony—”</p> +<p>“But he is dead. It is we who are now—now! now! +Don’t you hear? As you say, I have been inconstant. +I have sinned. Good. But should not you, too, cry <i>peccavi</i>? +If I have broken promises, have not you? Your love of the rose +garden was of all time, or so you said. Where is it now?”</p> +<p>“It is here! now!” he cried, striking his breast passionately +with clenched hand. “It has always been.”</p> +<p>“And your love was a great love; there was none greater,” +she continued; “or so you said in the rose garden. Yet it +is not fine enough, large enough, to forgive me here, crying now at +your feet?”</p> +<p>The man hesitated. His mouth opened; words shaped vainly on +his lips. She had forced him to bare his heart and speak truths +which he had hidden from himself. And she was good to look upon, +standing there in a glory of passion, calling back old associations +and warmer life. He turned away his head that he might not see, +but she passed around and fronted him.</p> +<p>“Look at me, Dave! Look at me! I am the same, after +all. And so are you, if you would but see. We are not changed.”</p> +<p>Her hand rested on his shoulder, and his had half-passed, roughly, +about her, when the sharp crackle of a match startled him to himself. +Winapie, alien to the scene, was lighting the slow wick of the slush +lamp. She appeared to start out against a background of utter +black, and the flame, flaring suddenly up, lighted her bronze beauty +to royal gold.</p> +<p>“You see, it is impossible,” he groaned, thrusting the +fair-haired woman gently from him. “It is impossible,” +he repeated. “It is impossible.”</p> +<p>“I am not a girl, Dave, with a girl’s illusions,” +she said softly, though not daring to come back to him. “It +is as a woman that I understand. Men are men. A common custom +of the country. I am not shocked. I divined it from the +first. But—ah!—it is only a marriage of the country—not +a real marriage?”</p> +<p>“We do not ask such questions in Alaska,” he interposed +feebly.</p> +<p>“I know, but—”</p> +<p>“Well, then, it is only a marriage of the country—nothing +else.”</p> +<p>“And there are no children?”</p> +<p>“No.”</p> +<p>“Nor—”</p> +<p>“No, no; nothing—but it is impossible.”</p> +<p>“But it is not.” She was at his side again, her +hand touching lightly, caressingly, the sunburned back of his. +“I know the custom of the land too well. Men do it every +day. They do not care to remain here, shut out from the world, +for all their days; so they give an order on the P. C. C. Company for +a year’s provisions, some money in hand, and the girl is content. +By the end of that time, a man—” She shrugged her +shoulders. “And so with the girl here. We will give +her an order upon the company, not for a year, but for life. What +was she when you found her? A raw, meat-eating savage; fish in +summer, moose in winter, feasting in plenty, starving in famine. +But for you that is what she would have remained. For your coming +she was happier; for your going, surely, with a life of comparative +splendor assured, she will be happier than if you had never been.”</p> +<p>“No, no,” he protested. “It is not right.”</p> +<p>“Come, Dave, you must see. She is not your kind. +There is no race affinity. She is an aborigine, sprung from the +soil, yet close to the soil, and impossible to lift from the soil. +Born savage, savage she will die. But we—you and I—the +dominant, evolved race—the salt of the earth and the masters thereof! +We are made for each other. The supreme call is of kind, and we +are of kind. Reason and feeling dictate it. Your very instinct +demands it. That you cannot deny. You cannot escape the +generations behind you. Yours is an ancestry which has survived +for a thousand centuries, and for a hundred thousand centuries, and +your line must not stop here. It cannot. Your ancestry will +not permit it. Instinct is stronger than the will. The race +is mightier than you. Come, Dave, let us go. We are young +yet, and life is good. Come.”</p> +<p>Winapie, passing out of the cabin to feed the dogs, caught his attention +and caused him to shake his head and weakly to reiterate. But +the woman’s hand slipped about his neck, and her cheek pressed +to his. His bleak life rose up and smote him,—the vain struggle +with pitiless forces; the dreary years of frost and famine; the harsh +and jarring contact with elemental life; the aching void which mere +animal existence could not fill. And there, seduction by his side, +whispering of brighter, warmer lands, of music, light, and joy, called +the old times back again. He visioned it unconsciously. +Faces rushed in upon him; glimpses of forgotten scenes, memories of +merry hours; strains of song and trills of laughter—</p> +<p>“Come, Dave, Come. I have for both. The way is +soft.” She looked about her at the bare furnishings of the +cabin. “I have for both. The world is at our feet, +and all joy is ours. Come! come!”</p> +<p>She was in his arms, trembling, and he held her tightly. He +rose to his feet . . . But the snarling of hungry dogs, and the shrill +cries of Winapie bringing about peace between the combatants, came muffled +to his ear through the heavy logs. And another scene flashed before +him. A struggle in the forest,—a bald-face grizzly, broken-legged, +terrible; the snarling of the dogs and the shrill cries of Winapie as +she urged them to the attack; himself in the midst of the crush, breathless, +panting, striving to hold off red death; broken-backed, entrail-ripped +dogs howling in impotent anguish and desecrating the snow; the virgin +white running scarlet with the blood of man and beast; the bear, ferocious, +irresistible, crunching, crunching down to the core of his life; and +Winapie, at the last, in the thick of the frightful muddle, hair flying, +eyes flashing, fury incarnate, passing the long hunting knife again +and again—Sweat started to his forehead. He shook off the +clinging woman and staggered back to the wall. And she, knowing +that the moment had come, but unable to divine what was passing within +him, felt all she had gained slipping away.</p> +<p>“Dave! Dave!” she cried. “I will not +give you up! I will not give you up! If you do not wish +to come, we will stay. I will stay with you. The world is +less to me than are you. I will be a Northland wife to you. +I will cook your food, feed your dogs, break trail for you, lift a paddle +with you. I can do it. Believe me, I am strong.”</p> +<p>Nor did he doubt it, looking upon her and holding her off from him; +but his face had grown stern and gray, and the warmth had died out of +his eyes.</p> +<p>“I will pay off Pierre and the boatmen, and let them go. +And I will stay with you, priest or no priest, minister or no minister; +go with you, now, anywhere! Dave! Dave! Listen to +me! You say I did you wrong in the past—and I did—let +me make up for it, let me atone. If I did not rightly measure +love before, let me show that I can now.”</p> +<p>She sank to the floor and threw her arms about his knees, sobbing. +“And you <i>do</i> care for me. You <i>do</i> care for me. +Think! The long years I have waited, suffered! You can never +know!” He stooped and raised her to her feet.</p> +<p>“Listen,” he commanded, opening the door and lifting +her bodily outside. “It cannot be. We are not alone +to be considered. You must go. I wish you a safe journey. +You will find it tougher work when you get up by the Sixty Mile, but +you have the best boatmen in the world, and will get through all right. +Will you say good-by?”</p> +<p>Though she already had herself in hand, she looked at him hopelessly. +“If—if—if Winapie should—” She quavered +and stopped.</p> +<p>But he grasped the unspoken thought, and answered, “Yes.” +Then struck with the enormity of it, “It cannot be conceived. +There is no likelihood. It must not be entertained.”</p> +<p>“Kiss me,” she whispered, her face lighting. Then +she turned and went away.</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<p>“Break camp, Pierre,” she said to the boatman, who alone +had remained awake against her return. “We must be going.”</p> +<p>By the firelight his sharp eyes scanned the woe in her face, but +he received the extraordinary command as though it were the most usual +thing in the world. “<i>Oui, madame</i>,” he assented. +“Which way? Dawson?”</p> +<p>“No,” she answered, lightly enough; “up; out; Dyea.”</p> +<p>Whereat he fell upon the sleeping <i>voyageurs</i>, kicking them, +grunting, from their blankets, and buckling them down to the work, the +while his voice, vibrant with action, shrilling through all the camp. +In a trice Mrs. Sayther’s tiny tent had been struck, pots and +pans were being gathered up, blankets rolled, and the men staggering +under the loads to the boat. Here, on the banks, Mrs. Sayther +waited till the luggage was made ship-shape and her nest prepared.</p> +<p>“We line up to de head of de island,” Pierre explained +to her while running out the long tow rope. “Den we tak +to das back channel, where de water not queek, and I t’ink we +mak good tam.”</p> +<p>A scuffling and pattering of feet in the last year’s dry grass +caught his quick ear, and he turned his head. The Indian girl, +circled by a bristling ring of wolf dogs, was coming toward them. +Mrs. Sayther noted that the girl’s face, which had been apathetic +throughout the scene in the cabin, had now quickened into blazing and +wrathful life.</p> +<p>“What you do my man?” she demanded abruptly of Mrs. Sayther. +“Him lay on bunk, and him look bad all the time. I say, +‘What the matter, Dave? You sick?’ But him no +say nothing. After that him say, ‘Good girl Winapie, go +way. I be all right bimeby.’ What you do my man, eh? +I think you bad woman.”</p> +<p>Mrs. Sayther looked curiously at the barbarian woman who shared the +life of this man, while she departed alone in the darkness of night.</p> +<p>“I think you bad woman,” Winapie repeated in the slow, +methodical way of one who gropes for strange words in an alien tongue. +“I think better you go way, no come no more. Eh? What +you think? I have one man. I Indian girl. You ‘Merican +woman. You good to see. You find plenty men. Your +eyes blue like the sky. Your skin so white, so soft.”</p> +<p>Coolly she thrust out a brown forefinger and pressed the soft cheek +of the other woman. And to the eternal credit of Karen Sayther, +she never flinched. Pierre hesitated and half stepped forward; +but she motioned him away, though her heart welled to him with secret +gratitude. “It’s all right, Pierre,” she said. +“Please go away.”</p> +<p>He stepped back respectfully out of earshot, where he stood grumbling +to himself and measuring the distance in springs.</p> +<p>“Um white, um soft, like baby.” Winapie touched +the other cheek and withdrew her hand. “Bimeby mosquito +come. Skin get sore in spot; um swell, oh, so big; um hurt, oh, +so much. Plenty mosquito; plenty spot. I think better you +go now before mosquito come. This way,” pointing down the +stream, “you go St. Michael’s; that way,” pointing +up, “you go Dyea. Better you go Dyea. Good-by.”</p> +<p>And that which Mrs. Sayther then did, caused Pierre to marvel greatly. +For she threw her arms around the Indian girl, kissed her, and burst +into tears.</p> +<p>“Be good to him,” she cried. “Be good to +him.”</p> +<p>Then she slipped half down the face of the bank, called back “Good-by,” +and dropped into the boat amidships. Pierre followed her and cast +off. He shoved the steering oar into place and gave the signal. +Le Goire lifted an old French <i>chanson</i>; the men, like a row of +ghosts in the dim starlight, bent their backs to the tow line; the steering +oar cut the black current sharply, and the boat swept out into the night.</p> +<h2>WHICH MAKE MEN REMEMBER</h2> +<p>Fortune La Pearle crushed his way through the snow, sobbing, straining, +cursing his luck, Alaska, Nome, the cards, and the man who had felt +his knife. The hot blood was freezing on his hands, and the scene +yet bright in his eyes,—the man, clutching the table and sinking +slowly to the floor; the rolling counters and the scattered deck; the +swift shiver throughout the room, and the pause; the game-keepers no +longer calling, and the clatter of the chips dying away; the startled +faces; the infinite instant of silence; and then the great blood-roar +and the tide of vengeance which lapped his heels and turned the town +mad behind him.</p> +<p>“All hell’s broke loose,” he sneered, turning aside +in the darkness and heading for the beach. Lights were flashing +from open doors, and tent, cabin, and dance-hall let slip their denizens +upon the chase. The clamor of men and howling of dogs smote his +ears and quickened his feet. He ran on and on. The sounds +grew dim, and the pursuit dissipated itself in vain rage and aimless +groping. But a flitting shadow clung to him. Head thrust +over shoulder, he caught glimpses of it, now taking vague shape on an +open expanse of snow, how merging into the deeper shadows of some darkened +cabin or beach-listed craft.</p> +<p>Fortune La Pearle swore like a woman, weakly, with the hint of tears +that comes of exhaustion, and plunged deeper into the maze of heaped +ice, tents, and prospect holes. He stumbled over taut hawsers +and piles of dunnage, tripped on crazy guy-ropes and insanely planted +pegs, and fell again and again upon frozen dumps and mounds of hoarded +driftwood. At times, when he deemed he had drawn clear, his head +dizzy with the painful pounding of his heart and the suffocating intake +of his breath, he slackened down; and ever the shadow leaped out of +the gloom and forced him on in heart-breaking flight. A swift +intuition lashed upon him, leaving in its trail the cold chill of superstition. +The persistence of the shadow he invested with his gambler’s symbolism. +Silent, inexorable, not to be shaken off, he took it as the fate which +waited at the last turn when chips were cashed in and gains and losses +counted up. Fortune La Pearle believed in those rare, illuminating +moments, when the intelligence flung from it time and space, to rise +naked through eternity and read the facts of life from the open book +of chance. That this was such a moment he had no doubt; and when +he turned inland and sped across the snow-covered tundra he was not +startled because the shadow took upon it greater definiteness and drew +in closer. Oppressed with his own impotence, he halted in the +midst of the white waste and whirled about. His right hand slipped +from its mitten, and a revolver, at level, glistened in the pale light +of the stars.</p> +<p>“Don’t shoot. I haven’t a gun.”</p> +<p>The shadow had assumed tangible shape, and at the sound of its human +voice a trepidation affected Fortune La Pearle’s knees, and his +stomach was stricken with the qualms of sudden relief.</p> +<p>Perhaps things fell out differently because Uri Bram had no gun that +night when he sat on the hard benches of the El Dorado and saw murder +done. To that fact also might be attributed the trip on the Long +Trail which he took subsequently with a most unlikely comrade. +But be it as it may, he repeated a second time, “Don’t shoot. +Can’t you see I haven’t a gun?”</p> +<p>“Then what the flaming hell did you take after me for?” +demanded the gambler, lowering his revolver.</p> +<p>Uri Bram shrugged his shoulders. “It don’t matter +much, anyhow. I want you to come with me.”</p> +<p>“Where?”</p> +<p>“To my shack, over on the edge of the camp.”</p> +<p>But Fortune La Pearle drove the heel of his moccasin into the snow +and attested by his various deities to the madness of Uri Bram. +“Who are you,” he perorated, “and what am I, that +I should put my neck into the rope at your bidding?”</p> +<p>“I am Uri Bram,” the other said simply, “and my +shack is over there on the edge of camp. I don’t know who +you are, but you’ve thrust the soul from a living man’s +body,—there’s the blood red on your sleeve,—and, like +a second Cain, the hand of all mankind is against you, and there is +no place you may lay your head. Now, I have a shack—”</p> +<p>“For the love of your mother, hold your say, man,” interrupted +Fortune La Pearle, “or I’ll make you a second Abel for the +joy of it. So help me, I will! With a thousand men to lay +me by the heels, looking high and low, what do I want with your shack? +I want to get out of here—away! away! away! Cursed swine! +I’ve half a mind to go back and run amuck, and settle for a few +of them, the pigs! One gorgeous, glorious fight, and end the whole +damn business! It’s a skin game, that’s what life +is, and I’m sick of it!”</p> +<p>He stopped, appalled, crushed by his great desolation, and Uri Bram +seized the moment. He was not given to speech, this man, and that +which followed was the longest in his life, save one long afterward +in another place.</p> +<p>“That’s why I told you about my shack. I can stow +you there so they’ll never find you, and I’ve got grub in +plenty. Elsewise you can’t get away. No dogs, no nothing, +the sea closed, St. Michael the nearest post, runners to carry the news +before you, the same over the portage to Anvik—not a chance in +the world for you! Now wait with me till it blows over. +They’ll forget all about you in a month or less, what of stampeding +to York and what not, and you can hit the trail under their noses and +they won’t bother. I’ve got my own ideas of justice. +When I ran after you, out of the El Dorado and along the beach, it wasn’t +to catch you or give you up. My ideas are my own, and that’s +not one of them.”</p> +<p>He ceased as the murderer drew a prayer-book from his pocket. +With the aurora borealis glimmering yellow in the northeast, heads bared +to the frost and naked hands grasping the sacred book, Fortune La Pearle +swore him to the words he had spoken—an oath which Uri Bram never +intended breaking, and never broke.</p> +<p>At the door of the shack the gambler hesitated for an instant, marvelling +at the strangeness of this man who had befriended him, and doubting. +But by the candlelight he found the cabin comfortable and without occupants, +and he was quickly rolling a cigarette while the other man made coffee. +His muscles relaxed in the warmth and he lay back with half-assumed +indolence, intently studying Uri’s face through the curling wisps +of smoke. It was a powerful face, but its strength was of that +peculiar sort which stands girt in and unrelated. The seams were +deep-graven, more like scars, while the stern features were in no way +softened by hints of sympathy or humor. Under prominent bushy +brows the eyes shone cold and gray. The cheekbones, high and forbidding, +were undermined by deep hollows. The chin and jaw displayed a +steadiness of purpose which the narrow forehead advertised as single, +and, if needs be, pitiless. Everything was harsh, the nose, the +lips, the voice, the lines about the mouth. It was the face of +one who communed much with himself, unused to seeking counsel from the +world; the face of one who wrestled oft of nights with angels, and rose +to face the day with shut lips that no man might know. He was +narrow but deep; and Fortune, his own humanity broad and shallow, could +make nothing of him. Did Uri sing when merry and sigh when sad, +he could have understood; but as it was, the cryptic features were undecipherable; +he could not measure the soul they concealed.</p> +<p>“Lend a hand, Mister Man,” Uri ordered when the cups +had been emptied. “We’ve got to fix up for visitors.”</p> +<p>Fortune purred his name for the other’s benefit, and assisted +understandingly. The bunk was built against a side and end of +the cabin. It was a rude affair, the bottom being composed of +drift-wood logs overlaid with moss. At the foot the rough ends +of these timbers projected in an uneven row. From the side next +the wall Uri ripped back the moss and removed three of the logs. +The jagged ends he sawed off and replaced so that the projecting row +remained unbroken. Fortune carried in sacks of flour from the +cache and piled them on the floor beneath the aperture. On these +Uri laid a pair of long sea-bags, and over all spread several thicknesses +of moss and blankets. Upon this Fortune could lie, with the sleeping +furs stretching over him from one side of the bunk to the other, and +all men could look upon it and declare it empty.</p> +<p>In the weeks which followed, several domiciliary visits were paid, +not a shack or tent in Nome escaping, but Fortune lay in his cranny +undisturbed. In fact, little attention was given to Uri Bram’s +cabin; for it was the last place under the sun to expect to find the +murderer of John Randolph. Except during such interruptions, Fortune +lolled about the cabin, playing long games of solitaire and smoking +endless cigarettes. Though his volatile nature loved geniality +and play of words and laughter, he quickly accommodated himself to Uri’s +taciturnity. Beyond the actions and plans of his pursuers, the +state of the trails, and the price of dogs, they never talked; and these +things were only discussed at rare intervals and briefly. But +Fortune fell to working out a system, and hour after hour, and day after +day, he shuffled and dealt, shuffled and dealt, noted the combinations +of the cards in long columns, and shuffled and dealt again. Toward +the end even this absorption failed him, and, head bowed upon the table, +he visioned the lively all-night houses of Nome, where the gamekeepers +and lookouts worked in shifts and the clattering roulette ball never +slept. At such times his loneliness and bankruptcy stunned him +till he sat for hours in the same unblinking, unchanging position. +At other times, his long-pent bitterness found voice in passionate outbursts; +for he had rubbed the world the wrong way and did not like the feel +of it.</p> +<p>“Life’s a skin-game,” he was fond of repeating, +and on this one note he rang the changes. “I never had half +a chance,” he complained. “I was faked in my birth +and flim-flammed with my mother’s milk. The dice were loaded +when she tossed the box, and I was born to prove the loss. But +that was no reason she should blame me for it, and look on me as a cold +deck; but she did—ay, she did. Why didn’t she give +me a show? Why didn’t the world? Why did I go broke +in Seattle? Why did I take the steerage, and live like a hog to +Nome? Why did I go to the El Dorado? I was heading for Big +Pete’s and only went for matches. Why didn’t I have +matches? Why did I want to smoke? Don’t you see? +All worked out, every bit of it, all parts fitting snug. Before +I was born, like as not. I’ll put the sack I never hope +to get on it, before I was born. That’s why! That’s +why John Randolph passed the word and his checks in at the same time. +Damn him! It served him well right! Why didn’t he +keep his tongue between his teeth and give me a chance? He knew +I was next to broke. Why didn’t I hold my hand? Oh, +why? Why? Why?”</p> +<p>And Fortune La Pearle would roll upon the floor, vainly interrogating +the scheme of things. At such outbreaks Uri said no word, gave +no sign, save that his grey eyes seemed to turn dull and muddy, as though +from lack of interest. There was nothing in common between these +two men, and this fact Fortune grasped sufficiently to wonder sometimes +why Uri had stood by him.</p> +<p>But the time of waiting came to an end. Even a community’s +blood lust cannot stand before its gold lust. The murder of John +Randolph had already passed into the annals of the camp, and there it +rested. Had the murderer appeared, the men of Nome would certainly +have stopped stampeding long enough to see justice done, whereas the +whereabouts of Fortune La Pearle was no longer an insistent problem. +There was gold in the creek beds and ruby beaches, and when the sea +opened, the men with healthy sacks would sail away to where the good +things of life were sold absurdly cheap.</p> +<p>So, one night, Fortune helped Uri Bram harness the dogs and lash +the sled, and the twain took the winter trail south on the ice. +But it was not all south; for they left the sea east from St. Michael’s, +crossed the divide, and struck the Yukon at Anvik, many hundred miles +from its mouth. Then on, into the northeast, past Koyokuk, Tanana, +and Minook, till they rounded the Great Curve at Fort Yukon, crossed +and recrossed the Arctic Circle, and headed south through the Flats. +It was a weary journey, and Fortune would have wondered why the man +went with him, had not Uri told him that he owned claims and had men +working at Eagle. Eagle lay on the edge of the line; a few miles +farther on, the British flag waved over the barracks at Fort Cudahy. +Then came Dawson, Pelly, the Five Fingers, Windy Arm, Caribou Crossing, +Linderman, the Chilcoot and Dyea.</p> +<p>On the morning after passing Eagle, they rose early. This was +their last camp, and they were now to part. Fortune’s heart +was light. There was a promise of spring in the land, and the +days were growing longer. The way was passing into Canadian territory. +Liberty was at hand, the sun was returning, and each day saw him nearer +to the Great Outside. The world was big, and he could once again +paint his future in royal red. He whistled about the breakfast +and hummed snatches of light song while Uri put the dogs in harness +and packed up. But when all was ready, Fortune’s feet itching +to be off, Uri pulled an unused back-log to the fire and sat down.</p> +<p>“Ever hear of the Dead Horse Trail?”</p> +<p>He glanced up meditatively and Fortune shook his head, inwardly chafing +at the delay.</p> +<p>“Sometimes there are meetings under circumstances which make +men remember,” Uri continued, speaking in a low voice and very +slowly, “and I met a man under such circumstances on the Dead +Horse Trail. Freighting an outfit over the White Pass in ’97 +broke many a man’s heart, for there was a world of reason when +they gave that trail its name. The horses died like mosquitoes +in the first frost, and from Skaguay to Bennett they rotted in heaps. +They died at the Rocks, they were poisoned at the Summit, and they starved +at the Lakes; they fell off the trail, what there was of it, or they +went through it; in the river they drowned under their loads, or were +smashed to pieces against the boulders; they snapped their legs in the +crevices and broke their backs falling backwards with their packs; in +the sloughs they sank from sight or smothered in the slime, and they +were disembowelled in the bogs where the corduroy logs turned end up +in the mud; men shot them, worked them to death, and when they were +gone, went back to the beach and bought more. Some did not bother +to shoot them,—stripping the saddles off and the shoes and leaving +them where they fell. Their hearts turned to stone—those +which did not break—and they became beasts, the men on Dead Horse +Trail.</p> +<p>“It was there I met a man with the heart of a Christ and the +patience. And he was honest. When he rested at midday he +took the packs from the horses so that they, too, might rest. +He paid $50 a hundred-weight for their fodder, and more. He used +his own bed to blanket their backs when they rubbed raw. Other +men let the saddles eat holes the size of water-buckets. Other +men, when the shoes gave out, let them wear their hoofs down to the +bleeding stumps. He spent his last dollar for horseshoe nails. +I know this because we slept in the one bed and ate from the one pot, +and became blood brothers where men lost their grip of things and died +blaspheming God. He was never too tired to ease a strap or tighten +a cinch, and often there were tears in his eyes when he looked on all +that waste of misery. At a passage in the rocks, where the brutes +upreared hindlegged and stretched their forelegs upward like cats to +clear the wall, the way was piled with carcasses where they had toppled +back. And here he stood, in the stench of hell, with a cheery +word and a hand on the rump at the right time, till the string passed +by. And when one bogged he blocked the trail till it was clear +again; nor did the man live who crowded him at such time.</p> +<p>“At the end of the trail a man who had killed fifty horses +wanted to buy, but we looked at him and at our own,—mountain cayuses +from eastern Oregon. Five thousand he offered, and we were broke, +but we remembered the poison grass of the Summit and the passage in +the Rocks, and the man who was my brother spoke no word, but divided +the cayuses into two bunches,—his in the one and mine in the other,—and +he looked at me and we understood each other. So he drove mine +to the one side and I drove his to the other, and we took with us our +rifles and shot them to the last one, while the man who had killed fifty +horses cursed us till his throat cracked. But that man, with whom +I welded blood-brothership on the Dead Horse Trail—”</p> +<p>“Why, that man was John Randolph,” Fortune, sneering +the while, completed the climax for him.</p> +<p>Uri nodded, and said, “I am glad you understand.”</p> +<p>“I am ready,” Fortune answered, the old weary bitterness +strong in his face again. “Go ahead, but hurry.”</p> +<p>Uri Bram rose to his feet.</p> +<p>“I have had faith in God all the days of my life. I believe +He loves justice. I believe He is looking down upon us now, choosing +between us. I believe He waits to work His will through my own +right arm. And such is my belief, that we will take equal chance +and let Him speak His own judgment.”</p> +<p>Fortune’s heart leaped at the words. He did not know +much concerning Uri’s God, but he believed in Chance, and Chance +had been coming his way ever since the night he ran down the beach and +across the snow. “But there is only one gun,” he objected.</p> +<p>“We will fire turn about,” Uri replied, at the same time +throwing out the cylinder of the other man’s Colt and examining +it.</p> +<p>“And the cards to decide! One hand of seven up!”</p> +<p>Fortune’s blood was warming to the game, and he drew the deck +from his pocket as Uri nodded. Surely Chance would not desert +him now! He thought of the returning sun as he cut for deal, and +he thrilled when he found the deal was his. He shuffled and dealt, +and Uri cut him the Jack of Spades. They laid down their hands. +Uri’s was bare of trumps, while he held ace, deuce. The +outside seemed very near to him as they stepped off the fifty paces.</p> +<p>“If God withholds His hand and you drop me, the dogs and outfit +are yours. You’ll find a bill of sale, already made out, +in my pocket,” Uri explained, facing the path of the bullet, straight +and broad-breasted.</p> +<p>Fortune shook a vision of the sun shining on the ocean from his eyes +and took aim. He was very careful. Twice he lowered as the +spring breeze shook the pines. But the third time he dropped on +one knee, gripped the revolver steadily in both hands, and fired. +Uri whirled half about, threw up his arms, swayed wildly for a moment, +and sank into the snow. But Fortune knew he had fired too far +to one side, else the man would not have whirled.</p> +<p>When Uri, mastering the flesh and struggling to his feet, beckoned +for the weapon, Fortune was minded to fire again. But he thrust +the idea from him. Chance had been very good to him already, he +felt, and if he tricked now he would have to pay for it afterward. +No, he would play fair. Besides Uri was hard hit and could not +possibly hold the heavy Colt long enough to draw a bead.</p> +<p>“And where is your God now?” he taunted, as he gave the +wounded man the revolver.</p> +<p>And Uri answered: “God has not yet spoken. Prepare that +He may speak.”</p> +<p>Fortune faced him, but twisted his chest sideways in order to present +less surface. Uri tottered about drunkenly, but waited, too, for +the moment’s calm between the catspaws. The revolver was +very heavy, and he doubted, like Fortune, because of its weight. +But he held it, arm extended, above his head, and then let it slowly +drop forward and down. At the instant Fortune’s left breast +and the sight flashed into line with his eye, he pulled the trigger. +Fortune did not whirl, but gay San Francisco dimmed and faded, and as +the sun-bright snow turned black and blacker, he breathed his last malediction +on the Chance he had misplayed.</p> +<h2>SIWASH</h2> +<p>“If I was a man—” Her words were in themselves +indecisive, but the withering contempt which flashed from her black +eyes was not lost upon the men-folk in the tent.</p> +<p>Tommy, the English sailor, squirmed, but chivalrous old Dick Humphries, +Cornish fisherman and erstwhile American salmon capitalist, beamed upon +her benevolently as ever. He bore women too large a portion of +his rough heart to mind them, as he said, when they were in the doldrums, +or when their limited vision would not permit them to see all around +a thing. So they said nothing, these two men who had taken the +half-frozen woman into their tent three days back, and who had warmed +her, and fed her, and rescued her goods from the Indian packers. +This latter had necessitated the payment of numerous dollars, to say +nothing of a demonstration in force—Dick Humphries squinting along +the sights of a Winchester while Tommy apportioned their wages among +them at his own appraisement. It had been a little thing in itself, +but it meant much to a woman playing a desperate single-hand in the +equally desperate Klondike rush of ’97. Men were occupied +with their own pressing needs, nor did they approve of women playing, +single-handed, the odds of the arctic winter. “If I was +a man, I know what I would do.” Thus reiterated Molly, she +of the flashing eyes, and therein spoke the cumulative grit of five +American-born generations.</p> +<p>In the succeeding silence, Tommy thrust a pan of biscuits into the +Yukon stove and piled on fresh fuel. A reddish flood pounded along +under his sun-tanned skin, and as he stooped, the skin of his neck was +scarlet. Dick palmed a three-cornered sail needle through a set +of broken pack straps, his good nature in nowise disturbed by the feminine +cataclysm which was threatening to burst in the storm-beaten tent.</p> +<p>“And if you was a man?” he asked, his voice vibrant with +kindness. The three-cornered needle jammed in the damp leather, +and he suspended work for the moment.</p> +<p>“I’d be a man. I’d put the straps on my back +and light out. I wouldn’t lay in camp here, with the Yukon +like to freeze most any day, and the goods not half over the portage. +And you—you are men, and you sit here, holding your hands, afraid +of a little wind and wet. I tell you straight, Yankee-men are +made of different stuff. They’d be hitting the trail for +Dawson if they had to wade through hell-fire. And you, you—I +wish I was a man.”</p> +<p>“I’m very glad, my dear, that you’re not.” +Dick Humphries threw the bight of the sail twine over the point of the +needle and drew it clear with a couple of deft turns and a jerk.</p> +<p>A snort of the gale dealt the tent a broad-handed slap as it hurtled +past, and the sleet rat-tat-tatted with snappy spite against the thin +canvas. The smoke, smothered in its exit, drove back through the +fire-box door, carrying with it the pungent odor of green spruce.</p> +<p>“Good Gawd! Why can’t a woman listen to reason?” +Tommy lifted his head from the denser depths and turned upon her a pair +of smoke-outraged eyes.</p> +<p>“And why can’t a man show his manhood?”</p> +<p>Tommy sprang to his feet with an oath which would have shocked a +woman of lesser heart, ripped loose the sturdy reef-knots and flung +back the flaps of the tent.</p> +<p>The trio peered out. It was not a heartening spectacle. +A few water-soaked tents formed the miserable foreground, from which +the streaming ground sloped to a foaming gorge. Down this ramped +a mountain torrent. Here and there, dwarf spruce, rooting and +grovelling in the shallow alluvium, marked the proximity of the timber +line. Beyond, on the opposing slope, the vague outlines of a glacier +loomed dead-white through the driving rain. Even as they looked, +its massive front crumbled into the valley, on the breast of some subterranean +vomit, and it lifted its hoarse thunder above the screeching voice of +the storm. Involuntarily, Molly shrank back.</p> +<p>“Look, woman! Look with all your eyes! Three miles +in the teeth of the gale to Crater Lake, across two glaciers, along +the slippery rim-rock, knee-deep in a howling river! Look, I say, +you Yankee woman! Look! There’s your Yankee-men!” +Tommy pointed a passionate hand in the direction of the struggling tents. +“Yankees, the last mother’s son of them. Are they +on trail? Is there one of them with the straps to his back? +And you would teach us men our work? Look, I say!”</p> +<p>Another tremendous section of the glacier rumbled earthward. +The wind whipped in at the open doorway, bulging out the sides of the +tent till it swayed like a huge bladder at its guy ropes. The +smoke swirled about them, and the sleet drove sharply into their flesh. +Tommy pulled the flaps together hastily, and returned to his tearful +task at the fire-box. Dick Humphries threw the mended pack straps +into a corner and lighted his pipe. Even Molly was for the moment +persuaded.</p> +<p>“There’s my clothes,” she half-whimpered, the feminine +for the moment prevailing. “They’re right at the top +of the cache, and they’ll be ruined! I tell you, ruined!”</p> +<p>“There, there,” Dick interposed, when the last quavering +syllable had wailed itself out. “Don’t let that worry +you, little woman. I’m old enough to be your father’s +brother, and I’ve a daughter older than you, and I’ll tog +you out in fripperies when we get to Dawson if it takes my last dollar.”</p> +<p>“When we get to Dawson!” The scorn had come back +to her throat with a sudden surge. “You’ll rot on +the way, first. You’ll drown in a mudhole. You—you—Britishers!”</p> +<p>The last word, explosive, intensive, had strained the limits of her +vituperation. If that would not stir these men, what could? +Tommy’s neck ran red again, but he kept his tongue between his +teeth. Dick’s eyes mellowed. He had the advantage +over Tommy, for he had once had a white woman for a wife.</p> +<p>The blood of five American-born generations is, under certain circumstances, +an uncomfortable heritage; and among these circumstances might be enumerated +that of being quartered with next of kin. These men were Britons. +On sea and land her ancestry and the generations thereof had thrashed +them and theirs. On sea and land they would continue to do so. +The traditions of her race clamored for vindication. She was but +a woman of the present, but in her bubbled the whole mighty past. +It was not alone Molly Travis who pulled on gum boots, mackintosh, and +straps; for the phantom hands of ten thousand forbears drew tight the +buckles, just so as they squared her jaw and set her eyes with determination. +She, Molly Travis, intended to shame these Britishers; they, the innumerable +shades, were asserting the dominance of the common race.</p> +<p>The men-folk did not interfere. Once Dick suggested that she +take his oilskins, as her mackintosh was worth no more than paper in +such a storm. But she sniffed her independence so sharply that +he communed with his pipe till she tied the flaps on the outside and +slushed away on the flooded trail.</p> +<p>“Think she’ll make it?” Dick’s face +belied the indifference of his voice.</p> +<p>“Make it? If she stands the pressure till she gets to +the cache, what of the cold and misery, she’ll be stark, raving +mad. Stand it? She’ll be dumb-crazed. You know +it yourself, Dick. You’ve wind-jammed round the Horn. +You know what it is to lay out on a topsail yard in the thick of it, +bucking sleet and snow and frozen canvas till you’re ready to +just let go and cry like a baby. Clothes? She won’t +be able to tell a bundle of skirts from a gold pan or a tea-kettle.”</p> +<p>“Kind of think we were wrong in letting her go, then?”</p> +<p>“Not a bit of it. So help me, Dick, she’d ’a’ +made this tent a hell for the rest of the trip if we hadn’t. +Trouble with her she’s got too much spirit. This’ll +tone it down a bit.”</p> +<p>“Yes,” Dick admitted, “she’s too ambitious. +But then Molly’s all right. A cussed little fool to tackle +a trip like this, but a plucky sight better than those pick-me-up-and-carry-me +kind of women. She’s the stock that carried you and me, +Tommy, and you’ve got to make allowance for the spirit. +Takes a woman to breed a man. You can’t suck manhood from +the dugs of a creature whose only claim to womanhood is her petticoats. +Takes a she-cat, not a cow, to mother a tiger.”</p> +<p>“And when they’re unreasonable we’ve got to put +up with it, eh?”</p> +<p>“The proposition. A sharp sheath-knife cuts deeper on +a slip than a dull one; but that’s no reason for to hack the edge +off over a capstan bar.”</p> +<p>“All right, if you say so, but when it comes to woman, I guess +I’ll take mine with a little less edge.”</p> +<p>“What do you know about it?” Dick demanded.</p> +<p>“Some.” Tommy reached over for a pair of Molly’s +wet stockings and stretched them across his knees to dry.</p> +<p>Dick, eying him querulously, went fishing in her hand satchel, then +hitched up to the front of the stove with divers articles of damp clothing +spread likewise to the heat.</p> +<p>“Thought you said you never were married?” he asked.</p> +<p>“Did I? No more was I—that is—yes, by Gawd! +I was. And as good a woman as ever cooked grub for a man.”</p> +<p>“Slipped her moorings?” Dick symbolized infinity with +a wave of his hand.</p> +<p>“Ay.”</p> +<p>“Childbirth,” he added, after a moment’s pause.</p> +<p>The beans bubbled rowdily on the front lid, and he pushed the pot +back to a cooler surface. After that he investigated the biscuits, +tested them with a splinter of wood, and placed them aside under cover +of a damp cloth. Dick, after the manner of his kind, stifled his +interest and waited silently. “A different woman to Molly. +Siwash.”</p> +<p>Dick nodded his understanding.</p> +<p>“Not so proud and wilful, but stick by a fellow through thick +and thin. Sling a paddle with the next and starve as contentedly +as Job. Go for’ard when the sloop’s nose was more +often under than not, and take in sail like a man. Went prospecting +once, up Teslin way, past Surprise Lake and the Little Yellow-Head. +Grub gave out, and we ate the dogs. Dogs gave out, and we ate +harnesses, moccasins, and furs. Never a whimper; never a pick-me-up-and-carry-me. +Before we went she said look out for grub, but when it happened, never +a I-told-you-so. ‘Never mind, Tommy,’ she’d +say, day after day, that weak she could bare lift a snow-shoe and her +feet raw with the work. ‘Never mind. I’d sooner +be flat-bellied of hunger and be your woman, Tommy, than have a <i>potlach</i> +every day and be Chief George’s <i>klooch</i>.’ George +was chief of the Chilcoots, you know, and wanted her bad.</p> +<p>“Great days, those. Was a likely chap myself when I struck +the coast. Jumped a whaler, the <i>Pole Star</i>, at Unalaska, +and worked my way down to Sitka on an otter hunter. Picked up +with Happy Jack there—know him?”</p> +<p>“Had charge of my traps for me,” Dick answered, “down +on the Columbia. Pretty wild, wasn’t he, with a warm place +in his heart for whiskey and women?”</p> +<p>“The very chap. Went trading with him for a couple of +seasons—<i>hooch</i>, and blankets, and such stuff. Then +got a sloop of my own, and not to cut him out, came down Juneau way. +That’s where I met Killisnoo; I called her Tilly for short. +Met her at a squaw dance down on the beach. Chief George had finished +the year’s trade with the Sticks over the Passes, and was down +from Dyea with half his tribe. No end of Siwashes at the dance, +and I the only white. No one knew me, barring a few of the bucks +I’d met over Sitka way, but I’d got most of their histories +from Happy Jack.</p> +<p>“Everybody talking Chinook, not guessing that I could spit +it better than most; and principally two girls who’d run away +from Haine’s Mission up the Lynn Canal. They were trim creatures, +good to the eye, and I kind of thought of casting that way; but they +were fresh as fresh-caught cod. Too much edge, you see. +Being a new-comer, they started to twist me, not knowing I gathered +in every word of Chinook they uttered.</p> +<p>“I never let on, but set to dancing with Tilly, and the more +we danced the more our hearts warmed to each other. ‘Looking +for a woman,’ one of the girls says, and the other tosses her +head and answers, ‘Small chance he’ll get one when the women +are looking for men.’ And the bucks and squaws standing +around began to grin and giggle and repeat what had been said. +‘Quite a pretty boy,’ says the first one. I’ll +not deny I was rather smooth-faced and youngish, but I’d been +a man amongst men many’s the day, and it rankled me. ‘Dancing +with Chief George’s girl,’ pipes the second. ‘First +thing George’ll give him the flat of a paddle and send him about +his business.’ Chief George had been looking pretty black +up to now, but at this he laughed and slapped his knees. He was +a husky beggar and would have used the paddle too.</p> +<p>“‘Who’s the girls?’ I asked Tilly, as we +went ripping down the centre in a reel. And as soon as she told +me their names I remembered all about them from Happy Jack. Had +their pedigree down fine—several things he’d told me that +not even their own tribe knew. But I held my hush, and went on +courting Tilly, they a-casting sharp remarks and everybody roaring. +‘Bide a wee, Tommy,’ I says to myself; ‘bide a wee.’</p> +<p>“And bide I did, till the dance was ripe to break up, and Chief +George had brought a paddle all ready for me. Everybody was on +the lookout for mischief when we stopped; but I marched, easy as you +please, slap into the thick of them. The Mission girls cut me +up something clever, and for all I was angry I had to set my teeth to +keep from laughing. I turned upon them suddenly.</p> +<p>“‘Are you done?’ I asked.</p> +<p>“You should have seen them when they heard me spitting Chinook. +Then I broke loose. I told them all about themselves, and their +people before them; their fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers—everybody, +everything. Each mean trick they’d played; every scrape +they’d got into; every shame that’d fallen them. And +I burned them without fear or favor. All hands crowded round. +Never had they heard a white man sling their lingo as I did. Everybody +was laughing save the Mission girls. Even Chief George forgot +the paddle, or at least he was swallowing too much respect to dare to +use it.</p> +<p>“But the girls. ‘Oh, don’t, Tommy,’ +they cried, the tears running down their cheeks. ‘Please +don’t. We’ll be good. Sure, Tommy, sure.’ +But I knew them well, and I scorched them on every tender spot. +Nor did I slack away till they came down on their knees, begging and +pleading with me to keep quiet. Then I shot a glance at Chief +George; but he did not know whether to have at me or not, and passed +it off by laughing hollowly.</p> +<p>“So be. When I passed the parting with Tilly that night +I gave her the word that I was going to be around for a week or so, +and that I wanted to see more of her. Not thick-skinned, her kind, +when it came to showing like and dislike, and she looked her pleasure +for the honest girl she was. Ay, a striking lass, and I didn’t +wonder that Chief George was taken with her.</p> +<p>“Everything my way. Took the wind from his sails on the +first leg. I was for getting her aboard and sailing down Wrangel +way till it blew over, leaving him to whistle; but I wasn’t to +get her that easy. Seems she was living with an uncle of hers—guardian, +the way such things go—and seems he was nigh to shuffling off +with consumption or some sort of lung trouble. He was good and +bad by turns, and she wouldn’t leave him till it was over with. +Went up to the tepee just before I left, to speculate on how long it’d +be; but the old beggar had promised her to Chief George, and when he +clapped eyes on me his anger brought on a hemorrhage.</p> +<p>“‘Come and take me, Tommy,’ she says when we bid +good-by on the beach. ‘Ay,’ I answers; ‘when +you give the word.’ And I kissed her, white-man-fashion +and lover-fashion, till she was all of a tremble like a quaking aspen, +and I was so beside myself I’d half a mind to go up and give the +uncle a lift over the divide.</p> +<p>“So I went down Wrangel way, past St. Mary’s and even +to the Queen Charlottes, trading, running whiskey, turning the sloop +to most anything. Winter was on, stiff and crisp, and I was back +to Juneau, when the word came. ‘Come,’ the beggar +says who brought the news. ‘Killisnoo say, “Come now.”’ +‘What’s the row?’ I asks. ‘Chief George,’ +says he. ‘<i>Potlach</i>. Killisnoo, makum <i>klooch</i>.’</p> +<p>“Ay, it was bitter—the Taku howling down out of the north, +the salt water freezing quick as it struck the deck, and the old sloop +and I hammering into the teeth of it for a hundred miles to Dyea. +Had a Douglass Islander for crew when I started, but midway up he was +washed over from the bows. Jibed all over and crossed the course +three times, but never a sign of him.”</p> +<p>“Doubled up with the cold most likely,” Dick suggested, +putting a pause into the narrative while he hung one of Molly’s +skirts up to dry, “and went down like a pot of lead.”</p> +<p>“My idea. So I finished the course alone, half-dead when +I made Dyea in the dark of the evening. The tide favored, and +I ran the sloop plump to the bank, in the shelter of the river. +Couldn’t go an inch further, for the fresh water was frozen solid. +Halyards and blocks were that iced up I didn’t dare lower mainsail +or jib. First I broached a pint of the cargo raw, and then, leaving +all standing, ready for the start, and with a blanket around me, headed +across the flat to the camp. No mistaking, it was a grand layout. +The Chilcats had come in a body—dogs, babies, and canoes—to +say nothing of the Dog-Ears, the Little Salmons, and the Missions. +Full half a thousand of them to celebrate Tilly’s wedding, and +never a white man in a score of miles.</p> +<p>“Nobody took note of me, the blanket over my head and hiding +my face, and I waded knee deep through the dogs and youngsters till +I was well up to the front. The show was being pulled off in a +big open place among the trees, with great fires burning and the snow +moccasin-packed as hard as Portland cement. Next me was Tilly, +beaded and scarlet-clothed galore, and against her Chief George and +his head men. The shaman was being helped out by the big medicines +from the other tribes, and it shivered my spine up and down, the deviltries +they cut. I caught myself wondering if the folks in Liverpool +could only see me now; and I thought of yellow-haired Gussie, whose +brother I licked after my first voyage, just because he was not for +having a sailorman courting his sister. And with Gussie in my +eyes I looked at Tilly. A rum old world, thinks I, with man a-stepping +in trails the mother little dreamed of when he lay at suck.</p> +<p>“So be. When the noise was loudest, walrus hides booming +and priests a-singing, I says, ‘Are you ready?’ Gawd! +Not a start, not a shot of the eyes my way, not the twitch of a muscle. +‘I knew,’ she answers, slow and steady as a calm spring +tide. ‘Where?’ ‘The high bank at the edge +of the ice,’ I whispers back. ‘Jump out when I give +the word.’</p> +<p>“Did I say there was no end of huskies? Well, there was +no end. Here, there, everywhere, they were scattered about,—tame +wolves and nothing less. When the strain runs thin they breed +them in the bush with the wild, and they’re bitter fighters. +Right at the toe of my moccasin lay a big brute, and by the heel another. +I doubled the first one’s tail, quick, till it snapped in my grip. +As his jaws clipped together where my hand should have been, I threw +the second one by the scruff straight into his mouth. ‘Go!’ +I cried to Tilly.</p> +<p>“You know how they fight. In the wink of an eye there +was a raging hundred of them, top and bottom, ripping and tearing each +other, kids and squaws tumbling which way, and the camp gone wild. +Tilly’d slipped away, so I followed. But when I looked over +my shoulder at the skirt of the crowd, the devil laid me by the heart, +and I dropped the blanket and went back.</p> +<p>“By then the dogs’d been knocked apart and the crowd +was untangling itself. Nobody was in proper place, so they didn’t +note that Tilly’d gone. ‘Hello,’ I says, gripping +Chief George by the hand. ‘May your potlach-smoke rise often, +and the Sticks bring many furs with the spring.’</p> +<p>“Lord love me, Dick, but he was joyed to see me,—him +with the upper hand and wedding Tilly. Chance to puff big over +me. The tale that I was hot after her had spread through the camps, +and my presence did him proud. All hands knew me, without my blanket, +and set to grinning and giggling. It was rich, but I made it richer +by playing unbeknowing.</p> +<p>“‘What’s the row?’ I asks. ‘Who’s +getting married now?’</p> +<p>“‘Chief George,’ the shaman says, ducking his reverence +to him.</p> +<p>“‘Thought he had two <i>klooches</i>.’</p> +<p>“‘Him takum more,—three,’ with another duck.</p> +<p>“‘Oh!’ And I turned away as though it didn’t +interest me.</p> +<p>“But this wouldn’t do, and everybody begins singing out, +‘Killisnoo! Killisnoo!’</p> +<p>“‘Killisnoo what?’ I asked.</p> +<p>“‘Killisnoo, <i>klooch</i>, Chief George,’ they +blathered. ‘Killisnoo, <i>klooch</i>.’</p> +<p>“I jumped and looked at Chief George. He nodded his head +and threw out his chest.</p> +<p>“She’ll be no <i>klooch</i> of yours,’ I says solemnly. +‘No <i>klooch</i> of yours,’ I repeats, while his face went +black and his hand began dropping to his hunting-knife.</p> +<p>“‘Look!’ I cries, striking an attitude. ‘Big +Medicine. You watch my smoke.’</p> +<p>“I pulled off my mittens, rolled back my sleeves, and made +half-a-dozen passes in the air.</p> +<p>“‘Killisnoo!’ I shouts. ‘Killisnoo! +Killisnoo!’</p> +<p>“I was making medicine, and they began to scare. Every +eye was on me; no time to find out that Tilly wasn’t there. +Then I called Killisnoo three times again, and waited; and three times +more. All for mystery and to make them nervous. Chief George +couldn’t guess what I was up to, and wanted to put a stop to the +foolery; but the shamans said to wait, and that they’d see me +and go me one better, or words to that effect. Besides, he was +a superstitious cuss, and I fancy a bit afraid of the white man’s +magic.</p> +<p>“Then I called Killisnoo, long and soft like the howl of a +wolf, till the women were all a-tremble and the bucks looking serious.</p> +<p>“‘Look!’ I sprang for’ard, pointing my finger +into a bunch of squaws—easier to deceive women than men, you know. +‘Look!’ And I raised it aloft as though following +the flight of a bird. Up, up, straight overhead, making to follow +it with my eyes till it disappeared in the sky.</p> +<p>“‘Killisnoo,’ I said, looking at Chief George and +pointing upward again. ‘Killisnoo.’</p> +<p>“So help me, Dick, the gammon worked. Half of them, at +least, saw Tilly disappear in the air. They’d drunk my whiskey +at Juneau and seen stranger sights, I’ll warrant. Why should +I not do this thing, I, who sold bad spirits corked in bottles? +Some of the women shrieked. Everybody fell to whispering in bunches. +I folded my arms and held my head high, and they drew further away from +me. The time was ripe to go. ‘Grab him,’ Chief +George cries. Three or four of them came at me, but I whirled, +quick, made a couple of passes like to send them after Tilly, and pointed +up. Touch me? Not for the kingdoms of the earth. Chief +George harangued them, but he couldn’t get them to lift a leg. +Then he made to take me himself; but I repeated the mummery and his +grit went out through his fingers.</p> +<p>“‘Let your shamans work wonders the like of which I have +done this night,’ I says. ‘Let them call Killisnoo +down out of the sky whither I have sent her.’ But the priests +knew their limits. ‘May your <i>klooches</i> bear you sons +as the spawn of the salmon,’ I says, turning to go; ‘and +may your totem pole stand long in the land, and the smoke of your camp +rise always.’</p> +<p>“But if the beggars could have seen me hitting the high places +for the sloop as soon as I was clear of them, they’d thought my +own medicine had got after me. Tilly’d kept warm by chopping +the ice away, and was all ready to cast off. Gawd! how we ran +before it, the Taku howling after us and the freezing seas sweeping +over at every clip. With everything battened down, me a-steering +and Tilly chopping ice, we held on half the night, till I plumped the +sloop ashore on Porcupine Island, and we shivered it out on the beach; +blankets wet, and Tilly drying the matches on her breast.</p> +<p>“So I think I know something about it. Seven years, Dick, +man and wife, in rough sailing and smooth. And then she died, +in the heart of the winter, died in childbirth, up there on the Chilcat +Station. She held my hand to the last, the ice creeping up inside +the door and spreading thick on the gut of the window. Outside, +the lone howl of the wolf and the Silence; inside, death and the Silence. +You’ve never heard the Silence yet, Dick, and Gawd grant you don’t +ever have to hear it when you sit by the side of death. Hear it? +Ay, till the breath whistles like a siren, and the heart booms, booms, +booms, like the surf on the shore.</p> +<p>“Siwash, Dick, but a woman. White, Dick, white, clear +through. Towards the last she says, ‘Keep my feather bed, +Tommy, keep it always.’ And I agreed. Then she opened +her eyes, full with the pain. ‘I’ve been a good woman +to you, Tommy, and because of that I want you to promise—to promise’—the +words seemed to stick in her throat—‘that when you marry, +the woman be white. No more Siwash, Tommy. I know. +Plenty white women down to Juneau now. I know. Your people +call you “squaw-man,” your women turn their heads to the +one side on the street, and you do not go to their cabins like other +men. Why? Your wife Siwash. Is it not so? And +this is not good. Wherefore I die. Promise me. Kiss +me in token of your promise.’</p> +<p>“I kissed her, and she dozed off, whispering, ‘It is +good.’ At the end, that near gone my ear was at her lips, +she roused for the last time. ‘Remember, Tommy; remember +my feather bed.’ Then she died, in childbirth, up there +on the Chilcat Station.”</p> +<p>The tent heeled over and half flattened before the gale. Dick +refilled his pipe, while Tommy drew the tea and set it aside against +Molly’s return.</p> +<p>And she of the flashing eyes and Yankee blood? Blinded, falling, +crawling on hand and knee, the wind thrust back in her throat by the +wind, she was heading for the tent. On her shoulders a bulky pack +caught the full fury of the storm. She plucked feebly at the knotted +flaps, but it was Tommy and Dick who cast them loose. Then she +set her soul for the last effort, staggered in, and fell exhausted on +the floor.</p> +<p>Tommy unbuckled the straps and took the pack from her. As he +lifted it there was a clanging of pots and pans. Dick, pouring +out a mug of whiskey, paused long enough to pass the wink across her +body. Tommy winked back. His lips pursed the monosyllable, +“clothes,” but Dick shook his head reprovingly. “Here, +little woman,” he said, after she had drunk the whiskey and straightened +up a bit.</p> +<p>“Here’s some dry togs. Climb into them. We’re +going out to extra-peg the tent. After that, give us the call, +and we’ll come in and have dinner. Sing out when you’re +ready.”</p> +<p>“So help me, Dick, that’s knocked the edge off her for +the rest of this trip,” Tommy spluttered as they crouched to the +lee of the tent.</p> +<p>“But it’s the edge is her saving grace.” Dick replied, +ducking his head to a volley of sleet that drove around a corner of +the canvas. “The edge that you and I’ve got, Tommy, +and the edge of our mothers before us.”</p> +<h2>THE MAN WITH THE GASH</h2> +<p>Jacob Kent had suffered from cupidity all the days of his life. +This, in turn, had engendered a chronic distrustfulness, and his mind +and character had become so warped that he was a very disagreeable man +to deal with. He was also a victim to somnambulic propensities, +and very set in his ideas. He had been a weaver of cloth from +the cradle, until the fever of Klondike had entered his blood and torn +him away from his loom. His cabin stood midway between Sixty Mile +Post and the Stuart River; and men who made it a custom to travel the +trail to Dawson, likened him to a robber baron, perched in his fortress +and exacting toll from the caravans that used his ill-kept roads. +Since a certain amount of history was required in the construction of +this figure, the less cultured wayfarers from Stuart River were prone +to describe him after a still more primordial fashion, in which a command +of strong adjectives was to be chiefly noted.</p> +<p>This cabin was not his, by the way, having been built several years +previously by a couple of miners who had got out a raft of logs at that +point for a grub-stake. They had been most hospitable lads, and, +after they abandoned it, travelers who knew the route made it an object +to arrive there at nightfall. It was very handy, saving them all +the time and toil of pitching camp; and it was an unwritten rule that +the last man left a neat pile of firewood for the next comer. +Rarely a night passed but from half a dozen to a score of men crowded +into its shelter. Jacob Kent noted these things, exercised squatter +sovereignty, and moved in. Thenceforth, the weary travelers were +mulcted a dollar per head for the privilege of sleeping on the floor, +Jacob Kent weighing the dust and never failing to steal the down-weight. +Besides, he so contrived that his transient guests chopped his wood +for him and carried his water. This was rank piracy, but his victims +were an easy-going breed, and while they detested him, they yet permitted +him to flourish in his sins.</p> +<p>One afternoon in April he sat by his door,—for all the world +like a predatory spider,—marvelling at the heat of the returning +sun, and keeping an eye on the trail for prospective flies. The +Yukon lay at his feet, a sea of ice, disappearing around two great bends +to the north and south, and stretching an honest two miles from bank +to bank. Over its rough breast ran the sled-trail, a slender sunken +line, eighteen inches wide and two thousand miles in length, with more +curses distributed to the linear foot than any other road in or out +of all Christendom.</p> +<p>Jacob Kent was feeling particularly good that afternoon. The +record had been broken the previous night, and he had sold his hospitality +to no less than twenty-eight visitors. True, it had been quite +uncomfortable, and four had snored beneath his bunk all night; but then +it had added appreciable weight to the sack in which he kept his gold +dust. That sack, with its glittering yellow treasure, was at once +the chief delight and the chief bane of his existence. Heaven +and hell lay within its slender mouth. In the nature of things, +there being no privacy to his one-roomed dwelling, he was tortured by +a constant fear of theft. It would be very easy for these bearded, +desperate-looking strangers to make away with it. Often he dreamed +that such was the case, and awoke in the grip of nightmare. A +select number of these robbers haunted him through his dreams, and he +came to know them quite well, especially the bronzed leader with the +gash on his right cheek. This fellow was the most persistent of +the lot, and, because of him, he had, in his waking moments, constructed +several score of hiding-places in and about the cabin. After a +concealment he would breathe freely again, perhaps for several nights, +only to collar the Man with the Gash in the very act of unearthing the +sack. Then, on awakening in the midst of the usual struggle, he +would at once get up and transfer the bag to a new and more ingenious +crypt. It was not that he was the direct victim of these phantasms; +but he believed in omens and thought-transference, and he deemed these +dream-robbers to be the astral projection of real personages who happened +at those particular moments, no matter where they were in the flesh, +to be harboring designs, in the spirit, upon his wealth. So he +continued to bleed the unfortunates who crossed his threshold, and at +the same time to add to his trouble with every ounce that went into +the sack.</p> +<p>As he sat sunning himself, a thought came to Jacob Kent that brought +him to his feet with a jerk. The pleasures of life had culminated +in the continual weighing and reweighing of his dust; but a shadow had +been thrown upon this pleasant avocation, which he had hitherto failed +to brush aside. His gold-scales were quite small; in fact, their +maximum was a pound and a half,—eighteen ounces,—while his +hoard mounted up to something like three and a third times that. +He had never been able to weigh it all at one operation, and hence considered +himself to have been shut out from a new and most edifying coign of +contemplation. Being denied this, half the pleasure of possession +had been lost; nay, he felt that this miserable obstacle actually minimized +the fact, as it did the strength, of possession. It was the solution +of this problem flashing across his mind that had just brought him to +his feet. He searched the trail carefully in either direction. +There was nothing in sight, so he went inside.</p> +<p>In a few seconds he had the table cleared away and the scales set +up. On one side he placed the stamped disks to the equivalent +of fifteen ounces, and balanced it with dust on the other. Replacing +the weights with dust, he then had thirty ounces precisely balanced. +These, in turn, he placed together on one side and again balanced with +more dust. By this time the gold was exhausted, and he was sweating +liberally. He trembled with ecstasy, ravished beyond measure. +Nevertheless he dusted the sack thoroughly, to the last least grain, +till the balance was overcome and one side of the scales sank to the +table. Equilibrium, however, was restored by the addition of a +pennyweight and five grains to the opposite side. He stood, head +thrown back, transfixed. The sack was empty, but the potentiality +of the scales had become immeasurable. Upon them he could weigh +any amount, from the tiniest grain to pounds upon pounds. Mammon +laid hot fingers on his heart. The sun swung on its westering +way till it flashed through the open doorway, full upon the yellow-burdened +scales. The precious heaps, like the golden breasts of a bronze +Cleopatra, flung back the light in a mellow glow. Time and space +were not.</p> +<p>“Gawd blime me! but you ’ave the makin’ of several +quid there, ’aven’t you?”</p> +<p>Jacob Kent wheeled about, at the same time reaching for his double-barrelled +shotgun, which stood handy. But when his eyes lit on the intruder’s +face, he staggered back dizzily. <i>It was the face of the Man +with the Gash</i>!</p> +<p>The man looked at him curiously.</p> +<p>“Oh, that’s all right,” he said, waving his hand +deprecatingly. “You needn’t think as I’ll ’arm +you or your blasted dust.</p> +<p>“You’re a rum ’un, you are,” he added reflectively, +as he watched the sweat pouring from off Kent’s face and the quavering +of his knees.</p> +<p>“W’y don’t you pipe up an’ say somethin’?” +he went on, as the other struggled for breath. “Wot’s +gone wrong o’ your gaff? Anythink the matter?”</p> +<p>“W—w—where’d you get it?” Kent at last +managed to articulate, raising a shaking forefinger to the ghastly scar +which seamed the other’s cheek.</p> +<p>“Shipmate stove me down with a marlin-spike from the main-royal. +An’ now as you ’ave your figger’ead in trim, wot I +want to know is, wot’s it to you? That’s wot I want +to know—wot’s it to you? Gawd blime me! do it ’urt +you? Ain’t it smug enough for the likes o’ you? +That’s wot I want to know!”</p> +<p>“No, no,” Kent answered, sinking upon a stool with a +sickly grin. “I was just wondering.”</p> +<p>“Did you ever see the like?” the other went on truculently.</p> +<p>“No.”</p> +<p>“Ain’t it a beute?”</p> +<p>“Yes.” Kent nodded his head approvingly, intent +on humoring this strange visitor, but wholly unprepared for the outburst +which was to follow his effort to be agreeable.</p> +<p>“You blasted, bloomin’, burgoo-eatin’ son-of-a-sea-swab! +Wot do you mean, a sayin’ the most onsightly thing Gawd Almighty +ever put on the face o’ man is a beute? Wot do you mean, +you—”</p> +<p>And thereat this fiery son of the sea broke off into a string of +Oriental profanity, mingling gods and devils, lineages and men, metaphors +and monsters, with so savage a virility that Jacob Kent was paralyzed. +He shrank back, his arms lifted as though to ward off physical violence. +So utterly unnerved was he that the other paused in the mid-swing of +a gorgeous peroration and burst into thunderous laughter.</p> +<p>“The sun’s knocked the bottom out o’ the trail,” +said the Man with the Gash, between departing paroxysms of mirth. +“An’ I only ’ope as you’ll appreciate the hoppertunity +of consortin’ with a man o’ my mug. Get steam up in +that fire-box o’ your’n. I’m goin’ to +unrig the dogs an’ grub ’em. An’ don’t +be shy o’ the wood, my lad; there’s plenty more where that +come from, and it’s you’ve got the time to sling an axe. +An’ tote up a bucket o’ water while you’re about it. +Lively! or I’ll run you down, so ’elp me!”</p> +<p>Such a thing was unheard of. Jacob Kent was making the fire, +chopping wood, packing water—doing menial tasks for a guest! +When Jim Cardegee left Dawson, it was with his head filled with the +iniquities of this roadside Shylock; and all along the trail his numerous +victims had added to the sum of his crimes. Now, Jim Cardegee, +with the sailor’s love for a sailor’s joke, had determined, +when he pulled into the cabin, to bring its inmate down a peg or so. +That he had succeeded beyond expectation he could not help but remark, +though he was in the dark as to the part the gash on his cheek had played +in it. But while he could not understand, he saw the terror it +created, and resolved to exploit it as remorselessly as would any modern +trader a choice bit of merchandise.</p> +<p>“Strike me blind, but you’re a ’ustler,” +he said admiringly, his head cocked to one side, as his host bustled +about. “You never ’ort to ’ave gone Klondiking. +It’s the keeper of a pub’ you was laid out for. An’ +it’s often as I ’ave ’eard the lads up an’ down +the river speak o’ you, but I ’adn’t no idea you was +so jolly nice.”</p> +<p>Jacob Kent experienced a tremendous yearning to try his shotgun on +him, but the fascination of the gash was too potent. This was +the real Man with the Gash, the man who had so often robbed him in the +spirit. This, then, was the embodied entity of the being whose +astral form had been projected into his dreams, the man who had so frequently +harbored designs against his hoard; hence—there could be no other +conclusion—this Man with the Gash had now come in the flesh to +dispossess him. And that gash! He could no more keep his +eyes from it than stop the beating of his heart. Try as he would, +they wandered back to that one point as inevitably as the needle to +the pole.</p> +<p>“Do it ’urt you?” Jim Cardegee thundered suddenly, +looking up from the spreading of his blankets and encountering the rapt +gaze of the other. “It strikes me as ’ow it ’ud +be the proper thing for you to draw your jib, douse the glim, an’ +turn in, seein’ as ’ow it worrits you. Jes’ +lay to that, you swab, or so ’elp me I’ll take a pull on +your peak-purchases!”</p> +<p>Kent was so nervous that it took three puffs to blow out the slush-lamp, +and he crawled into his blankets without even removing his moccasins. +The sailor was soon snoring lustily from his hard bed on the floor, +but Kent lay staring up into the blackness, one hand on the shotgun, +resolved not to close his eyes the whole night. He had not had +an opportunity to secrete his five pounds of gold, and it lay in the +ammunition box at the head of his bunk. But, try as he would, +he at last dozed off with the weight of his dust heavy on his soul. +Had he not inadvertently fallen asleep with his mind in such condition, +the somnambulic demon would not have been invoked, nor would Jim Cardegee +have gone mining next day with a dish-pan.</p> +<p>The fire fought a losing battle, and at last died away, while the +frost penetrated the mossy chinks between the logs and chilled the inner +atmosphere. The dogs outside ceased their howling, and, curled +up in the snow, dreamed of salmon-stocked heavens where dog-drivers +and kindred task-masters were not. Within, the sailor lay like +a log, while his host tossed restlessly about, the victim of strange +fantasies. As midnight drew near he suddenly threw off the blankets +and got up. It was remarkable that he could do what he then did +without ever striking a light. Perhaps it was because of the darkness +that he kept his eyes shut, and perhaps it was for fear he would see +the terrible gash on the cheek of his visitor; but, be this as it may, +it is a fact that, unseeing, he opened his ammunition box, put a heavy +charge into the muzzle of the shotgun without spilling a particle, rammed +it down with double wads, and then put everything away and got back +into bed.</p> +<p>Just as daylight laid its steel-gray fingers on the parchment window, +Jacob Kent awoke. Turning on his elbow, he raised the lid and +peered into the ammunition box. Whatever he saw, or whatever he +did not see, exercised a very peculiar effect upon him, considering +his neurotic temperament. He glanced at the sleeping man on the +floor, let the lid down gently, and rolled over on his back. It +was an unwonted calm that rested on his face. Not a muscle quivered. +There was not the least sign of excitement or perturbation. He +lay there a long while, thinking, and when he got up and began to move +about, it was in a cool, collected manner, without noise and without +hurry.</p> +<p>It happened that a heavy wooden peg had been driven into the ridge-pole +just above Jim Cardegee’s head. Jacob Kent, working softly, +ran a piece of half-inch manila over it, bringing both ends to the ground. +One end he tied about his waist, and in the other he rove a running +noose. Then he cocked his shotgun and laid it within reach, by +the side of numerous moose-hide thongs. By an effort of will he +bore the sight of the scar, slipped the noose over the sleeper’s +head, and drew it taut by throwing back on his weight, at the same time +seizing the gun and bringing it to bear.</p> +<p>Jim Cardegee awoke, choking, bewildered, staring down the twin wells +of steel.</p> +<p>“Where is it?” Kent asked, at the same time slacking +on the rope.</p> +<p>“You blasted—ugh—”</p> +<p>Kent merely threw back his weight, shutting off the other’s +wind.</p> +<p>“Bloomin’—Bur—ugh—”</p> +<p>“Where is it?” Kent repeated.</p> +<p>“Wot?” Cardegee asked, as soon as he had caught +his breath.</p> +<p>“The gold-dust.”</p> +<p>“Wot gold-dust?” the perplexed sailor demanded.</p> +<p>“You know well enough,—mine.”</p> +<p>“Ain’t seen nothink of it. Wot do ye take me for? +A safe-deposit? Wot ’ave I got to do with it, any’ow?”</p> +<p>“Mebbe you know, and mebbe you don’t know, but anyway, +I’m going to stop your breath till you do know. And if you +lift a hand, I’ll blow your head off!”</p> +<p>“Vast heavin’!” Cardegee roared, as the rope tightened.</p> +<p>Kent eased away a moment, and the sailor, wriggling his neck as though +from the pressure, managed to loosen the noose a bit and work it up +so the point of contact was just under the chin.</p> +<p>“Well?” Kent questioned, expecting the disclosure.</p> +<p>But Cardegee grinned. “Go ahead with your ’angin’, +you bloomin’ old pot-wolloper!”</p> +<p>Then, as the sailor had anticipated, the tragedy became a farce. +Cardegee being the heavier of the two, Kent, throwing his body backward +and down, could not lift him clear of the ground. Strain and strive +to the uttermost, the sailor’s feet still stuck to the floor and +sustained a part of his weight. The remaining portion was supported +by the point of contact just under his chin. Failing to swing +him clear, Kent clung on, resolved to slowly throttle him or force him +to tell what he had done with the hoard. But the Man with the +Gash would not throttle. Five, ten, fifteen minutes passed, and +at the end of that time, in despair, Kent let his prisoner down.</p> +<p>“Well,” he remarked, wiping away the sweat, “if +you won’t hang you’ll shoot. Some men wasn’t +born to be hanged, anyway.”</p> +<p>“An’ it’s a pretty mess as you’ll make o’ +this ’ere cabin floor.” Cardegee was fighting for +time. “Now, look ’ere, I’ll tell you wot we +do; we’ll lay our ’eads ’longside an’ reason +together. You’ve lost some dust. You say as ’ow +I know, an’ I say as ’ow I don’t. Let’s +get a hobservation an’ shape a course—”</p> +<p>“Vast heavin’!” Kent dashed in, maliciously +imitating the other’s enunciation. “I’m going +to shape all the courses of this shebang, and you observe; and if you +do anything more, I’ll bore you as sure as Moses!”</p> +<p>“For the sake of my mother—”</p> +<p>“Whom God have mercy upon if she loves you. Ah! +Would you?” He frustrated a hostile move on the part of +the other by pressing the cold muzzle against his forehead. “Lay +quiet, now! If you lift as much as a hair, you’ll get it.”</p> +<p>It was rather an awkward task, with the trigger of the gun always +within pulling distance of the finger; but Kent was a weaver, and in +a few minutes had the sailor tied hand and foot. Then he dragged +him without and laid him by the side of the cabin, where he could overlook +the river and watch the sun climb to the meridian.</p> +<p>“Now I’ll give you till noon, and then—”</p> +<p>“Wot?”</p> +<p>“You’ll be hitting the brimstone trail. But if +you speak up, I’ll keep you till the next bunch of mounted police +come by.”</p> +<p>“Well, Gawd blime me, if this ain’t a go! ’Ere +I be, innercent as a lamb, an’ ’ere you be, lost all o’ +your top ’amper an’ out o’ your reckonin’, run +me foul an’ goin’ to rake me into ’ell-fire. +You bloomin’ old pirut! You—”</p> +<p>Jim Cardegee loosed the strings of his profanity and fairly outdid +himself. Jacob Kent brought out a stool that he might enjoy it +in comfort. Having exhausted all the possible combinations of +his vocabulary, the sailor quieted down to hard thinking, his eyes constantly +gauging the progress of the sun, which tore up the eastern slope of +the heavens with unseemly haste. His dogs, surprised that they +had not long since been put to harness, crowded around him. His +helplessness appealed to the brutes. They felt that something +was wrong, though they knew not what, and they crowded about, howling +their mournful sympathy.</p> +<p>“Chook! Mush-on! you Siwashes!” he cried, attempting, +in a vermicular way, to kick at them, and discovering himself to be +tottering on the edge of a declivity. As soon as the animals had +scattered, he devoted himself to the significance of that declivity +which he felt to be there but could not see. Nor was he long in +arriving at a correct conclusion. In the nature of things, he +figured, man is lazy. He does no more than he has to. When +he builds a cabin he must put dirt on the roof. From these premises +it was logical that he should carry that dirt no further than was absolutely +necessary. Therefore, he lay upon the edge of the hole from which +the dirt had been taken to roof Jacob Kent’s cabin. This +knowledge, properly utilized, might prolong things, he thought; and +he then turned his attention to the moose-hide thongs which bound him. +His hands were tied behind him, and pressing against the snow, they +were wet with the contact. This moistening of the raw-hide he +knew would tend to make it stretch, and, without apparent effort, he +endeavored to stretch it more and more.</p> +<p>He watched the trail hungrily, and when in the direction of Sixty +Mile a dark speck appeared for a moment against the white background +of an ice-jam, he cast an anxious eye at the sun. It had climbed +nearly to the zenith. Now and again he caught the black speck +clearing the hills of ice and sinking into the intervening hollows; +but he dared not permit himself more than the most cursory glances for +fear of rousing his enemy’s suspicion. Once, when Jacob +Kent rose to his feet and searched the trail with care, Cardegee was +frightened, but the dog-sled had struck a piece of trail running parallel +with a jam, and remained out of sight till the danger was past.</p> +<p>“I’ll see you ’ung for this,” Cardegee threatened, +attempting to draw the other’s attention. “An’ +you’ll rot in ’ell, jes’ you see if you don’t.</p> +<p>“I say,” he cried, after another pause; “d’ye +b’lieve in ghosts?” Kent’s sudden start made +him sure of his ground, and he went on: “Now a ghost ’as +the right to ’aunt a man wot don’t do wot he says; and you +can’t shuffle me off till eight bells—wot I mean is twelve +o’clock—can you? ’Cos if you do, it’ll +’appen as ’ow I’ll ’aunt you. D’ye +’ear? A minute, a second too quick, an’ I’ll +’aunt you, so ’elp me, I will!”</p> +<p>Jacob Kent looked dubious, but declined to talk.</p> +<p>“’Ow’s your chronometer? Wot’s your +longitude? ’Ow do you know as your time’s correct?” +Cardegee persisted, vainly hoping to beat his executioner out of a few +minutes. “Is it Barrack’s time you ’ave, or +is it the Company time? ’Cos if you do it before the stroke +o’ the bell, I’ll not rest. I give you fair warnin’. +I’ll come back. An’ if you ’aven’t the +time, ’ow will you know? That’s wot I want—’ow +will you tell?”</p> +<p>“I’ll send you off all right,” Kent replied. +“Got a sun-dial here.”</p> +<p>“No good. Thirty-two degrees variation o’ the needle.”</p> +<p>“Stakes are all set.”</p> +<p>“’Ow did you set ’em? Compass?”</p> +<p>“No; lined them up with the North Star.”</p> +<p>“Sure?”</p> +<p>“Sure.”</p> +<p>Cardegee groaned, then stole a glance at the trail. The sled +was just clearing a rise, barely a mile away, and the dogs were in full +lope, running lightly.</p> +<p>“’Ow close is the shadows to the line?”</p> +<p>Kent walked to the primitive timepiece and studied it. “Three +inches,” he announced, after a careful survey.</p> +<p>“Say, jes’ sing out ‘eight bells’ afore you +pull the gun, will you?”</p> +<p>Kent agreed, and they lapsed into silence. The thongs about +Cardegee’s wrists were slowly stretching, and he had begun to +work them over his hands.</p> +<p>“Say, ’ow close is the shadows?”</p> +<p>“One inch.”</p> +<p>The sailor wriggled slightly to assure himself that he would topple +over at the right moment, and slipped the first turn over his hands.</p> +<p>“’Ow close?”</p> +<p>“Half an inch.” Just then Kent heard the jarring +churn of the runners and turned his eyes to the trail. The driver +was lying flat on the sled and the dogs swinging down the straight stretch +to the cabin. Kent whirled back, bringing his rifle to shoulder.</p> +<p>“It ain’t eight bells yet!” Cardegee expostulated. +“I’ll ’aunt you, sure!”</p> +<p>Jacob Kent faltered. He was standing by the sun-dial, perhaps +ten paces from his victim. The man on the sled must have seen +that something unusual was taking place, for he had risen to his knees, +his whip singing viciously among the dogs.</p> +<p>The shadows swept into line. Kent looked along the sights.</p> +<p>“Make ready!” he commanded solemnly. “Eight +b—”</p> +<p>But just a fraction of a second too soon, Cardegee rolled backward +into the hole. Kent held his fire and ran to the edge. Bang! +The gun exploded full in the sailor’s face as he rose to his feet. +But no smoke came from the muzzle; instead, a sheet of flame burst from +the side of the barrel near its butt, and Jacob Kent went down. +The dogs dashed up the bank, dragging the sled over his body, and the +driver sprang off as Jim Cardegee freed his hands and drew himself from +the hole.</p> +<p>“Jim!” The new-comer recognized him. “What’s +the matter?”</p> +<p>“Wot’s the matter? Oh, nothink at all. It +jest ’appens as I do little things like this for my ’ealth. +Wot’s the matter, you bloomin’ idjit? Wot’s +the matter, eh? Cast me loose or I’ll show you wot! +’Urry up, or I’ll ’olystone the decks with you!”</p> +<p>“Huh!” he added, as the other went to work with his sheath-knife. +“Wot’s the matter? I want to know. Jes’ +tell me that, will you, wot’s the matter? Hey?”</p> +<p>Kent was quite dead when they rolled him over. The gun, an +old-fashioned, heavy-weighted muzzle-loader, lay near him. Steel +and wood had parted company. Near the butt of the right-hand barrel, +with lips pressed outward, gaped a fissure several inches in length. +The sailor picked it up, curiously. A glittering stream of yellow +dust ran out through the crack. The facts of the case dawned upon +Jim Cardegee.</p> +<p>“Strike me standin’!” he roared; “’ere’s +a go! ’Ere’s ’is bloomin’ dust! +Gawd blime me, an’ you, too, Charley, if you don’t run an’ +get the dish-pan!”</p> +<h2>JAN, THE UNREPENTANT</h2> +<blockquote><p>“For there’s never a law of God or man<br /> +Runs north of Fifty-three.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Jan rolled over, clawing and kicking. He was fighting hand +and foot now, and he fought grimly, silently. Two of the three +men who hung upon him, shouted directions to each other, and strove +to curb the short, hairy devil who would not curb. The third man +howled. His finger was between Jan’s teeth.</p> +<p>“Quit yer tantrums, Jan, an’ ease up!” panted Red +Bill, getting a strangle-hold on Jan’s neck. “Why +on earth can’t yeh hang decent and peaceable?”</p> +<p>But Jan kept his grip on the third man’s finger, and squirmed +over the floor of the tent, into the pots and pans.</p> +<p>“Youah no gentleman, suh,” reproved Mr. Taylor, his body +following his finger, and endeavoring to accommodate itself to every +jerk of Jan’s head. “You hev killed Mistah Gordon, +as brave and honorable a gentleman as ever hit the trail aftah the dogs. +Youah a murderah, suh, and without honah.”</p> +<p>“An’ yer no comrade,” broke in Red Bill. +“If you was, you’d hang ‘thout rampin’ around +an’ roarin’. Come on, Jan, there’s a good fellow. +Don’t give us no more trouble. Jes’ quit, an’ +we’ll hang yeh neat and handy, an’ be done with it.”</p> +<p>“Steady, all!” Lawson, the sailorman, bawled. “Jam +his head into the bean pot and batten down.”</p> +<p>“But my fingah, suh,” Mr. Taylor protested.</p> +<p>“Leggo with y’r finger, then! Always in the way!”</p> +<p>“But I can’t, Mistah Lawson. It’s in the +critter’s gullet, and nigh chewed off as ’t is.”</p> +<p>“Stand by for stays!” As Lawson gave the warning, +Jan half lifted himself, and the struggling quartet floundered across +the tent into a muddle of furs and blankets. In its passage it +cleared the body of a man, who lay motionless, bleeding from a bullet-wound +in the neck.</p> +<p>All this was because of the madness which had come upon Jan—the +madness which comes upon a man who has stripped off the raw skin of +earth and grovelled long in primal nakedness, and before whose eyes +rises the fat vales of the homeland, and into whose nostrils steals +the whiff of bay, and grass, and flower, and new-turned soil. +Through five frigid years Jan had sown the seed. Stuart River, +Forty Mile, Circle City, Koyokuk, Kotzebue, had marked his bleak and +strenuous agriculture, and now it was Nome that bore the harvest,—not +the Nome of golden beaches and ruby sands, but the Nome of ’97, +before Anvil City was located, or Eldorado District organized. +John Gordon was a Yankee, and should have known better. But he +passed the sharp word at a time when Jan’s blood-shot eyes blazed +and his teeth gritted in torment. And because of this, there was +a smell of saltpetre in the tent, and one lay quietly, while the other +fought like a cornered rat, and refused to hang in the decent and peacable +manner suggested by his comrades.</p> +<p>“If you will allow me, Mistah Lawson, befoah we go further +in this rumpus, I would say it wah a good idea to pry this hyer varmint’s +teeth apart. Neither will he bite off, nor will he let go. +He has the wisdom of the sarpint, suh, the wisdom of the sarpint.”</p> +<p>“Lemme get the hatchet to him!” vociferated the sailor. +“Lemme get the hatchet!” He shoved the steel edge +close to Mr. Taylor’s finger and used the man’s teeth as +a fulcrum. Jan held on and breathed through his nose, snorting +like a grampus. “Steady, all! Now she takes it!”</p> +<p>“Thank you, suh; it is a powerful relief.” And +Mr. Taylor proceeded to gather into his arms the victim’s wildly +waving legs.</p> +<p>But Jan upreared in his Berserker rage; bleeding, frothing, cursing; +five frozen years thawing into sudden hell. They swayed backward +and forward, panted, sweated, like some cyclopean, many-legged monster +rising from the lower deeps. The slush-lamp went over, drowned +in its own fat, while the midday twilight scarce percolated through +the dirty canvas of the tent.</p> +<p>“For the love of Gawd, Jan, get yer senses back!” pleaded +Red Bill. “We ain’t goin’ to hurt yeh, ’r +kill yeh, ’r anythin’ of that sort. Jes’ want +to hang yeh, that’s all, an’ you a-messin’ round an’ +rampagin’ somethin’ terrible. To think of travellin’ +trail together an’ then bein’ treated this-a way. +Wouldn’t ’bleeved it of yeh, Jan!”</p> +<p>“He’s got too much steerage-way. Grab holt his +legs, Taylor, and heave’m over!”</p> +<p>“Yes, suh, Mistah Lawson. Do you press youah weight above, +after I give the word.” The Kentuckian groped about him +in the murky darkness. “Now, suh, now is the accepted time!”</p> +<p>There was a great surge, and a quarter of a ton of human flesh tottered +and crashed to its fall against the side-wall. Pegs drew and guy-ropes +parted, and the tent, collapsing, wrapped the battle in its greasy folds.</p> +<p>“Yer only makin’ it harder fer yerself,” Red Bill +continued, at the same time driving both his thumbs into a hairy throat, +the possessor of which he had pinned down. “You’ve +made nuisance enough a’ ready, an’ it’ll take half +the day to get things straightened when we’ve strung yeh up.”</p> +<p>“I’ll thank you to leave go, suh,” spluttered Mr. +Taylor.</p> +<p>Red Bill grunted and loosed his grip, and the twain crawled out into +the open. At the same instant Jan kicked clear of the sailor, +and took to his heels across the snow.</p> +<p>“Hi! you lazy devils! Buck! Bright! Sic’m! +Pull ’m down!” sang out Lawson, lunging through the snow +after the fleeing man. Buck and Bright, followed by the rest of +the dogs, outstripped him and rapidly overhauled the murderer.</p> +<p>There was no reason that these men should do this; no reason for +Jan to run away; no reason for them to attempt to prevent him. +On the one hand stretched the barren snow-land; on the other, the frozen +sea. With neither food nor shelter, he could not run far. +All they had to do was to wait till he wandered back to the tent, as +he inevitably must, when the frost and hunger laid hold of him. +But these men did not stop to think. There was a certain taint +of madness running in the veins of all of them. Besides, blood +had been spilled, and upon them was the blood-lust, thick and hot. +“Vengeance is mine,” saith the Lord, and He saith it in +temperate climes where the warm sun steals away the energies of men. +But in the Northland they have discovered that prayer is only efficacious +when backed by muscle, and they are accustomed to doing things for themselves. +God is everywhere, they have heard, but he flings a shadow over the +land for half the year that they may not find him; so they grope in +darkness, and it is not to be wondered that they often doubt, and deem +the Decalogue out of gear.</p> +<p>Jan ran blindly, reckoning not of the way of his feet, for he was +mastered by the verb “to live.” To live! To +exist! Buck flashed gray through the air, but missed. The +man struck madly at him, and stumbled. Then the white teeth of +Bright closed on his mackinaw jacket, and he pitched into the snow. +<i>To live</i>! <i>To exist</i>! He fought wildly as ever, +the centre of a tossing heap of men and dogs. His left hand gripped +a wolf-dog by the scruff of the back, while the arm was passed around +the neck of Lawson. Every struggle of the dog helped to throttle +the hapless sailor. Jan’s right hand was buried deep in +the curling tendrils of Red Bill’s shaggy head, and beneath all, +Mr. Taylor lay pinned and helpless. It was a deadlock, for the +strength of his madness was prodigious; but suddenly, without apparent +reason, Jan loosed his various grips and rolled over quietly on his +back. His adversaries drew away a little, dubious and disconcerted. +Jan grinned viciously.</p> +<p>“Mine friends,” he said, still grinning, “you haf +asked me to be politeful, und now I am politeful. Vot piziness +vood you do mit me?”</p> +<p>“That’s right, Jan. Be ca’m,” soothed +Red Bill. “I knowed you’d come to yer senses afore +long. Jes’ be ca’m now, an’ we’ll do the +trick with neatness and despatch.”</p> +<p>“Vot piziness? Vot trick?”</p> +<p>“The hangin’. An’ yeh oughter thank yer lucky +stars for havin’ a man what knows his business. I’ve +did it afore now, more’n once, down in the States, an’ I +can do it to a T.”</p> +<p>“Hang who? Me?”</p> +<p>“Yep.”</p> +<p>“Ha! ha! Shust hear der man speak foolishness! +Gif me a hand, Bill, und I vill get up und be hung.” He +crawled stiffly to his feet and looked about him. “Herr +Gott! listen to der man! He vood hang me! Ho! ho! ho! +I tank not! Yes, I tank not!”</p> +<p>“And I tank yes, you swab,” Lawson spoke up mockingly, +at the same time cutting a sled-lashing and coiling it up with ominous +care. “Judge Lynch holds court this day.”</p> +<p>“Von liddle while.” Jan stepped back from the proffered +noose. “I haf somedings to ask und to make der great proposition. +Kentucky, you know about der Shudge Lynch?”</p> +<p>“Yes, suh. It is an institution of free men and of gentlemen, +and it is an ole one and time-honored. Corruption may wear the +robe of magistracy, suh, but Judge Lynch can always be relied upon to +give justice without court fees. I repeat, suh, without court +fees. Law may be bought and sold, but in this enlightened land +justice is free as the air we breathe, strong as the licker we drink, +prompt as—”</p> +<p>“Cut it short! Find out what the beggar wants,” +interrupted Lawson, spoiling the peroration.</p> +<p>“Vell, Kentucky, tell me dis: von man kill von odder man, Shudge +Lynch hang dot man?”</p> +<p>“If the evidence is strong enough—yes, suh.”</p> +<p>“An’ the evidence in this here case is strong enough +to hang a dozen men, Jan,” broke in Red Bill.</p> +<p>“Nefer you mind, Bill. I talk mit you next. Now +von anodder ding I ask Kentucky. If Shudge Lynch hang not der +man, vot den?”</p> +<p>“If Judge Lynch does not hang the man, then the man goes free, +and his hands are washed clean of blood. And further, suh, our +great and glorious constitution has said, to wit: that no man may twice +be placed in jeopardy of his life for one and the same crime, or words +to that effect.”</p> +<p>“Unt dey can’t shoot him, or hit him mit a club over +der head alongside, or do nodings more mit him?”</p> +<p>“No, suh.”</p> +<p>“Goot! You hear vot Kentucky speaks, all you noddleheads? +Now I talk mit Bill. You know der piziness, Bill, und you hang +me up brown, eh? Vot you say?”</p> +<p>“’Betcher life, an’, Jan, if yeh don’t give +no more trouble ye’ll be almighty proud of the job. I’m +a connesoor.”</p> +<p>“You haf der great head, Bill, und know somedings or two. +Und you know two und one makes tree—ain’t it?”</p> +<p>Bill nodded.</p> +<p>“Und when you haf two dings, you haf not tree dings—ain’t +it? Now you follow mit me close und I show you. It takes +tree dings to hang. First ding, you haf to haf der man. +Goot! I am der man. Second ding, you haf to haf der rope. +Lawson haf der rope. Goot! Und tird ding, you haf to haf +someding to tie der rope to. Sling your eyes over der landscape +und find der tird ding to tie der rope to? Eh? Vot you say?”</p> +<p>Mechanically they swept the ice and snow with their eyes. It +was a homogeneous scene, devoid of contrasts or bold contours, dreary, +desolate, and monotonous,—the ice-packed sea, the slow slope of +the beach, the background of low-lying hills, and over all thrown the +endless mantle of snow. “No trees, no bluffs, no cabins, +no telegraph poles, nothin’,” moaned Red Bill; “nothin’ +respectable enough nor big enough to swing the toes of a five-foot man +clear o’ the ground. I give it up.” He looked +yearningly at that portion of Jan’s anatomy which joins the head +and shoulders. “Give it up,” he repeated sadly to +Lawson. “Throw the rope down. Gawd never intended +this here country for livin’ purposes, an’ that’s +a cold frozen fact.”</p> +<p>Jan grinned triumphantly. “I tank I go mit der tent und +haf a smoke.”</p> +<p>“Ostensiblee y’r correct, Bill, me son,” spoke +up Lawson; “but y’r a dummy, and you can lay to that for +another cold frozen fact. Takes a sea farmer to learn you landsmen +things. Ever hear of a pair of shears? Then clap y’r +eyes to this.”</p> +<p>The sailor worked rapidly. From the pile of dunnage where they +had pulled up the boat the preceding fall, he unearthed a pair of long +oars. These he lashed together, at nearly right angles, close +to the ends of the blades. Where the handles rested he kicked +holes through the snow to the sand. At the point of intersection +he attached two guy-ropes, making the end of one fast to a cake of beach-ice. +The other guy he passed over to Red Bill. “Here, me son, +lay holt o’ that and run it out.”</p> +<p>And to his horror, Jan saw his gallows rise in the air. “No! +no!” he cried, recoiling and putting up his fists. “It +is not goot! I vill not hang! Come, you noddleheads! +I vill lick you, all together, von after der odder! I vill blay +hell! I vill do eferydings! Und I vill die pefore I hang!”</p> +<p>The sailor permitted the two other men to clinch with the mad creature. +They rolled and tossed about furiously, tearing up snow and tundra, +their fierce struggle writing a tragedy of human passion on the white +sheet spread by nature. And ever and anon a hand or foot of Jan +emerged from the tangle, to be gripped by Lawson and lashed fast with +rope-yarns. Pawing, clawing, blaspheming, he was conquered and +bound, inch by inch, and drawn to where the inexorable shears lay like +a pair of gigantic dividers on the snow. Red Bill adjusted the +noose, placing the hangman’s knot properly under the left ear. +Mr. Taylor and Lawson tailed onto the running-guy, ready at the word +to elevate the gallows. Bill lingered, contemplating his work +with artistic appreciation.</p> +<p>“Herr Gott! Vood you look at it!”</p> +<p>The horror in Jan’s voice caused the rest to desist. +The fallen tent had uprisen, and in the gathering twilight it flapped +ghostly arms about and titubated toward them drunkenly. But the +next instant John Gordon found the opening and crawled forth.</p> +<p>“What the flaming—!” For the moment his voice +died away in his throat as his eyes took in the tableau. “Hold +on! I’m not dead!” he cried out, coming up to the +group with stormy countenance.</p> +<p>“Allow me, Mistah Gordon, to congratulate you upon youah escape,” +Mr. Taylor ventured. “A close shave, suh, a powahful close +shave.”</p> +<p>“ Congratulate hell! I might have been dead and rotten +and no thanks to you, you—!” And thereat John Gordon +delivered himself of a vigorous flood of English, terse, intensive, +denunciative, and composed solely of expletives and adjectives.</p> +<p>“Simply creased me,” he went on when he had eased himself +sufficiently. “Ever crease cattle, Taylor?”</p> +<p>“Yes, suh, many a time down in God’s country.”</p> +<p>“Just so. That’s what happened to me. Bullet +just grazed the base of my skull at the top of the neck. Stunned +me but no harm done.” He turned to the bound man. +“Get up, Jan. I’m going to lick you to a standstill +or you’re going to apologize. The rest of you lads stand +clear.”</p> +<p>“I tank not. Shust tie me loose und you see,” replied +Jan, the Unrepentant, the devil within him still unconquered. +“Und after as I lick you, I take der rest of der noddleheads, +von after der odder, altogedder!”</p> +<h2>GRIT OF WOMEN</h2> +<p>A wolfish head, wistful-eyed and frost-rimed, thrust aside the tent-flaps.</p> +<p>“Hi! Chook! Siwash! Chook, you limb of Satan!” +chorused the protesting inmates. Bettles rapped the dog sharply +with a tin plate, and it withdrew hastily. Louis Savoy refastened +the flaps, kicked a frying-pan over against the bottom, and warmed his +hands. It was very cold without. Forty-eight hours gone, +the spirit thermometer had burst at sixty-eight below, and since that +time it had grown steadily and bitterly colder. There was no telling +when the snap would end. And it is poor policy, unless the gods +will it, to venture far from a stove at such times, or to increase the +quantity of cold atmosphere one must breathe. Men sometimes do +it, and sometimes they chill their lungs. This leads up to a dry, +hacking cough, noticeably irritable when bacon is being fried. +After that, somewhere along in the spring or summer, a hole is burned +in the frozen muck. Into this a man’s carcass is dumped, +covered over with moss, and left with the assurance that it will rise +on the crack of Doom, wholly and frigidly intact. For those of +little faith, sceptical of material integration on that fateful day, +no fitter country than the Klondike can be recommended to die in. +But it is not to be inferred from this that it is a fit country for +living purposes.</p> +<p>It was very cold without, but it was not over-warm within. +The only article which might be designated furniture was the stove, +and for this the men were frank in displaying their preference. +Upon half of the floor pine boughs had been cast; above this were spread +the sleeping-furs, beneath lay the winter’s snowfall. The +remainder of the floor was moccasin-packed snow, littered with pots +and pans and the general <i>impedimenta</i> of an Arctic camp. +The stove was red and roaring hot, but only a bare three feet away lay +a block of ice, as sharp-edged and dry as when first quarried from the +creek bottom. The pressure of the outside cold forced the inner +heat upward. Just above the stove, where the pipe penetrated the +roof, was a tiny circle of dry canvas; next, with the pipe always as +centre, a circle of steaming canvas; next a damp and moisture-exuding +ring; and finally, the rest of the tent, sidewalls and top, coated with +a half-inch of dry, white, crystal-encrusted frost.</p> +<p>“<i>Oh</i>! OH! OH!” A young fellow, +lying asleep in the furs, bearded and wan and weary, raised a moan of +pain, and without waking increased the pitch and intensity of his anguish. +His body half-lifted from the blankets, and quivered and shrank spasmodically, +as though drawing away from a bed of nettles.</p> +<p>“Roll’m over!” ordered Bettles. “He’s +crampin’.”</p> +<p>And thereat, with pitiless good-will, he was pitched upon and rolled +and thumped and pounded by half-a-dozen willing comrades.</p> +<p>“Damn the trail,” he muttered softly, as he threw off +the robes and sat up. “I’ve run across country, played +quarter three seasons hand-running, and hardened myself in all manner +of ways; and then I pilgrim it into this God-forsaken land and find +myself an effeminate Athenian without the simplest rudiments of manhood!” +He hunched up to the fire and rolled a cigarette. “Oh, I’m +not whining. I can take my medicine all right, all right; but +I’m just decently ashamed of myself, that’s all. Here +I am, on top of a dirty thirty miles, as knocked up and stiff and sore +as a pink-tea degenerate after a five-mile walk on a country turn-pike. +Bah! It makes me sick! Got a match?” “Don’t +git the tantrums, youngster.” Bettles passed over the required +fire-stick and waxed patriarchal. “Ye’ve gotter ’low +some for the breakin’-in. Sufferin’ cracky! don’t +I recollect the first time I hit the trail! Stiff? I’ve +seen the time it’d take me ten minutes to git my mouth from the +water-hole an’ come to my feet—every jint crackin’ +an’ kickin’ fit to kill. Cramp? In sech knots +it’d take the camp half a day to untangle me. You’re +all right, for a cub, any ye’ve the true sperrit. Come this +day year, you’ll walk all us old bucks into the ground any time. +An’ best in your favor, you hain’t got that streak of fat +in your make-up which has sent many a husky man to the bosom of Abraham +afore his right and proper time.”</p> +<p>“Streak of fat?”</p> +<p>“Yep. Comes along of bulk. ’T ain’t +the big men as is the best when it comes to the trail.”</p> +<p>“Never heard of it.”</p> +<p>“Never heered of it, eh? Well, it’s a dead straight, +open-an’-shut fact, an’ no gittin’ round. Bulk’s +all well enough for a mighty big effort, but ’thout stayin’ +powers it ain’t worth a continental whoop; an’ stayin’ +powers an’ bulk ain’t runnin’ mates. Takes the +small, wiry fellows when it comes to gittin’ right down an’ +hangin’ on like a lean-jowled dog to a bone. Why, hell’s +fire, the big men they ain’t in it!”</p> +<p>“By gar!” broke in Louis Savoy, “dat is no, vot +you call, josh! I know one mans, so vaire beeg like ze buffalo. +Wit him, on ze Sulphur Creek stampede, go one small mans, Lon McFane. +You know dat Lon McFane, dat leetle Irisher wit ze red hair and ze grin. +An’ dey walk an’ walk an’ walk, all ze day long an’ +ze night long. And beeg mans, him become vaire tired, an’ +lay down mooch in ze snow. And leetle mans keek beeg mans, an’ +him cry like, vot you call—ah! vot you call ze kid. And +leetle mans keek an’ keek an’ keek, an’ bime by, long +time, long way, keek beeg mans into my cabin. Tree days ’fore +him crawl out my blankets. Nevaire I see beeg squaw like him. +No nevaire. Him haf vot you call ze streak of fat. You bet.”</p> +<p>“But there was Axel Gunderson,” Prince spoke up. +The great Scandinavian, with the tragic events which shadowed his passing, +had made a deep mark on the mining engineer. “He lies up +there, somewhere.” He swept his hand in the vague direction +of the mysterious east.</p> +<p>“Biggest man that ever turned his heels to Salt Water, or run +a moose down with sheer grit,” supplemented Bettles; “but +he’s the prove-the-rule exception. Look at his woman, Unga,—tip +the scales at a hundred an’ ten, clean meat an’ nary ounce +to spare. She’d bank grit ’gainst his for all there +was in him, an’ see him, an’ go him better if it was possible. +Nothing over the earth, or in it, or under it, she wouldn’t ’a’ +done.”</p> +<p>“But she loved him,” objected the engineer.</p> +<p>“’T ain’t that. It—”</p> +<p>“Look you, brothers,” broke in Sitka Charley from his +seat on the grub-box. “Ye have spoken of the streak of fat +that runs in big men’s muscles, of the grit of women and the love, +and ye have spoken fair; but I have in mind things which happened when +the land was young and the fires of men apart as the stars. It +was then I had concern with a big man, and a streak of fat, and a woman. +And the woman was small; but her heart was greater than the beef-heart +of the man, and she had grit. And we traveled a weary trail, even +to the Salt Water, and the cold was bitter, the snow deep, the hunger +great. And the woman’s love was a mighty love—no more +can man say than this.”</p> +<p>He paused, and with the hatchet broke pieces of ice from the large +chunk beside him. These he threw into the gold pan on the stove, +where the drinking-water thawed. The men drew up closer, and he +of the cramps sought greater comfort vainly for his stiffened body.</p> +<p>“Brothers, my blood is red with Siwash, but my heart is white. +To the faults of my fathers I owe the one, to the virtues of my friends +the other. A great truth came to me when I was yet a boy. +I learned that to your kind and you was given the earth; that the Siwash +could not withstand you, and like the caribou and the bear, must perish +in the cold. So I came into the warm and sat among you, by your +fires, and behold, I became one of you, I have seen much in my time. +I have known strange things, and bucked big, on big trails, with men +of many breeds. And because of these things, I measure deeds after +your manner, and judge men, and think thoughts. Wherefore, when +I speak harshly of one of your own kind, I know you will not take it +amiss; and when I speak high of one of my father’s people, you +will not take it upon you to say, ‘Sitka Charley is Siwash, and +there is a crooked light in his eyes and small honor to his tongue.’ +Is it not so?”</p> +<p>Deep down in throat, the circle vouchsafed its assent.</p> +<p>“The woman was Passuk. I got her in fair trade from her +people, who were of the Coast and whose Chilcat totem stood at the head +of a salt arm of the sea. My heart did not go out to the woman, +nor did I take stock of her looks. For she scarce took her eyes +from the ground, and she was timid and afraid, as girls will be when +cast into a stranger’s arms whom they have never seen before. +As I say, there was no place in my heart for her to creep, for I had +a great journey in mind, and stood in need of one to feed my dogs and +to lift a paddle with me through the long river days. One blanket +would cover the twain; so I chose Passuk.</p> +<p>“Have I not said I was a servant to the Government? If +not, it is well that ye know. So I was taken on a warship, sleds +and dogs and evaporated foods, and with me came Passuk. And we +went north, to the winter ice-rim of Bering Sea, where we were landed,—myself, +and Passuk, and the dogs. I was also given moneys of the Government, +for I was its servant, and charts of lands which the eyes of man had +never dwelt upon, and messages. These messages were sealed, and +protected shrewdly from the weather, and I was to deliver them to the +whale-ships of the Arctic, ice-bound by the great Mackenzie. Never +was there so great a river, forgetting only our own Yukon, the Mother +of all Rivers.</p> +<p>“All of which is neither here nor there, for my story deals +not with the whale-ships, nor the berg-bound winter I spent by the Mackenzie. +Afterward, in the spring, when the days lengthened and there was a crust +to the snow, we came south, Passuk and I, to the Country of the Yukon. +A weary journey, but the sun pointed out the way of our feet. +It was a naked land then, as I have said, and we worked up the current, +with pole and paddle, till we came to Forty Mile. Good it was +to see white faces once again, so we put into the bank. And that +winter was a hard winter. The darkness and the cold drew down +upon us, and with them the famine. To each man the agent of the +Company gave forty pounds of flour and twenty of bacon. There +were no beans. And, the dogs howled always, and there were flat +bellies and deep-lined faces, and strong men became weak, and weak men +died. There was also much scurvy.</p> +<p>“Then came we together in the store one night, and the empty +shelves made us feel our own emptiness the more. We talked low, +by the light of the fire, for the candles had been set aside for those +who might yet gasp in the spring. Discussion was held, and it +was said that a man must go forth to the Salt Water and tell to the +world our misery. At this all eyes turned to me, for it was understood +that I was a great traveler. ‘It is seven hundred miles,’ +said I, ‘to Haines Mission by the sea, and every inch of it snowshoe +work. Give me the pick of your dogs and the best of your grub, +and I will go. And with me shall go Passuk.’</p> +<p>“To this they were agreed. But there arose one, Long +Jeff, a Yankee-man, big-boned and big-muscled. Also his talk was +big. He, too, was a mighty traveler, he said, born to the snowshoe +and bred up on buffalo milk. He would go with me, in case I fell +by the trail, that he might carry the word on to the Mission. +I was young, and I knew not Yankee-men. How was I to know that +big talk betokened the streak of fat, or that Yankee-men who did great +things kept their teeth together? So we took the pick of the dogs +and the best of the grub, and struck the trail, we three,—Passuk, +Long Jeff, and I.</p> +<p>“Well, ye have broken virgin snow, labored at the gee-pole, +and are not unused to the packed river-jams; so I will talk little of +the toil, save that on some days we made ten miles, and on others thirty, +but more often ten. And the best of the grub was not good, while +we went on stint from the start. Likewise the pick of the dogs +was poor, and we were hard put to keep them on their legs. At +the White River our three sleds became two sleds, and we had only come +two hundred miles. But we lost nothing; the dogs that left the +traces went into the bellies of those that remained.</p> +<p>“Not a greeting, not a curl of smoke, till we made Pelly. +Here I had counted on grub; and here I had counted on leaving Long Jeff, +who was whining and trail-sore. But the factor’s lungs were +wheezing, his eyes bright, his cache nigh empty; and he showed us the +empty cache of the missionary, also his grave with the rocks piled high +to keep off the dogs. There was a bunch of Indians there, but +babies and old men there were none, and it was clear that few would +see the spring.</p> +<p>“So we pulled on, light-stomached and heavy-hearted, with half +a thousand miles of snow and silence between us and Haines Mission by +the sea. The darkness was at its worst, and at midday the sun +could not clear the sky-line to the south. But the ice-jams were +smaller, the going better; so I pushed the dogs hard and traveled late +and early. As I said at Forty Mile, every inch of it was snow-shoe +work. And the shoes made great sores on our feet, which cracked +and scabbed but would not heal. And every day these sores grew +more grievous, till in the morning, when we girded on the shoes, Long +Jeff cried like a child. I put him at the fore of the light sled +to break trail, but he slipped off the shoes for comfort. Because +of this the trail was not packed, his moccasins made great holes, and +into these holes the dogs wallowed. The bones of the dogs were +ready to break through their hides, and this was not good for them. +So I spoke hard words to the man, and he promised, and broke his word. +Then I beat him with the dog-whip, and after that the dogs wallowed +no more. He was a child, what of the pain and the streak of fat.</p> +<p>“But Passuk. While the man lay by the fire and wept, +she cooked, and in the morning helped lash the sleds, and in the evening +to unlash them. And she saved the dogs. Ever was she to +the fore, lifting the webbed shoes and making the way easy. Passuk—how +shall I say?—I took it for granted that she should do these things, +and thought no more about it. For my mind was busy with other +matters, and besides, I was young in years and knew little of woman. +It was only on looking back that I came to understand.</p> +<p>“And the man became worthless. The dogs had little strength +in them, but he stole rides on the sled when he lagged behind. +Passuk said she would take the one sled, so the man had nothing to do. +In the morning I gave him his fair share of grub and started him on +the trail alone. Then the woman and I broke camp, packed the sleds, +and harnessed the dogs. By midday, when the sun mocked us, we +would overtake the man, with the tears frozen on his cheeks, and pass +him. In the night we made camp, set aside his fair share of grub, +and spread his furs. Also we made a big fire, that he might see. +And hours afterward he would come limping in, and eat his grub with +moans and groans, and sleep. He was not sick, this man. +He was only trail-sore and tired, and weak with hunger. But Passuk +and I were trail-sore and tired, and weak with hunger; and we did all +the work and he did none. But he had the streak of fat of which +our brother Bettles has spoken. Further, we gave the man always +his fair share of grub.</p> +<p>“Then one day we met two ghosts journeying through the Silence. +They were a man and a boy, and they were white. The ice had opened +on Lake Le Barge, and through it had gone their main outfit. One +blanket each carried about his shoulders. At night they built +a fire and crouched over it till morning. They had a little flour. +This they stirred in warm water and drank. The man showed me eight +cups of flour—all they had, and Pelly, stricken with famine, two +hundred miles away. They said, also, that there was an Indian +behind; that they had whacked fair, but that he could not keep up. +I did not believe they had whacked fair, else would the Indian have +kept up. But I could give them no grub. They strove to steal +a dog—the fattest, which was very thin—but I shoved my pistol +in their faces and told them begone. And they went away, like +drunken men, through the Silence toward Pelly.</p> +<p>“I had three dogs now, and one sled, and the dogs were only +bones and hair. When there is little wood, the fire burns low +and the cabin grows cold. So with us. With little grub the +frost bites sharp, and our faces were black and frozen till our own +mothers would not have known us. And our feet were very sore. +In the morning, when I hit the trail, I sweated to keep down the cry +when the pain of the snowshoes smote me. Passuk never opened her +lips, but stepped to the fore to break the way. The man howled.</p> +<p>“The Thirty Mile was swift, and the current ate away the ice +from beneath, and there were many air-holes and cracks, and much open +water. One day we came upon the man, resting, for he had gone +ahead, as was his wont, in the morning. But between us was open +water. This he had passed around by taking to the rim-ice where +it was too narrow for a sled. So we found an ice-bridge. +Passuk weighed little, and went first, with a long pole crosswise in +her hands in chance she broke through. But she was light, and +her shoes large, and she passed over. Then she called the dogs. +But they had neither poles nor shoes, and they broke through and were +swept under by the water. I held tight to the sled from behind, +till the traces broke and the dogs went on down under the ice. +There was little meat to them, but I had counted on them for a week’s +grub, and they were gone.</p> +<p>“The next morning I divided all the grub, which was little, +into three portions. And I told Long Jeff that he could keep up +with us, or not, as he saw fit; for we were going to travel light and +fast. But he raised his voice and cried over his sore feet and +his troubles, and said harsh things against comradeship. Passuk’s +feet were sore, and my feet were sore—ay, sorer than his, for +we had worked with the dogs; also, we looked to see. Long Jeff +swore he would die before he hit the trail again; so Passuk took a fur +robe, and I a cooking pot and an axe, and we made ready to go. +But she looked on the man’s portion, and said, ‘It is wrong +to waste good food on a baby. He is better dead.’ +I shook my head and said no—that a comrade once was a comrade +always. Then she spoke of the men of Forty Mile; that they were +many men and good; and that they looked to me for grub in the spring. +But when I still said no, she snatched the pistol from my belt, quick, +and as our brother Bettles has spoken, Long Jeff went to the bosom of +Abraham before his time. I chided Passuk for this; but she showed +no sorrow, nor was she sorrowful. And in my heart I knew she was +right.”</p> +<p>Sitka Charley paused and threw pieces of ice into the gold pan on +the stove. The men were silent, and their backs chilled to the +sobbing cries of the dogs as they gave tongue to their misery in the +outer cold.</p> +<p>“And day by day we passed in the snow the sleeping-places of +the two ghosts—Passuk and I—and we knew we would be glad +for such ere we made Salt Water. Then we came to the Indian, like +another ghost, with his face set toward Pelly. They had not whacked +up fair, the man and the boy, he said, and he had had no flour for three +days. Each night he boiled pieces of his moccasins in a cup, and +ate them. He did not have much moccasins left. And he was +a Coast Indian, and told us these things through Passuk, who talked +his tongue. He was a stranger in the Yukon, and he knew not the +way, but his face was set to Pelly. How far was it? Two +sleeps? ten? a hundred—he did not know, but he was going to Pelly. +It was too far to turn back; he could only keep on.</p> +<p>“He did not ask for grub, for he could see we, too, were hard +put. Passuk looked at the man, and at me, as though she were of +two minds, like a mother partridge whose young are in trouble. +So I turned to her and said, ‘This man has been dealt unfair. +Shall I give him of our grub a portion?’ I saw her eyes +light, as with quick pleasure; but she looked long at the man and at +me, and her mouth drew close and hard, and she said, ‘No. +The Salt Water is afar off, and Death lies in wait. Better it +is that he take this stranger man and let my man Charley pass.’ +So the man went away in the Silence toward Pelly. That night she +wept. Never had I seen her weep before. Nor was it the smoke +of the fire, for the wood was dry wood. So I marveled at her sorrow, +and thought her woman’s heart had grown soft at the darkness of +the trail and the pain.</p> +<p>“Life is a strange thing. Much have I thought on it, +and pondered long, yet daily the strangeness of it grows not less, but +more. Why this longing for Life? It is a game which no man +wins. To live is to toil hard, and to suffer sore, till Old Age +creeps heavily upon us and we throw down our hands on the cold ashes +of dead fires. It is hard to live. In pain the babe sucks +his first breath, in pain the old man gasps his last, and all his days +are full of trouble and sorrow; yet he goes down to the open arms of +Death, stumbling, falling, with head turned backward, fighting to the +last. And Death is kind. It is only Life, and the things +of Life that hurt. Yet we love Life, and we hate Death. +It is very strange.</p> +<p>“We spoke little, Passuk and I, in the days which came. +In the night we lay in the snow like dead people, and in the morning +we went on our way, walking like dead people. And all things were +dead. There were no ptarmigan, no squirrels, no snowshoe rabbits,—nothing. +The river made no sound beneath its white robes. The sap was frozen +in the forest. And it became cold, as now; and in the night the +stars drew near and large, and leaped and danced; and in the day the +sun-dogs mocked us till we saw many suns, and all the air flashed and +sparkled, and the snow was diamond dust. And there was no heat, +no sound, only the bitter cold and the Silence. As I say, we walked +like dead people, as in a dream, and we kept no count of time. +Only our faces were set to Salt Water, our souls strained for Salt Water, +and our feet carried us toward Salt Water. We camped by the Tahkeena, +and knew it not. Our eyes looked upon the White Horse, but we +saw it not. Our feet trod the portage of the Canyon, but they +felt it not. We felt nothing. And we fell often by the way, +but we fell, always, with our faces toward Salt Water.</p> +<p>“Our last grub went, and we had shared fair, Passuk and I, +but she fell more often, and at Caribou Crossing her strength left her. +And in the morning we lay beneath the one robe and did not take the +trail. It was in my mind to stay there and meet Death hand-in-hand +with Passuk; for I had grown old, and had learned the love of woman. +Also, it was eighty miles to Haines Mission, and the great Chilcoot, +far above the timber-line, reared his storm-swept head between. +But Passuk spoke to me, low, with my ear against her lips that I might +hear. And now, because she need not fear my anger, she spoke her +heart, and told me of her love, and of many things which I did not understand.</p> +<p>“And she said: ‘You are my man, Charley, and I have been +a good woman to you. And in all the days I have made your fire, +and cooked your food, and fed your dogs, and lifted paddle or broken +trail, I have not complained. Nor did I say that there was more +warmth in the lodge of my father, or that there was more grub on the +Chilcat. When you have spoken, I have listened. When you +have ordered, I have obeyed. Is it not so, Charley?’</p> +<p>“And I said: ‘Ay, it is so.’</p> +<p>“And she said: ‘When first you came to the Chilcat, nor +looked upon me, but bought me as a man buys a dog, and took me away, +my heart was hard against you and filled with bitterness and fear. +But that was long ago. For you were kind to me, Charley, as a +good man is kind to his dog. Your heart was cold, and there was +no room for me; yet you dealt me fair and your ways were just. +And I was with you when you did bold deeds and led great ventures, and +I measured you against the men of other breeds, and I saw you stood +among them full of honor, and your word was wise, your tongue true. +And I grew proud of you, till it came that you filled all my heart, +and all my thought was of you. You were as the midsummer sun, +when its golden trail runs in a circle and never leaves the sky. +And whatever way I cast my eyes I beheld the sun. But your heart +was ever cold, Charley, and there was no room.’</p> +<p>“And I said: ‘It is so. It was cold, and there +was no room. But that is past. Now my heart is like the +snowfall in the spring, when the sun has come back. There is a +great thaw and a bending, a sound of running waters, and a budding and +sprouting of green things. And there is drumming of partridges, +and songs of robins, and great music, for the winter is broken, Passuk, +and I have learned the love of woman.’</p> +<p>“She smiled and moved for me to draw her closer. And +she said, ‘I am glad.’ After that she lay quiet for +a long time, breathing softly, her head upon my breast. Then she +whispered: ‘The trail ends here, and I am tired. But first +I would speak of other things. In the long ago, when I was a girl +on the Chilcat, I played alone among the skin bales of my father’s +lodge; for the men were away on the hunt, and the women and boys were +dragging in the meat. It was in the spring, and I was alone. +A great brown bear, just awake from his winter’s sleep, hungry, +his fur hanging to the bones in flaps of leanness, shoved his head within +the lodge and said, “Oof!” My brother came running +back with the first sled of meat. And he fought the bear with +burning sticks from the fire, and the dogs in their harnesses, with +the sled behind them, fell upon the bear. There was a great battle +and much noise. They rolled in the fire, the skin bales were scattered, +the lodge overthrown. But in the end the bear lay dead, with the +fingers of my brother in his mouth and the marks of his claws upon my +brother’s face. Did you mark the Indian by the Pelly trail, +his mitten which had no thumb, his hand which he warmed by our fire? +He was my brother. And I said he should have no grub. And +he went away in the Silence without grub.’</p> +<p>“This, my brothers, was the love of Passuk, who died in the +snow, by the Caribou Crossing. It was a mighty love, for she denied +her brother for the man who led her away on weary trails to a bitter +end. And, further, such was this woman’s love, she denied +herself. Ere her eyes closed for the last time she took my hand +and slipped it under her squirrel-skin <i>parka</i> to her waist. +I felt there a well-filled pouch, and learned the secret of her lost +strength. Day by day we had shared fair, to the last least bit; +and day by day but half her share had she eaten. The other half +had gone into the well-filled pouch.</p> +<p>“And she said: ‘This is the end of the trail for Passuk; +but your trail, Charley, leads on and on, over the great Chilcoot, down +to Haines Mission and the sea. And it leads on and on, by the +light of many suns, over unknown lands and strange waters, and it is +full of years and honors and great glories. It leads you to the +lodges of many women, and good women, but it will never lead you to +a greater love than the love of Passuk.’</p> +<p>“And I knew the woman spoke true. But a madness came +upon me, and I threw the well-filled pouch from me, and swore that my +trail had reached an end, till her tired eyes grew soft with tears, +and she said: ‘Among men has Sitka Charley walked in honor, and +ever has his word been true. Does he forget that honor now, and +talk vain words by the Caribou Crossing? Does he remember no more +the men of Forty Mile, who gave him of their grub the best, of their +dogs the pick? Ever has Passuk been proud of her man. Let +him lift himself up, gird on his snowshoes, and begone, that she may +still keep her pride.’</p> +<p>“And when she grew cold in my arms I arose, and sought out +the well-filled pouch, and girt on my snowshoes, and staggered along +the trail; for there was a weakness in my knees, and my head was dizzy, +and in my ears there was a roaring, and a flashing of fire upon my eyes. +The forgotten trails of boyhood came back to me. I sat by the +full pots of the <i>potlach</i> feast, and raised my voice in song, +and danced to the chanting of the men and maidens and the booming of +the walrus drums. And Passuk held my hand and walked by my side. +When I laid down to sleep, she waked me. When I stumbled and fell, +she raised me. When I wandered in the deep snow, she led me back +to the trail. And in this wise, like a man bereft of reason, who +sees strange visions and whose thoughts are light with wine, I came +to Haines Mission by the sea.”</p> +<p>Sitka Charley threw back the tent-flaps. It was midday. +To the south, just clearing the bleak Henderson Divide, poised the cold-disked +sun. On either hand the sun-dogs blazed. The air was a gossamer +of glittering frost. In the foreground, beside the trail, a wolf-dog, +bristling with frost, thrust a long snout heavenward and mourned.</p> +<h2>WHERE THE TRAIL FORKS</h2> +<blockquote><p>“Must I, then, must I, then, now leave this town—<br /> +And you, my love, stay here?”—<i>Schwabian Folk-song</i>.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>The singer, clean-faced and cheery-eyed, bent over and added water +to a pot of simmering beans, and then, rising, a stick of firewood in +hand, drove back the circling dogs from the grub-box and cooking-gear. +He was blue of eye, and his long hair was golden, and it was a pleasure +to look upon his lusty freshness. A new moon was thrusting a dim +horn above the white line of close-packed snow-capped pines which ringed +the camp and segregated it from all the world. Overhead, so clear +it was and cold, the stars danced with quick, pulsating movements. +To the southeast an evanescent greenish glow heralded the opening revels +of the aurora borealis. Two men, in the immediate foreground, +lay upon the bearskin which was their bed. Between the skin and +naked snow was a six-inch layer of pine boughs. The blankets were +rolled back. For shelter, there was a fly at their backs,—a +sheet of canvas stretched between two trees and angling at forty-five +degrees. This caught the radiating heat from the fire and flung +it down upon the skin. Another man sat on a sled, drawn close +to the blaze, mending moccasins. To the right, a heap of frozen +gravel and a rude windlass denoted where they toiled each day in dismal +groping for the pay-streak. To the left, four pairs of snowshoes +stood erect, showing the mode of travel which obtained when the stamped +snow of the camp was left behind.</p> +<p>That Schwabian folk-song sounded strangely pathetic under the cold +northern stars, and did not do the men good who lounged about the fire +after the toil of the day. It put a dull ache into their hearts, +and a yearning which was akin to belly-hunger, and sent their souls +questing southward across the divides to the sun-lands.</p> +<p>“For the love of God, Sigmund, shut up!” expostulated +one of the men. His hands were clenched painfully, but he hid +them from sight in the folds of the bearskin upon which he lay.</p> +<p>“And what for, Dave Wertz?” Sigmund demanded. “Why +shall I not sing when the heart is glad?”</p> +<p>“Because you’ve got no call to, that’s why. +Look about you, man, and think of the grub we’ve been defiling +our bodies with for the last twelvemonth, and the way we’ve lived +and worked like beasts!”</p> +<p>Thus abjured, Sigmund, the golden-haired, surveyed it all, and the +frost-rimmed wolf-dogs and the vapor breaths of the men. “And +why shall not the heart be glad?” he laughed. “It +is good; it is all good. As for the grub—” He +doubled up his arm and caressed the swelling biceps. “And +if we have lived and worked like beasts, have we not been paid like +kings? Twenty dollars to the pan the streak is running, and we +know it to be eight feet thick. It is another Klondike—and +we know it—Jim Hawes there, by your elbow, knows it and complains +not. And there’s Hitchcock! He sews moccasins like +an old woman, and waits against the time. Only you can’t +wait and work until the wash-up in the spring. Then we shall all +be rich, rich as kings, only you cannot wait. You want to go back +to the States. So do I, and I was born there, but I can wait, +when each day the gold in the pan shows up yellow as butter in the churning. +But you want your good time, and, like a child, you cry for it now. +Bah! Why shall I not sing:</p> +<blockquote><p>“In a year, in a year, when the grapes are ripe,<br /> + I shall stay no more away.<br /> +Then if you still are true, my love,<br /> + It will be our wedding day.<br /> +In a year, in a year, when my time is past,<br /> + Then I’ll live in your love for aye.<br /> +Then if you still are true, my love,<br /> + It will be our wedding day.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>The dogs, bristling and growling, drew in closer to the firelight. +There was a monotonous crunch-crunch of webbed shoes, and between each +crunch the dragging forward of the heel of the shoe like the sound of +sifting sugar. Sigmund broke off from his song to hurl oaths and +firewood at the animals. Then the light was parted by a fur-clad +figure, and an Indian girl slipped out of the webs, threw back the hood +of her squirrel-skin <i>parka</i>, and stood in their midst. Sigmund +and the men on the bearskin greeted her as “Sipsu,” with +the customary “Hello,” but Hitchcock made room on the sled +that she might sit beside him.</p> +<p>“And how goes it, Sipsu?” he asked, talking, after her +fashion, in broken English and bastard Chinook. “Is the +hunger still mighty in the camp? and has the witch doctor yet found +the cause wherefore game is scarce and no moose in the land?”</p> +<p>“Yes; even so. There is little game, and we prepare to +eat the dogs. Also has the witch doctor found the cause of all +this evil, and to-morrow will he make sacrifice and cleanse the camp.”</p> +<p>“And what does the sacrifice chance to be?—a new-born +babe or some poor devil of a squaw, old and shaky, who is a care to +the tribe and better out of the way?”</p> +<p>“It chanced not that wise; for the need was great, and he chose +none other than the chief’s daughter; none other than I, Sipsu.”</p> +<p>“Hell!” The word rose slowly to Hitchcock’s +lips, and brimmed over full and deep, in a way which bespoke wonder +and consideration.</p> +<p>“Wherefore we stand by a forking of the trail, you and I,” +she went on calmly, “and I have come that we may look once more +upon each other, and once more only.”</p> +<p>She was born of primitive stock, and primitive had been her traditions +and her days; so she regarded life stoically, and human sacrifice as +part of the natural order. The powers which ruled the day-light +and the dark, the flood and the frost, the bursting of the bud and the +withering of the leaf, were angry and in need of propitiation. +This they exacted in many ways,—death in the bad water, through +the treacherous ice-crust, by the grip of the grizzly, or a wasting +sickness which fell upon a man in his own lodge till he coughed, and +the life of his lungs went out through his mouth and nostrils. +Likewise did the powers receive sacrifice. It was all one. +And the witch doctor was versed in the thoughts of the powers and chose +unerringly. It was very natural. Death came by many ways, +yet was it all one after all,—a manifestation of the all-powerful +and inscrutable.</p> +<p>But Hitchcock came of a later world-breed. His traditions were +less concrete and without reverence, and he said, “Not so, Sipsu. +You are young, and yet in the full joy of life. The witch doctor +is a fool, and his choice is evil. This thing shall not be.”</p> +<p>She smiled and answered, “Life is not kind, and for many reasons. +First, it made of us twain the one white and the other red, which is +bad. Then it crossed our trails, and now it parts them again; +and we can do nothing. Once before, when the gods were angry, +did your brothers come to the camp. They were three, big men and +white, and they said the thing shall not be. But they died quickly, +and the thing was.”</p> +<p>Hitchcock nodded that he heard, half-turned, and lifted his voice. +“Look here, you fellows! There’s a lot of foolery +going on over to the camp, and they’re getting ready to murder +Sipsu. What d’ye say?”</p> +<p>Wertz looked at Hawes, and Hawes looked back, but neither spoke. +Sigmund dropped his head, and petted the shepherd dog between his knees. +He had brought Shep in with him from the outside, and thought a great +deal of the animal. In fact, a certain girl, who was much in his +thoughts, and whose picture in the little locket on his breast often +inspired him to sing, had given him the dog and her blessing when they +kissed good-by and he started on his Northland quest.</p> +<p>“What d’ye say?” Hitchcock repeated.</p> +<p>“Mebbe it’s not so serious,” Hawes answered with +deliberation. “Most likely it’s only a girl’s +story.”</p> +<p>“That isn’t the point!” Hitchcock felt a +hot flush of anger sweep over him at their evident reluctance. +“The question is, if it is so, are we going to stand it? +What are we going to do?”</p> +<p>“I don’t see any call to interfere,” spoke up Wertz. +“If it is so, it is so, and that’s all there is about it. +It’s a way these people have of doing. It’s their +religion, and it’s no concern of ours. Our concern is to +get the dust and then get out of this God-forsaken land. ’T +isn’t fit for naught else but beasts? And what are these +black devils but beasts? Besides, it’d be damn poor policy.”</p> +<p>“That’s what I say,” chimed in Hawes. “Here +we are, four of us, three hundred miles from the Yukon or a white face. +And what can we do against half-a-hundred Indians? If we quarrel +with them, we have to vamose; if we fight, we are wiped out. Further, +we’ve struck pay, and, by God! I, for one, am going to stick by +it!”</p> +<p>“Ditto here,” supplemented Wertz.</p> +<p>Hitchcock turned impatiently to Sigmund, who was softly singing,—</p> +<blockquote><p>“In a year, in a year, when the grapes are ripe,<br /> + I shall stay no more away.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>“Well, it’s this way, Hitchcock,” he finally said, +“I’m in the same boat with the rest. If three-score +bucks have made up their mind to kill the girl, why, we can’t +help it. One rush, and we’d be wiped off the landscape. +And what good’d that be? They’d still have the girl. +There’s no use in going against the customs of a people except +you’re in force.”</p> +<p>“But we are in force!” Hitchcock broke in. “Four +whites are a match for a hundred times as many reds. And think +of the girl!”</p> +<p>Sigmund stroked the dog meditatively. “But I do think +of the girl. And her eyes are blue like summer skies, and laughing +like summer seas, and her hair is yellow, like mine, and braided in +ropes the size of a big man’s arms. She’s waiting +for me, out there, in a better land. And she’s waited long, +and now my pile’s in sight I’m not going to throw it away.”</p> +<p>“And shamed I would be to look into the girl’s blue eyes +and remember the black ones of the girl whose blood was on my hands,” +Hitchcock sneered; for he was born to honor and championship, and to +do the thing for the thing’s sake, nor stop to weigh or measure.</p> +<p>Sigmund shook his head. “You can’t make me mad, +Hitchcock, nor do mad things because of your madness. It’s +a cold business proposition and a question of facts. I didn’t +come to this country for my health, and, further, it’s impossible +for us to raise a hand. If it is so, it is too bad for the girl, +that’s all. It’s a way of her people, and it just +happens we’re on the spot this one time. They’ve done +the same for a thousand-thousand years, and they’re going to do +it now, and they’ll go on doing it for all time to come. +Besides, they’re not our kind. Nor’s the girl. +No, I take my stand with Wertz and Hawes, and—”</p> +<p>But the dogs snarled and drew in, and he broke off, listening to +the crunch-crunch of many snowshoes. Indian after Indian stalked +into the firelight, tall and grim, fur-clad and silent, their shadows +dancing grotesquely on the snow. One, the witch doctor, spoke +gutturally to Sipsu. His face was daubed with savage paint blotches, +and over his shoulders was drawn a wolfskin, the gleaming teeth and +cruel snout surmounting his head. No other word was spoken. +The prospectors held the peace. Sipsu arose and slipped into her +snowshoes.</p> +<p>“Good-by, O my man,” she said to Hitchcock. But +the man who had sat beside her on the sled gave no sign, nor lifted +his head as they filed away into the white forest.</p> +<p>Unlike many men, his faculty of adaptation, while large, had never +suggested the expediency of an alliance with the women of the Northland. +His broad cosmopolitanism had never impelled toward covenanting in marriage +with the daughters of the soil. If it had, his philosophy of life +would not have stood between. But it simply had not. Sipsu? +He had pleasured in camp-fire chats with her, not as a man who knew +himself to be man and she woman, but as a man might with a child, and +as a man of his make certainly would if for no other reason than to +vary the tedium of a bleak existence. That was all. But +there was a certain chivalric thrill of warm blood in him, despite his +Yankee ancestry and New England upbringing, and he was so made that +the commercial aspect of life often seemed meaningless and bore contradiction +to his deeper impulses.</p> +<p>So he sat silent, with head bowed forward, an organic force, greater +than himself, as great as his race, at work within him. Wertz +and Hawes looked askance at him from time to time, a faint but perceptible +trepidation in their manner. Sigmund also felt this. Hitchcock +was strong, and his strength had been impressed upon them in the course +of many an event in their precarious life. So they stood in a +certain definite awe and curiosity as to what his conduct would be when +he moved to action.</p> +<p>But his silence was long, and the fire nigh out, when Wertz stretched +his arms and yawned, and thought he’d go to bed. Then Hitchcock +stood up his full height.</p> +<p>“May God damn your souls to the deepest hells, you chicken-hearted +cowards! I’m done with you!” He said it calmly +enough, but his strength spoke in every syllable, and every intonation +was advertisement of intention. “Come on,” he continued, +“whack up, and in whatever way suits you best. I own a quarter-interest +in the claims; our contracts show that. There’re twenty-five +or thirty ounces in the sack from the test pans. Fetch out the +scales. We’ll divide that now. And you, Sigmund, measure +me my quarter-share of the grub and set it apart. Four of the +dogs are mine, and I want four more. I’ll trade you my share +in the camp outfit and mining-gear for the dogs. And I’ll +throw in my six or seven ounces and the spare 45-90 with the ammunition. +What d’ye say?”</p> +<p>The three men drew apart and conferred. When they returned, +Sigmund acted as spokesman. “We’ll whack up fair with +you, Hitchcock. In everything you’ll get your quarter-share, +neither more nor less; and you can take it or leave it. But we +want the dogs as bad as you do, so you get four, and that’s all. +If you don’t want to take your share of the outfit and gear, why, +that’s your lookout. If you want it, you can have it; if +you don’t, leave it.”</p> +<p>“The letter of the law,” Hitchcock sneered. “But +go ahead. I’m willing. And hurry up. I can’t +get out of this camp and away from its vermin any too quick.”</p> +<p>The division was effected without further comment. He lashed +his meagre belongings upon one of the sleds, rounded in his four dogs, +and harnessed up. His portion of outfit and gear he did not touch, +though he threw onto the sled half a dozen dog harnesses, and challenged +them with his eyes to interfere. But they shrugged their shoulders +and watched him disappear in the forest.</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<p>A man crawled upon his belly through the snow. On every hand +loomed the moose-hide lodges of the camp. Here and there a miserable +dog howled or snarled abuse upon his neighbor. Once, one of them +approached the creeping man, but the man became motionless. The +dog came closer and sniffed, and came yet closer, till its nose touched +the strange object which had not been there when darkness fell. +Then Hitchcock, for it was Hitchcock, upreared suddenly, shooting an +unmittened hand out to the brute’s shaggy throat. And the +dog knew its death in that clutch, and when the man moved on, was left +broken-necked under the stars. In this manner Hitchcock made the +chief’s lodge. For long he lay in the snow without, listening +to the voices of the occupants and striving to locate Sipsu. Evidently +there were many in the tent, and from the sounds they were in high excitement. +At last he heard the girl’s voice, and crawled around so that +only the moose-hide divided them. Then burrowing in the snow, +he slowly wormed his head and shoulders underneath. When the warm +inner air smote his face, he stopped and waited, his legs and the greater +part of his body still on the outside. He could see nothing, nor +did he dare lift his head. On one side of him was a skin bale. +He could smell it, though he carefully felt to be certain. On +the other side his face barely touched a furry garment which he knew +clothed a body. This must be Sipsu. Though he wished she +would speak again, he resolved to risk it.</p> +<p>He could hear the chief and the witch doctor talking high, and in +a far corner some hungry child whimpering to sleep. Squirming +over on his side, he carefully raised his head, still just touching +the furry garment. He listened to the breathing. It was +a woman’s breathing; he would chance it.</p> +<p>He pressed against her side softly but firmly, and felt her start +at the contact. Again he waited, till a questioning hand slipped +down upon his head and paused among the curls. The next instant +the hand turned his face gently upward, and he was gazing into Sipsu’s +eyes.</p> +<p>She was quite collected. Changing her position casually, she +threw an elbow well over on the skin bale, rested her body upon it, +and arranged her <i>parka</i>. In this way he was completely concealed. +Then, and still most casually, she reclined across him, so that he could +breathe between her arm and breast, and when she lowered her head her +ear pressed lightly against his lips.</p> +<p>“When the time suits, go thou,” he whispered, “out +of the lodge and across the snow, down the wind to the bunch of jackpine +in the curve of the creek. There wilt thou find my dogs and my +sled, packed for the trail. This night we go down to the Yukon; +and since we go fast, lay thou hands upon what dogs come nigh thee, +by the scruff of the neck, and drag them to the sled in the curve of +the creek.”</p> +<p>Sipsu shook her head in dissent; but her eyes glistened with gladness, +and she was proud that this man had shown toward her such favor. +But she, like the women of all her race, was born to obey the will masculine, +and when Hitchcock repeated “Go!” he did it with authority, +and though she made no answer he knew that his will was law.</p> +<p>“And never mind harness for the dogs,” he added, preparing +to go. “I shall wait. But waste no time. The +day chaseth the night alway, nor does it linger for man’s pleasure.”</p> +<p>Half an hour later, stamping his feet and swinging his arms by the +sled, he saw her coming, a surly dog in either hand. At the approach +of these his own animals waxed truculent, and he favored them with the +butt of his whip till they quieted. He had approached the camp +up the wind, and sound was the thing to be most feared in making his +presence known.</p> +<p>“Put them into the sled,” he ordered when she had got +the harness on the two dogs. “I want my leaders to the fore.”</p> +<p>But when she had done this, the displaced animals pitched upon the +aliens. Though Hitchcock plunged among them with clubbed rifle, +a riot of sound went up and across the sleeping camp.</p> +<p>“Now we shall have dogs, and in plenty,” he remarked +grimly, slipping an axe from the sled lashings. “Do thou +harness whichever I fling thee, and betweenwhiles protect the team.”</p> +<p>He stepped a space in advance and waited between two pines. +The dogs of the camp were disturbing the night with their jangle, and +he watched for their coming. A dark spot, growing rapidly, took +form upon the dim white expanse of snow. It was a forerunner of +the pack, leaping cleanly, and, after the wolf fashion, singing direction +to its brothers. Hitchcock stood in the shadow. As it sprang +past, he reached out, gripped its forelegs in mid-career, and sent it +whirling earthward. Then he struck it a well-judged blow beneath +the ear, and flung it to Sipsu. And while she clapped on the harness, +he, with his axe, held the passage between the trees, till a shaggy +flood of white teeth and glistening eyes surged and crested just beyond +reach. Sipsu worked rapidly. When she had finished, he leaped +forward, seized and stunned a second, and flung it to her. This +he repeated thrice again, and when the sled team stood snarling in a +string of ten, he called, “Enough!”</p> +<p>But at this instant a young buck, the forerunner of the tribe, and +swift of limb, wading through the dogs and cuffing right and left, attempted +the passage. The butt of Hitchcock’s rifle drove him to +his knees, whence he toppled over sideways. The witch doctor, +running lustily, saw the blow fall.</p> +<p>Hitchcock called to Sipsu to pull out. At her shrill “Chook!” +the maddened brutes shot straight ahead, and the sled, bounding mightily, +just missed unseating her. The powers were evidently angry with +the witch doctor, for at this moment they plunged him upon the trail. +The lead-dog fouled his snowshoes and tripped him up, and the nine succeeding +dogs trod him under foot and the sled bumped over him. But he +was quick to his feet, and the night might have turned out differently +had not Sipsu struck backward with the long dog-whip and smitten him +a blinding blow across the eyes. Hitchcock, hurrying to overtake +her, collided against him as he swayed with pain in the middle of the +trail. Thus it was, when this primitive theologian got back to +the chief’s lodge, that his wisdom had been increased in so far +as concerns the efficacy of the white man’s fist. So, when +he orated then and there in the council, he was wroth against all white +men.</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<p>“Tumble out, you loafers! Tumble out! Grub’ll +be ready before you get into your footgear!”</p> +<p>Dave Wertz threw off the bearskin, sat up, and yawned.</p> +<p>Hawes stretched, discovered a lame muscle in his arm, and rubbed +it sleepily. “Wonder where Hitchcock bunked last night?” +he queried, reaching for his moccasins. They were stiff, and he +walked gingerly in his socks to the fire to thaw them out. “It’s +a blessing he’s gone,” he added, “though he was a +mighty good worker.”</p> +<p>“Yep. Too masterful. That was his trouble. +Too bad for Sipsu. Think he cared for her much?”</p> +<p>“Don’t think so. Just principle. That’s +all. He thought it wasn’t right—and, of course, it +wasn’t,—but that was no reason for us to interfere and get +hustled over the divide before our time.”</p> +<p>“Principle is principle, and it’s good in its place, +but it’s best left to home when you go to Alaska. Eh?” +Wertz had joined his mate, and both were working pliability into their +frozen moccasins. “Think we ought to have taken a hand?”</p> +<p>Sigmund shook his head. He was very busy. A scud of chocolate-colored +foam was rising in the coffee-pot, and the bacon needed turning. +Also, he was thinking about the girl with laughing eyes like summer +seas, and he was humming softly.</p> +<p>His mates chuckled to each other and ceased talking. Though +it was past seven, daybreak was still three hours distant. The +aurora borealis had passed out of the sky, and the camp was an oasis +of light in the midst of deep darkness. And in this light the +forms of the three men were sharply defined. Emboldened by the +silence, Sigmund raised his voice and opened the last stanza of the +old song:-</p> +<blockquote><p>“In a year, in a year, when the grapes are ripe—”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Then the night was split with a rattling volley of rifle-shots. +Hawes sighed, made an effort to straighten himself, and collapsed. +Wertz went over on an elbow with drooping head. He choked a little, +and a dark stream flowed from his mouth. And Sigmund, the Golden-Haired, +his throat a-gurgle with the song, threw up his arms and pitched across +the fire.</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<p>The witch doctor’s eyes were well blackened, and his temper +none of the best; for he quarrelled with the chief over the possession +of Wertz’s rifle, and took more than his share of the part-sack +of beans. Also he appropriated the bearskin, and caused grumbling +among the tribesmen. And finally, he tried to kill Sigmund’s +dog, which the girl had given him, but the dog ran away, while he fell +into the shaft and dislocated his shoulder on the bucket. When +the camp was well looted they went back to their own lodges, and there +was a great rejoicing among the women. Further, a band of moose +strayed over the south divide and fell before the hunters, so the witch +doctor attained yet greater honor, and the people whispered among themselves +that he spoke in council with the gods.</p> +<p>But later, when all were gone, the shepherd dog crept back to the +deserted camp, and all the night long and a day it wailed the dead. +After that it disappeared, though the years were not many before the +Indian hunters noted a change in the breed of timber wolves, and there +were dashes of bright color and variegated markings such as no wolf +bore before.</p> +<h2>A DAUGHTER OF THE AURORA</h2> +<p>“You—what you call—lazy mans, you lazy mans would +desire me to haf for wife. It is not good. Nevaire, no, +nevaire, will lazy mans my hoosband be.”</p> +<p>Thus Joy Molineau spoke her mind to Jack Harrington, even as she +had spoken it, but more tritely and in his own tongue, to Louis Savoy +the previous night.</p> +<p>“Listen, Joy—”</p> +<p>“No, no; why moos’ I listen to lazy mans? It is +vaire bad, you hang rount, make visitation to my cabin, and do nothing. +How you get grub for the famine? Why haf not you the dust? +Odder mans haf plentee.”</p> +<p>“But I work hard, Joy. Never a day am I not on trail +or up creek. Even now have I just come off. My dogs are +yet tired. Other men have luck and find plenty of gold; but I—I +have no luck.”</p> +<p>“Ah! But when this mans with the wife which is Indian, +this mans McCormack, when him discovaire the Klondike, you go not. +Odder mans go; odder mans now rich.”</p> +<p>“You know I was prospecting over on the head-reaches of the +Tanana,” Harrington protested, “and knew nothing of the +Eldorado or Bonanza until it was too late.”</p> +<p>“That is deeferent; only you are—what you call way off.”</p> +<p>“What?”</p> +<p>“Way off. In the—yes—in the dark. It +is nevaire too late. One vaire rich mine is there, on the creek +which is Eldorado. The mans drive the stake and him go ’way. +No odddr mans know what of him become. The mans, him which drive +the stake, is nevaire no more. Sixty days no mans on that claim +file the papaire. Then odder mans, plentee odder mans—what +you call—jump that claim. Then they race, O so queek, like +the wind, to file the papaire. Him be vaire rich. Him get +grub for famine.”</p> +<p>Harrington hid the major portion of his interest.</p> +<p>“When’s the time up?” he asked. “What +claim is it?”</p> +<p>“So I speak Louis Savoy last night,” she continued, ignoring +him. “Him I think the winnaire.”</p> +<p>“Hang Louis Savoy!”</p> +<p>“So Louis Savoy speak in my cabin last night. Him say, +‘Joy, I am strong mans. I haf good dogs. I haf long +wind. I will be winnaire. Then you will haf me for hoosband?’ +And I say to him, I say—”</p> +<p>“What’d you say?”</p> +<p>“I say, ‘If Louis Savoy is winnaire, then will he haf +me for wife.’”</p> +<p>“And if he don’t win?”</p> +<p>“Then Louis Savoy, him will not be—what you call—the +father of my children.”</p> +<p>“And if I win?”</p> +<p>“You winnaire? Ha! ha! Nevaire!”</p> +<p>Exasperating as it was, Joy Molineau’s laughter was pretty +to hear. Harrington did not mind it. He had long since been +broken in. Besides, he was no exception. She had forced +all her lovers to suffer in kind. And very enticing she was just +then, her lips parted, her color heightened by the sharp kiss of the +frost, her eyes vibrant with the lure which is the greatest of all lures +and which may be seen nowhere save in woman’s eyes. Her +sled-dogs clustered about her in hirsute masses, and the leader, Wolf +Fang, laid his long snout softly in her lap.</p> +<p>“If I do win?” Harrington pressed.</p> +<p>She looked from dog to lover and back again.</p> +<p>“What you say, Wolf Fang? If him strong mans and file +the papaire, shall we his wife become? Eh? What you say?”</p> +<p>Wolf Fang picked up his ears and growled at Harrington.</p> +<p>“It is vaire cold,” she suddenly added with feminine +irrelevance, rising to her feet and straightening out the team.</p> +<p>Her lover looked on stolidly. She had kept him guessing from +the first time they met, and patience had been joined unto his virtues.</p> +<p>“Hi! Wolf Fang!” she cried, springing upon the +sled as it leaped into sudden motion. “Ai! Ya! +Mush-on!”</p> +<p>From the corner of his eye Harrington watched her swinging down the +trail to Forty Mile. Where the road forked and crossed the river +to Fort Cudahy, she halted the dogs and turned about.</p> +<p>“O Mistaire Lazy Mans!” she called back. “Wolf +Fang, him say yes—if you winnaire!”</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<p>But somehow, as such things will, it leaked out, and all Forty Mile, +which had hitherto speculated on Joy Molineau’s choice between +her two latest lovers, now hazarded bets and guesses as to which would +win in the forthcoming race. The camp divided itself into two +factions, and every effort was put forth in order that their respective +favorites might be the first in at the finish. There was a scramble +for the best dogs the country could afford, for dogs, and good ones, +were essential, above all, to success. And it meant much to the +victor. Besides the possession of a wife, the like of which had +yet to be created, it stood for a mine worth a million at least.</p> +<p>That fall, when news came down of McCormack’s discovery on +Bonanza, all the Lower Country, Circle City and Forty Mile included, +had stampeded up the Yukon,—at least all save those who, like +Jack Harrington and Louis Savoy, were away prospecting in the west. +Moose pastures and creeks were staked indiscriminately and promiscuously; +and incidentally, one of the unlikeliest of creeks, Eldorado. +Olaf Nelson laid claim to five hundred of its linear feet, duly posted +his notice, and as duly disappeared. At that time the nearest +recording office was in the police barracks at Fort Cudahy, just across +the river from Forty Mile; but when it became bruited abroad that Eldorado +Creek was a treasure-house, it was quickly discovered that Olaf Nelson +had failed to make the down-Yukon trip to file upon his property. +Men cast hungry eyes upon the ownerless claim, where they knew a thousand-thousand +dollars waited but shovel and sluice-box. Yet they dared not touch +it; for there was a law which permitted sixty days to lapse between +the staking and the filing, during which time a claim was immune. +The whole country knew of Olaf Nelson’s disappearance, and scores +of men made preparation for the jumping and for the consequent race +to Fort Cudahy.</p> +<p>But competition at Forty Mile was limited. With the camp devoting +its energies to the equipping either of Jack Harrington or Louis Savoy, +no man was unwise enough to enter the contest single-handed. It +was a stretch of a hundred miles to the Recorder’s office, and +it was planned that the two favorites should have four relays of dogs +stationed along the trail. Naturally, the last relay was to be +the crucial one, and for these twenty-five miles their respective partisans +strove to obtain the strongest possible animals. So bitter did +the factions wax, and so high did they bid, that dogs brought stiffer +prices than ever before in the annals of the country. And, as +it chanced, this scramble for dogs turned the public eye still more +searchingly upon Joy Molineau. Not only was she the cause of it +all, but she possessed the finest sled-dog from Chilkoot to Bering Sea. +As wheel or leader, Wolf Fang had no equal. The man whose sled +he led down the last stretch was bound to win. There could be +no doubt of it. But the community had an innate sense of the fitness +of things, and not once was Joy vexed by overtures for his use. +And the factions drew consolation from the fact that if one man did +not profit by him, neither should the other.</p> +<p>However, since man, in the individual or in the aggregate, has been +so fashioned that he goes through life blissfully obtuse to the deeper +subtleties of his womankind, so the men of Forty Mile failed to divine +the inner deviltry of Joy Molineau. They confessed, afterward, +that they had failed to appreciate this dark-eyed daughter of the aurora, +whose father had traded furs in the country before ever they dreamed +of invading it, and who had herself first opened eyes on the scintillant +northern lights. Nay, accident of birth had not rendered her less +the woman, nor had it limited her woman’s understanding of men. +They knew she played with them, but they did not know the wisdom of +her play, its deepness and its deftness. They failed to see more +than the exposed card, so that to the very last Forty Mile was in a +state of pleasant obfuscation, and it was not until she cast her final +trump that it came to reckon up the score.</p> +<p>Early in the week the camp turned out to start Jack Harrington and +Louis Savoy on their way. They had taken a shrewd margin of time, +for it was their wish to arrive at Olaf Nelson’s claim some days +previous to the expiration of its immunity, that they might rest themselves, +and their dogs be fresh for the first relay. On the way up they +found the men of Dawson already stationing spare dog teams along the +trail, and it was manifest that little expense had been spared in view +of the millions at stake.</p> +<p>A couple of days after the departure of their champions, Forty Mile +began sending up their relays,—first to the seventy-five station, +then to the fifty, and last to the twenty-five. The teams for +the last stretch were magnificent, and so equally matched that the camp +discussed their relative merits for a full hour at fifty below, before +they were permitted to pull out. At the last moment Joy Molineau +dashed in among them on her sled. She drew Lon McFane, who had +charge of Harrington’s team, to one side, and hardly had the first +words left her lips when it was noticed that his lower jaw dropped with +a celerity and emphasis suggestive of great things. He unhitched +Wolf Fang from her sled, put him at the head of Harrington’s team, +and mushed the string of animals into the Yukon trail.</p> +<p>“Poor Louis Savoy!” men said; but Joy Molineau flashed +her black eyes defiantly and drove back to her father’s cabin.</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<p>Midnight drew near on Olaf Nelson’s claim. A few hundred +fur-clad men had preferred sixty below and the jumping, to the inducements +of warm cabins and comfortable bunks. Several score of them had +their notices prepared for posting and their dogs at hand. A bunch +of Captain Constantine’s mounted police had been ordered on duty +that fair play might rule. The command had gone forth that no +man should place a stake till the last second of the day had ticked +itself into the past. In the northland such commands are equal +to Jehovah’s in the matter of potency; the dum-dum as rapid and +effective as the thunderbolt. It was clear and cold. The +aurora borealis painted palpitating color revels on the sky. Rosy +waves of cold brilliancy swept across the zenith, while great coruscating +bars of greenish white blotted out the stars, or a Titan’s hand +reared mighty arches above the Pole. And at this mighty display +the wolf-dogs howled as had their ancestors of old time.</p> +<p>A bearskin-coated policeman stepped prominently to the fore, watch +in hand. Men hurried among the dogs, rousing them to their feet, +untangling their traces, straightening them out. The entries came +to the mark, firmly gripping stakes and notices. They had gone +over the boundaries of the claim so often that they could now have done +it blindfolded. The policeman raised his hand. Casting off +their superfluous furs and blankets, and with a final cinching of belts, +they came to attention.</p> +<p>“Time!”</p> +<p>Sixty pairs of hands unmitted; as many pairs of moccasins gripped +hard upon the snow.</p> +<p>“Go!”</p> +<p>They shot across the wide expanse, round the four sides, sticking +notices at every corner, and down the middle where the two centre stakes +were to be planted. Then they sprang for the sleds on the frozen +bed of the creek. An anarchy of sound and motion broke out. +Sled collided with sled, and dog-team fastened upon dog-team with bristling +manes and screaming fangs. The narrow creek was glutted with the +struggling mass. Lashes and butts of dog-whips were distributed +impartially among men and brutes. And to make it of greater moment, +each participant had a bunch of comrades intent on breaking him out +of jam. But one by one, and by sheer strength, the sleds crept +out and shot from sight in the darkness of the overhanging banks.</p> +<p>Jack Harrington had anticipated this crush and waited by his sled +until it untangled. Louis Savoy, aware of his rival’s greater +wisdom in the matter of dog-driving, had followed his lead and also +waited. The rout had passed beyond earshot when they took the +trail, and it was not till they had travelled the ten miles or so down +to Bonanza that they came upon it, speeding along in single file, but +well bunched. There was little noise, and less chance of one passing +another at that stage. The sleds, from runner to runner, measured +sixteen inches, the trail eighteen; but the trail, packed down fully +a foot by the traffic, was like a gutter. On either side spread +the blanket of soft snow crystals. If a man turned into this in +an endeavor to pass, his dogs would wallow perforce to their bellies +and slow down to a snail’s pace. So the men lay close to +their leaping sleds and waited. No alteration in position occurred +down the fifteen miles of Bonanza and Klondike to Dawson, where the +Yukon was encountered. Here the first relays waited. But +here, intent to kill their first teams, if necessary, Harrington and +Savoy had had their fresh teams placed a couple of miles beyond those +of the others. In the confusion of changing sleds they passed +full half the bunch. Perhaps thirty men were still leading them +when they shot on to the broad breast of the Yukon. Here was the +tug. When the river froze in the fall, a mile of open water had +been left between two mighty jams. This had but recently crusted, +the current being swift, and now it was as level, hard, and slippery +as a dance floor. The instant they struck this glare ice Harrington +came to his knees, holding precariously on with one hand, his whip singing +fiercely among his dogs and fearsome abjurations hurtling about their +ears. The teams spread out on the smooth surface, each straining +to the uttermost. But few men in the North could lift their dogs +as did Jack Harrington. At once he began to pull ahead, and Louis +Savoy, taking the pace, hung on desperately, his leaders running even +with the tail of his rival’s sled.</p> +<p>Midway on the glassy stretch their relays shot out from the bank. +But Harrington did not slacken. Watching his chance when the new +sled swung in close, he leaped across, shouting as he did so and jumping +up the pace of his fresh dogs. The other driver fell off somehow. +Savoy did likewise with his relay, and the abandoned teams, swerving +to right and left, collided with the others and piled the ice with confusion. +Harrington cut out the pace; Savoy hung on. As they neared the +end of the glare ice, they swept abreast of the leading sled. +When they shot into the narrow trail between the soft snowbanks, they +led the race; and Dawson, watching by the light of the aurora, swore +that it was neatly done.</p> +<p>When the frost grows lusty at sixty below, men cannot long remain +without fire or excessive exercise, and live. So Harrington and +Savoy now fell to the ancient custom of “ride and run.” +Leaping from their sleds, tow-thongs in hand, they ran behind till the +blood resumed its wonted channels and expelled the frost, then back +to the sleds till the heat again ebbed away. Thus, riding and +running, they covered the second and third relays. Several times, +on smooth ice, Savoy spurted his dogs, and as often failed to gain past. +Strung along for five miles in the rear, the remainder of the race strove +to overtake them, but vainly, for to Louis Savoy alone was the glory +given of keeping Jack Harrington’s killing pace.</p> +<p>As they swung into the seventy-five-mile station, Lon McFane dashed +alongside; Wolf Fang in the lead caught Harrington’s eye, and +he knew that the race was his. No team in the North could pass +him on those last twenty-five miles. And when Savoy saw Wolf Fang +heading his rival’s team, he knew that he was out of the running, +and he cursed softly to himself, in the way woman is most frequently +cursed. But he still clung to the other’s smoking trail, +gambling on chance to the last. And as they churned along, the +day breaking in the southeast, they marvelled in joy and sorrow at that +which Joy Molineau had done.</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<p>Forty Mile had early crawled out of its sleeping furs and congregated +near the edge of the trail. From this point it could view the +up-Yukon course to its first bend several miles away. Here it +could also see across the river to the finish at Fort Cudahy, where +the Gold Recorder nervously awaited. Joy Molineau had taken her +position several rods back from the trail, and under the circumstances, +the rest of Forty Mile forbore interposing itself. So the space +was clear between her and the slender line of the course. Fires +had been built, and around these men wagered dust and dogs, the long +odds on Wolf Fang.</p> +<p>“Here they come!” shrilled an Indian boy from the top +of a pine.</p> +<p>Up the Yukon a black speck appeared against the snow, closely followed +by a second. As these grew larger, more black specks manifested +themselves, but at a goodly distance to the rear. Gradually they +resolved themselves into dogs and sleds, and men lying flat upon them. +“Wolf Fang leads,” a lieutenant of police whispered to Joy. +She smiled her interest back.</p> +<p>“Ten to one on Harrington!” cried a Birch Creek King, +dragging out his sack.</p> +<p>“The Queen, her pay you not mooch?” queried Joy.</p> +<p>The lieutenant shook his head.</p> +<p>“You have some dust, ah, how mooch?” she continued.</p> +<p>He exposed his sack. She gauged it with a rapid eye.</p> +<p>“Mebbe—say—two hundred, eh? Good. Now +I give—what you call—the tip. Covaire the bet.” +Joy smiled inscrutably. The lieutenant pondered. He glanced +up the trail. The two men had risen to their knees and were lashing +their dogs furiously, Harrington in the lead.</p> +<p>“Ten to one on Harrington!” bawled the Birch Creek King, +flourishing his sack in the lieutenant’s face.</p> +<p>“Covaire the bet,” Joy prompted.</p> +<p>He obeyed, shrugging his shoulders in token that he yielded, not +to the dictate of his reason, but to her charm. Joy nodded to +reassure him.</p> +<p>All noise ceased. Men paused in the placing of bets.</p> +<p>Yawing and reeling and plunging, like luggers before the wind, the +sleds swept wildly upon them. Though he still kept his leader +up to the tail of Harrington’s sled, Louis Savoy’s face +was without hope. Harrington’s mouth was set. He looked +neither to the right nor to the left. His dogs were leaping in +perfect rhythm, firm-footed, close to the trail, and Wolf Fang, head +low and unseeing, whining softly, was leading his comrades magnificently.</p> +<p>Forty Mile stood breathless. Not a sound, save the roar of +the runners and the voice of the whips.</p> +<p>Then the clear voice of Joy Molineau rose on the air. “Ai! +Ya! Wolf Fang! Wolf Fang!”</p> +<p>Wolf Fang heard. He left the trail sharply, heading directly +for his mistress. The team dashed after him, and the sled poised +an instant on a single runner, then shot Harrington into the snow. +Savoy was by like a flash. Harrington pulled to his feet and watched +him skimming across the river to the Gold Recorder’s. He +could not help hearing what was said.</p> +<p>“Ah, him do vaire well,” Joy Molineau was explaining +to the lieutenant. “Him—what you call—set the +pace. Yes, him set the pace vaire well.”</p> +<h2>AT THE RAINBOW’S END</h2> +<h3>I</h3> +<p>It was for two reasons that Montana Kid discarded his “chaps” +and Mexican spurs, and shook the dust of the Idaho ranges from his feet. +In the first place, the encroachments of a steady, sober, and sternly +moral civilization had destroyed the primeval status of the western +cattle ranges, and refined society turned the cold eye of disfavor upon +him and his ilk. In the second place, in one of its cyclopean +moments the race had arisen and shoved back its frontier several thousand +miles. Thus, with unconscious foresight, did mature society make +room for its adolescent members. True, the new territory was mostly +barren; but its several hundred thousand square miles of frigidity at +least gave breathing space to those who else would have suffocated at +home.</p> +<p>Montana Kid was such a one. Heading for the sea-coast, with +a haste several sheriff’s posses might possibly have explained, +and with more nerve than coin of the realm, he succeeded in shipping +from a Puget Sound port, and managed to survive the contingent miseries +of steerage sea-sickness and steerage grub. He was rather sallow +and drawn, but still his own indomitable self, when he landed on the +Dyea beach one day in the spring of the year. Between the cost +of dogs, grub, and outfits, and the customs exactions of the two clashing +governments, it speedily penetrated to his understanding that the Northland +was anything save a poor man’s Mecca. So he cast about him +in search of quick harvests. Between the beach and the passes +were scattered many thousands of passionate pilgrims. These pilgrims +Montana Kid proceeded to farm. At first he dealt faro in a pine-board +gambling shack; but disagreeable necessity forced him to drop a sudden +period into a man’s life, and to move on up trail. Then +he effected a corner in horseshoe nails, and they circulated at par +with legal tender, four to the dollar, till an unexpected consignment +of a hundred barrels or so broke the market and forced him to disgorge +his stock at a loss. After that he located at Sheep Camp, organized +the professional packers, and jumped the freight ten cents a pound in +a single day. In token of their gratitude, the packers patronized +his faro and roulette layouts and were mulcted cheerfully of their earnings. +But his commercialism was of too lusty a growth to be long endured; +so they rushed him one night, burned his shanty, divided the bank, and +headed him up the trail with empty pockets.</p> +<p>Ill-luck was his running mate. He engaged with responsible +parties to run whisky across the line by way of precarious and unknown +trails, lost his Indian guides, and had the very first outfit confiscated +by the Mounted Police. Numerous other misfortunes tended to make +him bitter of heart and wanton of action, and he celebrated his arrival +at Lake Bennett by terrorizing the camp for twenty straight hours. +Then a miners’ meeting took him in hand, and commanded him to +make himself scarce. He had a wholesome respect for such assemblages, +and he obeyed in such haste that he inadvertently removed himself at +the tail-end of another man’s dog team. This was equivalent +to horse-stealing in a more mellow clime, so he hit only the high places +across Bennett and down Tagish, and made his first camp a full hundred +miles to the north.</p> +<p>Now it happened that the break of spring was at hand, and many of +the principal citizens of Dawson were travelling south on the last ice. +These he met and talked with, noted their names and possessions, and +passed on. He had a good memory, also a fair imagination; nor +was veracity one of his virtues.</p> +<h3>II</h3> +<p>Dawson, always eager for news, beheld Montana Kid’s sled heading +down the Yukon, and went out on the ice to meet him. No, he hadn’t +any newspapers; didn’t know whether Durrant was hanged yet, nor +who had won the Thanksgiving game; hadn’t heard whether the United +States and Spain had gone to fighting; didn’t know who Dreyfus +was; but O’Brien? Hadn’t they heard? O’Brien, +why, he was drowned in the White Horse; Sitka Charley the only one of +the party who escaped. Joe Ladue? Both legs frozen and amputated +at the Five Fingers. And Jack Dalton? Blown up on the “Sea +Lion” with all hands. And Bettles? Wrecked on the +“Carthagina,” in Seymour Narrows,—twenty survivors +out of three hundred. And Swiftwater Bill? Gone through +the rotten ice of Lake LeBarge with six female members of the opera +troupe he was convoying. Governor Walsh? Lost with all hands +and eight sleds on the Thirty Mile. Devereaux? Who was Devereaux? +Oh, the courier! Shot by Indians on Lake Marsh.</p> +<p>So it went. The word was passed along. Men shouldered +in to ask after friends and partners, and in turn were shouldered out, +too stunned for blasphemy. By the time Montana Kid gained the +bank he was surrounded by several hundred fur-clad miners. When +he passed the Barracks he was the centre of a procession. At the +Opera House he was the nucleus of an excited mob, each member struggling +for a chance to ask after some absent comrade. On every side he +was being invited to drink. Never before had the Klondike thus +opened its arms to a che-cha-qua. All Dawson was humming. +Such a series of catastrophes had never occurred in its history. +Every man of note who had gone south in the spring had been wiped out. +The cabins vomited forth their occupants. Wild-eyed men hurried +down from the creeks and gulches to seek out this man who had told a +tale of such disaster. The Russian half-breed wife of Bettles +sought the fireplace, inconsolable, and rocked back and forth, and ever +and anon flung white wood-ashes upon her raven hair. The flag +at the Barracks flopped dismally at half-mast. Dawson mourned +its dead.</p> +<p>Why Montana Kid did this thing no man may know. Nor beyond +the fact that the truth was not in him, can explanation be hazarded. +But for five whole days he plunged the land in wailing and sorrow, and +for five whole days he was the only man in the Klondike. The country +gave him its best of bed and board. The saloons granted him the +freedom of their bars. Men sought him continuously. The +high officials bowed down to him for further information, and he was +feasted at the Barracks by Constantine and his brother officers. +And then, one day, Devereaux, the government courier, halted his tired +dogs before the gold commissioner’s office. Dead? +Who said so? Give him a moose steak and he’d show them how +dead he was. Why, Governor Walsh was in camp on the Little Salmon, +and O’Brien coming in on the first water. Dead? Give +him a moose steak and he’d show them.</p> +<p>And forthwith Dawson hummed. The Barracks’ flag rose +to the masthead, and Bettles’ wife washed herself and put on clean +raiment. The community subtly signified its desire that Montana +Kid obliterate himself from the landscape. And Montana Kid obliterated; +as usual, at the tail-end of some one else’s dog team. Dawson +rejoiced when he headed down the Yukon, and wished him godspeed to the +ultimate destination of the case-hardened sinner. After that the +owner of the dogs bestirred himself, made complaint to Constantine, +and from him received the loan of a policeman.</p> +<h3>III</h3> +<p>With Circle City in prospect and the last ice crumbling under his +runners, Montana Kid took advantage of the lengthening days and travelled +his dogs late and early. Further, he had but little doubt that +the owner of the dogs in question had taken his trail, and he wished +to make American territory before the river broke. But by the +afternoon of the third day it became evident that he had lost in his +race with spring. The Yukon was growling and straining at its +fetters. Long détours became necessary, for the trail had +begun to fall through into the swift current beneath, while the ice, +in constant unrest, was thundering apart in great gaping fissures. +Through these and through countless airholes, the water began to sweep +across the surface of the ice, and by the time he pulled into a woodchopper’s +cabin on the point of an island, the dogs were being rushed off their +feet and were swimming more often than not. He was greeted sourly +by the two residents, but he unharnessed and proceeded to cook up.</p> +<p>Donald and Davy were fair specimens of frontier inefficients. +Canadian-born, city-bred Scots, in a foolish moment they had resigned +their counting-house desks, drawn upon their savings, and gone Klondiking. +And now they were feeling the rough edge of the country. Grubless, +spiritless, with a lust for home in their hearts, they had been staked +by the P. C. Company to cut wood for its steamers, with the promise +at the end of a passage home. Disregarding the possibilities of +the ice-run, they had fittingly demonstrated their inefficiency by their +choice of the island on which they located. Montana Kid, though +possessing little knowledge of the break-up of a great river, looked +about him dubiously, and cast yearning glances at the distant bank where +the towering bluffs promised immunity from all the ice of the Northland.</p> +<p>After feeding himself and dogs, he lighted his pipe and strolled +out to get a better idea of the situation. The island, like all +its river brethren, stood higher at the upper end, and it was here that +Donald and Davy had built their cabin and piled many cords of wood. +The far shore was a full mile away, while between the island and the +near shore lay a back-channel perhaps a hundred yards across. +At first sight of this, Montana Kid was tempted to take his dogs and +escape to the mainland, but on closer inspection he discovered a rapid +current flooding on top. Below, the river twisted sharply to the +west, and in this turn its breast was studded by a maze of tiny islands.</p> +<p>“That’s where she’ll jam,” he remarked to +himself.</p> +<p>Half a dozen sleds, evidently bound up-stream to Dawson, were splashing +through the chill water to the tail of the island. Travel on the +river was passing from the precarious to the impossible, and it was +nip and tuck with them till they gained the island and came up the path +of the wood-choppers toward the cabin. One of them, snow-blind, +towed helplessly at the rear of a sled. Husky young fellows they +were, rough-garmented and trail-worn, yet Montana Kid had met the breed +before and knew at once that it was not his kind.</p> +<p>“Hello! How’s things up Dawson-way?” queried +the foremost, passing his eye over Donald and Davy and settling it upon +the Kid.</p> +<p>A first meeting in the wilderness is not characterized by formality. +The talk quickly became general, and the news of the Upper and Lower +Countries was swapped equitably back and forth. But the little +the newcomers had was soon over with, for they had wintered at Minook, +a thousand miles below, where nothing was doing. Montana Kid, +however, was fresh from Salt Water, and they annexed him while they +pitched camp, swamping him with questions concerning the outside, from +which they had been cut off for a twelvemonth.</p> +<p>A shrieking split, suddenly lifting itself above the general uproar +on the river, drew everybody to the bank. The surface water had +increased in depth, and the ice, assailed from above and below, was +struggling to tear itself from the grip of the shores. Fissures +reverberated into life before their eyes, and the air was filled with +multitudinous crackling, crisp and sharp, like the sound that goes up +on a clear day from the firing line.</p> +<p>From up the river two men were racing a dog team toward them on an +uncovered stretch of ice. But even as they looked, the pair struck +the water and began to flounder through. Behind, where their feet +had sped the moment before, the ice broke up and turned turtle. +Through this opening the river rushed out upon them to their waists, +burying the sled and swinging the dogs off at right angles in a drowning +tangle. But the men stopped their flight to give the animals a +fighting chance, and they groped hurriedly in the cold confusion, slashing +at the detaining traces with their sheath-knives. Then they fought +their way to the bank through swirling water and grinding ice, where, +foremost in leaping to the rescue among the jarring fragments, was the +Kid.</p> +<p>“Why, blime me, if it ain’t Montana Kid!” exclaimed +one of the men whom the Kid was just placing upon his feet at the top +of the bank. He wore the scarlet tunic of the Mounted Police and +jocularly raised his right hand in salute.</p> +<p>“Got a warrant for you, Kid,” he continued, drawing a +bedraggled paper from his breast pocket, “an’ I ’ope +as you’ll come along peaceable.”</p> +<p>Montana Kid looked at the chaotic river and shrugged his shoulders, +and the policeman, following his glance, smiled.</p> +<p>“Where are the dogs?” his companion asked.</p> +<p>“Gentlemen,” interrupted the policeman, “this ’ere +mate o’ mine is Jack Sutherland, owner of Twenty-Two Eldorado—”</p> +<p>“Not Sutherland of ’92?” broke in the snow-blinded +Minook man, groping feebly toward him.</p> +<p>“The same.” Sutherland gripped his hand.</p> +<p>“And you?”</p> +<p>“Oh, I’m after your time, but I remember you in my freshman +year,—you were doing P. G. work then. Boys,” he called, +turning half about, “this is Sutherland, Jack Sutherland, erstwhile +full-back on the ’Varsity. Come up, you gold-chasers, and +fall upon him! Sutherland, this is Greenwich,—played quarter +two seasons back.”</p> +<p>“Yes, I read of the game,” Sutherland said, shaking hands. +“And I remember that big run of yours for the first touchdown.”</p> +<p>Greenwich flushed darkly under his tanned skin and awkwardly made +room for another.</p> +<p>“And here’s Matthews,—Berkeley man. And we’ve +got some Eastern cracks knocking about, too. Come up, you Princeton +men! Come up! This is Sutherland, Jack Sutherland!”</p> +<p>Then they fell upon him heavily, carried him into camp, and supplied +him with dry clothes and numerous mugs of black tea.</p> +<p>Donald and Davy, overlooked, had retired to their nightly game of +crib. Montana Kid followed them with the policeman.</p> +<p>“Here, get into some dry togs,” he said, pulling them +from out his scanty kit. “Guess you’ll have to bunk +with me, too.”</p> +<p>“Well, I say, you’re a good ’un,” the policeman +remarked as he pulled on the other man’s socks. “Sorry I’ve +got to take you back to Dawson, but I only ’ope they won’t +be ’ard on you.”</p> +<p>“Not so fast.” The Kid smiled curiously. +“We ain’t under way yet. When I go I’m going +down river, and I guess the chances are you’ll go along.”</p> +<p>“Not if I know myself—”</p> +<p>“Come on outside, and I’ll show you, then. These +damn fools,” thrusting a thumb over his shoulder at the two Scots, +“played smash when they located here. Fill your pipe, first—this +is pretty good plug—and enjoy yourself while you can. You +haven’t many smokes before you.”</p> +<p>The policeman went with him wonderingly, while Donald and Davy dropped +their cards and followed. The Minook men noticed Montana Kid pointing +now up the river, now down, and came over.</p> +<p>“What’s up?” Sutherland demanded.</p> +<p>“Nothing much.” Nonchalance sat well upon the Kid. +“Just a case of raising hell and putting a chunk under. +See that bend down there? That’s where she’ll jam +millions of tons of ice. Then she’ll jam in the bends up +above, millions of tons. Upper jam breaks first, lower jam holds, +pouf!” He dramatically swept the island with his hand. +“Millions of tons,” he added reflectively.</p> +<p>“And what of the woodpiles?” Davy questioned.</p> +<p>The Kid repeated his sweeping gestures and Davy wailed, “The +labor of months! It canna be! Na, na, lad, it canna be. +I doot not it’s a jowk. Ay, say that it is,” he appealed.</p> +<p>But when the Kid laughed harshly and turned on his heel, Davy flung +himself upon the piles and began frantically to toss the cordwood back +from the bank.</p> +<p>“Lend a hand, Donald!” he cried. “Can ye +no lend a hand? ’T is the labor of months and the passage +home!”</p> +<p>Donald caught him by the arm and shook him, but he tore free. +“Did ye no hear, man? Millions of tons, and the island shall +be sweepit clean.”</p> +<p>“Straighten yersel’ up, man,” said Donald. +“It’s a bit fashed ye are.”</p> +<p>But Davy fell upon the cordwood. Donald stalked back to the +cabin, buckled on his money belt and Davy’s, and went out to the +point of the island where the ground was highest and where a huge pine +towered above its fellows.</p> +<p>The men before the cabin heard the ringing of his axe and smiled. +Greenwich returned from across the island with the word that they were +penned in. It was impossible to cross the back-channel. +The blind Minook man began to sing, and the rest joined in with—</p> +<blockquote><p>“Wonder if it’s true?<br /> +Does it seem so to you?<br /> +Seems to me he’s lying—<br /> +Oh, I wonder if it’s true?”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>“It’s ay sinfu’,” Davy moaned, lifting his +head and watching them dance in the slanting rays of the sun. +“And my guid wood a’ going to waste.”</p> +<blockquote><p>“Oh, I wonder if it’s true,”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>was flaunted back.</p> +<p>The noise of the river ceased suddenly. A strange calm wrapped +about them. The ice had ripped from the shores and was floating +higher on the surface of the river, which was rising. Up it came, +swift and silent, for twenty feet, till the huge cakes rubbed softly +against the crest of the bank. The tail of the island, being lower, +was overrun. Then, without effort, the white flood started down-stream. +But the sound increased with the momentum, and soon the whole island +was shaking and quivering with the shock of the grinding bergs. +Under pressure, the mighty cakes, weighing hundreds of tons, were shot +into the air like peas. The frigid anarchy increased its riot, +and the men had to shout into one another’s ears to be heard. +Occasionally the racket from the back channel could be heard above the +tumult. The island shuddered with the impact of an enormous cake +which drove in squarely upon its point. It ripped a score of pines +out by the roots, then swinging around and over, lifted its muddy base +from the bottom of the river and bore down upon the cabin, slicing the +bank and trees away like a gigantic knife. It seemed barely to +graze the corner of the cabin, but the cribbed logs tilted up like matches, +and the structure, like a toy house, fell backward in ruin.</p> +<p>“The labor of months! The labor of months, and the passage +home!” Davy wailed, while Montana Kid and the policeman dragged +him backward from the woodpiles.</p> +<p>“You’ll ’ave plenty o’ hoppertunity all in +good time for yer passage ’ome,” the policeman growled, +clouting him alongside the head and sending him flying into safety.</p> +<p>Donald, from the top of the pine, saw the devastating berg sweep +away the cordwood and disappear down-stream. As though satisfied +with this damage, the ice-flood quickly dropped to its old level and +began to slacken its pace. The noise likewise eased down, and +the others could hear Donald shouting from his eyrie to look down-stream. +As forecast, the jam had come among the islands in the bend, and the +ice was piling up in a great barrier which stretched from shore to shore. +The river came to a standstill, and the water finding no outlet began +to rise. It rushed up till the island was awash, the men splashing +around up to their knees, and the dogs swimming to the ruins of the +cabin. At this stage it abruptly became stationary, with no perceptible +rise or fall.</p> +<p>Montana Kid shook his head. “It’s jammed above, +and no more’s coming down.”</p> +<p>“And the gamble is, which jam will break first,” Sutherland +added.</p> +<p>“Exactly,” the Kid affirmed. “If the upper +jam breaks first, we haven’t a chance. Nothing will stand +before it.”</p> +<p>The Minook men turned away in silence, but soon “Rumsky Ho” +floated upon the quiet air, followed by “The Orange and the Black.” +Room was made in the circle for Montana Kid and the policeman, and they +quickly caught the ringing rhythm of the choruses as they drifted on +from song to song.</p> +<p>“Oh, Donald, will ye no lend a hand?” Davy sobbed at +the foot of the tree into which his comrade had climbed. “Oh, +Donald, man, will ye no lend a hand?” he sobbed again, his hands +bleeding from vain attempts to scale the slippery trunk.</p> +<p>But Donald had fixed his gaze up river, and now his voice rang out, +vibrant with fear:—</p> +<blockquote><p>“God Almichty, here she comes!”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Standing knee-deep in the icy water, the Minook men, with Montana +Kid and the policeman, gripped hands and raised their voices in the +terrible, “Battle Hymn of the Republic.” But the words +were drowned in the advancing roar.</p> +<p>And to Donald was vouchsafed a sight such as no man may see and live. +A great wall of white flung itself upon the island. Trees, dogs, +men, were blotted out, as though the hand of God had wiped the face +of nature clean. This much he saw, then swayed an instant longer +in his lofty perch and hurtled far out into the frozen hell.</p> +<h2>THE SCORN OF WOMEN</h2> +<h3>I</h3> +<p>Once Freda and Mrs. Eppingwell clashed.</p> +<p>Now Freda was a Greek girl and a dancer. At least she purported +to be Greek; but this was doubted by many, for her classic face had +overmuch strength in it, and the tides of hell which rose in her eyes +made at rare moments her ethnology the more dubious. To a few—men—this +sight had been vouchsafed, and though long years may have passed, they +have not forgotten, nor will they ever forget. She never talked +of herself, so that it were well to let it go down that when in repose, +expurgated, Greek she certainly was. Her furs were the most magnificent +in all the country from Chilcoot to St. Michael’s, and her name +was common on the lips of men. But Mrs. Eppingwell was the wife +of a captain; also a social constellation of the first magnitude, the +path of her orbit marking the most select coterie in Dawson,—a +coterie captioned by the profane as the “official clique.” +Sitka Charley had travelled trail with her once, when famine drew tight +and a man’s life was less than a cup of flour, and his judgment +placed her above all women. Sitka Charley was an Indian; his criteria +were primitive; but his word was flat, and his verdict a hall-mark in +every camp under the circle.</p> +<p>These two women were man-conquering, man-subduing machines, each +in her own way, and their ways were different. Mrs. Eppingwell +ruled in her own house, and at the Barracks, where were younger sons +galore, to say nothing of the chiefs of the police, the executive, and +the judiciary. Freda ruled down in the town; but the men she ruled +were the same who functioned socially at the Barracks or were fed tea +and canned preserves at the hand of Mrs. Eppingwell in her hillside +cabin of rough-hewn logs. Each knew the other existed; but their +lives were apart as the Poles, and while they must have heard stray +bits of news and were curious, they were never known to ask a question. +And there would have been no trouble had not a free lance in the shape +of the model-woman come into the land on the first ice, with a spanking +dog-team and a cosmopolitan reputation. Loraine Lisznayi—alliterative, +dramatic, and Hungarian—precipitated the strife, and because of +her Mrs. Eppingwell left her hillside and invaded Freda’s domain, +and Freda likewise went up from the town to spread confusion and embarrassment +at the Governor’s ball.</p> +<p>All of which may be ancient history so far as the Klondike is concerned, +but very few, even in Dawson, know the inner truth of the matter; nor +beyond those few are there any fit to measure the wife of the captain +or the Greek dancer. And that all are now permitted to understand, +let honor be accorded Sitka Charley. From his lips fell the main +facts in the screed herewith presented. It ill befits that Freda +herself should have waxed confidential to a mere scribbler of words, +or that Mrs. Eppingwell made mention of the things which happened. +They may have spoken, but it is unlikely.</p> +<h3>II</h3> +<p>Floyd Vanderlip was a strong man, apparently. Hard work and +hard grub had no terrors for him, as his early history in the country +attested. In danger he was a lion, and when he held in check half +a thousand starving men, as he once did, it was remarked that no cooler +eye ever took the glint of sunshine on a rifle-sight. He had but +one weakness, and even that, rising from out his strength, was of a +negative sort. His parts were strong, but they lacked co-ordination. +Now it happened that while his centre of amativeness was pronounced, +it had lain mute and passive during the years he lived on moose and +salmon and chased glowing Eldorados over chill divides. But when +he finally blazed the corner-post and centre-stakes on one of the richest +Klondike claims, it began to quicken; and when he took his place in +society, a full-fledged Bonanza King, it awoke and took charge of him. +He suddenly recollected a girl in the States, and it came to him quite +forcibly, not only that she might be waiting for him, but that a wife +was a very pleasant acquisition for a man who lived some several degrees +north of 53. So he wrote an appropriate note, enclosed a letter +of credit generous enough to cover all expenses, including trousseau +and chaperon, and addressed it to one Flossie. Flossie? +One could imagine the rest. However, after that he built a comfortable +cabin on his claim, bought another in Dawson, and broke the news to +his friends.</p> +<p>And just here is where the lack of co-ordination came into play. +The waiting was tedious, and having been long denied, the amative element +could not brook further delay. Flossie was coming; but Loraine +Lisznayi was here. And not only was Loraine Lisznayi here, but +her cosmopolitan reputation was somewhat the worse for wear, and she +was not exactly so young as when she posed in the studios of artist +queens and received at her door the cards of cardinals and princes. +Also, her finances were unhealthy. Having run the gamut in her +time, she was now not averse to trying conclusions with a Bonanza King +whose wealth was such that he could not guess it within six figures. +Like a wise soldier casting about after years of service for a comfortable +billet, she had come into the Northland to be married. So, one +day, her eyes flashed up into Floyd Vanderlip’s as he was buying +table linen for Flossie in the P. C. Company’s store, and the +thing was settled out of hand.</p> +<p>When a man is free much may go unquestioned, which, should he be +rash enough to cumber himself with domestic ties, society will instantly +challenge. Thus it was with Floyd Vanderlip. Flossie was +coming, and a low buzz went up when Loraine Lisznayi rode down the main +street behind his wolf-dogs. She accompanied the lady reporter +of the “Kansas City Star” when photographs were taken of +his Bonanza properties, and watched the genesis of a six-column article. +At that time they were dined royally in Flossie’s cabin, on Flossie’s +table linen. Likewise there were comings and goings, and junketings, +all perfectly proper, by the way, which caused the men to say sharp +things and the women to be spiteful. Only Mrs. Eppingwell did +not hear. The distant hum of wagging tongues rose faintly, but +she was prone to believe good of people and to close her ears to evil; +so she paid no heed.</p> +<p>Not so with Freda. She had no cause to love men, but, by some +strange alchemy of her nature, her heart went out to women,—to +women whom she had less cause to love. And her heart went out +to Flossie, even then travelling the Long Trail and facing into the +bitter North to meet a man who might not wait for her. A shrinking, +clinging sort of a girl, Freda pictured her, with weak mouth and pretty +pouting lips, blow-away sun-kissed hair, and eyes full of the merry +shallows and the lesser joys of life. But she also pictured Flossie, +face nose-strapped and frost-rimed, stumbling wearily behind the dogs. +Wherefore she smiled, dancing one night, upon Floyd Vanderlip.</p> +<p>Few men are so constituted that they may receive the smile of Freda +unmoved; nor among them can Floyd Vanderlip be accounted. The +grace he had found with the model-woman had caused him to re-measure +himself, and by the favor in which he now stood with the Greek dancer +he felt himself doubly a man. There were unknown qualities and +depths in him, evidently, which they perceived. He did not know +exactly what those qualities and depths were, but he had a hazy idea +that they were there somewhere, and of them was bred a great pride in +himself. A man who could force two women such as these to look +upon him a second time, was certainly a most remarkable man. Some +day, when he had the time, he would sit down and analyze his strength; +but now, just now, he would take what the gods had given him. +And a thin little thought began to lift itself, and he fell to wondering +whatever under the sun he had seen in Flossie, and to regret exceedingly +that he had sent for her. Of course, Freda was out of the running. +His dumps were the richest on Bonanza Creek, and they were many, while +he was a man of responsibility and position. But Loraine Lisznayi—she +was just the woman. Her life had been large; she could do the +honors of his establishment and give tone to his dollars.</p> +<p>But Freda smiled, and continued to smile, till he came to spend much +time with her. When she, too, rode down the street behind his +wolf-dogs, the model-woman found food for thought, and the next time +they were together dazzled him with her princes and cardinals and personal +little anecdotes of courts and kings. She also showed him dainty +missives, superscribed, “My dear Loraine,” and ended “Most +affectionately yours,” and signed by the given name of a real +live queen on a throne. And he marvelled in his heart that the +great woman should deign to waste so much as a moment upon him. +But she played him cleverly, making flattering contrasts and comparisons +between him and the noble phantoms she drew mainly from her fancy, till +he went away dizzy with self-delight and sorrowing for the world which +had been denied him so long. Freda was a more masterful woman. +If she flattered, no one knew it. Should she stoop, the stoop +were unobserved. If a man felt she thought well of him, so subtly +was the feeling conveyed that he could not for the life of him say why +or how. So she tightened her grip upon Floyd Vanderlip and rode +daily behind his dogs.</p> +<p>And just here is where the mistake occurred. The buzz rose +loudly and more definitely, coupled now with the name of the dancer, +and Mrs. Eppingwell heard. She, too, thought of Flossie lifting +her moccasined feet through the endless hours, and Floyd Vanderlip was +invited up the hillside to tea, and invited often. This quite +took his breath away, and he became drunken with appreciation of himself. +Never was man so maltreated. His soul had become a thing for which +three women struggled, while a fourth was on the way to claim it. +And three such women!</p> +<p>But Mrs. Eppingwell and the mistake she made. She spoke of +the affair, tentatively, to Sitka Charley, who had sold dogs to the +Greek girl. But no names were mentioned. The nearest approach +to it was when Mrs. Eppingwell said, “This—er—horrid +woman,” and Sitka Charley, with the model-woman strong in his +thoughts, had echoed, “—er—horrid woman.” +And he agreed with her, that it was a wicked thing for a woman to come +between a man and the girl he was to marry. “A mere girl, +Charley,” she said, “I am sure she is. And she is +coming into a strange country without a friend when she gets here. +We must do something.” Sitka Charley promised his help, +and went away thinking what a wicked woman this Loraine Lisznayi must +be, also what noble women Mrs. Eppingwell and Freda were to interest +themselves in the welfare of the unknown Flossie.</p> +<p>Now Mrs. Eppingwell was open as the day. To Sitka Charley, +who took her once past the Hills of Silence, belongs the glory of having +memorialized her clear-searching eyes, her clear-ringing voice, and +her utter downright frankness. Her lips had a way of stiffening +to command, and she was used to coming straight to the point. +Having taken Floyd Vanderlip’s measurement, she did not dare this +with him; but she was not afraid to go down into the town to Freda. +And down she went, in the bright light of day, to the house of the dancer. +She was above silly tongues, as was her husband, the captain. +She wished to see this woman and to speak with her, nor was she aware +of any reason why she should not. So she stood in the snow at +the Greek girl’s door, with the frost at sixty below, and parleyed +with the waiting-maid for a full five minutes. She had also the +pleasure of being turned away from that door, and of going back up the +hill, wroth at heart for the indignity which had been put upon her. +“Who was this woman that she should refuse to see her?” +she asked herself. One would think it the other way around, and +she herself but a dancing girl denied at the door of the wife of a captain. +As it was, she knew, had Freda come up the hill to her,—no matter +what the errand,—she would have made her welcome at her fire, +and they would have sat there as two women, and talked, merely as two +women. She had overstepped convention and lowered herself, but +she had thought it different with the women down in the town. +And she was ashamed that she had laid herself open to such dishonor, +and her thoughts of Freda were unkind.</p> +<p>Not that Freda deserved this. Mrs. Eppingwell had descended +to meet her who was without caste, while she, strong in the traditions +of her own earlier status, had not permitted it. She could worship +such a woman, and she would have asked no greater joy than to have had +her into the cabin and sat with her, just sat with her, for an hour. +But her respect for Mrs. Eppingwell, and her respect for herself, who +was beyond respect, had prevented her doing that which she most desired. +Though not quite recovered from the recent visit of Mrs. McFee, the +wife of the minister, who had descended upon her in a whirlwind of exhortation +and brimstone, she could not imagine what had prompted the present visit. +She was not aware of any particular wrong she had done, and surely this +woman who waited at the door was not concerned with the welfare of her +soul. Why had she come? For all the curiosity she could +not help but feel, she steeled herself in the pride of those who are +without pride, and trembled in the inner room like a maid on the first +caress of a lover. If Mrs. Eppingwell suffered going up the hill, +she too suffered, lying face downward on the bed, dry-eyed, dry-mouthed, +dumb.</p> +<p>Mrs. Eppingwell’s knowledge of human nature was great. +She aimed at universality. She had found it easy to step from +the civilized and contemplate things from the barbaric aspect. +She could comprehend certain primal and analogous characteristics in +a hungry wolf-dog or a starving man, and predicate lines of action to +be pursued by either under like conditions. To her, a woman was +a woman, whether garbed in purple or the rags of the gutter; Freda was +a woman. She would not have been surprised had she been taken +into the dancer’s cabin and encountered on common ground; nor +surprised had she been taken in and flaunted in prideless arrogance. +But to be treated as she had been treated, was unexpected and disappointing. +Ergo, she had not caught Freda’s point of view. And this +was good. There are some points of view which cannot be gained +save through much travail and personal crucifixion, and it were well +for the world that its Mrs. Eppingwells should, in certain ways, fall +short of universality. One cannot understand defilement without +laying hands to pitch, which is very sticky, while there be plenty willing +to undertake the experiment. All of which is of small concern, +beyond the fact that it gave Mrs. Eppingwell ground for grievance, and +bred for her a greater love in the Greek girl’s heart.</p> +<h3>III</h3> +<p>And in this way things went along for a month,—Mrs. Eppingwell +striving to withhold the man from the Greek dancer’s blandishments +against the time of Flossie’s coming; Flossie lessening the miles +each day on the dreary trail; Freda pitting her strength against the +model-woman; the model-woman straining every nerve to land the prize; +and the man moving through it all like a flying shuttle, very proud +of himself, whom he believed to be a second Don Juan.</p> +<p>It was nobody’s fault except the man’s that Loraine Lisznayi +at last landed him. The way of a man with a maid may be too wonderful +to know, but the way of a woman with a man passeth all conception; whence +the prophet were indeed unwise who would dare forecast Floyd Vanderlip’s +course twenty-four hours in advance. Perhaps the model-woman’s +attraction lay in that to the eye she was a handsome animal; perhaps +she fascinated him with her old-world talk of palaces and princes; leastwise +she dazzled him whose life had been worked out in uncultured roughness, +and he at last agreed to her suggestion of a run down the river and +a marriage at Forty Mile. In token of his intention he bought +dogs from Sitka Charley,—more than one sled is necessary when +a woman like Loraine Lisznayi takes to the trail, and then went up the +creek to give orders for the superintendence of his Bonanza mines during +his absence.</p> +<p>He had given it out, rather vaguely, that he needed the animals for +sledding lumber from the mill to his sluices, and right here is where +Sitka Charley demonstrated his fitness. He agreed to furnish dogs +on a given date, but no sooner had Floyd Vanderlip turned his toes up-creek, +than Charley hied himself away in perturbation to Loraine Lisznayi. +Did she know where Mr. Vanderlip had gone? He had agreed to supply +that gentleman with a big string of dogs by a certain time; but that +shameless one, the German trader Meyers, had been buying up the brutes +and skimped the market. It was very necessary he should see Mr. +Vanderlip, because of the shameless one he would be all of a week behindhand +in filling the contract. She did know where he had gone? +Up-creek? Good! He would strike out after him at once and +inform him of the unhappy delay. Did he understand her to say +that Mr. Vanderlip needed the dogs on Friday night? that he must have +them by that time? It was too bad, but it was the fault of the +shameless one who had bid up the prices. They had jumped fifty +dollars per head, and should he buy on the rising market he would lose +by the contract. He wondered if Mr. Vanderlip would be willing +to meet the advance. She knew he would? Being Mr. Vanderlip’s +friend, she would even meet the difference herself? And he was +to say nothing about it? She was kind to so look to his interests. +Friday night, did she say? Good! The dogs would be on hand.</p> +<p>An hour later, Freda knew the elopement was to be pulled off on Friday +night; also, that Floyd Vanderlip had gone up-creek, and her hands were +tied. On Friday morning, Devereaux, the official courier, bearing +despatches from the Governor, arrived over the ice. Besides the +despatches, he brought news of Flossie. He had passed her camp +at Sixty Mile; humans and dogs were in good condition; and she would +doubtless be in on the morrow. Mrs. Eppingwell experienced a great +relief on hearing this; Floyd Vanderlip was safe up-creek, and ere the +Greek girl could again lay hands upon him, his bride would be on the +ground. But that afternoon her big St. Bernard, valiantly defending +her front stoop, was downed by a foraging party of trail-starved Malemutes. +He was buried beneath the hirsute mass for about thirty seconds, when +rescued by a couple of axes and as many stout men. Had he remained +down two minutes, the chances were large that he would have been roughly +apportioned and carried away in the respective bellies of the attacking +party; but as it was, it was a mere case of neat and expeditious mangling. +Sitka Charley came to repair the damages, especially a right fore-paw +which had inadvertently been left a fraction of a second too long in +some other dog’s mouth. As he put on his mittens to go, +the talk turned upon Flossie and in natural sequence passed on to the—“er +horrid woman.” Sitka Charley remarked incidentally that +she intended jumping out down river that night with Floyd Vanderlip, +and further ventured the information that accidents were very likely +at that time of year.</p> +<p>So Mrs. Eppingwell’s thoughts of Freda were unkinder than ever. +She wrote a note, addressed it to the man in question, and intrusted +it to a messenger who lay in wait at the mouth of Bonanza Creek. +Another man, bearing a note from Freda, also waited at that strategic +point. So it happened that Floyd Vanderlip, riding his sled merrily +down with the last daylight, received the notes together. He tore +Freda’s across. No, he would not go to see her. There +were greater things afoot that night. Besides, she was out of +the running. But Mrs. Eppingwell! He would observe her last +wish,—or rather, the last wish it would be possible for him to +observe,—and meet her at the Governor’s ball to hear what +she had to say. From the tone of the writing it was evidently +important; perhaps— He smiled fondly, but failed to shape the +thought. Confound it all, what a lucky fellow he was with the +women any way! Scattering her letter to the frost, he <i>mushed</i> +the dogs into a swinging lope and headed for his cabin. It was +to be a masquerade, and he had to dig up the costume used at the Opera +House a couple of months before. Also, he had to shave and to +eat. Thus it was that he, alone of all interested, was unaware +of Flossie’s proximity.</p> +<p>“Have them down to the water-hole off the hospital, at midnight, +sharp. Don’t fail me,” he said to Sitka Charley, who +dropped in with the advice that only one dog was lacking to fill the +bill, and that that one would be forthcoming in an hour or so. +“Here’s the sack. There’s the scales. +Weigh out your own dust and don’t bother me. I’ve +got to get ready for the ball.”</p> +<p>Sitka Charley weighed out his pay and departed, carrying with him +a letter to Loraine Lisznayi, the contents of which he correctly imagined +to refer to a meeting at the water-hole of the hospital, at midnight, +sharp.</p> +<h3>IV</h3> +<p>Twice Freda sent messengers up to the Barracks, where the dance was +in full swing, and as often they came back without answers. Then +she did what only Freda could do—put on her furs, masked her face, +and went up herself to the Governor’s ball. Now there happened +to be a custom—not an original one by any means—to which +the official clique had long since become addicted. It was a very +wise custom, for it furnished protection to the womankind of the officials +and gave greater selectness to their revels. Whenever a masquerade +was given, a committee was chosen, the sole function of which was to +stand by the door and peep beneath each and every mask. Most men +did not clamor to be placed upon this committee, while the very ones +who least desired the honor were the ones whose services were most required. +The chaplain was not well enough acquainted with the faces and places +of the townspeople to know whom to admit and whom to turn away. +In like condition were the several other worthy gentlemen who would +have asked nothing better than to so serve. To fill the coveted +place, Mrs. McFee would have risked her chance of salvation, and did, +one night, when a certain trio passed in under her guns and muddled +things considerably before their identity was discovered. Thereafter +only the fit were chosen, and very ungracefully did they respond.</p> +<p>On this particular night Prince was at the door. Pressure had +been brought to bear, and he had not yet recovered from amaze at his +having consented to undertake a task which bid fair to lose him half +his friends, merely for the sake of pleasing the other half. Three +or four of the men he had refused were men whom he had known on creek +and trail,—good comrades, but not exactly eligible for so select +an affair. He was canvassing the expediency of resigning the post +there and then, when a woman tripped in under the light. Freda! +He could swear it by the furs, did he not know that poise of head so +well. The last one to expect in all the world. He had given +her better judgment than to thus venture the ignominy of refusal, or, +if she passed, the scorn of women. He shook his head, without +scrutiny; he knew her too well to be mistaken. But she pressed +closer. She lifted the black silk ribbon and as quickly lowered +it again. For one flashing, eternal second he looked upon her +face. It was not for nothing, the saying which had arisen in the +country, that Freda played with men as a child with bubbles. Not +a word was spoken. Prince stepped aside, and a few moments later +might have been seen resigning, with warm incoherence, the post to which +he had been unfaithful.</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<p>A woman, flexible of form, slender, yet rhythmic of strength in every +movement, now pausing with this group, now scanning that, urged a restless +and devious course among the revellers. Men recognized the furs, +and marvelled,—men who should have served upon the door committee; +but they were not prone to speech. Not so with the women. +They had better eyes for the lines of figure and tricks of carriage, +and they knew this form to be one with which they were unfamiliar; likewise +the furs. Mrs. McFee, emerging from the supper-room where all +was in readiness, caught one flash of the blazing, questing eyes through +the silken mask-slits, and received a start. She tried to recollect +where she had seen the like, and a vivid picture was recalled of a certain +proud and rebellious sinner whom she had once encountered on a fruitless +errand for the Lord.</p> +<p>So it was that the good woman took the trail in hot and righteous +wrath, a trail which brought her ultimately into the company of Mrs. +Eppingwell and Floyd Vanderlip. Mrs. Eppingwell had just found +the opportunity to talk with the man. She had determined, now +that Flossie was so near at hand, to proceed directly to the point, +and an incisive little ethical discourse was titillating on the end +of her tongue, when the couple became three. She noted, and pleasurably, +the faintly foreign accent of the “Beg pardon” with which +the furred woman prefaced her immediate appropriation of Floyd Vanderlip; +and she courteously bowed her permission for them to draw a little apart.</p> +<p>Then it was that Mrs. McFee’s righteous hand descended, and +accompanying it in its descent was a black mask torn from a startled +woman. A wonderful face and brilliant eyes were exposed to the +quiet curiosity of those who looked that way, and they were everybody. +Floyd Vanderlip was rather confused. The situation demanded instant +action on the part of a man who was not beyond his depth, while <i>he</i> +hardly knew where he was. He stared helplessly about him. +Mrs. Eppingwell was perplexed. She could not comprehend. +An explanation was forthcoming, somewhere, and Mrs. McFee was equal +to it.</p> +<p>“Mrs. Eppingwell,” and her Celtic voice rose shrilly, +“it is with great pleasure I make you acquainted with Freda Moloof, +<i>Miss</i> Freda Moloof, as I understand.”</p> +<p>Freda involuntarily turned. With her own face bared, she felt +as in a dream, naked, upon her turned the clothed features and gleaming +eyes of the masked circle. It seemed, almost, as though a hungry +wolf-pack girdled her, ready to drag her down. It might chance +that some felt pity for her, she thought, and at the thought, hardened. +She would by far prefer their scorn. Strong of heart was she, +this woman, and though she had hunted the prey into the midst of the +pack, Mrs. Eppingwell or no Mrs. Eppingwell, she could not forego the +kill.</p> +<p>But here Mrs. Eppingwell did a strange thing. So this, at last, +was Freda, she mused, the dancer and the destroyer of men; the woman +from whose door she had been turned. And she, too, felt the imperious +creature’s nakedness as though it were her own. Perhaps +it was this, her Saxon disinclination to meet a disadvantaged foe, perhaps, +forsooth, that it might give her greater strength in the struggle for +the man, and it might have been a little of both; but be that as it +may, she did do this strange thing. When Mrs. McFee’s thin +voice, vibrant with malice, had raised, and Freda turned involuntarily, +Mrs. Eppingwell also turned, removed her mask, and inclined her head +in acknowledgment.</p> +<p>It was another flashing, eternal second, during which these two women +regarded each other. The one, eyes blazing, meteoric; at bay, +aggressive; suffering in advance and resenting in advance the scorn +and ridicule and insult she had thrown herself open to; a beautiful, +burning, bubbling lava cone of flesh and spirit. And the other, +calm-eyed, cool-browed, serene; strong in her own integrity, with faith +in herself, thoroughly at ease; dispassionate, imperturbable; a figure +chiselled from some cold marble quarry. Whatever gulf there might +exist, she recognized it not. No bridging, no descending; her +attitude was that of perfect equality. She stood tranquilly on +the ground of their common womanhood. And this maddened Freda. +Not so, had she been of lesser breed; but her soul’s plummet knew +not the bottomless, and she could follow the other into the deeps of +her deepest depths and read her aright. “Why do you not +draw back your garment’s hem?” she was fain to cry out, +all in that flashing, dazzling second. “Spit upon me, revile +me, and it were greater mercy than this!” She trembled. +Her nostrils distended and quivered. But she drew herself in check, +returned the inclination of head, and turned to the man.</p> +<p>“Come with me, Floyd,” she said simply. “I +want you now.”</p> +<p>“What the—” he began explosively, and quit as suddenly, +discreet enough to not round it off. Where the deuce had his wits +gone, anyway? Was ever a man more foolishly placed? He gurgled +deep down in his throat and high up in the roof of his mouth, heaved +as one his big shoulders and his indecision, and glared appealingly +at the two women.</p> +<p>“I beg pardon, just a moment, but may I speak first with Mr. +Vanderlip?” Mrs. Eppingwell’s voice, though flute-like and +low, predicated will in its every cadence.</p> +<p>The man looked his gratitude. He, at least, was willing enough.</p> +<p>“I’m very sorry,” from Freda. “There +isn’t time. He must come at once.” The conventional +phrases dropped easily from her lips, but she could not forbear to smile +inwardly at their inadequacy and weakness. She would much rather +have shrieked.</p> +<p>“But, Miss Moloof, who are you that you may possess yourself +of Mr. Vanderlip and command his actions?”</p> +<p>Whereupon relief brightened his face, and the man beamed his approval. +Trust Mrs. Eppingwell to drag him clear. Freda had met her match +this time.</p> +<p>“I—I—” Freda hesitated, and then her feminine +mind putting on its harness—“and who are you to ask this +question?”</p> +<p>“I? I am Mrs. Eppingwell, and—”</p> +<p>“There!” the other broke in sharply. “You +are the wife of a captain, who is therefore your husband. I am +only a dancing girl. What do you with this man?”</p> +<p>“Such unprecedented behavior!” Mrs. McFee ruffled herself +and cleared for action, but Mrs. Eppingwell shut her mouth with a look +and developed a new attack.</p> +<p>“Since Miss Moloof appears to hold claims upon you, Mr. Vanderlip, +and is in too great haste to grant me a few seconds of your time, I +am forced to appeal directly to you. May I speak with you, alone, +and now?”</p> +<p>Mrs. McFee’s jaws brought together with a snap. That +settled the disgraceful situation.</p> +<p>“Why, er—that is, certainly,” the man stammered. +“Of course, of course,” growing more effusive at the prospect +of deliverance.</p> +<p>Men are only gregarious vertebrates, domesticated and evolved, and +the chances are large that it was because the Greek girl had in her +time dealt with wilder masculine beasts of the human sort; for she turned +upon the man with hell’s tides aflood in her blazing eyes, much +as a bespangled lady upon a lion which has suddenly imbibed the pernicious +theory that he is a free agent. The beast in him fawned to the +lash.</p> +<p>“That is to say, ah, afterward. To-morrow, Mrs. Eppingwell; +yes, to-morrow. That is what I meant.” He solaced +himself with the fact, should he remain, that more embarrassment awaited. +Also, he had an engagement which he must keep shortly, down by the water-hole +off the hospital. Ye gods! he had never given Freda credit! +Wasn’t she magnificent!</p> +<p>“I’ll thank you for my mask, Mrs. McFee.”</p> +<p>That lady, for the nonce speechless, turned over the article in question.</p> +<p>“Good-night, Miss Moloof.” Mrs. Eppingwell was +royal even in defeat.</p> +<p>Freda reciprocated, though barely downing the impulse to clasp the +other’s knees and beg forgiveness,—no, not forgiveness, +but something, she knew not what, but which she none the less greatly +desired.</p> +<p>The man was for her taking his arm; but she had made her kill in +the midst of the pack, and that which led kings to drag their vanquished +at the chariot-tail, led her toward the door alone, Floyd Vanderlip +close at heel and striving to re-establish his mental equilibrium.</p> +<h3>V</h3> +<p>It was bitter cold. As the trail wound, a quarter of a mile +brought them to the dancer’s cabin, by which time her moist breath +had coated her face frostily, while his had massed his heavy mustache +till conversation was painful. By the greenish light of the aurora +borealis, the quicksilver showed itself frozen hard in the bulb of the +thermometer which hung outside the door. A thousand dogs, in pitiful +chorus, wailed their ancient wrongs and claimed mercy from the unheeding +stars. Not a breath of air was moving. For them there was +no shelter from the cold, no shrewd crawling to leeward in snug nooks. +The frost was everywhere, and they lay in the open, ever and anon stretching +their trail-stiffened muscles and lifting the long wolf-howl.</p> +<p>They did not talk at first, the man and the woman. While the +maid helped Freda off with her wraps, Floyd Vanderlip replenished the +fire; and by the time the maid had withdrawn to an inner room, his head +over the stove, he was busily thawing out his burdened upper lip. +After that he rolled a cigarette and watched her lazily through the +fragrant eddies. She stole a glance at the clock. It lacked +half an hour of midnight. How was she to hold him? Was he +angry for that which she had done? What was his mood? What +mood of hers could meet his best? Not that she doubted herself. +No, no. Hold him she could, if need be at pistol point, till Sitka +Charley’s work was done, and Devereaux’s too.</p> +<p>There were many ways, and with her knowledge of this her contempt +for the man increased. As she leaned her head on her hand, a fleeting +vision of her own girlhood, with its mournful climacteric and tragic +ebb, was vouchsafed her, and for the moment she was minded to read him +a lesson from it. God! it must be less than human brute who could +not be held by such a tale, told as she could tell it, but—bah! +He was not worth it, nor worth the pain to her. The candle was +positioned just right, and even as she thought of these things sacredly +shameful to her, he was pleasuring in the transparent pinkiness of her +ear. She noted his eye, took the cue, and turned her head till +the clean profile of the face was presented. Not the least was +that profile among her virtues. She could not help the lines upon +which she had been builded, and they were very good; but she had long +since learned those lines, and though little they needed, was not above +advantaging them to the best of her ability. The candle began +to flicker. She could not do anything ungracefully, but that did +not prevent her improving upon nature a bit, when she reached forth +and deftly snuffed the red wick from the midst of the yellow flame. +Again she rested head on hand, this time regarding the man thoughtfully, +and any man is pleased when thus regarded by a pretty woman.</p> +<p>She was in little haste to begin. If dalliance were to his +liking, it was to hers. To him it was very comfortable, soothing +his lungs with nicotine and gazing upon her. It was snug and warm +here, while down by the water-hole began a trail which he would soon +be hitting through the chilly hours. He felt he ought to be angry +with Freda for the scene she had created, but somehow he didn’t +feel a bit wrathful. Like as not there wouldn’t have been +any scene if it hadn’t been for that McFee woman. If he +were the Governor, he would put a poll tax of a hundred ounces a quarter +upon her and her kind and all gospel sharks and sky pilots. And +certainly Freda had behaved very ladylike, held her own with Mrs. Eppingwell +besides. Never gave the girl credit for the grit. He looked +lingeringly over her, coming back now and again to the eyes, behind +the deep earnestness of which he could not guess lay concealed a deeper +sneer. And, Jove, wasn’t she well put up! Wonder why +she looked at him so? Did she want to marry him, too? Like +as not; but she wasn’t the only one. Her looks were in her +favor, weren’t they? And young—younger than Loraine +Lisznayi. She couldn’t be more than twenty-three or four, +twenty-five at most. And she’d never get stout. Anybody +could guess that the first time. He couldn’t say it of Loraine, +though. <i>She</i> certainly had put on flesh since the day she +served as model. Huh! once he got her on trail he’d take +it off. Put her on the snowshoes to break ahead of the dogs. +Never knew it to fail, yet. But his thought leaped ahead to the +palace under the lazy Mediterranean sky—and how would it be with +Loraine then? No frost, no trail, no famine now and again to cheer +the monotony, and she getting older and piling it on with every sunrise. +While this girl Freda—he sighed his unconscious regret that he +had missed being born under the flag of the Turk, and came back to Alaska.</p> +<p>“Well?” Both hands of the clock pointed perpendicularly +to midnight, and it was high time he was getting down to the water-hole.</p> +<p>“Oh!” Freda started, and she did it prettily, delighting +him as his fellows have ever been delighted by their womankind. +When a man is made to believe that a woman, looking upon him thoughtfully, +has lost herself in meditation over him, that man needs be an extremely +cold-blooded individual in order to trim his sheets, set a lookout, +and steer clear.</p> +<p>“I was just wondering what you wanted to see me about,” +he explained, drawing his chair up to hers by the table.</p> +<p>“Floyd,” she looked him steadily in the eyes, “I +am tired of the whole business. I want to go away. I can’t +live it out here till the river breaks. If I try, I’ll die. +I am sure of it. I want to quit it all and go away, and I want +to do it at once.”</p> +<p>She laid her hand in mute appeal upon the back of his, which turned +over and became a prison. Another one, he thought, just throwing +herself at him. Guess it wouldn’t hurt Loraine to cool her +feet by the water-hole a little longer.</p> +<p>“Well?” This time from Freda, but softly and anxiously.</p> +<p>“I don’t know what to say,” he hastened to answer, +adding to himself that it was coming along quicker than he had expected. +“Nothing I’d like better, Freda. You know that well +enough.” He pressed her hand, palm to palm. She nodded. +Could she wonder that she despised the breed?</p> +<p>“But you see, I—I’m engaged. Of course you +know that. And the girl’s coming into the country to marry +me. Don’t know what was up with me when I asked her, but +it was a long while back, and I was all-fired young—”</p> +<p>“I want to go away, out of the land, anywhere,” she went +on, disregarding the obstacle he had reared up and apologized for. +“I have been running over the men I know and reached the conclusion +that—that—”</p> +<p>“I was the likeliest of the lot?”</p> +<p>She smiled her gratitude for his having saved her the embarrassment +of confession. He drew her head against his shoulder with the +free hand, and somehow the scent of her hair got into his nostrils. +Then he discovered that a common pulse throbbed, throbbed, throbbed, +where their palms were in contact. This phenomenon is easily comprehensible +from a physiological standpoint, but to the man who makes the discovery +for the first time, it is a most wonderful thing. Floyd Vanderlip +had caressed more shovel-handles than women’s hands in his time, +so this was an experience quite new and delightfully strange. +And when Freda turned her head against his shoulder, her hair brushing +his cheek till his eyes met hers, full and at close range, luminously +soft, ay, and tender—why, whose fault was it that he lost his +grip utterly? False to Flossie, why not to Loraine? Even +if the women did keep bothering him, that was no reason he should make +up his mind in a hurry. Why, he had slathers of money, and Freda +was just the girl to grace it. A wife she’d make him for +other men to envy. But go slow. He must be cautious.</p> +<p>“You don’t happen to care for palaces, do you?” +he asked.</p> +<p>She shook her head.</p> +<p>“Well, I had a hankering after them myself, till I got to thinking, +a while back, and I’ve about sized it up that one’d get +fat living in palaces, and soft and lazy.”</p> +<p>“Yes, it’s nice for a time, but you soon grow tired of +it, I imagine,” she hastened to reassure him. “The +world is good, but life should be many-sided. Rough and knock +about for a while, and then rest up somewhere. Off to the South +Seas on a yacht, then a nibble of Paris; a winter in South America and +a summer in Norway; a few months in England—”</p> +<p>“Good society?”</p> +<p>“Most certainly—the best; and then, heigho! for the dogs +and sleds and the Hudson Bay Country. Change, you know. +A strong man like you, full of vitality and go, could not possibly stand +a palace for a year. It is all very well for effeminate men, but +you weren’t made for such a life. You are masculine, intensely +masculine.”</p> +<p>“Think so?”</p> +<p>“It does not require thinking. I know. Have you +ever noticed that it was easy to make women care for you?”</p> +<p>His dubious innocence was superb.</p> +<p>“It is very easy. And why? Because you are masculine. +You strike the deepest chords of a woman’s heart. You are +something to cling to,—big-muscled, strong, and brave. In +short, because you <i>are</i> a man.”</p> +<p>She shot a glance at the clock. It was half after the hour. +She had given a margin of thirty minutes to Sitka Charley; and it did +not matter, now, when Devereaux arrived. Her work was done. +She lifted her head, laughed her genuine mirth, slipped her hand clear, +and rising to her feet called the maid.</p> +<p>“Alice, help Mr. Vanderlip on with his <i>parka</i>. +His mittens are on the sill by the stove.”</p> +<p>The man could not understand.</p> +<p>“Let me thank you for your kindness, Floyd. Your time +was invaluable to me, and it was indeed good of you. The turning +to the left, as you leave the cabin, leads the quickest to the water-hole. +Good-night. I am going to bed.”</p> +<p>Floyd Vanderlip employed strong words to express his perplexity and +disappointment. Alice did not like to hear men swear, so dropped +his <i>parka</i> on the floor and tossed his mittens on top of it. +Then he made a break for Freda, and she ruined her retreat to the inner +room by tripping over the <i>parka</i>. He brought her up standing +with a rude grip on the wrist. But she only laughed. She +was not afraid of men. Had they not wrought their worst with her, +and did she not still endure?</p> +<p>“Don’t be rough,” she said finally. “On +second thought,” here she looked at his detaining hand, “I’ve +decided not to go to bed yet a while. Do sit down and be comfortable +instead of ridiculous. Any questions?”</p> +<p>“Yes, my lady, and reckoning, too.” He still kept +his hold. “What do you know about the water-hole? +What did you mean by—no, never mind. One question at a time.”</p> +<p>“Oh, nothing much. Sitka Charley had an appointment there +with somebody you may know, and not being anxious for a man of your +known charm to be present, fell back upon me to kindly help him. +That’s all. They’re off now, and a good half hour +ago.”</p> +<p>“Where? Down river and without me? And he an Indian!”</p> +<p>“There’s no accounting for taste, you know, especially +in a woman.”</p> +<p>“But how do I stand in this deal? I’ve lost four +thousand dollars’ worth of dogs and a tidy bit of a woman, and +nothing to show for it. Except you,” he added as an afterthought, +“and cheap you are at the price.”</p> +<p>Freda shrugged her shoulders.</p> +<p>“You might as well get ready. I’m going out to +borrow a couple of teams of dogs, and we’ll start in as many hours.”</p> +<p>“I am very sorry, but I’m going to bed.”</p> +<p>“You’ll pack if you know what’s good for you. +Go to bed, or not, when I get my dogs outside, so help me, onto the +sled you go. Mebbe you fooled with me, but I’ll just see +your bluff and take you in earnest. Hear me?”</p> +<p>He closed on her wrist till it hurt, but on her lips a smile was +growing, and she seemed to listen intently to some outside sound. +There was a jingle of dog bells, and a man’s voice crying “Haw!” +as a sled took the turning and drew up at the cabin.</p> +<p>“<i>Now</i> will you let me go to bed?”</p> +<p>As Freda spoke she threw open the door. Into the warm room +rushed the frost, and on the threshold, garbed in trail-worn furs, knee-deep +in the swirling vapor, against a background of flaming borealis, a woman +hesitated. She removed her nose-trap and stood blinking blindly +in the white candlelight. Floyd Vanderlip stumbled forward.</p> +<p>“Floyd!” she cried, relieved and glad, and met him with +a tired bound.</p> +<p>What could he but kiss the armful of furs? And a pretty armful +it was, nestling against him wearily, but happy.</p> +<p>“It was good of you,” spoke the armful, “to send +Mr. Devereaux with fresh dogs after me, else I would not have been in +till to-morrow.”</p> +<p>The man looked blankly across at Freda, then the light breaking in +upon him, “And wasn’t it good of Devereaux to go?”</p> +<p>“Couldn’t wait a bit longer, could you, dear?” +Flossie snuggled closer.</p> +<p>“Well, I was getting sort of impatient,” he confessed +glibly, at the same time drawing her up till her feet left the floor, +and getting outside the door.</p> +<p>That same night an inexplicable thing happened to the Reverend James +Brown, missionary, who lived among the natives several miles down the +Yukon and saw to it that the trails they trod led to the white man’s +paradise. He was roused from his sleep by a strange Indian, who +gave into his charge not only the soul but the body of a woman, and +having done this drove quickly away. This woman was heavy, and +handsome, and angry, and in her wrath unclean words fell from her mouth. +This shocked the worthy man, but he was yet young and her presence would +have been pernicious (in the simple eyes of his flock), had she not +struck out on foot for Dawson with the first gray of dawn.</p> +<p>The shock to Dawson came many days later, when the summer had come +and the population honored a certain royal lady at Windsor by lining +the Yukon’s bank and watching Sitka Charley rise up with flashing +paddle and drive the first canoe across the line. On this day +of the races, Mrs. Eppingwell, who had learned and unlearned numerous +things, saw Freda for the first time since the night of the ball. +“Publicly, mind you,” as Mrs. McFee expressed it, “without +regard or respect for the morals of the community,” she went up +to the dancer and held out her hand. At first, it is remembered +by those who saw, the girl shrank back, then words passed between the +two, and Freda, great Freda, broke down and wept on the shoulder of +the captain’s wife. It was not given to Dawson to know why +Mrs. Eppingwell should crave forgiveness of a Greek dancing girl, but +she did it publicly, and it was unseemly.</p> +<p>It were well not to forget Mrs. McFee. She took a cabin passage +on the first steamer going out. She also took with her a theory +which she had achieved in the silent watches of the long dark nights; +and it is her conviction that the Northland is unregenerate because +it is so cold there. Fear of hell-fire cannot be bred in an ice-box. +This may appear dogmatic, but it is Mrs. McFee’s theory.</p> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GOD OF HIS FATHERS***</p> +<pre> + + +***** This file should be named 1655-h.htm or 1655-h.zip****** + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/6/5/1655 + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. 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